#god where are they even coming from we have mosquito nets on our windows where are they coming frommm

[misskamelie]

Not one, not two, and not even three, but at least 6 (SIX) mosquitos in my room

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Sun Myung Moon’s lost Paraguay Eco-Utopia

▲ Sun Myung Moon and Hak Ja Han visited their Puerto Leda mansion only once.

Outside magazine by Monte Reel   February 20, 2013

Full story: https://www.outsideonline.com/1913791/sun-myung-moons-lost-eco-utopia

Extracts:

A decade before his death, Sun Myung Moon—multimillionaire founder of the controversial Unification Church / FFWPU—sent a band of followers deep into the wilds of Paraguay, with orders to build the ultimate utopian community and eco-resort. So how’s that working out? Monte Reel machetes his way toward heaven on Earth.

... In addition to overseeing the church, which he said aimed to fulfill Jesus’ unfinished mission by establishing a new “kingdom of heaven on Earth,” Moon managed vast commercial interests and called himself a messiah. He was frequently accused of cult practices, in part because some of his hundreds of thousands of followers turned over very personal decisions—including the choice of marriage partner—to him. More than a decade ago, Moon told some members of his church that he wanted them to lay the foundation for a new Garden of Eden in one of the least hospitable landscapes on the planet—northern Paraguay.

Moon was notorious for attention-grabbing gestures: conducting mass weddings in Madison Square Garden, taking out full-page ads in major American newspapers to support Richard Nixon during Watergate, spending 13 months in federal prison for tax fraud and conspiracy in the early ’80s. But during the final years of his life, his Eden-building project kept chugging along well out of the public eye, germinating largely unseen in this remote wilderness of mud.

In 2000, Moon paid an undisclosed amount for roughly 1.5 million acres of land fronting the Paraguay River. Most of that property was in a town called Puerto Casado, about 100 miles downriver from Puerto Leda. Moon’s subsidiaries wanted the land to open commercial enterprises ranging from logging to fish farming. But a group of Puerto Casado residents launched a bitter legal battle to nullify the deal. While that controversy continued to divide Paraguayans, the Puerto Leda project proceeded under the radar. Moon turned the land over to 14 Japanese men—“national messiahs,” according to church documents, who were instructed to build an “ideal city” where people could live in harmony with nature, as God intended it. Moon declared that the territory represented “the least developed place on earth, and, hence, closest to original creation.”

... The [twentieth] century brought utopian colonies of Australian socialists, Finnish vegetarians, English pacifists, and German Nazis. They all failed.

So how are Moon’s followers—or Moonies, as they don’t like to be called—holding up? Hard to say. I’m aware of two other journalists who’ve seen Puerto Leda. One, a British Catholic missionary, visited after the first colonists arrived and was unable to fathom their motives. Maybe they were smuggling drugs, she insinuated in a church magazine [The Tablet December 16, 2000].

... By the time I boarded the Aquidaban, I’d begun to suspect that the National Messiahs in Puerto Leda might have no clue we were coming.

[It was a three-day journey] aboard this muggy cargo boat [in 2012].

... one man, a portly Paraguayan navy guard in military fatigues, awaits [Toni Greaves and myself] at the end of the gangplank.

“Do you have repellent?” he asks.

My skin is lacquered in a stiff coat of stale sweat and deet. “Lots.”

“Good,” he says. “You’ll see at night. We can’t even talk to each other because of the mosquitoes that fly into our mouths.”

... The building in front of us has a peaked terra-cotta roof, brick-and-stucco walls, expansive glass windows, and no fewer than five remote-controlled Carrier air-conditioning units. At the front door, a dozen pairs of leather slippers wait for us. “Very Japanese,” Greaves observes. We remove our dirty shoes and take our first steps into Reverend Moon’s Victorious Holy Place.

All is silent. Wilson flips a switch, throwing light on what appears to be a dining hall. The large wooden tables, each covered with a plastic tablecloth, could accommodate about 100 people. They are vacant.

... A few hundred yards from the guard station, I spot a sportfishing boat docked at the riverside. It’s big—about 30 feet long, fiberglass, with a prominent cockpit. I ask Mister Date about it.

“Ah yes,” he says. “Reverend Moon designed that boat himself. It was brought here from New Jersey.”

... Apparently, the True Father’s fishing jones was a deciding factor in the placement of Puerto Leda. Moon first visited the Paraguay River on fishing trips in the 1990s, and by decade’s end he was cruising down it and ordering church members to wade along the muddy banks to plant 63 signposts demarcating the land he had decided to buy.

▲ Japanese “National Messiahs” with Sun Myung Moon and Hak Ja Han (The Heavenly True Parents 天地父母님 ) on September 23, 1999. 

In 1999, Moon called his most devoted Japanese followers to join him on a 40-day spiritual retreat outside Fuerte Olimpo, about 25 miles south of Puerto Leda. I’d read a brief description of those days on a church website. One Messiah had written: “It was very hot and we wanted to bathe in the water. But we could not because piranhas would come. It’s a big problem! Also there are problems with ants. One National Messiah became very sick from an ant bite. It’s a dangerous place. There are all these problems, but Father just says, ‘Ah, the purity of nature!’”

... In addition to calling for a return to Original Creation here, he told his devotees, in 2000, that “we need to build the best underwater palace in the world.”

... Near the end of their [40-days] together, Moon instructed them to build an ecologically sustainable city that could serve as a model for the whole world. The plan, such as it was, lacked specifics; not all of the founders agreed on what the city should look like. Yet they forged ahead, determined to create something extraordinary in a place where wilderness reigned.

Now, as I glance at the scene, I see huge dormitory buildings, guesthouses, and sheds for mechanical repairs. I count seven freshwater fish farms, fully stocked with pacu, a toothy species that looks like an overgrown piranha. I see no other people.

“Normally, there are about 10 of us who live here,” Mister Date tells me. “But this week six are away in Asunción. So there are just four now.”

We walk through early-morning light on smooth sidewalks, past manicured gardens of hibiscus and bougainvillea, beside an Olympic-size swimming pool. A young man hired from a nearby village slowly sweeps a filtering net through the deep end. Nothing—not a single foreign particle—seems to mar the clean blue rectangle of water. We enter a two-story communal building that resembles an office complex. I see Wilson in a small room, tapping away at a computer. We climb a stone staircase to the second floor, following Mister Date into what appears to be a rec room. There’s a television hooked up to a satellite system, and Mister Date pops a disc into a DVD player. The DVD, Mister Date tells us, explains everything.

The footage that flashes across the screen dates from 1999. We see the founding Messiahs walk across untamed wastes—the grounds where we now sit. They lay bricks in wet mud. They sand metal frames. They wash dishes in the river. They wear heavy clothing, light fires to keep the mosquitoes away, and sweat in the wavy heat. They stagger through gale-force winds.

Then, in a clip from 2000, we see Moon himself, touring the partially cleared grounds, wiping sweat from his brow, eating lunch, leaving in a private plane. The footage segues into scenes of the men working feverishly to build a luxury house for Moon and his wife, Hak Ja Han, who visited for a second and final time in late 2001. 

▲ Sun Myung Moon and Hak Ja Han visited Puerto Leda twice, but only once after the mansion they ordered built for themselves was completed. They inaugurated the mansion on November 30, 2000 (above). Takeru Kamiyama is standing close to Moon, wearing a pale blue shirt.

▲ The view from the mansion.

