Latin Americans are known for being emotional people. Well, I even by Brazilian standards am considered “melted butter” (someone who gets emotional very, and I mean very very easily). So you can just begin to imagine how it was for me the end of the English Camp, and also my stay here at my little lovely Ban Nonpho school. I will start by telling about how the camp finished and then move to 3 episodes where I felt enormous pure joy during the camp.

This is going to be difficult to explain but I will try. In the end of them camp we all went to the big football field and made a circle. Not sure how to say that in English, in portuguese it is a “roda” ciranda. Anyway, basically everyone who was in the school joined this circle. And then the circle broke away next to me, so that this new beginning could “redo the way of the circle by greeting everyone. Which means that every single person was able to see everyone. As I was in the beginning I stood still while every single kid “way ed” me, shook my hand, and said good-bye. This was all happening while three teachers were singing a very sad tune with lyrics saying ” goodbye my friends”. I can say that I was fully present in every single hand I shoook. I looked attentively to each face. I observed the shy ones who avoided my look, the extroverted ones who shook my hand intensively, the smily ones who added kunkru Tchu after the goodbye, and I was doing quite well, for as long as no one from Ban Nonpho, my little school had arrived. But then the first one did, it was lovely Guem, and when I looked at him, with the same profound observation I had looked at the others my eyes started to overflow. I tried really hard not to cry and I was successful as the next kids were unknown to me. But then the kind teacher (who s mother had died), “Way ed” me and looked into my eyes for longer and with more kindness than I could take… and I started crying. I who had already cried in the funeral of her mother! So most of the time I was controlling my tears, trying to be present, but everytime I was fully present, and thought about the beauty of waying to everysingle kid, and especially saying goodbye to “my kids” I cried.

For lunch as usual I joined the kids. So much more fun than being with the adults. And most of Ban Nonpho students were inside of one classroom. They were playing so I joined in. And as they were turning upside down, I could not feel more at ease. I joined them in all kinds of acrobatics I knew. and they had sooooooooo much fun that the room got entirely packed from students from all of the other schoools. There were kids looking from the window outside, at the door, there was no room left whatsoever… which made it sliglhly dangerous… but well, these kids are so used to falling… and to playing and getting sometimes hurt… that it made me again think about how overly worried, and obsessive most of western countries have become… so we played…….. getting hit sometimes by falling bums and legs. They showed things they could do like putting legs behind their heads, and we tried it all. They laughed, and clapped, and fell, and giggled, and it was soooooooo much fun then when lunch was over they all came to me to say. “Kunkru Tchu thank you very much!!!.”

The day of camp itself was hilarious I had asked Non Nan to teach me a song in Thai the night before and I actually sang it to the whole school. In a microphone, while they all looked at me in total surprise ( just imagine how wrongly I probably sounded). They clapped in ecstasy! I was then made to dance with them, while the speakers played Thai pop music! we went wild!

As everything here begins with a meditation, so it ends. And to my complete surprise as all teachers know I am planning to go for vipassana, they ask ME to seat in meditation position in front of the kids. I first refused and said I would seat with them. But then as they were all so curious as to see how I was seating, i followed HOrn’s request and sat on the stage. I sat in lotus position, as I am quite used to it, and realized the kids were amazed. They copied me. And then to my complete surprise I close my eyes amidst enormous noise from teachers and kids, and suddenly the place went silent, and I felt totally in peace. When I opened my eyes much later and I saw all these little kids, 200 of them meditating, I felt so much happiness. I could not really place it. It felt totally surreal to be me a westerner meditating in front of Buddhist Thais, but there I was, and I felt so much love for these kids.

And then time to go came. And I being Brazilian went to hug everyone. Tanoy said to me ” I sad you are going” it was her way. They did not know very well the hugging thing. Ta, a little fat boy from year 4 gave me a kiss on the face. Most hugs were awkward. But they hang around and said bye many times, many, many times…. And then Tangmo who was not officially in the camp came, and she ran into me and totally hugged me. A real hug! A very strong hug… and then I being melted butter… well then I really cried….

