Bali - DOC - DOC

							Bali
By Tim Watterman

In 1991, I was part of a group of men that performed mythopoetic drum rituals. The leader was a man who led us in chants from around the world. He planned a three-week chanting vacation for men in Bali. I sold my Ford pickup to get the money to go. On the way our plane made a refueling stop on the island of Biak. A small group of men in traditional Biak dress stood in the airport terminal singing for donations. I thought: ―Disneyland Small-Small World crap.‖ I did not leave a donation. When we arrived in Bali I was in total denial about what I was seeing, the poverty as well as the smiles and kindness. I kept saying this is all tourism and staged. We, the group of men, planned on being in Bali for three weeks to chant in various sacred Hindu temples and sites. After about five days of hanging together we each decided to go our own way and to connect every couple of days for something special. One of those special trips took us to the fishing village of Padangbai on the east coast of Bali. I was in complete heaven. We hung out on the beach, chanted in the sunrise and the sunset, ate fabulous food, went snorkeling and hiking, and met the locals on a personal level. One local was a little 8-year old boy named Ketut. We met Ketut on the beach. He was one of many youngsters who were trying to sell us postcards, hand carved boats, and toy pencils. We had avoided buying anything from the hordes of other children, but this little boy really liked to just be with us, so we kind of adopted him as our mascot. We took him to dinner and bought him food during the day. He in turn told us where we could go for nice walks or good snorkeling and discouraged the other kids from pestering us. After two and a half weeks I was coming out of my denial and starting to really see what was happening around me. I began to understand that people were making less than a dollar a day and living on a subsistence level. The children on the beaches, as well as the women and men selling sarongs, carving, art, etc, were simply trying to survive. The children needed to buy

all their supplies for school. Knowing this made my choice of not buying from the kids all that much more difficult. I was beginning to actually know them and care for them. My time spent with Ketut and the other people of Padangbai touched me so deeply that I decided to extend my vacation one week and go back to Padangbai. The first evening back at the village I was walking up the road toward town when I met Ketut and his mother and father, whom I had not met earlier. They invited me to have a meal with them that night, so I agreed. Off we went to their home all smiling, joking, and trying to understand each other with Ketut acting as our interpreter. I don‘t know what I was expecting to find, but I do know that what I found was beyond what I thought was anywhere near civilized or decent. The family -- father, mother, and three boys -- was living in a 9-foot square cinderblock room with a corrugated tin roof about six feet high, a dirt floor, an oven. They had one other room attached to this but it had collapsed. Their toilet was a hole in the ground shared by four families. Their kitchen consisted of a small shelf on which were several dishes, glasses, cooking utensils, a pot and a small propane cook stove. There was no electricity and no running water. The meal was fabulous, better than I had been eating in the restaurants. Our evening was incredible, so much so that I was back every night until I had to leave for home. Ketut and I went snorkeling together every day. He would hold onto my shoulders to ride on my back, and I would point out different fish. I got to meet his older brothers and share many laughs with all of them. When it came time to leave Padangbai and Bali, I felt I had made some truly lifetime friends. On the flight back we stopped in Biak again. Once again the Biak group was singing. This time when they finished I put a 20,000 rupiah note in their can. This wasn‘t Disneyland anymore. I had had my eyes, ears and heart ripped opened and I knew I had to do something about the poverty I had seen and lived in. That 20,000rp note represented US$10 - more than the group of four would have made collectively in a week. They were all smiles and thanks and I just looked at them and said Terimah Kasih -- thank you. Once back in the States and working again, I began thinking about the Padangbai family and Ketut. I wanted to do something to help them. Through some connections I had made in Ubud I was I was able to send

them US$500 and a note saying that I thought that they should spend it on rebuilding their collapsed room. In 1992 I had to go back. Bali, Ketut‘s family, the climate, the whole experience, had changed my perceptions forever and so profoundly that I needed to see if it was real. Once again I took the grueling trip across the Pacific. This time I dropped a few U.S. dollars in the Biak singing group‘s can on the way there, as well as on the way back. When I reached the gate of the Padangbai family‘s home, I knocked and waited. When I entered through the gate I found that papa had not used the money I sent the way I had suggested. Instead, he had torn down the whole house and started to build a proper home, with two larger rooms, both about 10‘ by 12‘ with windows, and a bathroom with a real toilet. The roof was shingled instead of tin and reached about twelve feet high at the apex. They now had electricity, running water and a kitchen, all from my measly $500. I was overwhelmed with what they had done. From that moment on I made a decision to help this family for as long as I could in whatever way I could. My choice has now meant going to Bali every year since 1991 and sending that family $2000 every year. I have helped them build their home, buy five are of land (one are = 10 square meters) in Lombok, buy papa a new fishing boat, get the boys a better education than their parents‘ third-grade education, buy medicine when they were ill, buy better food, helped the boys get jobs and helped them all live a better quality of life. During my 14 years of going to Bali, I have come across many families that need the bare essentials of living. Their villages need running water or proper sanitation or electricity. Many of my friends have needed help for doctor visits or to buy a motorcycle to rent to tourists for income. Money to get their children through high school. There are so many poverty-stricken people, one person can not do it all. It pains me to have to say no sometimes, but I can only do so much. You may think that I am a rich man. I am not. I have not made more than $25,000 a year in my life. For the past ten years I have lived on the property and worked for the Episcopal Church. I am single without children. I do not own property or have any kind of stock portfolio. I decided some time ago that I did not want to give my money to some charity only to see most of it

go to the expenses of running the organization. I wanted to make a real difference. This is a family that was barely surviving, and by my making a choice to help them I have changed their lives completely. From abject poverty they have risen to a state of some comfort. If each of us made the choice to help one family in a poor country, even here in the States, think what would happen around the world. I believe George Carlin once said that if all the wealth of the world were equally divided, every man, women and child would make $40,000 a year. Perhaps this will never happen, but can you imagine the life someone could live on $2000 a year in a country where the annual per capita is less than US$400? I can. *** Tim Watterman (twbali@sonic.net) writes: ―I was born in Queen of Angels Hospital in Los Angeles, CA in June of 1954. I lived in southern California until I was 35 when I moved up to northern California. I have worked as a box boy, busboy, dishwasher, waiter, driver, warehouseman, swim teacher, CPR teacher, commercial fisherman, clothing salesman, gardener, house sitter, property manager, maintenance coordinator, and in construction and demolition jobs. I have traveled, outside of the US, to Scotland, Jamaica, Canada, Mexico and Indonesia, primarily Bali. In the US I have been to Michigan, Nevada, Idaho, Arizona, Washington, Oregon, Hawaii and throughout California. I consider myself a very understanding and respectful atheist. Throughout my working life I have not, until this year, made over $25,000 a year. I have no children, no wife, no house or property. I am presently living on the grounds of an Episcopal retreat center, where I have lived and worked for the past 11 years.‖

Afternoon Medical Clinic at the Starfish Café
By Mary O‘Shea

In the summer of 2002 my husband Jim and I went to South East Asia to travel in the region, and to visit our middle child Deirdre who was living and working in a small town in southern Cambodia called Sihanoukville. She had written to us frequently about the Starfish Project where she worked and the people she lived and worked with there. Naturally, Jim and I developed a great yen to visit Cambodia to see the Starfish Project about which we had heard so much. Our youngest, Katie, had just graduated from college that May, and our oldest, Brian, took some time off work to travel so the five of us could have a rare opportunity to spend time together. The four of us met in Bangkok and headed over to Cambodia. It was immediately obvious why Deirdre had chosen to live in Sihanoukville. The Starfish Project, a grass roots development initiative, provides assistance with medical care, housing and small business development. Even though Cambodia is a country still struggling to recover from the drastic Khmer Rouge era and almost thirty years of war and occupation, the Cambodians we met were so generous, warm and welcoming. It was a joy to see the people about whom she had written and what a blessing to be given such a gracious welcome as her parents. The Starfish name comes from the story of a monk walking with a novice along the beach where thousands of starfish have been stranded during a storm. The monk picks up one starfish and returns it to the ocean. When he picks up the next one, the disciple challenges the usefulness of the monk‘s actions since he could not possibly return all the stranded starfish. The monk replied: ―But it makes a difference to this one.‖ With this parable in mind, the Starfish staff works on individual clients who fall outside the bounds of existing government and non-government assistance. Typical of the projects that they have funded are getting surgery and a prosthesis for a man who had been unable to work since he broke his leg years earlier, helping families move their houses when road expansion stripped them of the property many had occupied for decades, and most recently, starting a residential center and a drop-in center for young people

who live and work on the streets (called M‘lop Tapang, now an independent organization). Deirdre set up the Starfish Bakery Café, which is staffed by disabled residents from the community, and which pays for 100% of the administration and overhead costs for the project so that all donations go directly to client needs (they also make great bread and pastries!). The Starfish Project depends on voluntary donations for funding, and the tourists who visit the Cafe are a big source of support. A little money goes a long way in Cambodia, so they are careful and creative about how they use their resources. Deirdre‘s first three employees at the cafe were once clients of the Starfish Project. Sarin lost part of his right arm in a fishing accident, Sowhean had polio as a child and Sekkund had trauma to her back, and probably also tuberculosis of the spine. Sarin is now the director of M‘lop Tapang mentioned above; Sowhean and Sekkund still work at the café three and a half years later. The weather was not kind to those of us from temperate climates, being very hot and extremely humid. It also rained most of our time in Sihanoukville. Many days we spent waiting out the rain at the Café, getting to meet all of the visiting tourists and the people of the town. On almost our last day in Sihanoukville, we were sitting around the table outside drinking our tea. The ―regulars‖ had already come by plus various tourists. Around 2PM, Roath Leakhena, the co-founder of the Starfish Project, arrived with a Cambodian couple. The man, Young Chea, had been seen at the local government hospital because of pain and a draining wound in his ankle. He had been given some oral antibiotics, but had not improved and the hospital had informed him that the only recourse was to amputate his leg above the ankle, for which he would have to pay the equivalent of $12.50 For this farmer, twelve dollars is a large amount. Young Chea had brought his X-rays with him and it was clear that he had a very bad bone infection for which the approved treatment would be several weeks of intravenous antibiotics. My husband, who is a doctor, talked to Mr. Chea through an interpreter to get his medical history. It turned out to be a fascinating