The rest of the DVD covers more recent developments, and the highlights—set to swelling orchestral music—unfold like a training montage from Rocky. Messiahs erect the water tower. Man-made fishponds materialize on the grounds. A landing strip is planed flat by tractors. The Messiahs unload saplings from the Aquidaban, then plant them in sprawling groves. A group of about a dozen visiting Japanese students—the children of Unification Church members—help the Messiahs build a school in a nearby village. When the DVD ends and the lights come up, I’m exhausted just from watching all that drudgery. I look at Mister Date’s corded forearms, his gaunt face, his waspy waist. Every aspect of his being seems molded by toil. Even with the help of the local hires, the Messiahs labor all day, usually outside.

“It’s a lot of work just to maintain,” he admits.

The fact that only 10 men live here comes rushing back to me. The colony has actually lost population since its inception, despite all the construction. Four of the original Messiahs have returned to Japan. Only the hardest of the hardcore have stuck it out.

And this raises a couple of questions: Who are these guys? And why have they put themselves through this?

Mister Auki walks across the dining hall carrying a basket filled with whole fish freshly yanked from the river. He’s a short, balding Messiah whose task this morning, as on most days, is to catch something for the grill.

“I caught lots of piranha today,” he tells the men, his face splitting into a smile. “And also a five-kilogram pacu.”

The pacu is now part of the lunch buffet, which the four Messiahs plus Wilson, Greaves, and I spoon onto plates.

... In the beginning, the colonists hoped they would be joined by their wives (as well as many, many more followers). Every August, they invite children of Japanese church members to visit for a couple of weeks, but so far none have chosen to stay on. “My wife thinks that it is not realistic for her to move here yet,” Mister Owada says, “because we still have to raise the standard of living more.”

When I press him on how tough and lonely this must get, Mister Owada says it doesn’t bother him. Moon sanctified his personal sacrifices, promising the men that spiritual rewards would make up for their suffering. “Even if you die, what regret will you leave behind?” Moon asked the founders in 1999.

“We’re risking our lives for this cause,” Mister Owada says, his left eye twitching convulsively. “I like to risk my life,” he continues. “That is doing something worthwhile. We have continued to stick with this.”

Months later, after Moon’s death from complications from pneumonia, I will once again reach out to Mister Date to see if the True Father’s passing affects the Messiahs’ dedication. It doesn’t. They have the blessing of his widow, Mister Date says, and the ongoing feuds among the Moon children won’t affect them. They plan to work on Puerto Leda for at least another decade.

“Of course there is ecotourism potential here,” says Mister Date. We’re standing outside an unfinished three-story brick building near a shed that protects three car-size generators. Mister Date refers to the brick building as “the hotel,” but for the moment its only occupant is a stick-legged baby goat nosing around the food pellets being stored on the ground floor.

... “Why did you stop work on the hotel?” I ask.

He pauses and smiles politely. “In a small place, you can have disagreements easily,” he says. “They’re expecting us to be financially independent, but that’s not easy here.” The Messiahs, it seems, don’t always see eye-to-eye on the best way to reduce their dependence on member donations. Some want to concentrate on agribusiness and scrap the ecotourism idea. The hotel is unfinished because they aren’t sure whether opening the place to outsiders is a good idea.

▲ Puerto Leda from the air.

We walk on, past planted fields of lemongrass, oranges, mangoes, grapefruit, asparagus, sugarcane. The crops are struggling. If agriculture alone is expected to support the colony, there are some kinks to work out. The men have planted thousands of jatropha trees, which can be used to make biodiesel fuel, but hundreds of parrots zeroed in on them and ate all the fruit. During the most recent wet season, rising waters flooded many of the thousands of neem trees.

“It’s been a hard year,” Mister Date admits. “A lot of things have died because they were three months underwater.”

It’s clear that these guys have faith in miracles, and that’s exactly what’s needed here in Puerto Leda. Without one, the Victorious Holy Place seems destined to be another curious monument to human ambition and folly. But watching how hard the Messiahs work, I can’t help but admire their tenacity. The fanaticism that underlies their devotion to this cause must burn hot, but they hide it well. They’re not evangelical. They’re friendly and welcoming to those who don’t share their beliefs. They’re reflexively humble and generous and—whatever I might think of their motives—admirably tough. They’re underdogs. The kind of guys you root for.

During the last hours of my visit, Mister Date shows me something that might actually work out. “Japanese yams,” he announces, staring down at a plot of tilled soil. “They grow very large underground, up to 10 kilograms. They do well here.”

My immediate impulse is to celebrate this victory with hearty congratulations. I’m thrilled for his indefatigable yams. Maybe all the sweat that Mister Date has sunk into this plot will bear a little fruit. Maybe little victories like this can help other people in the Pantanal live richer lives. Maybe that’s enough.

Mister Date stares down at the dirt. “Unfortunately,” he says, “they taste very bad.”

... I head out toward the pool.

▲ The swimming pool at Puerto Leda.

He’s still there, the man with the net, sweeping as if he hasn’t let up since dawn. A shame: I didn’t bring any trunks. But I do have a pair of heavy cotton cargo shorts in my backpack. I walk to the dormitory and return wearing them. I ask the sweeper, “Does anyone ever use this pool?”

“Only the tourists,” he says.

The tourists? Based on a guest book I flipped through earlier, he must be referring to those Japanese students who visit every August, the occasional Paraguayan government official, and Greaves and me. ...

________________________________

Outside magazine   https://www.outsideonline.com/

________________________________

Monte Reel’s Between Man and Beast: A Tale of Exploration and Evolution was published in March 2013 by Doubleday.

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/between-man-and-beast-monte-reel/1113244445#/

________________________________

Sun Myung Moon organization activities in Central and South America

Actividades de la Secta Moon en países de habla hispana

FFWPU President of IAPP Prosecuted for Money Laundering and Drug Smuggling in US Court; may be connected to UC / FFWPU Leadership

[sotatosamoa-blog]

Days 11-18

Talofa!

I have been in Samoa for 6 days and I am I finally out of the initial culture shock. Sorry I haven’t been able to update this, as internet isn’t easy to come by for my computer. For those of you who have tried, I don’t get texts via my US phone #, so don’t be offended if I haven’t answered. Use e-mail, facebook messenger or WhatsApp to reach out if you would like.

I was picked up at the airport; which is simply a security line that filters into a small baggage claim right outside again. Someone from the agency picked me up and drove me the 40 minutes to my host family and new home for the next 2 months. For Samoa standards, it’s higher level. For Minnesota standards, it’s another story.  As expected, it’s significantly hot here. We got off the plane and walked across the blacktop to the airport. Think about this, on the hottest Minnesota summer day you are walking through the parking lot and all you can feel is the excessive heat from the hot engines and you just about hold your breath until you can get away from them. Well that’s what I felt stepping off the plane next to the engine. So I walked quickly to try an get away from the plane, but then 100 yards away realized that this is indeed how Samoa all.the.time.

Anyway, I have my own room and this family built a separate building just to house students and volunteers who come through. We share a couple bathrooms between the 8ish of us. There is absolutely no air conditioning, no hot water, no laundry, and open windows with mosquito nets over them. Unfortunately it’s wet season here so rains every day, only for short periods of time. The day I arrived the water system was out in the village because of the storm the night before so it took a couple days until I could actually shower, however, since it’s so cold you make it quick. Also in the shower is when you do your laundry. You take a bucket, put a little laundry detergent in it, fill it up, put some clothes in, let it soak, then I just stomp in the bucket with my foot to try and mix it around, then in the shower you dump it out and one by one rinse it off under the water, ring the water out and then hang it up to dry. They do have clothes lines outside but you don’t use them because it rains out of nowhere constantly. So they hang in my room in front of a fan. My current issue as I write this: trying to figure out how to get the gecko out of my room. They are so quick and shifty. Fun fact: the centipedes here are 8-12 inches long. THAT I can’t handle.