As a complete tiger balm lover (that little camphor mentol ointment) I could not be in a better place. Thais love that stuff even more than I do. They use it for it all. So I can totally indulge myself on it without being frowned upon like back home. I use it for headaches, muscles aches, sinusitis, to relax and even to cool off when it is too hot. As I have been feeling a bit “flu-ish” I have been using tiger balm more than ever. I dont feel anything severe or serious, just mild flu symptoms such as fatigue, headache, and a bit of sinus irritation. Enough for Horm to want to take me to the doctor in case I have swine flu! I of course completely reject the idea, as I am sure if that is a place I could get swine flu that might be in the hospital.

Today I was left alone again with year 3 and 4. But now it is lots of fun. I actually came up with a way to FINALLY learn their nicknames. Yesterday I did it with year 5 and 6. Basically I ask them to tell me their nicknames, I write it down as it phonetically sounds to me, and I ask them to hold the paper while I take a picture of their faces and name. It was great because by today I knew everybody in year 5 and 6! Today I decided to do the same with year 3 and 4 and it was soooooooo funny… because I realized they actually were copying from me what their names were. As obviously they write their names in Thai, they don’t really know how to spell them in English… and I who was writing them down in a mixture of Portuguese and French had to half way change them to what it would sound in English…. For instance Ai in Portuguese had to become EYE while Aí had to become AEE!

It was not long before Horm came by saying we had to go back home to prepare for the camp. The camp will be this Thursday and Friday so we spent the whole day doing a worksheet with games, and exercises for the camp. Apparently even schools from the other district want to come to our camp! There are already 7 schools coming and Horm is having to reject all others. Too many people for our little school!

As usual the day finishes with OH coming for massage. Her daughter who is 1,5 has an allergy since I arrived here. I have no idea how many times she has been to the doctor in vain. Sometimes I wish I was a doctor and could help her, or take her to a good doctor. So much I like Oh. But the doctor just makes her wait and wait. This little 1,5 who cries in agony with this spots in her skin can barely sleep!, Oh does not even know what they are. Today as she massaged me she gave me a gentle kiss on my back. She said she would miss me. So will I. It is amazing how we can become fond of people who we barely understand and who are sooo different but at the same time just soo alike. When my massage finished I decided to give her one. This lady works like 10 hours a day giving massages  definitely deserves one the most I thought!. It was a bold thing to do, to give a massage to an internationally trained masseuse. I just meant to help. She said I was very good, that I must have learned from receiving massages. She is kind, and tired I guess.

I must go now, apparently we are having vegetarian vietnamese food!

While we were planning our trip to Morocco, I stumbled on some information about a tour that went through the south of the country reaching the Sahara desert. I wanted to go, and Haiko agreed to it immediately; after all, he had already been on a desert safari (in the Thar desert between India and Pakistan) and had loved it. I was a bit apprehensive about it, because it was the end of the summer, the heat was certain, and the desert is a place from which most people run away. To spend numerous hours on a camel didn’t sound very comfortable either, and if we were to regret it, once in the middle of the desert there would be no way back.

So, in the first 3 days in Marrakech, we went around asking everyone we encountered about the trip. We heard everything, from ‘the desert is too hot now, around 48 degrees Celcius…’, and ‘it is really worth it’, to ‘it is tiring’ and ‘‘don’t waste your time”… As you can imagine, these comments did not make it any easier to decide. So when Brahim (Mounia’s husband) finally called from the desert saying it had rained and that it wasn’t so hot anymore, we decided to go.

With everything organized by Brahim, we left on a Monday morning and headed to the south. We, that is Adriana, Haiko, our driver Abdul and I, travelled by 4×4. Once I showed Abdul some interest in his views, he told us basically everything he knew about all places we went. The landscape, the colour of the earth, the wind, the houses, and people all changed along the route. The only thing that always remained the same was our meal options: tagine and/or couscous.

We travelled the whole day, passing numerous little villages. We journeyed through the hardest kinds of lives. Lives that seemed arid, difficult and poetic at the same time. And this, to me, was the greatest dichotomy of all; that so much hardship could be so astonishingly moving, in a beautiful and lyrical sense. A bit like a Salgado

exposition, where one never feels too good for feeling so touched.