personal history and a chance to know the client, as well as Cambodia, a little better. Young Chea was apparently caught in the crossfire of a battle between US Marines and the Khmer Rouge in what is called the ―Mayaguez Incident‖ in May 1975, just after the fall of Saigon at the end of the Vietnam War. His farm had the misfortune to be in the vicinity of the Ream Naval base where there had been some ground combat. He was shot in the ankle at that time, but it‘s not clear by which side. He had managed to farm rice and do some subsistence fishing as well as raise five children over those years in spite of his injury. Apparently, a recent systemic infection had settled in his poorly healed ankle. Meanwhile, Deirdre went off on her bicycle to find a private physician named Doctor Kar. The Starfish Project is frequently frustrated by the apathy of the public hospital and the level of care they are willing to give, at any price. Rather than settle for inappropriate care, the Starfish Project has relationships with many of the private doctors, like Dr. Kar, and other service providers in the area, who all give discounts and sometimes even free care. We stayed behind with Leakhena, Young Chea and his wife, talking over pots of tea. The three had lived through some fascinating times and had interesting insights into the war years. Dr. Kar arrived to examine Young Chea, and confirmed that indeed he did have a bad infection of the bone at the ankle. First, Young Chea needed to have some blood tests and bacterial cultures done for which he would have to travel to Phnom Penh. After the results were in, then he would need several weeks of intravenous antibiotics in a clinic, all of which would cost $200. Jim and I had intended to make a donation to the Starfish Project even before we had visited. Since by now we felt a very strong connection to Young Chea as a person and as a patient, we requested that Deirdre use part of our donation specifically to support his treatment. We left for home a few days later. In an email some weeks later, Deirdre reported that Young Chea had finished his course of treatment and was healing nicely. She has seen him since then and reports that, ―he‘s still skinny but is quite healthy. He still lives near the Naval base, and farms the same land with his wife and kids.‖ Deirdre reported more recently that he has become involved with his

community, helping people when he can, and referring them to Starfish when they need more than the community can provide. There is no question that meeting and being of help to this gentle, courageous man was the highlight of my visit to Southeast Asia. Visiting the famous temples of Angkor Wat, the historic Killing Fields, and the Tuol Sleng Detention Center, while absolutely fascinating, paled by comparison. I was especially struck by the irony that he may have been injured by U.S. military forces and the fact that a mere $200 stood between amputation and a cure. Most recently, while watching TV accounts of the tsunami in South Asia, I was vividly reminded of Young Chea while watching a doctor in a makeshift hospital in Indonesia having to explain to a man that there was no cure for his infected leg (injured and untreated for many days while he walked to safety after the tsunami hit his village) and that there was no choice but to amputate. If my essay were fortunate to be among the four chosen, I would contact the Starfish Project and decide on which project(s) to fund. I am very comfortable with the rigorous way in which they account for their funds and expenses, and a mechanism exists to ensure that funds are delivered safely. It is amazing how much they accomplish with what we might consider a small amount of money, as they help one ―starfish‖ at a time. *** Mary O’Shea (m-oshea@pacbell.net) writes: ―I am 63 years old and my husband Jim is 76. I grew up in Ireland but have lived in the United States since 1957 when I emigrated with my family to San Francisco. We have three children: Brian (31) is a computer programmer who has traveled to Southeast Asia several times including teaching for 6 months in Northern Thailand in 2002. Our middle child, Deirdre (29) has been volunteering in Cambodia for four years, and our youngest, Kathleen (27) works at an architecture firm in New York. Prior to that she lived and worked in Cambodia for 15 months with her sister. Jim still practices Internal Medicine in Oakland, California and I am retired after 28 years of anesthesia practice at Kaiser Hospital, Oakland. My days are filled with all the projects that did not get done while I was working and raising three children, plus working for affordable housing in Contra Cost County, where we live.‖

A Boy’s Dream
By Marc Gold

Atlantic City, New Jersey - 1956 My father, Albert Gold, was a photographer of bathing beauties, conventioneers, mobsters, celebrities and other notable characters. I was a hyperactive child and, quite frankly, a bit of a pain in the ass. So one day Pop sat me down with a pile of National Geographic magazines and said, ―Look at all the pictures, read all the captions and as much as you will of the stories. I‘ll give you a nickel for each issue you report on.‖ In those days you could actually buy things for a nickel so I was willing to play along. I still remember the first issue that I looked at and the first photo. It was a pull-out, double page panorama of the impossibly humongous Himalayas and the article was about India. I gazed upon rickshaws, sari-clad women, teeming cities, rice paddies, water buffalo, the Ganges, the Taj Mahal, markets, crowds of people, villages, men in turbans, temples, tigers, elephants and monkeys. Compared to New Jersey it looked like another planet. I knew right then that I wanted to go there and as soon as possible. Two weeks later, I had a dream. In this quite vivid dream, I was standing in a t-shirt and shorts on the top of Mt. Everest and I could see all of India. In a spot that I later determined to be the vicinity of Hyderabad, I could see a family of four, a father with a white beard and a turban, a mother dressed in a sari, a small boy, and an even smaller girl. They were all waving at me and gesturing as if to say, ―Come here to see us and visit India.‖ I woke up and told my dad, ―I want to go to India.‖ He laughed, ―India! Way too far - try Indiana instead.‖ ―No, I really want to go there, even if it takes months by boat.‖ (Very expensive to fly in those days!) Dad replied, ―Well, okay, but if you go you‘ll have to do a mitzvah (Hebrew for a good deed), many of the Indians are very poor.‖ ―But what can I do, I‘m only a kid!‖ I protested. Dad answered, ―Don‘t worry. If you go, you‘ll be a man and you‘ll know what to do.‖ This started a lifelong interest in the people of the Himalayan region.

Berkeley, California - 1989 One night, 32 years later, I had the same dream. The exact same dream. It blew my mind. I decided that then and there, I would go to India. I arrived in India in January, 1990. While I was there I met a Tibetan woman in the Himalayas who had terrible ear infections and I was able save her life with antibiotics that cost about $1.00. For another $30.00 I purchased a hearing aid that restored her hearing. I was shocked to learn that something so important could be accomplished with so little money. A short time later, I began raising money among my friends, whatever they could give, as little as $1.00 or as much as they were able to donate. I came back to India two years later with over $2,200 in donations (65,000 Rupees at that time) with the goal of distributing it directly and intelligently, and as culturally appropriate as possible. The rest, as they say, is history. I started the 100 Friends Project and, to date, $65,000 in funds have been donated in India, Thailand, Cambodia, Tibet, Nepal, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, South Africa, Mozambique and Turkey. I feel like I have only just started and this project has become the greatest passion of my life. This website shows what I have done with the donations: http://www.100friends.com/giving.html. Here is the story of one place where I have been focusing my time, attention and donations. 1990 - Calcutta, West Bengal, India Calcutta is the first place I landed on the first of my nine trips to India. I have always had close ties to this remarkable city and have many friends there. I was the manager for Nikhil Banerjee, perhaps the finest sitar player of the 20th century. On my first visit I had an opportunity to work closely with the dying at Nirmal Hriday; Mother Teresa's home for the dying and destitute in a slum known as Kalighat. I returned again and again and in 2002 I met a social worker named Urmi Basu. She was working with the sex workers, their children and the surrounding community. Her center, called New Light, is a five minute walk from Nirmal Hriday. To this day I am always especially happy in this neighborhood slum. Kalighat is one of the oldest red light areas of Calcutta, housing sex workers from the city, the districts and the neighboring countries of Nepal and

Bangladesh. The New Light shelter operates in a rented space, 24 hours a day, and seven days per week. The building is also used as a drop-in center for all of the children. They can come there anytime and use the toys or relax. They have a pre-school group, primary education and secondary education for the kids. Most of the children have never held a new or unbroken toy in their hands. The center is the only place where they can play and enjoy activities that other children of their age take part in. Music, art and yoga lessons are also offered. All children attending the center get a wholesome meal at night. New Light and 100 Friends have started a second center for the children of the Doms, which is a caste that has traditionally been marked as ‗untouchable‘ because they take care of burning the dead bodies. There are 25 students at the new center. All of the children have been vaccinated for hepatitis B, and other medical expenses are provided as needed. Both a pediatrician and a gynecologist come weekly to the center. They do all of this with very little money and I have been lucky enough to get to know the staff, the sex workers and their children rather well. This center is literally a lifesaver on many levels and I have watched many miracles occur before my eyes. There are numerous problems that people face in Kalighat, but one problem in particular moves me the most. It all revolves around the fate of 20 young girls. They range in age from 10 to 16 years old. I know these girls personally. They have the same hopes and dreams of young girls everywhere but they are at grave risk of becoming sex workers just like their mothers. They do not want it and their mothers do not want it, but because of complex cultural issues, economics, reasons that involve kidnapping, problems related to debts, crime, drugs, deception, greed, and the lack of education, it is very hard to escape from the poverty and the sex work that seems to be their destiny. Often the prostitute mothers are helpless, as they are in the clutches of pimps and brothel-keepers. In such situations, girls find it difficult to escape having grown up in violent and exploitative atmospheres and they know little else. The mothers that I interviewed have always expressed the desire to educate their children and to keep them out of the business. "Do something for our children" they have said to me. Research in India demonstrates that 70% of women are forced into prostitution and 20% of these are child prostitutes. Also, 25% of the child prostitutes have been abducted and sold. An additional 8% have been sold

by their fathers after forcing them into incestuous relationships. One can hardly imagine the extreme trauma that a child undergoes when this transpires. There is a case of a child prostitute who lost her speech after being raped by someone who had hired her. She has since been placed in a deaf mute school for speech recovery. In Bombay, children as young as 9 years old are purchased for up to 60,000 rupees (US$2,000) at auctions where Arabs bid against Indian men who believe that sleeping with a virgin cures gonorrhea and syphilis. One girl named Mira was forced into a brothel. When she refused to have sex, she was dragged into a torture chamber in a dark alley used for ‗breaking in‘ new girls. She was locked in a narrow, windowless room without food or water. On the fourth day, one of the madam‘s thugs (called goonda in India) wrestled her to the floor and banged her head against the concrete until she passed out. When she awoke, she was naked. A rattan cane, smeared with pureed red chili peppers, had been shoved into her vagina. She was later raped by the goonda and subsequently complied with their demands. The madam told Mira that she had been sold to the brothel for 50,000 rupees (about US$1,700) and that she had to work until she paid off her debt. With interest it will take many years, if ever, to pay off the balance due. New Light and the 100 Friends Project are now working together to create a home several kilometers from Kalighat. There, the girls will be safe, can finish high school, learn a trade, get married, and break the cycle for a chance at a different life. We are already on the way toward raising the $8,000 needed to start the home. The money will pay for the rental and furnishing of the house, hiring and paying staff salaries, school expenses, medical costs and everything else for the first year. The home will support 20 girls and after the first year, it will cost about $5,000 per year. I am writing this story to help raise funds for this much needed home for the girls of Khalighat. *** Marc Gold (marcgold@hotmail.com), 55, is a counselor and psychology instructor who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. He was born in Atlantic City, New Jersey. He received his Bachelor‘s degree from City College of New York and his Master‘s degree in counseling psychology from U.C.