Typical home in Samoa, which has no walls, is one giant room, and about 15 people live in: 

The first day or two was spent with an induction and tour of Apia, the town I am in. I met some staff members and other volunteers. I live with 2 girls from Denmark doing some things at a school and a guy from Taiwan/NZ who is also a “physio”. There is another girl from Australia arriving at the end of the week who is a physio, too, and living with us. There are two older women volunteering on their own who stay with us. This is their 3rd time here and they are from Australia. They have been best friends since they were 16 and I have to admit, they are just like hysterical, stubborn, and know-it-all grandmothers.

The boy, Junior, the family has adopted and Papa Joe, the Chief of the Village, aka my host Dad, showing me family albums for the 4th time in 24 hours, haha.:

The first weekend the Danish girls and I went to the other side of the island called Lalomanu. This is a village that got hit extremely hard in 2009 by a tsunami and still is rebuilding. Many just left and never came back, leaving only pieces of foundation that still sit there today. We stayed in a fale, which is a traditional Samoan hut right on the beach. We stayed in a small village of them with other tourists from New Zealand, Australia, Fiji, and America (Boston). We ate all meals together, relaxed on the beach, had a traditional island show at night, and also stopped by the To Sua Ocean Trench. This is the place that you see pictures of when you google what Samoa is known for. However, pictures don’t do it justice. It’s a pretty amazing natural wonder. It is connected to the ocean, which you can swim through to at low tide. You can also jump from the top of the ladder at high tide. In the Samoan heat, it just felt good to be in.

Fale:

We stopped on our way back to Apia at a couple waterfalls, but then spent the rest of our Sunday at a resort that they allow the locals to spend the day at (if you buy a drink). It was a little saving grace in an overwhelming first week...mostly because they had air conditioning inside.

The hospital I am supposed to be working at isn’t ready for me. Long story short, I am a bit frustrated about it. This is Samoan time/Island time and things do move SLOW, but I thought after being signed up for 13 months this would be set by now. So the last couple days I have spent some time at the National Rugby Training site. The professional teams are off for 2 weeks at international tournaments so right now it’s slow with reserves. Rumors are true: these guys are absolutely huge humans. Simply peer strength and power (which also means poor ROM) and are just bred for this type of sport. They have the day off tomorrow, though, so that means I do, too.

Food I have been eating: oatmeal, white rice, chicken, fish, vegetables (eggplant, green beans, lettuce) fruit (coconuts, kumquats, bananas, custard apple * the best*), and toast with jam; or what showed up this morning and made my day: Skippy peanut butter!! ...I didn’t even care it said expires January of 2017.

I have only been drinking water (besides a nia which is a coconut!), but have had trouble with dehydration. Trying to get caught up with the heat and lack of clean/safe water at times. It took a hard toll on me the last 2 days.

Hopefully once I get in the hospital I can get going on what I came here for. I am getting anxious to get going.

Miss you, Minnesota. Everyone enjoy the cool weather and warm showers for me!

*update*

Had some time to think and reflect after a few conversations (J.Boff!). Two more of my goals that I wrote down back in San Fran were:

-Seek God’s plan, letting go of any plans I had for myself. Trust that this is where he wants me to be and he has things to teach me

-be slow to frustration or anxiety

These two are exactly what I need to be focusing on at this very moment. It’s been a struggle for both but if I open my eyes a little and trust that I still came here for a reason, despite it not going the way I would hope, that there are many lessons and things to gain that I likely won’t even realize until after it’s all over. My plan is to go ahead and go all in, no matter the circumstances for 1 month, then stop again and assess where things are at and follow my heart on where I need to be going from there.

Fa’a Samoa

[keywestlou]

MORNING STEW #13

A Morning Stew day it is! A lot to cover this morning.

Terri White has God on her side. At this very moment Donna is taking her home from the hospital. Yesterday, it was discovered she had a 99 percent blockage in one of her blood vessels. A stent was placed. Shortly, she will enjoy her home once again.

The Key West Citizen in its Today in History section is doing a daily William Hackley. Notes from his 1831 diary.

Today mentions that the night before he was visiting a friend, Major Glassel’s home. They took tea and played whist under a large mosquito bar in the house’s chamber.

I was not sure what a “mosquito bar” was. Looked it up. I should have known. It is a wooden frame covered with netting to keep out mosquitoes. As described elsewhere, it was/is the human defense against blood thirsty mosquitoes.

Note that 1831 was well before the introduction of screens for windows and doors.

The Truman Amphitheater is reflecting success. Shows scheduled. People attending.

Sunday, Slightly Stoopid James appeared with his group. A blues, funk and reggae styled band.

Four thousand watched and whooped it up. Mostly younger/millennials. Their music.

I have yet to see a show. I must attend one. One consistent with my music from another day.

One of my favorite Key West people is Christine Cordone. She and her husband Larry Smith friends for 25 years.

Christine is triple talented. She sings. Alone and with Larry. A star on the Key West scene.

She paints. An artist. Watercolors. Began around 10 years ago. A gallery was impressed and began featuring her work. Her first showing a sell out the first night. Her work continues to be in demand.

A school teacher. Thirty years. The last 22 as a kindergarten teacher. One time Teacher of the Year. She is now retired.

On saturday June 15 at 8 in the evening, the Little Room Jazz Club will sponsor a show recognizing Christine’s 30 year career in the 3 areas. Christine will sing and talk her way through the 30 years. Larry and a number of Key West musicians will back her up.

Christine is the perfect Renaissance Woman. A lifetime of work. Three different careers.

Go to her show! It will be over the top! Christine is the best!

Trump is out of his mind. He lacks respect for everyone. Even those equal in stature to him. I refer to China’s President Xi.

The China/U.S. tariff war is ongoing. Appears it will get worse before better. Could continue multiple years.

There is a G-20 meeting later this month in Osaka, Japan. Trump announced that if Xi fails to attend, he (Trump) will add additional tariffs on China. The tariffs will go into effect immediately. There is $300 billion not yet tariffed by the U.S.

Trump has once again thrown the gauntlet down to China. I do not understand how the leader of one great nation can threaten/insult the leader of another great nation.

China is considered the #2 power in the world. Economically and militarily. I suspect it could have moved into #1 spot. The U.S. now #2.

Trump is pissing on Xi and China. You do not do that to another power. In fact, it should not be done to anyone.

China has moved ahead of the U.S. the past 7 years. While we were fighting wars we should not have been and expending military monies on those��wars, China was building its military forces. Its naval war vessels mostly new. Its missile and radar works perhaps developmentally ahead of our own. China has built islands with airports thereon in the China Sea where not even islands existed before.

China has gotten ready over the years for whatever might occur.

Trump is spending military budgets of $700 billion and $760 billion the past 2 years in an attempt to catch up.

Russia stands with China.

If there were a war, I don’t know how many countries would stand with the U.S. Trump has alienated our “real” friends in less than 2 years.

The amusing part of this mess is that Trump says he has a “great relationship” with Xi. If so, why the tariff war?

Last week, Mexico City announced it was decriminalizing sex work. A nice way of saying prostitution.

New York State may be doing the same thing.

A bill was introduced yesterday in the New York State Legislature to make it legal to engage in the consensual sale of sex. The bill also vacates prior convictions for sex work.

A coalition has formed to push the decriminalization bill. The group is called Decrim NY. The women involved take the position that sex work is work. It pays more than a normal job for most and helps them and their families subsist.