The apex of this surrealism happened when we arrived at our riad in Zagora. It was a magnificent place, full of astonishing details, a feeling of Mali in the south of Morocco. It was beauty all around, from the mud coloured walls, the details in every pot, every window, door and corner. We strolled, completely mesmerized, a bit lost, and confused. We walked towards our rooms, but found a pool in the middle of a garden. There, in the middle of sooo much dryness, there was a pool for tourists… And there, in a mix of relief and guilt, we swam. We swam with the moon and stars in the sky at the mouth of the Sahara Desert.

I can´t really remember when my passion for maps started, but it is definitely a long time ago. I am not talking about Mercator´s distortions and eurocentrism, nor about the arbitrary carving of the colonizers, but rather of that curiosity that emerges from seeing the name of an unknown city, river or mountain.

My mother always loved maps. She had different kinds and they were hanging on walls all over the house. Just as she would never let an unknown French or English word in a book pass without looking them up in a dictionary, she would not let the name of a city, region or river she did not know go by without finding out its exact location, latitude etc…

Still quite young , in the French school where I studied, I remember hearing my classmate Jerome say that he knew all capitals in the world. I found that to be absolutely impossible. That he would know all European and South American Capitals was fine, we all learned them, but all capitals in the world was unheard of. I still remember searching for the hardest place I knew and only being able to come up with Sri Lanka. To what he responded with ease: Colombo. It is true that at that time it was much easier with most of the ~istans~ still being part of the Soviet Union.

Later at university, Joss, my ex-flatmate, enrolled in a geography of Africa class, and she had to learn all kinds of information about the African countries. Since I was in charge of asking her questions I ended up learning a lot about it myself. Then I decided I should at least be able to place all countries in the map, and know their capitals, and for some time I even knew all Pacific Islands.

Then Joss and I decided that knowing capitals and countries was not enough, but that every week we should learn about a different place, about the governments, about the cultures, about the food etc… And in fact, while we lived together we learned a tremendous amount about different countries, not so much in the formal way we expected, but by reading novels, taking classes, and especially by meeting friends from abroad. And it still amazes me how some people get happy realizing you know something from where they come from. In the beginning, you expects a lot, and have grandiose dreams about what people should know about where you come from. They should know more than Rio de Janeiro, carnival and football; but when someone from Bishkek or Bandar Seri Begawan, knows three things about your country while you do not know where his country is (or that it even exists!), ytou become more humble.

I have a friend who says that you only actually learn about places by travelling. And I do agree that travelling helps, but i do not feel it is fundamental, nor that it guarantees you will learn about that place. After all, there are many who travel without wanting anything to change, and without learning anything at all.

Last night, I accidentily stumbled upon a site called Amores Expressos ( Express Love). It was a project by one of the most important Brazilian publishers to send writers to different cities in the world to spend a month, and later write a short story about love. I was outraged by one of the writers who was sent to India. She was discriminating, generalizing, and offensive; so ironic for someone who is supposed to write about love.

Later on I read about a 5 year old boy in Paraisópolis ( a slum in sao paulo), whose father taught him about numerous countries and its capitals. And the only thing the father had to teach his son was an atlas, a little blackboard and his good will.

And by reading that article I suddenly realized that my passion for maps comes from willing to learn about the other. My fascination for maps took me to study anthropology, to travel as often as I can, and to learn about different cultures. The maps, just as novels, and languages awake us for different lives in different places. And traveling, it is true, emphasizes that learning, but I do not think it creates the interest, or the desire.

I do not know where the interest for the world, for the other comes from. But I see it in the father, who shows the map to his 5 year old son. He shows his 5 year old the atlas of different ways of life, of different opportunities. This interest for the other is what seems to me the writer that got sent to India is missing.

And I do understand it, since not all trips are all that easy. Some take us to our limits. When I was in Hong Kong, for instance, I came back mentally exhausted, the synapses only started to happen when I was on the plane. Morocco took my body to rebel, but I soon realized that it was not against me, but in my favour. It was in name of a better integration between my body and mind, versus the old way of mind over body. And it is a pity that we so often close ourselves to the different, to the other, without ever realizing that we are in fact afraid of ourselves. Scared of letting go of concepts, habits, and ideas that we are used to, but that, in the end, are not even that much truly ours.