Berkeley. He taught high school in New York City for six years and was named Manhattan‘s ―Teacher of the Year‖ in 1977. He did research on AIDS counseling and substance abuse when he worked at the University of California Medical Center. In 1985, he developed the first HIV counseling program for AIDS testing in California. He has managed the renowned Indian sitarist, Nikhil Banerjee. While living in New York City in the 1970‘s, he produced a radio program for several years on WBAI called, "Global Music." He has two sons, Alexis and Dylan. Marc founded the 100 Friends Project in 1990 and maintains his role as director. He has completed nine humanitarian missions overseas and is relocating to Thailand in June, 2005. Additional resources: www.100friendsproject.org

Tsunami Junction, Sri Lanka
By Laurie Weed

On December 26, 2004, I was in Khajuraho, smack in the middle of India and a six-month backpacking trip. Fortunately for me, my only contact with one of the deadliest natural disasters in history was through the TV. For weeks, confusion and tsunami-hysteria gripped South Asia. It was a strange time to be traveling in this part of the world, even though I was far away from the affected areas. Meanwhile, a friend of mine, journalist and travel writer Jeff Greenwald, flew to Sri Lanka as a volunteer for Mercy Corps. There, the killer waves left more than 30,000 people dead and at least half a million homeless, jobless, and traumatized -- in a country still recovering from decades of bloody civil war. When Jeff invited me to visit him in late February, it seemed like a good idea. I harbored a desire to do something useful -- something personal, however small. So, I flew to Columbo. On the east coast of the island, a 300-mile stretch of coastline was ―fully affected‖, in post-disaster parlance. Or in laymen‘s terms: wiped out. Dozens of global relief agencies have set up camp in the formerly sleepy town of Trincomalee. I rode out to Trinco and tagged along with Jeff on his latest assignment to visit project sites and write up success stories. ***

“Tsunami Junction - 50 meters” -- Someone had tacked this homemade sign to a partially uprooted tree near Kinniya, a fishing village turned ghost town. In the former hospital, 499 of the 500 patients died in the tsunami. Water stains reach nine feet high on the remaining interior walls. Broken glass, contaminated syringes, and spilled medicines still litter the ground. It looks like the empty set of a war movie, only it's real. Driving along the coast, we pass house after missing house, razed to the foundations by a wall of water. Some of the rubble has been spray painted with survivors‘ names and current location -- usually a refugee camp -- so that relief, when it arrives, will know where to find them.

Relief is coming, although perhaps more slowly than we might hope. Millions of dollars have poured into this country since the tsunami, yet most of the refugees are still living in camps, many in primitive conditions. Amid rumors of infighting, political power plays and graft, international aid seems to be taking a long time to filter down to those who need it most. ―You have to remember,‖ said one British relief worker, a veteran of almost every war zone and international crisis of the past ten years, ―None of us have ever dealt with anything like this before. It‘s the kind of scene that makes you realize we need a bigger word for ‗disaster.‘‖ After hearing how politics are complicating rebuilding plans on the macro scale, our visits to the local projects were heartening. Community NGOs (non-government organizations) were busy cleaning wells, providing play camps for refugee children, putting fishmongers back in business, and rebuilding lives one by one. As we drove from project to project, the only word I recognized from non-English conversations was ―tsunami…tsunami.‖ It has become the international ‗bigger word‘ for disaster. Aside from the Mercy Corps work, Jeff was also following up on a few outside projects. One of those led us to St. Joseph‘s Girls Home in Trincomalee. *** As of Christmas Day 2004, Sister Theresilda had 35 girls in her charge, many of them war orphans supported by modest government stipends. In the week following December 26, St. Joseph‘s had to make room for 20 more orphans, most of whom, Sister Theresilda noted sadly, ―…came here with nothing, just nothing.‖ From the orphanage‘s already strapped coffers, she provided the 20 new wards with everything from toothbrushes to shoes. Then they needed school fees, books, notebooks, and pencils. The sisters raised some emergency funds for those expenses, but now must cope with the sudden, 60 percent increase in monthly maintenance costs as well as the increase in labor. The tsunami orphans are temporarily housed in a decrepit dormitory that, before the emergency, was slated for demolition. Even for a Third-World orphanage it‘s pretty grim, but it was the only space available. In the other dormitory, the 35 original orphans sleep on double bunks and all 55 girls share one bathroom, storing personal belongings, such as they are, in a suitcase or a paper shopping bag. Everyone at St. Joseph‘s is working overtime. In her ‗spare‘ time, Sister Theresilda is writing grant proposals for the building repairs and long-term

maintenance funding. Meanwhile, the girls sleep on old straw mattresses in clean but cramped, hot, and buggy conditions. There are not enough mosquito nets to go around -- a major worry as the spring monsoon approaches. Although their most essential needs are somehow being met, the children have no toys, books, or games. There is simply no money for extras. *** On our second visit, one new ―little sister‖ was celebrating her eighth birthday. A bit of cake and some handmade cards, along with the arrival of two exotic Westerners, made for an unusually exciting Saturday afternoon at the orphanage. Ranging in age from 7 to 18, the girls were polite, wellscrubbed, and remarkably upbeat considering how recently many of them lost their homes, parents, and often their entire families. When asked what things they would wish for if they could receive a present, at first they were too shy to respond. With a little nudging, they timidly agreed more mosquito nets would be good. That got the ball rolling and soon a spontaneous, animated clamor broke out for another toilet, a cricket ball and bat, and a chess game. The smallest girl, caught up in this relative frenzy of wishmaking, piped, ―A doll!‖ and then quickly clapped her own hand over her mouth in embarrassment. The purpose of our visit was to gather information for a Bay Area school that wanted to fund a school project in a tsunami-affected area. However, St. Joseph‘s did not fit their requirements and the money went somewhere else. Of course, I felt very disappointed by this news. I went to Sri Lanka with only a media imprint of the situation, but now disaster has a new definition and the tsunami has a face -- 55 faces, in fact. And I found I couldn‘t just walk away without trying to do something for them, however small. While I don‘t doubt the indomitable Sister Theresilda will eventually secure building funds and meet the other needs of her girls, not even she can produce such miracles overnight. I contacted her from India and offered to try to raise some quick cash on the grassroots level. Within a few days, I emailed their story to everyone I know -- and everyone they know, along with an online account to collect donations. The response has been heartwarming. My friends, family, and fellow travelers from all over the world are digging into their pockets, and within the first 48 hours, we had raised $330 dollars. That‘s nearly halfway to the first goal: to buy every child a good mattress to sleep on and a mosquito net to sleep under before the rains hit in mid-April.

To put the orphan‘s expenses in perspective, maintenance costs including food, clothes, school fees and supplies, come to $30 US per child, per month. Their current level of financial support only covers the original 35 orphans, leaving them $600 in the hole every month just for the basics. A new foam mattress costs $5-10 in this part of the world. Mosquito nets cost about $2.50 each, a ceiling fan $40. If little girls‘ wishes were granted, a good cricket ball and bat could be had for $11, and $4 would buy a new chess set or a doll. Obviously, a grant of $1000 would go a very long way. The money could cover their expense gap for almost two months. It could pay to install another toilet and a few fans in the dormitories. It could be used to update the kitchen, including a new refrigerator so the sisters wouldn‘t have to shop for fresh food every day. By the time the Backpack Nation grants are awarded in June, the orphans‘ immediate needs may have changed, but there is no question they will still need funds. If this story is chosen, I will wire the money directly to the orphanage bank account in Sri Lanka, and trust Sister Theresilda to choose the best way to use it. She has already happily offered to send me progress reports via email for any funds raised. The tsunami affected millions of people, most of whom had very little to begin with. In the aftermath of such a wide-scale calamity, there‘s no end to the number of worthy organizations and deserving projects. This is a chance to do something personal, to deliver almost instant relief at Tsunami Junction, one-to-one. Pick a face, any face. Here are 55 you can start with! ***

Laurie Weed (laurieweed@hotmail.com), 35, is an American freelance writer, editor and nomad. She submitted this story from Asia, where she is wrapping up a six-month, shoestring trip through five countries. You can follow her trail of travel dispatches online, or make a donation to the tsunami orphans at: http://www.kismetworldwide.com/laurieweed/asia_update_16.htm