Prostitution is no big deal in New York at the present time. It is only a misdemeanor punishable by up to 3 months in jail and a fine up to $500.

The Johns are also susceptible presently in New York. Men soliciting sex can be arrested and face prison and fines also. The bill would eliminate the charge.

America is experiencing an oil boom. It will continue to do so for many yeas to come. At the same time, OPEC is in retreat. Going downhill. OPEC hit a 5 year low in May.

I continue to be happy when OPEC suffers. Saudi Arabia the moving force in OPEC. The Saudis are our friends. They gave us $4 a gallon gasoline and many believe were behind 9/11.

One of the blogs I read frequently is the Justice Building Blog. Yesterday’s was titled Appeasement. I share with you certain portions. They are self=explanatory.

Pre-World War II, countries capitulated to Hitler’s demands The result, World War II.

“The lesson from pre-World War II Germany is that bullies will go as far as the nations around them allow them to go.  Dictators will manufacture a crisis, and then seek to resolve it, earning the praise of their citizens.”

“President Trump declares an “emergency” at the U.S./Mexican border. Claiming there is a crisis, Trump threatens ruin upon the Mexican economy, threatening to raise tariffs 5 percent a month on Mexican products unless Mexico capitulates to Trump’s demands. Friday, the Mexican President appeased Trump, acquiescing to his demands.”

“The thing about history is that you never know where a dictator who manufactures a crisis will pop up. Even tragically, as President of the United States.”

“What we do now will be judged as harshly by history, as history now judges Chamberlain and other European leaders in 1938-1939.”

Tuesday Talk with Key West Lou tonight at 9. Join me. Listen to my sincere expressions about everything I believe is being screwed up in the world. You may not agree. However, I guarantee you will enjoy. www.blogtalkradio.com/key-west-lou.

Enjoy your day!

  MORNING STEW #13 was originally published on Key West Lou

[anenglishmaninontario]

Campers Cove 27th to 29th July

Day 1

So part of what I wanted to do while I was out here was to get myself doing things which I hadn’t done before or at least hadn’t done for a long time.  I reckon this counts.  When I mentioned to certain people that we were planning on doing a swathe of camping I was greeted with a few titters and lots of “I can’t really picture you camping” (you know who you are you cheeky cow).  I spent much of my younger days on camping trips across Europe in what amounted to a canvas sack on wheels so this kind of camping is going to come pretty easy to me.

Just to make sure though, the first trip was less than an hour away to Camper’s Cove near  Point Pelee National Park along Lake Erie. With the dogs safely ensconced in the boarding kennel and a fully stocked camper made ready off we went.

Campers Cove is a great little privately run campground on the shores of the lake full of a mixture of RV’s of every size, some tents and some permanent residents marking territory with a boggling array of gnomes, fountains, palm trees which lit up at night (and which rather unfortunately couldn’t fail to remind anyone as immature as myself and Lauren of anything other than a collection of genitals waving in the breeze) and all manner of mail boxes in every shape and magnitude.  It was very easy to see why someone would choose to retire here and spend everyday in what is essentially a massive playground for those with enough money to buy a decent sized RV but not quite enough for a 10 berth yacht in the Mediterranean.  We stopped off at the camp shop to register and making note of the souvenir clothing and ice-cream counter headed out to our pitch.

I watched from the sidelines the first time of setting up so as to check out how it was done (and so that I could snatch a sneaky cigarette) and it was something of a surprise.  The familiar folding out of beds and clicking of support poles I was ready for.  Less expected was that once the door was opened and the awning extended, out came a carpet followed by tables, a washing area, strings of fairy lights, recycling boxes, a cooking tripod, an electric cooler complete with radlers, beer and caesars, boxes of games equipment, enough chairs to hold a moderately sized pep-rally and lastly a quarter-sized national flag complete with bungie cords to be strapped to the nearest tree.  I definitely refute the suggestion that I cannot cope with the outdoors and that I would flounder if asked to rough it but I have to say that if this is what camping looks like then this will be a breeze.  When I was a kid, camping meant close quarters living, waking up cold and knotted in my own sleeping bag, tinned food, UHT milky, a suspicious looking bucket filled with blue chemicals which served as a toilet and being unable to wash for days on end until enough courage was built up to use the communal showers on French camping sites.  I’m less bashful these days as I’m certain some people may know but even now I think I would have difficulty using such open facilities particularly if camping with people I know well.  Strangers are less difficult to disrobe in front of.  Not quite sure what that says about me.  “Hello we’ve never met. Ta daaaaaaa”.

I digress.  Once the camper is set up every bed is about queen size, has its own power adapter, lamp, window zip blinds and curtains.  I will be at the front end furthest from everyone else in case the snoring bursts any eardrums in the vicinity although the AC and fan are likely to smother any of that noise to everyone’s relief. There is a fully functioning kitchen and shower-room and enough beer in the fridge to test the powers of even the most ambitious alcoholic.

Having excelled at my role of hands-off set up engineer the chairs are set up around the fire-pit and a beer is cracked open and a drawing competition commences.  Mom shouts out scenarios and we draw something we think reflects what she has said.  I soon discover that drawing from imagination is something I haven’t done since I was 10 and and let’s face it, it shows.  Luckily I’m up against kids about a quarter of my age so I hold my own pretty well considering.  The sketching attempts end up in the fire-pit (so that no evidence remains) and I make a mental note to take a You-Tube course on basic drawing skills before attempting anything like this again. Two beers later and the artistic activities are replaced by games so lets see if I do any better with those.

In short, no not really but it was highly entertaining.  We start with a game of badminton at which I suck like a Dyson on heat but which has the distinction of taking me from a lowly position of visiting friend up to Uncle Alex and briefly to the great heights of Badminton God and back down to my usual moniker of Mr Alex once it is discovered that luck plays more of a part in my success than any genuine skills. Still it is good exercise.  The first real energetic movement since I arrived here (apologies to my personal trainer for undoing all his hard work).  I am already familiar with this game but by far more entertaining is what seems to be a campground perennial over here, the game of Baggo.  Almost every other RV seems to have a version of this set up on the grass.  If, like me, you are unfamiliar with this game I’ll describe it for you.  In essence this is basically a game of ‘get the bean bags in the hole’.  A description that belies a game of great sophistication and complexity.  Ok perhaps not but its history and variations, not to mention the vast array of double entendres that litter its rules and scoring system make it worthy of mention.  As already noted, the aim is basically to drop a bean bag in a hole, at approximately 30 feet or at the very least to get it on the board.  A bag in the hole scores 3, a bag on the board scores one.  There are many variations on how the scoring system seems to work which I discovered when playing against other families at other times but the rules around here seem to be that any score that both players get cancel each other out (i.e. I get one in the hole and so does the guy I’m playing with then nobody gets the point and we ‘wash’, ooh-er missus).  The player with the highest score after an innings of four bags takes the total score minus the opponents score.  The aim is to get to exactly 21, no more no less. Trickier than it sounds.  In a rather highfalutin history provided by Wikipedia, it is said that the game originated as Cornhole using bags of corn in the later 1880’s and, to cut a very short story even shorter it is now called Baggo, presumably to avoid getting it confused with certain body parts.  Some of its more fruity terminology is outlined below :-

Cow Pie-  bag lands on the board – 1 point

Backdoor/Dirty Rollup – bag bounces over another players bag into the hole – 3 points

Baggo – bag goes in the hole.  Airmail is when it doesn’t touch the sides – 3 points

Cornfusion – players cannot agree on the score – punch up ensues

Cornholio  – bag goes in the hole, same as a baggo but mainly used by disciples of Beavis and Butthead – 3 points

Cornucopia –  player gets all four bags into the hole in succession – in the Wells family this automatically wins the match.  In other situations this is simply 12 points

Dirty Bag – bag bounces off the ground onto the board.  Presumably if this bounces on to the board then into the hole this is a Dirty Backdoor Bag but this is not clarified – 1 or 3 points depending on where it ends up

Slippery Granny – 3 bags in a row on the board.  I have no idea what the provenance of such a term might be but she’s worth 3 points whoever she is

Triple Dip – 3 bags in the hole in one round – 9 points and no further comment

Madden –  when a player violently tosses their bag at another player – no points and possible being sent to bed early

Perrego –  when a player refuses to play Baggo as they are intimidated by their opponent.  It is debatable whether this actually makes them a ‘player’ – match forfeited

Wash – all players get the same in the hole or on the board – no score

I’m sorry but if none of those raised even the slightest immature snorting of your tea then we can no longer be friends.