When I went to Slovenia last year to visit my friend Vesna, she took me to Croatia to visit her aunt. I have written already about Jelka´s kindness in my Brazilian blog, but I never got to write about an old lady she made us visit in the small village of Stankovic.

Stankovic is a small, one street village. Actually, the only road crosses the village in two. A village of approximately 20 houses, being Jelka´s almost self suficient. A bit after we arrived Darko, Vesna´s uncle, called. Vesna told him she was visiting and that she had brought a Brazilian friend. We woke up the following day with Darko arriving in his small red car, dressed in a Brazilian shirt, and eager to tell me Brazilian football players’ names, and the few words in English he knew. We went out with him the whole day. He took us to beautiful Dalmatian towns, and we took uncountable pictures of his car. Pictures he did not stop planning, or ever got tired of admiring in my camera. At the end of the day we went back home.

As soon as we arrived, Jelka asked us to visit an old lady who lived alone in one of the houses of the village. Jelka told us that the woman was a bit sad, and that our visit would bring her some joy. Jelka, one of the kindest persons I have ever met, visited the lady often, bringing her food, and cleaning her place.

We walked up to the house, and went through the front yard, while Jelka clapped and called the lady’s name. She called, and called, but there was no answer. Jelka went in, while Vesna and I checked outside. After 5 minutes with no answer I started to panic a bit, imagining us finding the lady dead. But I was wrong, a couple of minutes later she appeared. She approached, very old, walking slowly, hunched, and explained she had been to the neighbour’s house.

We went in, and the room, kitchen and living room were actually one and the same. While Jelka turned the oven on to warm up the house, the woman mumbled. I felt I was transported to another world. As if time had stopped, and went back walking really slowly like one of those monks who ring a bell to every step. There was not much light, the colours were yellowish, and the woman moaned. Jelka said kind things while Vesna translated everything to me. The old lady told her to tell me about her second husband whom she had been married to for 40 years, and had died now.

Eventually, Darko appeared. He explained he had new plans and that Vesna should translate them to me. Since he could not travel the world as Vesna and I could, he would do the same amount of km around Croatia. He would do that, he explained, even if he had to cross the country a thousand times. As his plans changed to an intercontinental trip that would take us to Russia, the woman attempted to remember in which countries of South America she had a lost son. Then the trip would reach China, and the woman tried to remember the name of yet another forgotten kid. Vesna did not know what to translate and I felt in a film.

And there, in the middle of a talk in another language, in another world, I could understand the tones, in fact I could relate to the humanity of it all. There in the middle of a remote village, no internet or tv, or good social welfare, these people were treated as people. In other places they would maybe be in homes, or professionally treated. But there they could live, more than that they were part of a society, they mattered to someone, and they had dreams

One of my earliest childhood memories is one of a feeding bottle with chamomile tea they used to give me as a child. I still remember how I hated that tepid sweet thing. After thinking about it a lot I realized it could only have been given to me by Cre, my nanny. My mother would have never agreed to give sugar to kids, and my grandmother would have never called an infusion tea. In any case, in my childhood years I became traumatized by camomile tea, and hot sweet drinks.

I rarely drank infusions in Brasil, in NY occasionally, in Amsterdam frequently, and in London I drink infusions all the time. This change occurred mainly because of Olga, my Russian neighbour in Amsterdam, who often invited me to have a cup in her apartment. I liked her brilliant and pessimistic sarcasm far more than the tea itself, but by the end of the year I was hooked.

So when I was told that in Morocco, life circled around a mint tea pot pouring tea from high above I got very excited. Mint infusions were always one of my favourites, so I could not have been more delighted. However, this joy came to an end quite soon; more precisely at the time of my first sip. The famous ‘ thé a la menthe’ tasted nothing like the infusions I was used to. In fact, it did not even taste like the beverage Leila used to prepare when we lived in NY. It is true that she was often unsatisfied. She always complained it didn’t taste like the Moroccan one, but at the time I took that to be a bad thing. So when I finally got to Morocco I was not prepared for my first sip. As I drank I kept imagining the person who prepared it pouring more and more spoons of sugar into it. I was mistaken, however, as would become clear later on. In any case, after this first tea I never drank it again; that is, until our trip to the Sahara.