Out of Isolation
By Lani Parker

In the fertile lands of Vahiga district in Western Kenya the rain falls but there is often a shortage of water and fetching it is a time-consuming and physically demanding job. Most families live on what they grow themselves. Life is not easy for many people. But for a group of disabled people I met there, things are even harder. They have no access to education or employment, are shunned on the street and hidden from view to stop them from bringing shame on family or village. They struggle even to get out of their houses, many stripped of their self worth and human dignity. The story I am about to tell is one of hope and of coming together to change lives.... I was excited to be going to Kenya and to be seeing my family who were there visiting a friend my mother and I met ten years ago (when I was just 13) at the Non-Governmental Organisation (NGO) forum for women in Beijing. Naomy is an amazing disabled woman who works to change things for disabled people, particularly women, all over Africa. I was hoping that this trip would offer me a glimpse of what life is really like in Kenya for one of the most marginalized groups in the world. On the way to the meeting of the ―Emuhaya‖ group, I was both excited and apprehensive, as I watched passersby carrying water on their heads or taking cattle to graze against a landscape of orange-colored trees and bright green grass. ―You‘d better think of some questions you want to ask,‖ my mother said. ―And about what you want to tell them. They will be expecting you to talk about what life is like for disabled people in Britain.‖ ―Oh no, what am I going to say? I don‘t even know how many people will be there.‖ ―Don‘t worry, ― Naomy reassured me. ―Just talk to them, you‘ll be fine.‖

We were guests of this group and we didn‘t want to go empty handed, so on our way we bought a crate of sodas, bread, margarine and biscuits. As we loaded up the car two young children, obviously fascinated, dared each other to touch the mzungu (white person). At the meeting place we met a sea of expectant faces, old and young, men and women. The thing they had in common is that they were all disabled or had disabled children and it almost goes without saying they are all poor. I had gone to hear their life experiences and, as a disabled person myself, I felt very privileged to have this chance. They gave us the ―traditional Kenyan welcome‖ that involved handshakes, songs and clapping. I was embarrassed, as I am not used to such a regal welcome. Most educated people in Kenya have some English, but here we had to depend on Naomy‘s translation from Swahili. One by one the participants told their harrowing stories. They are avoided in the streets: ―Don‘t walk with that lame person, you will catch it...‖ Many talked of how they couldn‘t marry because ―a lame person couldn‘t provide for his wife.‖ Or: ―How will she keep house and children, she can‘t even carry water?‖ One man showed us a photograph of his wife who could not attend the meeting because she was housebound. There was a thick air of empathy and solidarity as people told their stories. They weren‘t all doom and gloom, people injected their humour and hope into them as they talked. One man was asked by his brother: ―How will you support a wife, what will you eat?‖ He replied: ―I don‘t think women eat legs do they?‖ As I listened I noted a young child at the back who looked about seven or eight. She sat very quietly and patiently and watched me with interest. It turned out that she could not walk and had been carried to the meeting by her mother who was also disabled. In order to attend, the two of them had negotiated miles of roads that non-disabled people found almost impassable. It was pointed out to me later that she had Jiggers, a painful bloodsucking tick on her feet and hands, caused by the conditions that she lives in. This and countless other things could result in further impairment and future hardship, though Jiggers is easily treatable with some money and care. What would become of this little girl unable to access education, health care

nor other activities that give people self-respect and dignity and the ability to stick up for themselves? Her life is one that I wouldn‘t even want to begin to imagine. It was clearly only the love that her mother and people in the group showed her that kept this girl going. It was clear that most had acquired their impairments through poverty and that they are really at the sharp end of life, where survival is a daily struggle. Such gatherings have clearly made an immense difference to so many lives. A young woman, around my age, stood up. ―Before I joined this group,‖ she said, ―I felt ashamed of being disabled. I thought that people wouldn‘t like anything about me, I didn‘t want to go out and didn‘t have any selfconfidence. This group has given me confidence. I am now proud to be me and proud to be disabled.‖ She added that previously she did not talk to men, and she thought that men would not talk to her. Now she does -- she has the confidence and knowledge to assert her rights and talk to men and nondisabled people as equals. These words evoked pride in the group -- and in me -- and the young woman is now the group‘s secretary and one of its inspirations. Many people in the meeting expressed surprise and amazement that there were disabled wazungu (white people). They are so used to the idea that disability is a curse and such ―bad things‖ can only happen to poor Africans. My mere being there gave them a different perspective and a sense of solidarity. This also gave me hope that disabled people from all over could come together and make things better for each other. When they asked me about life in the UK I told them how we face some of the same problems in relation to the general public -- poor education, transport issues, relationships, employment, health issues -- but the level of problem is so different and just cannot compare. I talked about a friend of mine who speaks with great difficulty and about the isolation that he faces as people in Britain do not have the patience and willingness to take the time to get to understand him -- though he is as intelligent, funny and friendly as anyone else. They instantly told me to bring him to them: ―We Africans have a lot of patience -- we will listen to him and be friends.‖

After the meeting we gave out the goodies. My mother handed round the food and sodas and the people had a good laugh at being served by a mzungu. The pleasure on their faces as they ate and drank was great and when I turned to get myself a soda I discovered that they had all been given out -- and I was satisfied that all had been enjoyed. They were full of praise for us and what ―we had done for them.‖ They said, ―We are so happy to receive such visitors.‖ At least six people asked me to stay and help the group to develop, and many also asked my mother if she would mind leaving me behind: ―We would take care of her, you wouldn‘t have to worry about a thing, she can work here with us.‖ My mother laughed and asked them how many cows did they think I was worth. They joked back that they were so poor that my mother might only get chickens -- surely they couldn‘t afford cows. Later we sat around back at the house, eating dengue (mung beans), sukamawiki (African greens), and ugali (maize porridge) by hurricane lamp –like 95% of all rural Kenyans, the people here had no electricity. Later I thought more seriously about staying for a while -- to help Naomy to set up her organisation for disabled women in Africa and to support the Emuhaya group. Unfortunately my plane ticket couldn‘t be changed so I resolved that, until I can return, I will do what I can from Britain to help the group. One thousand dollars would make an enormous difference. The Emuhaya group is involved in setting up small scale economic programmes to train disabled people in marketable skills such as sewing. They would also love to do more social activities, bringing people together and countering their isolation. *** Lani Parker (lani.parker@gmail.com) was steeped in the politics of peace, development and disability from an early age. She was born with an impairment, and in her life has campaigned and focused on disability themes. She is now a 23-year old graduate in Peace Studies from Bradford University in England, and has recently completed a four-month internship with Oxfam in Oxford, UK, where she worked with the Youth Strategy Team on a youth participation project. Her interest in diverse cultures was stimulated by growing up in Coventry, where scores of cultures and language groups have taken root, and she now has a wide range of contacts

across the ―developing world.‖ Her trip to Kenya took place while she was between jobs in January of 2005.

Burma Revisited: Giving to One Who Gives
By Gregg Butensky Pre trip anxiety is not uncommon for me. It‘s not travel itself that I worry about but rather the weight of the potential that each trip holds. Each trip is, after all, an opportunity to achieve a greater good, beyond just the experience. Will I be able to connect with the right people? Will I be able to become engaged with them in some way and make a difference? My travel partner and I decided we‘d cross into Burma by land at Mai Sai -Thailand‘s northernmost town. This in and of itself is trivial -- the question was whether we could travel onward from that region of Burma to the central regions of the country; to Mandalay. Travel agents in Chiang Mai said this couldn‘t be done. One told us of a traveler who had been arrested trying and had to pay a hefty fine to get out of jail. Some stories have a way of being told and retold over quite some time and I suspected this was one of them; the travel agent admitted the story was a few years old. I knew from posts online from recent travelers that our plan was now doable. We told the travel agent to go ahead with the expedited order for visas from the Burmese embassy in Bangkok and as soon as they arrived we were off. All went well, and after a few days in Kyaing Tong (northeast Burma) we reached Mandalay. My main interest in returning to Burma just two years after my last visit was to go to Mandalay. I had visited Burma in January 2003 somewhat hesitantly. For years I had respected Aung San Suu Kyi‘s and others‘ request not to visit the country until the military junta changed their tune. Ultimately I decided to go. But it was very important to me to feel that my visit was justified; that my presence in the country had a positive net effect. During that previous visit, I had met a 17 year old girl named Hay Mar Soe. She was living illegally on the muddy banks of the Irrawaddy River in an improvised shelter with her mother. Her mother was doing backbreaking work to survive and was ill. Hay Mar Soe had been forced to drop out of

school. Despite all this, Hay Mar Soe was one of the most positive, personable, engaging people I‘ve ever met. I left determined to stay engaged in her life. Easier said than done. Over the next several months, the only way I could find to get money to her was when I knew someone going to Mandalay who was willing to go ask around for her by the river. (To my pleasant surprise, this actually happened -- not once, but twice.) Further, communication was tough. I wasn‘t comfortable just throwing money at the problem -- I needed to be more engaged than that. I decided to go back. I wasn‘t sure what I would find. Word had reached me that Hay Mar Soe had been obliged to take a job in a restaurant -- a place where men get drunk and sing karaoke; the kind of job that can be the first step towards prostitution. (I found out later the job paid her 3000 kyat -- just over US$3 -per month!) The reunion was sweet and the news generally good -- the best I could have hoped for. She and her mom have stable, if somewhat inadequate, shelter underneath a house. Not quite a basement even, but much better than squatting on the riverbank where police would come occasionally in the middle of the night and anyone caught ―living‖ there would ―disappear‖. More importantly, I learned that Hay Mar Soe had quit the job at the restaurant. She had recognized herself that this was not a good situation and was able to get out of it. The third significant thing for me that first day was to hear how much Hay Mar Soe‘s English had improved. Without classes and with few books, she had nonetheless made incredible progress. *** It may come as a surprise that in Burma you rarely see soldiers or police on the streets of the cities. This doesn‘t mean people don‘t live in fear. Under brutal military rule the regimentation of society becomes self-fulfilling. Hay Mar Soe is afraid to go around town with me because I‘m seen as a tourist

and seen with me she‘d be taken for a guide. Or so she thinks. In this view of things she says guides would be angry and give her trouble because she doesn‘t have a guide‘s license. ―Dangerous for me,‖ she says. ―I go to prison.‖ And then she laughs -- for that is what people do in Burma when discussing the dangers in their lives. The absurdities and injustices of the government are often described as "funny". So I spent a lot of time in Hay Mar Soe‘s neighborhood -- amongst friends. Hay Mar Soe is well loved by all and because she has spoken of me, everyone wants to meet me. Occasionally we do go elsewhere in the city but it must be in a group. ―We must tell people you‘re my foster father,‖ she says. Then adds, ―And Kate Winslet is my mother!‖ And with the telling, that‘s what I became -- her foster father. I was able to accomplish a lot during that week in Mandalay. We got Hay Mar Soe enrolled in an English class and made arrangements for computer classes after that. I bought her a bicycle so she could get to the classes. Most significantly though, I met some folks who were in a position to help me get money to her on a regular basis. Other highlights for me that week included introducing Hay Mar Soe and her friends to the web (it‘s fairly accessible in Burma now, but heavily restricted), teaching a couple classes at the English language school, and spending time with the students. *** A couple weeks after leaving Burma I received my first email message from Hay Mar Soe -- the first email message she‘d ever sent. As a result of the subsequent exchange, we expanded Hay Mar Soe‘s academic undertakings to include a second, intermediate, English class. Even more significantly the details of sending money were worked out and I now have a reliable channel -- at least for the next year. ***