Having won some and lost more matches of Baggo and scored more than a few Slippery Grannies and holding myself back from more Maddens than I am willing to admit to, a few rounds of poker ensue until it is time to retire the children and sit by a blazing campfire being eaten into insanity by mosquitos and drinking ourselves into a position of not caring.  I’ll leave aside the somewhat bizarre notion of lighting a campfire in 25 degree heat and say only that it is one of the most relaxing pastimes I have come across here thus far.  The temperature remains so high that at bedtime my second favourite pastime is discovered by opening all the window zippers in the bed leaving only the insect netting and sleeping essentially out in the open looking up at the stars.

  Day 2

Another day, another new experience.  Well several really.  Firstly, campfire traybake breakfast.  Fabulous.  Secondly, in all my recollections, I have definitely never been sat on a tractor trailer being taken on a 5 km/h tour of a campsite at 10 o’clock in the morning.  Pretty sure it wasn’t on my bucket list but if it ever was I can certainly tick that one off now.  If they have a suggestions box I imagine it is full of tiny bits of paper with the word ‘cushions’ on them but hey, it was an experience, if not quite the rollercoaster that the photo would suggest.  The third and most gratifying of the recollections was later in the day at the beach.  I mean naturally I have been to a beach before, and many with less gravel than this one.  Beaches on the ocean, beaches by the lake, beaches up a hillside.  All are familiar to me.  What has so far been less familiar to me is actually taking a chair to the beach and actually planting it in the lake.  With temperatures this high it has to be said that this is genius.  Unhinged perhaps.  Precarious most definitely.  But given the temperature even when the clouds come over is in the high 20’s, depositing one’s chair actually in the water is still genius.  No need to move, no need to go swimming, unless the mood strikes.  Cooling down is as easy as picking up a Bubba flask of sneakily concealed radler, leaning back and letting the water come up as far as your tits.  Luckily for anyone reading this, the act of submersing oneself in semi-dress in a lake dampens the ability to carry a camera a little.  Modern mobiles are waterproof but I didn’t want mine floating away in a rip-tide so luckily for you all there is no photo evidence to strike you blind.  There will be photos of other people doing this on a future post though just to make sure it is clear that this is not the invention of my fevered imagination.

  Day 3

Following another fine evening of games, cards, drink and burning stuff we are getting ready to pack it all up and head back.  Getting things set up had been a mixture of random chucking stuff out of the truck and the camper and arranging it once retrieved.  The take-down was far more ritualistic.  Everything has to fit in its place so must be correctly folded.  Anything that has touched the ground must be brushed off.  Recycling must be separated and taken off to the appropriate place, unused firewood safely stored for future use.  Grey and black water tanks must be emptied. The Wells’s have a well oiled machine and within an hour we were on our way home.

So overall, camping? Yeah no problem.  In fact it is something I feel I ought to do more of when I return to the UK.  There is something therapeutic about dragging your life down the road on wheels and then feeling like you are in the middle of nowhere and living a simpler life.  If I thought this was the peak of the trip so far though, where we were headed next would blow my mind.

Training Camp Campers Cove 27th to 29th July Day 1 So part of what I wanted to do while I was out here was to get myself doing things which I hadn't done before or at least hadn't done for a long time.  

[7r0773r]

Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson

“. . . . The point is — aha! yes! the bastard has a point and isn’t too damn drunk to bring it home — this is the point, Will.” Nobody else ever called him Will. “St. Paul says there is one God, he confirms that, but he says, ‘There is one God, and many administrations.’ I understand that to mean you can wander out of one universe and into another just by pointing your feet and forward march. I mean you can come to a land where the fate of human beings is completely different from what you understood it to be. And this utterly different universe is administered through the earth itself. Up through the dirt, goddamn it.” (p. 63)

***

[Kathy] set down her shoes inside the door, made her way to the bedroom. She groped for the flashlight on the nightstand and undressed by its dim illumination. On the nightstand also lay Timothy’s book, she’d found it among his things, the dreadful essays of John Calvin and his doctrine of predestination, promising a Hell full of souls made expressly to be damned, she didn’t know what to do with it, kept it near her, couldn’t help returning to its spiritual pornography like a dog to its vomit. She found a match, lit a coil of insecticidal incense in a dish, crawled under the mosquito net, drew the sheet to her chin . . . Certain persons positively and absolutely chosen to salvation, others as absolutely appointed to destruction . . . Lying there in the stink of her life with her hair still wet from rain. She didn’t touch the book. (pp. 83-84)

***

The priest seemed to sense Skip’s disarray. He was solicitous. “We all have a spiritual trial to go through. When I was a little boy I was very hateful toward the Jews because I said they were the crucifiers. I was very contemptuous of Judas too, because of his betrayal.”

“I see,” Sands said, and saw nothing.

Carignan seemed to struggle. The words stuck in his throat. He touched his mouth with his fingers. “Well, it’s very much for each person to experience alone,” he said, and whatever truth he meant to get at, his eyes were the visible scars of it. (p. 106)

***

He had more on his mind than his love life. He worried about his mother. She didn’t make much money at the ranch. She exhausted herself. She’d grown thinner, knobbier. She spent the first half of every Sunday at the Faith Tabernacle, and every Saturday afternoon she drove a hundred miles to the prison in Florence to see her common-law husband. James had never accompanied her on these pilgrimages, and Burris, now almost ten, refused to serve as escort — just ran away into the neighborhood of shacks and trailers and drifting dust when the poor old woman started getting herself ready on Saturday and Sunday mornings.