On our trip, as I have mentioned in earlier topics, I became friends with the driver Abdul. Being the only one fluent in French I had the unfortunate responsibility of all request and questions, but the privilege of all explanations. It is true that many of them seemed to me like mythical views of reality, like when he explained to me that women dressed in black because it was cooler. I thought this was impossible, but did not say anything. In other cases, I simply could not judge it. For instance, I had always imagined that the habit of drinking tea must have come from drinking boiled (=safer) water and from being hard to cool down a drink in the desert. Abdul told me however, that that was wrong, the real reason was that hot tea made people less thirsty. Eventually, after so many hours talking he asked me whether it would be fine to give his nephew a ride. We naturally agreed to this, and it was that ride that led me to my second tea in Morocco.

We stopped in the middle of the route, and parked the car on the side of the road. Abdul invited us to come out and follow him. We saw a quite simple house, and some very friendly people. We took some pictures, tried dates from the trees and eventually Abdul came to us and said ‘ you are quite lucky, they will serve you tea.’ With that much luck I couldn’t say that I didn’t want to drink it, and gathered the sweets we had brought with us to contribute somehow and joined them. A carpet was laid on the ground outside, and we sat down observing the ritualistic preparation. First came the boiled water and then some sort of powder (on the box it read ‘gunpowder’…). The water was poured in and out a couple of times before the tea was made. And then it came, a rock of approximately 16cm2 of sugar! We look at it in awe, Abdul crushed it down into the pot, which was about half its size, and poured some water in and served 4 glasses of tea. He still needed to make one more glass so he got some more sugar. And this way the mistery was solved, they weren’t spoons after all, they were sugar meteorites!

As some of you know, I finally went to Morocco this September. I have written about the meaning of this trip to me in other topics (mainly in my Brazilian blog), but I have never really written about the trip itself. I went to Morocco carrying two return tickets: one for 20 and one for 34 days later. I ended up staying the 34 days and I would have stayed longer, had a small (very small) sense of responsibility (and missing my husband) not started to .

As usual I got prepared the best way I could. I read the guides, romances, history, tips etc. Not so much to be prepared, but more from a desire of starting my trip as soon as the tickets were bought. And as usual every book said a different thing, every person had a different opinion. They were unanimous only in that I should dress modestly, with long sleeves and long pants or skirt, and that I should expect to be approached by everyone.

So the 3 of us (Haiko, Adriana and I) were prepared. We carried few clothes but they were according to the suggestions. We arrived at 9am in Marrakech. It was amazingly hot, there were numerous lines to go through immigration, and it took us a long time to finally get into Morocco. They took our data, and gave us an entrance number in order for the government to know where we were at all times.

When we finally came outside, Mounia , my friend, was waiting for us. I got emotional at seeing her after a few years. And most surprisingly she was dressed exactly as she did in NY: with a sleeveless top.

“But Mounia, we were told that we should avoid even short sleeves?!”
She smiled and said that that was silly, and that everybody dressed as they wished.

We entered her car, and went straight to her apartment. A beautiful and modern place decorated with her beautiful paintings in the centre of the Ville Nouvelle (the new town). Waiting for us was Hafida, Mounia’s childhood nanny, who had prepared a monumental breakfast. Mounia and I spoke French, Hafida and Mounia Moroccan. Hafida veiled to go out, Mounia did not. And right there in the beginning of the trip, even if I did not know it at the time, Moroccan life started to paint itself. A world of strong contrasts, of social and gender inequality unfolded before our own eyes. Inequality plasticized by the difference of languages. A world of mystery and disconcerting beauty always hiding behind heavy doors. A world divided between the religious and the modernizers. We had entered a world of enormous hospitality, amiability, but also of enormous social control. A world of antagonistic forces, kept by a king, who everyone seemed to love. His picture hanging on every public wall.

is a painter and lives in Marrakech