Why help Hay Mar Soe? Why her when so many are in need and surely many are equally deserving. That‘s the way things go I guess -- when we‘re engaged in the world around us, we play favorites. One day during my visit, I took Hay Mar Soe and her friend Kyaing Kyaing on a road trip to the former British hill station of Pyin Oo Lwin. Pyin Oo Lwin is nestled in the foothills a couple hours drive from Mandalay. As we rode up through the rolling hills, Hay Mar Soe gazed out the car window, craning her neck slightly, her face a sublime expression of utter glee. I realized in that moment just how very special this all was for her. It hit me that, living as she does in the flat lands, she had never before seen such terrain. Well, we all want to feel appreciated… here‘s something more. Hay Mar Soe doesn‘t have much, yet she is one of the most giving people I have ever known. What little she has, she gives -- her time, her knowledge. (She helps neighborhood children with their English. I went for a haircut one day and the barber refused to accept payment from me because Hay Mar Soe was always helping his children.) By helping Hay Mar Soe, one helps an entire community. I‘m fortunate enough to have the extra resources to help an individual. But there‘s a greater need. If I were to have an extra $1000 I would give it to the English language school that Hay Mar Soe attends for a scholarship fund. Despite the fact that classes cost just US$20 for three months, there are many who cannot afford this. The money would be used for a scholarship fund, and to help purchase necessary supplies and equipment for the students. Life is difficult in Burma. Someday things will change, but the ramifications of a populace being kept down for so long by its government will be longlasting indeed. Young people who manage to eke out an education now will be much needed by their country once change comes. As for me, now that I‘ve cemented these relationships, maybe the anxiety won‘t be too much next time. ***

Gregg Butensky (gregg@madnomad.com), 42, is a web developer and resident of San Francisco, CA. He has traveled extensively, mostly in the developing world, and is thrilled to have figured out a way to spend time outside of the US while at the same time earning a living. He has recently returned home from The Philippines where he was working on a public library project (www.madnomad.com/library) he initiated in 1998. Gregg is also a volunteer staff member of Ethical Traveler.

Beggars Abound
By Ellen Schafhauser

Beggars abound in India. I had read, and had been told by numerous well-meaning sources, not to give money to beggars‘ pleas for two reasons. First, it promotes begging, and second, I would attract a pigeon-like flock of humanity that would eat up every morsel of rupees I may or may not want to give out. Children no older than five, women with babies on their hips, a man with polio-crippled legs rolling himself on a wheeled two-inch raised platform in the middle of congested traffic, they press their faces against the car window or follow me down crowded streets. Each one has a desperate face and the fingers of their right hand touch to their mouths in a plea for rupees for food. My response is a respectful bow of the head and the word ―Namaste,‖ meaning ―I bow to the God within you.‖ I would have come away poorer had I not made an exception to the warning.

Pushkar Camel Festival - Rajasthan The market street has a carnival atmosphere, with vendors selling every imaginable product that a camel herder or tourist could want. On the narrow street, the dahabas (food vendors) are wafting smells with every imaginable spice. Beggars are everywhere, and approach me with calls of, ―Hello, hello, hello… What country you from? No mama, no papa….‖ One of them stands no more than two-and-a-half feet tall, and is holding an umbrella above his head. His face is covered with makeup, and he is wearing only a diaper type garment that shows off his stout, miniature body, propped up by short, thick, almost elephant-like legs. I have never seen a deformity like this before. The purpose of my recent travels has been a photography project in which I hope to capture the human experience. I did not photograph this deformed man -- and I really can‘t imagine what his actual experience of life might be

-- but I wanted something that would convey the feeling of desperation, of physical and emotional pain, that I experienced when encountering him. As the day progressed, I looked for a possible subject. In this case I did not want to sneak a stealthy photograph without the subject‘s knowledge. I wanted a fully acknowledged photo, which would no doubt involve paying money to a willing beggar. The street ebbed and flowed with people, and then in a rare moment when few people were present, I spotted a man with a cup pushing himself along. At first I thought he was on a platform that rolled, but then I realized that his only means of locomotion was his own arms, which he used to lift his body up an inch, swing his torso forward, and then set himself down a few inches ahead. His legs were crossed in the typical way an Indian sits, but his feet, or I should say the stumps of his feet, were wrapped in a well-worn gauze, and his hands, which were also stumps, were covered in leathery calluses. He stopped as I approached. I squatted down to his level so as to look him in the eyes for communication. ―Namaste‖ was the only word we had in a common language. I pointed to my camera bag, and then made a sweeping gesture, first toward his face, and then to indicate his whole body. Sign language is universal. He smiled. I pulled out twenty rupees and deposited them into his cup. He sat up with the pride of a Maharaja and posed for me. My gaze was focused on his face and all the other aspects involved with capturing a good photograph, so that I barely noticed the crowd that quickly formed around us. At one point I sensed someone pushing people back, trying to preserve some room for the two of us in the middle of things. As I looked through the viewfinder I recognized joy in the man‘s face. I put out my hand and touched his cheek and beard with the front and back of my hand, and smiled. I hoped I communicated to him how handsome he was, and how much I appreciated his presence. I felt sure that, despite our language gap, the message was received. I didn‘t know at that point if I heard a sigh or a gasp from the crowd, and I wondered: ―Have I just touched an Untouchable?‖ ―Are people now horrified?‖ ―Or have I struck a chord of humanity and humility within the

crowd?‖ I stayed a moment longer, looking into the man‘s eyes. He grasped my hands with the leathery stumps of his hands and brought them to his forehead, bowed from his waist all the way down to his feet on the ground, and squeezed my hands before releasing them. The crowd fell into an unmistakable hush and then a sigh. I stood up and said ―Namaste‖ and bowed. The crowd parted for me. For those few moments life had stood still with that man. A woman followed close behind me, then stretched out her hand. ―Hello, hello… Rupees…? Rupees…! I give you henna…‖ (a design that is dyed on the hand). I walked briskly, a tear streamed from my eye. *** Meeting the people of the world is a humbling experience. I find that the socalled poor tend to most clearly express the endurance and tenacity of the human spirit. It is evident in the way people and villages go about procuring their basic needs, and in the way they conserve the resources around them. And in their graciousness I find inspiration, as well as hope for the human race. Those who have few possessions are often rich in knowing what many Westerners seem to have forgotten -- the importance of friends, family, and of extending oneself to a stranger. I witness this in the hospitality of a Fijian woman who invites me to stay at her house in her village. She has one bed to offer and serves me three meals that must cost her family much. I see it in the gift of an invitation from my Hindu driver to spend a week in his village, to be included in his family‘s celebration of a new born baby, and in his gift of allowing me to help console his recently widowed aunt. *** In a bookstore, on the afternoon of the day that I am to leave New Delhi -December 22, 2004 -- I spot a book with the eyes of a child on its cover. I have come to know these haunting eyes during my past ten weeks in India. They are the eyes of every child who approached me with hand clasped to mouth in the universal signal of ―to eat.‖

The book is titled If I Were Rain, and it is full of photographs revealing the lives of India‘s disadvantaged urban children. I spend an hour thumbing through the book. I see that it is published by a non-profit organization, Youthreach (www.youthreach.org), that serves as a clearinghouse to allow people from all walks of life to contribute their time and skills to the many grassroots organizations that are working with India‘s poorest children. The list of funding options and costs blows my mind -- six thousand rupees per year can sponsor a child for medication, transportation, books, midday meals, and other services. That amounts to US$67 for a whole year -- and that is the most costly item! I note that the address for the organization is in New Delhi. My plane is due to leave in hours. All during my trip, in the back of my mind, I have been thinking about Phase Three of Backpack Nation. I return to my guesthouse, pack, and then hail a motor rickshaw, and we race for forty-five harrowing minutes to the Youthreach address. The book sits on my lap with the photos staring back at me. As the driver navigates stopped traffic a child comes to my open window with an outstretched hand. She could be the photo on the cover. The book had been such an eloquent message, and seemed to be speaking so clearly and so exactly to me. I need to gauge this organization for myself. I found the people at Youthreach to be everything I might have imagined in terms of honesty and integrity and in commitment to their purpose. One thousand Backpack Nation dollars donated to Youthreach would meet the material needs of nearly fifteen of India‘s poorest children for an entire year. I am planning to return to India soon, and would consider it an honor to personally deliver this money on behalf of all of us. *** Ellen Schafhauser (ekschafhauser@yahoo.com) writes: ―World travel is what I earn a living for. My purpose in traveling is to capture in photographs the human experience and to be aware of my own human experience as I encounter each divine spirit on this planet. ―‗The Human Experience‘ is the title of an 8-minute photo essay I wrote, photographed, and produced two years ago. It was a final project for my

masters degree in spiritual psychology at the University Of Santa Monica, California. I wanted to give a gift to the world that spoke of the commonality that we all have in being human, and in so doing maybe strike a chord of humility in those who receive this gift. ―I had to finish that film in a condensed time period, and because of that the photographs within it were of North American people only. My extended intention is now to remake a multicultural photo essay with the same script within the next three years. It is my journey of a lifetime, and it may well take the rest of my life to complete this journey -- even when I have finished the film. ―This intention has now brought me to change my career to one of a freelance biologist so that I can travel the world on my off-season. My next trip will be on an around-the-world ticket for possibly eight months.‖