James didn’t know how he felt about Stevie, but he knew his mother broke his heart. Whenever he mentioned enlisting in the service, she seemed willing to sign the papers, but if he left her now, how would it all turn out for her? She had nothing in this world but her two hands and her crazy love for Jesus, who seemed, for his part, never to have heard of her. James suspected she was just faking herself out, flinging herself at the Bible and its promises like a bug at a window. Having just about reached a decision in his mind to quit school and see the army recruiters, he stalled for many weeks, standing at the top of the high dive. Or on the edge of the nest. “Mom,” he said, “every eagle has to fly.” “Go ahead on, then,” she said. (pp. 138-39)

***

On the last page, another note in the colonel’s hand:

Tree of Smoke—(pillar of smoke, pillar of fire) the “guiding light” of a sincere goal for the function of intelligence—restoring intelligence-gathering as the main function of intelligence operations, rather than to provide rationalizations for policy. Because if we don’t the next step is for career-minded power-mad cynical jaded bureaucrats to use intelligence to influence policy. The final step is to create fictions and serve them to our policy-makers in order to control the direction of government. ALSO—”Tree of Smoke”—note similarity to mushroom cloud. HAH! (p. 254)

***

[E.M. Cioran] Doubt collapses onto us like a disaster; far from choosing it, we fall into it. And try as we will to pull out of it, to trick it away, it never loses sight of us, for it is not even true that it collapses onto us—doubt was in us, and we were predestined to it. (p. 357)

***

Skip on his knees at an open footlocker, lifting out the troughs of card files — a musk of paper and glue, slight nausea, anger, those many months with these odors in his mouth, al of it a waste — and found the T’s and flicked through the cards by their edges and plucked out three entries in his uncle’s block printing:

ToS

A pillar of smoke stood above the Ark like a cedar tree. It brought such a beautiful perfume to the world that the nations exclaimed, “Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like a tree of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, with all the powders of the perfumer?” Song of Solomon 3:6

ToS

And I will give portents in the heavens and on the earth, blood and fire and palm trees of smoke. The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes. Joel 2:30, 31

ToS

“cloudy pillar” — Exodus 33:9, 10. literal — “tree of smoke.” (p. 445)

***

[Trung] watched people passing on the street. Surrounded by souls he didn’t know he woke to the world in its true scale, not a room with a window that looked at a wall, but an entire world in which he was lost. Whatever the details of the situation, whatever the nature of the problem, whoever had let him down, he was lost. 

And to think how careful he’d been, and how pointlessly. It wasn’t that he regretted the mistake. He regretted the hesitation. Doubt is one thing, hesitation another. I waited three years to decide. I should have jumped. Doubt is the truth, hesitation a lie. (p. 484)

***

The patient’s two comrades squatted by a tree not far off, ready to fetch whatever might be needed, as if they had anything to fetch. The man’s family kept out of the way in one of the hooches, all but a toothless mamasan who enacted a ritual of private significance only a few meters away, out in the relentless sunshine, in the smoke of the charcoal fire and the steam from the pot where the instruments boiled: a dance of ominous hesitations, and sudden leaps, and arabesques. Dr. Mai permitted the display without comment, and Kathy welcomed it as boding well for the patient. The idea that among the ragged, the crazy, the whirly-eyed, the frothing-at-the-mouth, among the sideways, among the mumblers, shufflers, laughers, a bit of loving scrutiny would turn up the blessed poor in spirit, the burned visionary, the holy vagrant — she’d always entertained it, this romance. (pp. 530-31)

***

He’d lived almost twenty-five years, his hardships colored in his own mind as youthful adventures, someday to be followed by a period of intense self-betterment, then accomplishment and ease. But this morning in particular he felt like a man overboard far from any harbor, keeping afloat only for the sake of it, waiting for his strength to give out.

When would he strike out for shore? When would he receive the gift of desperation? He stayed under the covers in the chilly, Lysol-smelling room until the management knocked on the door. He asked for ten minutes, showered, and went bak to bed to wait for the knock that meant business. (p. 538)

***

[Jimmy Storm] “Man, it’s no good if he’s doing it for money. You’ve gotta do it for the thing, man, the thing. You need a reason, you need to be sent by the signs and messages.” (p. 592)

***

The headman raised a hand and the circles parted for a quartet of women, each clutching the corner of a blanket. They laid it before the priest — a pile of hacked wooden carvings, most no bigger than a hand, several others up to half the size of any of their Roo worshippers. The four women threw back their heads and bawled like children as the headman attacked the figures with his axe. As he worked at it, getting them all, and as the women knelt to collect the pieces and add them to the pyre, Mahathir said, “They break their household gods and throw them on the fire because the gods haven’t helped them. These gods must die. The world may end with the death of these gods. The sacrifice of the soul of the stranger may prevent the world’s end. Then new gods will rise.” (p. 594)

***

Chosen to suffer penance because no one else is left. Traversing inordinate zones, the light beyond brighter or dimmer, never enough light, nothing to tell him, no direction home. One figure yet to be revealed in his truth. 

Everyone had unmasked himself, every false face had dissolved, every dissemblance but one, his own. (p. 596)

***

The scene before [Kathy] flattened, lost one of its dimensions, and the noise dribbled irrelevantly down its face. Something was coming. This moment, this very experience of it, seemed only the thinnest gauze. She sat in the audience thinking — someone here has cancer, someone has a broken heart, someone’s soul is lost, someone feels naked and foreign, thinks they once knew the way but can’t remember the way, feels stripped of armor and alone, there are people in this audience with broken bones, others whose bones will break sooner or later, people who’ve ruined their health, worshipped their own lies, spat on their dreams, turned their backs on their true beliefs, yes, yes, and all will be saved. All will be saved. All will be saved. (p. 614)

[elitexlumiere]

I am Yazidi by: Selina Page The day after I received the Peace Prize in Oslo, my body was taken to meet some of the media crew. To be honest, this was the first time I appeared in public after a long time of hiding in Dohuk. One by one, the media crew from various magazines and newspapers – both international and local – began entering the room that was quite spacious. The room was decorated in a very elegant and simple way. The windows, with its net curtains in a touch of earth tone that matched the color of the furniture, also created a warm atmosphere. 

It was strange that I liked the sensation of meeting people of different ethnicities. Maybe, it all happened because I felt that the interviewers who came have always implied their admiration for me. The eyes could not lie and I saw their eyes glow, resembling the lights in downtown Oslo. It made me feel comfortable to be around them because my presence was appreciated.

I answered every question they asked briefly and in a calm manner. I did like conversations that were not long-winded since I was used to leading a battalion with resolute determination. What was more, they were the media crew. We all know, they were clever at playing with words although the questions they asked were mostly similar, starting from asking about my name and my feelings after receiving a Peace Prize, to the things that motivated me to continue to fight for the dignity of Yazidi women. I answered it all without a hitch, until finally, there came one of the representatives of the print media – which was reportedly – famous for its critical questions, especially among politicians and state officials.

The interviewer sitting in front of me this time was an adult woman. Her face has a distinctive blend of Middle Eastern and European. Her skin was clean, no marks of scars or even mosquito bites, a contradiction if you compared her skin to mine. I have lots of scars all over my body, scars on both my arms and the whipping ones on the back. The real result I gained from the struggle of self-liberation in a dark and misleading world.

We looked at each other and smiled. She showed me no awkwardness, a real professional. It did not take long for the woman to break the silence between us. She started asking me general questions like my name and where the village where I lived was. A question after question passed, until we came to a question that could silence my mouth. The woman loudly asked, "Noor, do you have any idea about the fate of the Yazidi women who are still trapped in there now?"

This was a question that drew my memories of all the anger on the universe and God. To be honest, I knew – I knew exactly how they were in Ar-Raqqah. How could I not remember it? Even though I was just a 14-year-old village girl at the time, I could still remember everything I experienced clearly - one by one.

My village, Mosul, was located in Sinjar District, Northern Iraq. We lived in a village that was very peaceful and rich in livestock. The majority of the society’s religious belief was Zoroastrianism, although there were still some Muslim and Christian heads of households. However, despite our beliefs, we all lived in harmony and did not question religions. We even celebrated the festivals together. We were all very happy, no matter how hot it was during the day and the coldness of the night wind when bedtime came.

Nobody would have thought that all the fun and peacefulness had to end when, in an early morning, our village was awakened by the sound of trucks coming from the west. They, very suddenly, waved the black flag proudly on our land. They burned all the houses we lived in, shot dead our cattle and separated us from our families.