A House for Hien
By Christine Meyer

Every once-in-a-while you might notice that the universe will conspire to bring people together who may never have known about the other without a unique introduction. Call this providence, divine intervention, synchronicity, coincidence, karma or kismet -- you can choose to label these events in any way that suits you but these are unique moments that will touch and teach your soul if you are paying attention. This is a story of the intersection in the lives of strangers. It is about a man following his dream and making a difference in the lives of street kids in Hanoi. It is about a little girl in Vietnam that desperately needs a new house. But this is also a story about how this man and this little girl came into my life and touched my heart. Hien is a shy 12 year-old who lives with her mother in the small northern Vietnamese province of Bac Ninh, just east of Hanoi. Hien has never met her father; he abandoned her and her mother before she was born. Her mother, Thanh, works at a local brick-making factory and brings home less than a dollar a day. Thanh has no formal education and is doing her best to provide a life for her daughter, but the average income in Vietnam is just over $400 a year -- those below the poverty level will earn about $200 a year. The unfortunate reality of poverty is that it will be handed down from generation to generation because education is one of the only ways to break the cycle and school costs money -- a luxury that is just not an option for some. There is a new program in Bac Ninh called ―Stay in School.‖ This program was started in August 2004 by the grassroots NGO, Blue Dragon Children‘s Foundation (BDCF). The program identifies children at risk of dropping out of school because of financial hardship and connects these children with a sponsor. The sponsorships cost a mere $75 a year. Hien‘s mother was doing everything she could to pay the fees to keep her daughter in school but she needed help. Michael Brosowski, founder of the Blue Dragon Children‘s Foundation, was introduced to Hien and immediately connected her with a

sponsor thus keeping the doors of future opportunities open for this 12-year old. However, when Michael first met Hien, he immediately saw that she was in a more serious predicament than any of the other children in the Stay in School program. Hien and her mother desperately needed a new home. Their living conditions were the worst in the area; the house was quite literally disintegrating around them. Imagine living in conditions where you only have a small portion of your roof intact to keep out the rain, the windows are simply holes in the wall -- the glass hasn‘t been there for years, and the doors are useless because they do not close. Imagine depending on your neighbors to give you water and not having any toilet facilities. Imagine that your kitchen consists of an open fire pit covered only by a tattered tarp clinging to crumbling brick walls. Now, imagine having to share your two-room shambles with a family of snakes and then you can imagine how Hien and her mother live. I came to know Michael because of his dedicated efforts in pursuing his dream -- a dream of helping the street children of Vietnam break the cycle of poverty by providing them with food, shelter and education. Michael gives these children hope and provides them with the structure and the tools to allow them to pursue their own dreams. He has only been working at his dream since 2002 and it has been a long and challenging journey for him but Michael is passionate about the path he has chosen. I search for people like Michael to tell me their stories in hopes of inspiring others about identifying their passions and pursuing their dreams. Michael‘s story touched me because he identified teaching as his passion and then he applied his passion and spun it into a dream of helping kids that need a little hope. He did not turn away from the opportunity to make a difference. I hope to learn from his example. I came to know of Hien‘s desperate living conditions in a newsletter delivered to my Inbox from Blue Dragon. The timing couldn‘t have been more perfect. It was Christmas, a time of giving and sharing, and my husband and I had decided that this year we wanted to find a way to make a difference in someone‘s life. So, we made a radical shift in thinking and put a new twist into the spirit of giving Christmas gifts to our families. What if we took the money slated for individual gifts and donated it to a charity in each person‘s name? In theory, the idea sounded brilliant. But then came the decision of which charities to choose? And while this was a step in the right

direction, it still felt a little empty…not meaningless, but empty because there was no face, no understanding of where the money was really going, no tangible way of knowing how we were helping even though we knew that the money would be well spent. Then came the answer to my dilemma. A little girl named Hien desperately needed a new home and the amount was precisely the amount that we were looking to donate. A small chill crept down my spine as I briefly contemplated the incredible coincidence, then I quickly sent off an email to Michael to let him know a check was on the way. An indescribable feeling of happiness waved over me as I wrote the Christmas letter to family members letting them know that their gift this year was helping a little girl and her mother live a little bit better life. Ten people received that letter; ten people bought Hien and her mother a little dignity with money that could have been spent on traditional Christmas trinkets. Ten people collectively gave a little girl and her mother a little hope and a taste of goodwill from the other side of the world. This gift could have ended there but it hasn‘t. The thread continues and shortly after I sent out my Christmas letter, another email graced my Inbox. The email was from Backpack Nation… and inside it was another opportunity to make a difference by telling a story about having made a difference. I debated long and hard about how the money would be used if Hien‘s story were to be selected as one of the top four. Do I give Hien and her mother the $1000? That would be a tremendous amount of money for them and I was having concerns that this might actually affect them negatively. Would they be able to handle this? Would their village turn on them because of envy…they were already getting a brand new house, which was causing quite a commotion in the community, why did they deserve to get such an extraordinary amount of money as well? But shouldn‘t Hien benefit from her own story? These are the unexpected issues that can come up when you are trying to do the right thing. However, if you allow it, your inner voice will guide you to make the right decision…you just need to spend a little time listening. So, I have listened and I believe that Hien‘s story is an opportunity to again ―pass-it-forward‖ but this time it is Hien who will be giving the gift of opportunity to someone else. After speaking to Michael, we have agreed to set up a scholarship for one or two underprivileged Vietnamese teens

seeking further education in pursuit of their dream. There are many more people that need a helping hand and this $1000 can go a long way in helping someone else jumpstart their dream. I will have the incredible honor of meeting both Michael and Hien for the first time in a couple of months. I am excited because this dedicated man and shy little girl presented me with the greatest gift I could possibly have ever received -- the chance to make a difference. I want to thank them in person. ***

Christine Meyer (christine@project-dream.com) is a 39-½ year-old with a penchant for traveling around our big, blue marble and experiencing the perspectives of life through other cultures. An American born in Italy, she has lived in the US, France, Switzerland, Denmark, and currently resides in Singapore with her husband. Christine is the Co-Founder of DREAM! (www.project-dream.com), a global initiative that inspires and motivates people to examine their passions, identify their dreams, and journey toward the realization of those dreams. She writes: ―I am inspired daily by personal stories of people engaged in making their dreams a reality; it is my passionate desire to write and unveil the details of these journeys in hopes of motivating others to discover and pursue their own dreams. I have encountered many of these inspiring stories during my travels and, in turn, traveling has allowed me a unique avenue for deep personal growth. The exposure to new cultures has allowed me to understand and release many preconceived notions while recognizing core similarities and ultimately embracing the many differences in cultures with respect to my own. As I grow and change, so too does my perception of the world I experience. It is a magical journey.‖

Monica’s Shop
By CJ Hendrix

In 2000, I was a 28-year-old American without a passport. Like a frighteningly large proportion of my countrymen, I'd never left the U.S. But that year, my girlfriend asked if I wanted to go visit a family she had lived with in Nicaragua several years earlier. For a week we milked cows, cut sugar cane, swam in waterfalls, played tag with kids in the muddy streets, and ate and ate and ate. It was only one dose, but I was hooked. The high I felt being welcomed by people who lived so differently from me, from sharing answers about me and questions about them, from just being in this place where everything was new and strange is something I‘ve been addicted to ever since. In late 2003, I found myself unemployed with a little cash in the bank. It wasn't much, but enough to take me somewhere for a couple of months as long as I traveled cheaply. I needed a fix. Early on, I hit on the idea of volunteering for some organization in exchange for room and board and the chance to live with locals in some far-flung place. And so, after some digging, I found myself working on a mapping project in central Kenya where I met Nasser, a Kenyan working far from his home village to earn money to help his family. After several weeks working together, we had become good friends and he invited me to travel west, to the shores of Lake Victoria, to visit his home village of Rongo. We stayed with his family for several days, using his family‘s house as a base to explore Lake Victoria. While there I met Nasser‘s mother, father and several members of the extended family, including Nasser‘s sister, Monica. With her bright eyes and big smile, I liked her instantly. She laughed at my pitiful attempts to speak Swahili and made sure I ate too much at every meal as she thought I needed some fattening up. She, along with her mother and cousins, showed me how to cook ugali (a corn meal paste that is a staple of the Kenyan diet) over the open fire behind the house. Using a metal pipe, she showed me how to blow into the hearth to control the temperature. I used the wrong end and got soot all over my mouth, a small price to pay for their loud, happy laughter.