I saw it with my own eyes. My father and my brother were beheaded after they were separated from me and my mother. The men were tortured before they were eventually killed by the militants. Yes, I remembered that many of them were massacred during that dawn. While the women were tied up, blindfolded, and forced to walk away from our village. We all cried, some even became hysterical, but none of us could fight.

Thousands of women and girls had to walk towards the Syrian border. It took us a long time before we stopped at a big camp. We even had to give up some women who were executed in the middle of the journey for trying to escape or died because of exhaustion and dehydration.

I sat on the ground. One of the soldiers, who covered part of his face with a black turban, checked the number of women remaining from our village. Then, for some reason, my arm was forcibly pulled by him. I struggled. I tried to fight with the remaining energy. But he threatened me with his foul-smelling breath, "If you want your mother to be safe, obey me."

I turned back, I saw my mother nodded and let me be taken by the stocky man. If only had I known that it was my last day to be with Mom, I would have kissed her feet, hands, and cheeks lovingly. However, I could not even look at my own mother's face which was so devastated by the event.

"If I'm not mistakenly heard, the last time I received the information, their condition is still the way it was, being treated indiscriminately like animals." I answered honestly to the question posed by the beautiful woman. She just nodded and wrote something on her little notebook before she went back to look into my dark eyes.

It was true that Yazidi women were regarded as animals. After I was separated from my mother, I was merged with other women my age. There were small children who were also victims. You need to know that we were sold by the militants. We were slaves for the militants – or to be precise – we were their sex slaves.

At that time, I had been bought by one of the militant commanders in an area I did not even know the name. I was forced to take my own clothes off in front of him. I need to say that his appearance was like a beast – giant, shaggy and ugly. He tore my clothes, forcing me to lie on a hard mattress and open my legs before tying me to the bedpost. He thrust his manhood inside as he watched each part of me being destroyed, horrifyingly hurt. That very night, I lost my pride as a woman – I was raped.

He made me a slave to indulge his lust, threw me back to the ground, and I was then picked up by another cruel man. I lost the right to my body and it went on until they realized that my body was not as beautiful as it once was. I once tried to escape from that circle. Unfortunately, I was found and tortured for fighting. I was beaten, whipped by a machete until I begged them for forgiveness. As if it was not enough of the lashes I received, I also had cuts from refusing to have intercourse.

My body was broken. My body was filthy. I really hated my body.

Can you imagine how I cried every night? How I tried to clean my body with clean water, yet still felt filthy like garbage? Can you imagine how I tried to clean my body with sand and mud, yet still felt so much lower than animals? Every time I finished having intercourse, I would cut my hair five centimeters short, and then I would dump each piece into the flowing river. What was the value of my hair lying long and loose if my whole body was worthless?

"Noor? Commander Noor?" The beautiful woman called my name. My thoughts and eyes were back to the present as I tossed a stiff smile at her. "Yes? What did you say?"

"Do you believe that their fate will change?" The woman looked back at me with confidence as if I was the only person who had a big influence over the fate of Yazidi's women.

When you talked about destiny, there were so many things to ask. One of them was, did the women still believe in that? To be honest, there are times when I tried to commit suicide and ironically, I was not alone. I have seen many women like me who burned themselves alive because they could not stand the disgust of every inch of their skin.

I once was furious at God. I shouted under the night sky, calling out His name and asking justice for my life. I questioned His form, did God really exist or was He just a concept created for human beings to be committed into something? Why should I be religious if I did not feel any change in me praying?

I once believed that there was no good destiny for me. I used to be a non-believer when I reached the lowest point of my life until finally, I ventured again to escape the damn land. At that time, the fate and the God that I had been questioning showed His power to me. While I was tired of walking without direction to save myself from the militants, I was saved and hidden by one of the Muslim families who pitied my shabby body.

"I believe..." I shook my head, trying to pull myself back to reality, "we believe they are strong women. We believe that hope is always there for those who continue to survive as we strengthen our troops. Destiny can change. That is one of the things that has been proven and they know it  because we are real. We promise to keep trying to save them." I replied confidently.

"You do believe that they know the existence of your battalion. But, do you guarantee that your life will be peaceful after freeing them all?" Asked the woman back.

I took a deep breath. This woman really drained my mind and did not give me a chance to simply have a casual conversation with her. "Apparently, you have to feel it yourself, how it is like to live in the land of Iraq." I chuckled.

"As a citizen of Iraq, you do not even know when you will be attacked. You may have to carry a gun when you go to the lavatory. I do not know what kind of “peace” you mean. But we, the survivors, are aware that peace is created when we feel secure. Therefore, we will continue to save and secure them at Dohuk."

"Interesting." The woman replied with a nod. Her delicate fingers fiddled and she tied them to one another. "One more question." Her body leaned against the chair. She looked relaxed while supporting her chin on her hands. "Regarding today's topic, what would you do if one day you caught the men who bought you?" 

I paused. My eyes glanced at the watch that the woman was wearing. Fifteen minutes had passed but my mind was still pulled by the shadow of the past. Although he covered some of his face with a turban at that time, I still saw the scar on his temple that extended to the cheekbones. The hair on my neck stood up, recalling every rough touch of his hand around my body. I touched the nape of my neck which was a little sweaty, then, I looked at her. "You're hoping," I smirked slightly, "that I'm going to kill him, right? Unfortunately, it will not happen."

"I was trained to save people, especially the Yazidis who were enslaved by the militants. I will not kill them because it is not my authority though I will meet the men who once touched me. If I can be honest, I wish I do not have to meet them. I refuse to meet those monsters. There is no use in meeting and venturing to past emotions. It will not return what they have taken away from me. I do not want to see them again." I say firmly. The woman nodded and, again, wrote something on her little note. I did not know the intent of her nod. Did she agree with me or was she just nodding because that was the only response that looked natural?

Soon after that, the woman stood up. I – sitting in front of her – also stood up as a reflex response. She stretched out her beautiful hand and I shook it gently. We both smiled at each other before she embraced my shorter body. After a few seconds of patting me on the back, she let me go and said, "Be thankful that your wings are not hurt." I just smiled at what she said while wacthing her walk out of the room, a graceful and confident walk that reflected a strong woman.

***

After all the interviews were finished, I asked permission to open the window in the room. I applauded the sky of Oslo that afternoon. The sky was blue and very clear. There was a little orange color painted since the sun had come down from its throne today. This sky was different from the sky that I often saw in the land of Iraq although both were on the same earth. I looked at the shady trees in the garden, listened to the wind-soothing friction of the leaves. A pair of butterflies crossed the flowers, dancing beautifully although there was no music played between them. For a moment, I remembered the words of the beautiful lady. "My wings?" I said as I squeezed my shoulders.

END 

Bibliography  Ensor, J. (2016). Commander of all-female Yazidi battalion: 'We fight Isil and protect womankind'. Retrieved from The Telegraph: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2016/05/25/commander-of-all-female-yazidi-battalion-we-fight-isil-and-prote/Pasha-Robinson, L. (2017). 'I was raped everyday': Yazidi girl speaks of horrors of being held as Isis sex slave. Retrieved from Independent: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/middle-east/isis-sex-slave-yazidi-girl-northern-iraq-rape-sexual-abuse-experiences-a7857246.html 

[largodrive]

Tulum Guide

By Olivia Dorman

Tulum is one of the most beautiful beach in the Mexican Caribbean and has become a favorite designation for bloggers and instagram lovers alike. Tulum is definitely the place to be! I was intrigued after seeing model after model, brand after brand shooting in Tulum. I was convinced after our buyer and owner both went and raved about the food, the beach, & the atmosphere. What more could you ask for?