I spent lots of time making paper airplanes with Monica‘s two kids, Ezra and Ruth. Shyly, Monica once asked me if I thought two children, a small family by Kenyan standards, were enough. I told her two was the perfect number, that it would be difficult to care for and educate more. One day Monica showed me how to braid hair into the tiny corn rows that are the fashion there. She seemed quite good at it, and she revealed that she was saving money to go to beauty school in the capital, Nairobi. Afterward she wanted to open her own hair shop in Rongo so that she could provide a better life for her kids. Her brother, Nasser, who had been helping her financially, showed me some brochures about schools she was considering and we weighed the merits of each. I was sad to leave these kind people who had opened their home and hearts to me. Before leaving, I told Monica that I thought she would be great as a hair stylist. She has both the personality and the intelligence to run her own business. I gave her some money to help pay for school and was happy to hear a few months later that she was attending classes in Nairobi. About 1 year later, I heard that she had completed school and was ready to go home to Rongo to start her business. I raised about $300 from my family and friends and sent it to her to help buy the equipment she needs. I know her brother continues to help as well. A thousand dollars would be a huge boon to her efforts, allowing her to buy the remainder of the equipment and rent a space as well as leaving a cushion to help her weather the difficult first years of business. Delivery of the funds to Monica will be fairly easy. I am currently volunteering for the UN peacekeeping mission in Ethiopia and Eritrea and Nairobi is a short flight from here. From there a few hours on a bus will drop me in Rongo. I‘ve been planning to go back for a visit (I want to be the first white guy to get a hair cut from her), and what a joy it would be to deliver something that would make such a difference in her life. I‘m sure her brother, Nasser will travel with me to help ensure safe delivery of the money. In my travels, and even in my work here in Eritrea, I‘ve met many, many people who could put $1000 to very good use. In my mind, Monica stands out because I can see in her plans the long term potential of that $1000 investment to feed and educate her children, who can then take advantage of the growing economic opportunities in Kenya or abroad. In poor places like

Rongo, $1000 will go a long way, but for Monica and her family, I think it could go on for generations. *** CJ Hendrix (hendrix@un.org) is a geographer by trade. After a few years working in the California to save money, he decided to go wander and work wherever he could as long as it was an interesting place (and as long as the money held out). He is currently working as a United Nations Volunteer producing maps to support the UN peacekeeping mission in Ethiopia and Eritrea and spends his weekends mountain biking around the nooks and crannies of beautiful, untouched Eritrea. He feels very, very lucky.

My Principal Looks Like Bin Laden
By Cara Anna I wonder if they‘d let me give the $1,000 to Muslims in Pakistan. Is it still a too-sensitive area? Would my name end up on a List? I will try anyway. I will explain that I just spent four months in the mountains of northwest Pakistan, a short walk from the Afghan border, teaching kids at a small rural school to speak English. The school is 12 hours from the nearest city, over mostly unpaved roads. And as I write, it is winter, which means those roads are blocked and supplies must come on a daily plane to the main town, weather permitting, or in cargo trucks on a long detour through Afghanistan. When they don‘t, families either pay the rising prices for food or eat what they spent the summer storing away – rice, wheat, corn, dried vegetables and fruit. Then there are the bundles of wood for fuel, carried from forests that with every year slip farther and farther away. Some families have electricity, but snowfalls cause shortages. Life could be easier. It doesn‘t help that someone high in the U.S. military thinks Osama bin Laden is hiding there. That‘s what newspaper reports said recently. Lovely. That could mean even fewer foreigners will visit that part of the world, as I did, to spend money and volunteer. I‘d like to think the military person is wrong. The principal at my school looks like bin Laden, though, tall and lanky and gray. It took me a while to dare tell him. He‘s a strict man. He spent most of his career in the army, but he opened this private school 13 years ago. He was disappointed with government schools. His school runs on his discipline and passion. There‘s really not much else. Here is a classroom: Cement walls, cement floors, wooden benches and a blackboard. Every day, each classroom gets a single piece of chalk. But it works. When the school‘s first group of graduates took their final exams, they placed first, second and third in a district with a well-scattered

population of about 500,000. Local officials and principals with bigger budgets were shocked. The school is funded with tuition fees and the principal‘s own money. Still, somehow, about 10 percent of students are on full-tuition scholarships. Maybe their father died. Maybe they are talented but don‘t have the money. The principal wants deserving students to succeed, even if they can‘t pay. And in a move that drives visiting education officials crazy, the principal teaches girls. This is in a region where women are not seen in public. This is where burqas still are worn. This is where girls‘ education, according to the religious leaders who control the provincial government, should be stopped. ―Madam, we are bold,‖ my sixth-grade girls would say. They never just sat there, shyly whispering answers into their headscarves. They were even louder in class than the boys. They didn‘t fear English. ―Madam!‖ they would demand with dimpled smiles. ―What is your favorite class?‖ ―Yours, silly,‖ I wanted to say. The principal‘s philosophy on education is simple. You must be a good Muslim, he tells his students. But that means much more than just reciting the Koran. It means serving others. It means becoming a doctor, an engineer, a teacher. It means reaching out to the outside world and even, if necessary, hiring a non-Muslim, American, female teacher like me. ―Westerners are good people,‖ the principal told his students. And to me, he said, ―You would make a good Muslim.‖ From him, it was the highest compliment. *** Now I would like to introduce my father. My father has never been to Pakistan. He is recovering from cancer, so he‘s in no condition to go overseas. But he continues to teach third grade in an inner-city school in North Carolina. He is not a big spender. He‘s a sandwich man. But after listening to my descriptions of Pakistan and looking at my photos, he said he‘d like to donate to my school. He wanted to give $1,000. ―It sounds worth it,‖ he said.

It will be done. I am sending the money by Western Union, and the money will be picked up in Pakistan at the post office and deposited in a bank account in the town of Chitral. My host in Pakistan, who works for an aid organization, says interest on the account will be used for scholarships. The more that‘s deposited, the more students, especially girls, will be able to study. My father, a man who surely hasn‘t bought a pair of dress pants in a decade, has created an endowment. And he did it without question. It‘s nice to know he has such faith in me, but it‘s amazing he has the same faith in a place and a people that seem so different, sometimes violently different, from him. I hope others who read this might have the same faith, in all of us. ***

Cara Anna (caraannaji@yahoo.com) has been a Peace Corps volunteer and a newspaper reporter and editor in the U.S. and China. She came to Pakistan for the trekking and was talked into teaching by a local guide. She spent six months in Pakistan in all.

Like Mother, Like Daughter
By April Thompson

As a freelance writer, I had a life enviable to many of my workaday friends, able to travel on a whim, work from home, and meet interesting people. But I was tired of writing about people doing heroic, innovative things; I wanted to be the one doing them. I could no longer stand the lonely distance between myself and my readers, I wanted to see, touch and taste the fruits of my work. So I folded up my freelance business to work for a UN agency in Guinea, a small, forgotten and forsaken country in French West Africa. Ironically, I found my workdays wasted fiddling with figures and getting snarled in bureaucracy. I saw more money wasted than well spent, and I, as Chargée de Communications, was supposed to put a happy face on it. I saw little real value in my work, in fact, less so than when I was writing as a free agent about issues I truly cared about. I had given up my freedom for this? My disillusionment was complete. Meanwhile, I was living like a princess. Until I got settled into my own more modest housing, my boss set me up with free lodging in the most expensive apartments in town, in a compound of seven-story high-rises overlooking the Atlantic. With a maid. And a cook. That luxurious oasis couldn‘t shelter me from the extraordinary poverty all around me, bottomless as an infant‘s hunger. Though rich in natural resources, Guinea is one of the world‘s poorest nations. Often there is only one working person in a family here -- and by family I mean extended families of up to 20 people -- sharing a monthly salary of perhaps $30. When local taxi fares went up 5 cents, people started walking everywhere. When I asked why people didn‘t eat more vegetables, I was told they cost too much – rice gave you more calories for your money. Everyday I got asked for money from someone -- my boxing trainers, colleagues, guardians, artist friends -- for shoes, umbrellas, medication for sick mothers and brothers, transport to funerals, money to cover them until the end of the month…

Though I was wealthier than ever, it scared me, feeling like I was everyone‘s safety net. Afraid that one request fulfilled will lead to ten unfulfilled, afraid to be taken advantage of. Afraid I would lose that sense of security that a fat bank account seems to bring. The position was a new one for me. I had been the low-income writer whose wealthier friends would pick up the lunch tab. I was the girl who had shared a one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco with two other women. Who were these people to ask me for money? Didn‘t they know that I was tightfisted? But then a private donor came along to lighten my burden: My mom. This was a woman who had hardly left the US, and certainly not to visit a country as economically devastated and politically unstable as Guinea. My stepfather, who had the inside scoop on travel advisories at the U.S. State Department, had urged her not to come. Her friends couldn‘t imagine a mother‘s love being strong enough to chance the diseases, the heat, the unrest, the bugs… Even our friends of color back home said, ―You go on girl, represent! You won‘t see us in Africa!‖ But my loving mother just had to visit me. Of course, her journey had an ulterior motive: to see what I was really up to. Was I eating right? Was I altering my routes and routines to throw off would-be kidnappers? Was I was wearing a bike helmet? And God forbid I should need to, using a condom? The trip went well. We took a UN plane to Nzerekore, in Guinea‘s far, forested Southwestern reaches, near the Ivory Coast and Liberian borders. We rented a beat-up taxi with no seatbelts, windshield wipers, door or window handles or shocks to take us to the foot of Mt. Nimba, Guinea‘s highest mountain, where we hiked in record heat. My mom turned out to be amazingly easygoing about the many inconveniences she experienced -- even catching Hepatitis B. And while I had become accustomed to other colleagues‘ haggling over pennies in the marketplace, her laidback attitude about money was a particular relief -especially as I had to do all the negotiating, since she didn‘t speak French. ―It means more to them than it does to me. Besides, everything‘s already such a bargain here!‖ she said.