High season is October to March, with the biggest crowds from January to March! We went in May and it was beautiful, just a little humid and rainy (well a lot humid and a little rainy). It worked for us because the crowds had definitely thinned and the beach was still incredible. We also managed to avoid too much of a seaweed problem which starts to clog up the beach and ocean in the summer. 

Keep scrolling to see the highlights and hiccups from my trip and our favorite spots to explore, eat, and relax while in heaven. 

We had a bit of a bumpy start to our trip when the car I'd arranged with the hotel didn't show up to take us into Tulum at 6:30am (after flying all night). But after negotiating with the myriad of taxi's out front, we hopped in a shuttle van to drive us the hour and a half to our hotel. I'd definitely recommend having your driver stop by an ATM outside of the airport to get pesos out because you'll get a much better exchange rate than changing at the airport. They'll also stop at a gas station for you to get waters and such, which I'd recommend, but we didn't do because we were exhausted and just wanted to get to the hotel. Forever Boyfriend brushed up on his already very good Spanish with the cab driver until we made it to Papaya Playa Project. (~$200USD round trip) 

Tip: I would not book a round trip with the taxis outside the airport, they make it seem like a good deal, but there is a chance that they won't show up at the specified time to take you back to the airport. Which happened to us and we’re still wrestling to get our money back.   After arriving and leaving our bags with the front desk to take to our casita at check in, we went and had breakfast outside overlooking the gorgeous beach. I had the Chilaquiles and a fruit juice. So good and fresh tasting. They have their own bee hives and gardens on the property so a lot of the ingredients are super fresh. We spent the rest of that day laying on the beach in their lounge beds and ordering from the waiters that walked around. It was the perfect way to start a vacation and the best way to forget about the rough morning. 

Where to Stay:

Papaya Playa Project: At the start of beach strip that is Tulum, Papaya Playa Project was a beach side oasis. Each room is a separate little house “casita.” Ours was up on a cliff looking out over the water with our very own hammock to sit out front. Each bed had a mosquito net around it which made it very dreamy. We had a AC thank god but we definitely could have slept with the floor length windows open. It’s a little on the glamping side (there was both a lizard and a crab in our room at one point) but it was so beautiful it didn’t matter. I would 100% recommend this hotel, but there are so many good ones that I'm sure you can't go wrong. 

The only negative I would have to say about PPP was the location. Being located at the top of the strip, it’s pretty far (2 miles) from the center where most of the good restos are. We ended up spending a lot of time and money in cabs (~$5 a trip). But I also think it made it a little quieter so it’s all depends on your perspective.

What to do:

Ruins & Cenotes: I'd highly recommend going to see a Mayan ruin to get to know this area's rich history. The Tulum ruins are another good option if you want something closer! Also, definitely visit one of the area's beautiful cenotes, natural sink holes that expose underground water! We visited El Gran and it was breathtaking. This was one of my favorite things we did! The water was nice and cool and has excellent photo opportunities #instaheaven. Dos Ojos and Ik Kil are suppose to be other amazing options too. 

We started the day by hiring a taxi to take us to Coba (about an hour from Tulum) and El Gran Cenote. We paid about $100 USD round trip. We got to ride just the two of us in a nice air conditioned car and he patiently waited for us outside each site. Ask your hotel's front desk about helping set up transportation.  

When we arrived at Coba, we paid the ~$8 entrance fee and walked around and saw some initial ruins. My tip I would 100% pay the ~$5 for a petty cab to bike you to the main ruin. It’s not THAT far of a walk, but boy is it hot and sticky. And if you’re lucky you’ll get a nice native Mayan who will give you some history on some of the structures along the way. 

Coba was one of the largest Mayan cities in Mexico and features the largest temple pyramid in the Yucatan peninsula. You can climb to the top of the pyramid and stand above the trees. The steps are very steep but totally doable. You’ll be nice and sweaty when you get to the top but the view is beautiful. 

After meeting back up with our taxi, we went to El Gran Centoes.  To preserve the natural purity of the water and the turtles and fish that live there, they ask you to shower in an outdoor shower before swimming in the cenotes and they require all natural sunscreen. (We skipped buying extra sunscreen because we were not going to be there that long and there was plenty of shade but if you think you'll be there for a couple hours I'd definitely bring some.) Float in the crystal clear waters and explore the deep caves by snorkeling or diving. It’s bliss!   

Shopping: And of course, no vacation is complete without a little shopping! The shopping in Tulum is fabulous! There’s tons of little boutiques along the main road with unique clothing, jewelry, and other fun goodies. I love finding things from local artisans and KM 33 had the most amazing local jewelry, hats, and bags. Definitely take a stroll down the main drag and see what you find! 

 Yoga: As a very eco-friendly and health conscious destination, many of the hotels  offer daily yoga classes! We managed to take a couple while we were there and i

Where to eat: 

Posada Magharita: If you've reached your limit with Mexican food, take a trip to the dreamy Italian oasis, Posada Magharita, and dine on fresh pasta, delicious wine, and the juiciest tomatoes you'll ever taste. Sitting with your toes in the sand and looking out at the cotton candy sky as the sun dips below the horizon, you won't regret coming here!

Casa Jaguar: Located on the jungle side, Casa Jaguar has fantastic drinks and even better food. When we went, it had been raining so we were sat at one long table with the other brave tourists who ventured out during the rain. It ended up being super fun and intimate and we made some new friends. Bring bug spray, order a drink, any of the freshly made menu items, and I promise you'll leave a happy camper!

Kin | Toh: Lounge above the trees, sip on a luxurious cocktail and take in the sunset over the jungle at this luxury restaurant.  Described as Mayan and Mexican fusion, wn dined on exotic menu items such as sour worms, black ceviche, and ant tostada (these are not the actual names but alas i did not take a pic of the menu and they change their menu often). Definitely the most luxurious dinner we had, but even if you can’t splurge for dinner - come for a drink and lounge in the hammocks that extend out over open air.  

The Real Coconut: Out of the Sanara hotel, The Real Coocnut is the epitome of Tulum wellness. Everything on the menu is gluten, grain, dairy and refined sugar free and features sustainably sourced ingredients. We started with the Very Berry Chia Parfait to share (i'd get your own it's so good) and then I followed that with the avocado toast with two poached eggs, charcoal lemonade, and an amazing coconut chai tea latte! With offerings such as Super Bone Broth Blend, Healing Green Pressed Juice, and Fruit Bliss Bowl, you won’t feel guilty about anything you eat here! 

Raw Love: If you love acais bowls (and who doesn’t?), you will love Raw Love! Technically on the beach, but a little further inland from the ocean, they had the most amazing smoothie bowl i’ve ever had with authentic coconut, fresh fruit, and beautiful presentation. It was the perfect light breakfast for the last day of our trip. 

Others:

Hartwood was supposed to be amazing but they weren’t open while we were there. :(

Mateos - We ate here and loved the live music but it felt super Americanized, but the sunset on the second floor is supposed to be amazing.

To Bring: 

- BUGSPRAY!!! - and don’t wear black it attracts those suckers like no other

- Sunscreen obvi (natural if you want to go to the cenotes) 

- Any of these bikinis

- Or this one (I mean honestly you could get away with only wearing bikinis which I highly recommend)

- A book to read (i read this one and this one while there)

- Comfortable sandals (these are my FAVORITE) 

- Shorts

- Breezy dresses (this one, this one, and this one would be perfect)

Go book those tickets! And let me know what your favorite part of Tulum was! Adios!