Moved by the poverty she witnessed here -- and her disenchantment with charities who put all their money into PR and guerilla fundraising -- Mom left $3,000 for me to bestow on neighbors in need. One of our first beneficiaries was Boubacar Diallo. Bouba introduced himself to me as I was wandering wide-eyed amongst the towering trees and creeping vines in Conakry‘s arboretum one day. The lithe, muscular youth, with a face as serious and beautiful as you can imagine, showed me hibiscus, foxtail, and bougainvillea he‘d been tending in the park. He explained to me that he went back every other day at 3 am to water the plants, work inherited from his dead father, as it was the only time there was water in the tap. Excitedly, the 16-year-old told me about his latest venture -- chickens. One of Bouba‘s uncles gave him 300 chicks to get started, but without pens, what could he do? Twenty-five bucks was all he needed for building materials. Secretly I jumped at this opportunity to put Mom‘s funds to work, though I played the stern matron, not wanting him to take me for a softie. I worked with Bouba to develop a budget, and find a credit union where he could deposit any profits, so as not to be tempted to dip into them. Unfortunately the chickens didn‘t pan out -- a sickness wiped out the whole coop -- so Bouba moved on to pig-raising. That took more start-up capital but it was a more solid investment, as the profit margin is greater and the pigs sturdy as animals come. All went well until a huge storm came and blew off his mother‘s roof. Conakry is among the top 10 rainiest cities in the world, and their roof was straw, so this wasn‘t a big surprise. But unfortunately that meant selling the pigs prematurely to get the funds to repair the roof. And repair it they did -they made it aluminum this time, and wired the house for electricity while they were at it. But Bouba was broke again. While I saw this as a failure, Bouba was happy about it. ―My family wouldn‘t have been able to survive this rainy season without your help,‖ he said. ―My mother is so proud of me.‖ In spite of this setback, little by little, Bouba paid back every bit of that loan. And I gave every bit back to him and more to get re-started, because I knew

how hard he had worked, and would work. And I have already made him promise that when he is ready to pay back the latest installment, he will put it aside for ag-science classes at Conakry‘s university, which he hopes to take when he graduates. *** Beyond my work with Bouba, I‘ve used Mom‘s funds to secure school uniforms and supplies for students, passports for a traditional dance troupe looking to attend a dance festival in Spain, funds for a widow to restart her small business selling cloth, equipment for a young welder struggling to support his family, life-saving medicine for a malaria victim. And when her fund dried up, I replenished it with my own. And my funds got topped by another pair of visiting friends. Using the $600 they left behind, I now look to sponsor a young boxer‘s voyage to France. This is the magic of the universe: it mirrors you. It responds to your fears. It responds to your courage. When you contract, it contracts. When you expand, it expands. With my mother‘s expansive gesture, I was able to learn how to be generous without risking my own bankroll, at least at first, and realize that all those irrational fears about money -- yeah, they‘re mostly irrational. I don‘t mean to paint a picture of hearts and roses. There were people I tried to help, and failed. There are plenty of requests I turned down for various reasons. It‘s mainly been inchworm progress, hope flickering just often enough so that you don‘t lose sight of it. I lament living in a world where money rules us so. It decides who will eat and who will learn, who will die young and who will live long. The ultimate victory will come the day when none of my friends here need my charity, the day I don‘t have the power to choose who will get ahead and who will get left behind. ***

For more than a decade, April Thompson (aprilth@aprilwrites.com), 32, has worked as a freelance writer, editor and consultant specializing in travel,

the environment and community issues. Her work and play have taken her to over 20 countries, most notably Guinea, where she has spent the past two and a half years working, writing, boxing, hiking, and trying to decide what she will be when she grows up. If all goes well, after running the Conakry half-marathon as a last hurrah, she will return to the US this summer with her Guinean wonder-dog, Quatorze, and a talented young Guinean boxer who looks to break into the pros. For stories about her adventures, go to www.aprilwrites.com.

Tsunami Is Big Business
By Adam M. Roberts

The team from the Born Free Foundation in the UK and Born Free USA in America drove along the more than one hundred kilometer coastline of southwest Sri Lanka from Colombo to Galle, surveying tsunami damage along the way. We were there to visit two projects that we support: an elephant orphanage in the national park and a turtle conservation project on the beach. Having worked in animal protection and wildlife conservation for 14 years, I‘ve often been asked by cynics, ―But what do you to help people?‖ Although we saw the horrifying, life-altering images on television, nothing compares to personally bearing witness to the aftermath of this unmitigated horror. That which seemed inconceivable and unimaginable suddenly emerged as a stark reality. Standing in the rubble, meeting the survivors, and assessing the impact for myself was an imperative experience. How can one write about the destruction if one doesn‘t witness the destruction? All along the journey were frontages of homes—once proud displays of comparative affluence and personal success—literally ripped in half. While the fronts still stood, painstakingly painted green, pink, or blue, with porches and window boxes filled with flowers, the back halves of the homes were ripped apart—landslides of brick and steel. There were many heart-wrenching stories to be sure, but one struck me perhaps more than most. A mentally disabled man shared a house with his brother. The tsunami was surely an incomprehensible event for all of us, but for him it was literally impossible to grasp what had occurred and what he had lost. All that remained of their shared abode was the concrete foundation. Yet the poor man, immune to the real impact of the demoralizing event, wouldn‘t leave. In fact, he remade his room in the very space where it once stood. Sheets of aluminum siding formed the ―walls‖ of his makeshift room. A blanket was placed on the floor where his bed, long since washed away, had once provided modest comfort on warm evenings. A statue of Buddha diligently watched over him every night.

For others, there was no more home of any sort and rebuilding had to be undertaken (literally) from the ground up. There was no self-pity or insurmountable sorrow in the camps set up for these displaced islanders. Matriarchs still cooked rice in large black pots, carefully crouching amidst stones, branches, and ashes, blowing the fire alight again. The children, being children, still played cricket in the dust. As we journeyed through the destruction, I continually considered the millions of dollars pledged by numerous governments in the developed world to provide relief and rebuilding aid. Where was it? We traveled for hours and saw plenty of people with hammers and saws in hand, creating temporary shelters to live in while they recreated their dwellings. But where were the huge nongovernmental organizations? Where were the governments that pledged to help and supposedly put their money where their mouths are? The story was all over the papers here in the US: approximately 1,000 people dead on a Sri Lankan train. The tsunami swept the train off the tracks, killing nearly everyone on board, leaving little more than twisted and rusted wreckage. On board, light fixtures dangled from the damaged car ceiling. Outside, windows were shattered and steel bent beyond repair. Along the tracks were strewn luggage, clothing, purses, and other symbols of lives lost. A child‘s brown sandal—the right one, with two buckles still clasped together, covered in dust—rested solitarily amidst the rocks 15 feet away from the train. Around the site of the train wreck, a site that dominated international media, we found the relief we expected: Government of the Netherlands, USAID, Mercy Corps, etc. Cynically, I wondered why this aid hadn‘t found its way to all the families struggling along the coast up until that point. Could it really be that the aid went where the television cameras were rolling? Then I remembered what one Sri Lankan told me: ―Tsunami is big business.‖ It doesn‘t take millions to make a significant impact on the lives of those who survived the tsunami. For instance, along one strip of coastline, a turtle conservation project employed fifteen nest protectors to ensure no harm befalls the turtle eggs. Three of them lost their lives. As a result, their families lost the $700 a year that was earned for their work. Who will take care of them now?

So many supplies were lacking for the folks involved in the turtle project, but when they could acquire the supplies, they had no vehicles to transport them. We gave them $1,000—half to help the people in any way they saw fit, half to go toward the turtle project. Helping people and helping animals are not mutually exclusive endeavors. Taking this concept even further, we met Penny Jayewardene and her husband Ravi. Penny runs the Sri Lanka Society for the Protection of Animal Rights. In this capacity, they were terribly concerned about the overwhelming plight of Sri Lanka‘s stray dog population, among other animal protection concerns in the nation. They also run the Poorna Health Care Trust, which was established in 1996 to formalize social service activities for impoverished people in Sri Lanka, including support through a clinic at Ratnam‘s Hospital in Colombo. After the tsunami they have been concentrating their relief efforts in three camps for displaced persons. One of the camps, Sangamankanda, was located temporarily in a school building. The school has reopened and the people from this camp—584 of them (162 families)—had to move out. Unfortunately, Poorna receives no funding from aid organizations and relies on individual donors to provide for the poor. Like Penny, I work for an animal protection organization—Born Free USA—but I also run a charity for the poor as a volunteer—The $10 Club. The Club is based on the simple premise that at the end of each month most of us could spare ten dollars. That is, after we‘ve paid all of our bills, attended to our personal needs, put money into college funds and IRAs and other savings plans, treated ourselves to dinners out and movies and to a new outfit or two, we most likely could still give away ten bucks. If enough of us are in that position and are willing to donate ten dollars a month, and we pool all of that money together, we could make a tangible difference to the lives of the poor in developing countries. Each month we fund a different type of project in a different country—in 27 months of operation we have funded 27 projects in 26 countries totaling nearly $40,000. Having met Penny and Ravi and enjoyed their hospitality over a gorgeous traditional Sri Lankan breakfast I was determined to have The $10 Club fund a project through the Poorna Health Care Trust. Our 212 members, bolstered by additional contributions from members who wanted to do something

special to help with tsunami relief and the French animal protection organization One Voice, joined together to donate $3,100 to Poorna to assist in delivering safe drinking water to the camps for internally displaced people and provide nursing mothers with kits to attend to their primary needs including feeding cups and plates, bowls, spoons, flasks for hot water, containers for milk powder, baby soap, teats, and plastic buckets with lids. Expenses for The $10 Club are paid out of my own pocket so that 100% of member contributions goes toward projects each month. The Poorna Health Care Trust is operated the same way. We know that individuals can change the lives of the neediest people in the world. We prove it every month. The hard part with the tsunami damage is knowing that there are so many people who have fallen through the cracks. There are so many people who have not been reached by the large international aid agencies and governments and who we, as a small organization, are not powerful enough to help. 4,000 people have safe drinking water because we reached out to them directly. 53 mothers have sanitary kits to help them attend to their children. So many others are in need. There are fishing communities in Thailand that need to be reconstructed. There are playgrounds in India that can be built to give innocent children a chance at some fun, amidst unparalleled sadness and hardship. Naturally, $1,000 from Backpack Nation would go toward additional relief through The $10 Club. But even if the prize is not attained, each and every person who reads this should look in his or her wallet at the end of the month and, upon finding a ten dollar bill there, commit to give it away. It may not be much to you, but to someone in the developing world—to someone whose entire world has literally been washed away—it may be the difference between misery and happiness. Happiness should be big business, too. ***

Adam M. Roberts (adam@thetendollarclub.org) is the Vice President of Born Free USA, a wildlife protection organization dedicated to alleviating animal suffering, protecting threatened species in the wild, investigating cases of cruelty, and urging everyone to treat wildlife everywhere with respect. He is also President of The $10 Club (www.thetendollarclub.org), a

grassroots charity devoted to poverty alleviation across the globe. Born in New York and an American citizen, he now lives in Washington, DC with his wife, Stephanie, daughter Mia, stepdaughter, Bella, three dogs, five cats, and one very important hamster.