The International English Minga

No, its not what you’re thinking. Minga (pronounced meen-gah) is a Quechua (Inca language) word which, very bascially, means ‘an obligatory work party for the benefit of the community.’ But dont stop reading! It gets better…

It is where the community comes together and works towards something, like fixing somebody’s roof, or building a new canoe… This is what the International English Minga is all about.

In a pilot project that will become a revolutionary tool of education, teachers from America, Asia, Africa and local Amazonian communities are spending time deep in the Ecuadorian Amazon Rainforest – one that is under threat from its own government due to unsustainable methods of mining and logging.

These teachers are introducing the English language to an Amazonian community,  but not in a shove-it-down-your-throat kind of way. And not in a Stolen Generation kind of way either.

“Our immediate goal is to create an English language curriculum for Achuar students growing up in the heart of the Amazon. Doing so in a way that is divorced entirely from the historically colonizing force of European language.

“Our experience as students and teachers in Achuar territory has taught us that even in contested spaces such as the Amazonian frontier, where Indigenous leaders and their allies are standing up and demanding their rights to land and resources and way of life, the arrival of formal education has the potential to undermine all their efforts,” says co-founder of the project Kyle Solomon.

The goal of our pilot project is to design a bilingual curriculum for children that is based in the life and traditions of the Achuar, while raising consciousness about the potential for intercultural, multilingual education to help democratize globalization and combat climate change, says the website.

 

from ‘International English Minga’ on Facebook

 

“Imagine a diverse group of teachers coming together from America, Asia, Africa, and local Achuar communities to define what multicultural education means, how it works, and what it can do for humanity.

Imagine them gathered around a small fire at dawn in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest, envisioning a way to teach our children not only how to dream of a just and sustainable world, but how to create it.

As the sun rises up over the lush jungle canopy they collaboratively design and implement a cutting-edge methodology which puts the power squarely in the hands & hearts & minds of local elders and their sons, daughters and grandchildren.

Drawing on all available resources, from the latest innovations in information technology to ancient indigenous knowledge and wisdom, they reconcile two distinct worlds and conceive of a way to prepare the next generation for the complex challenges we are facing as a species.”

-taken from the website hyperlinked below.

For more information or to donate, visit them on Facebook, follow them on Twitter, read an article, or visit their website.

 

Siesta time? Again?!

Every day the towns, and some cities of South America shut up shop – luckily not the cafes – for up to three hours. So today, Jess and I find ourselves out shopping (¨something new and different for us!¨) when we walk out of one shop and bam! There is nowhere to go, everythings closed.

Siesta time. Coffee time for us.

We find a decent looking cafe, the coffee over here is terrible by the way, and ask for two takeaways. Then we make our way to the plaza.

Along with siesta time, every South American town or city that we´ve visited has a main plaza. The plaza is full of statues, trees, park benches and pigeons. And more often than not, lots of people.

We find a bench bathed in sunlight, sit down and take a sip of our coffee.

Not five minutes after we sit down, a young girl comes over selling pigeon food. She hangs around for a while, so with our basic spanish we find out she has seven siblings, is thirteen years old and her name is Anna-Marie.

Unfortunately for her, we hate pigeons. Instead, we give her some lollies, for which she smiles gratefully and leaves.

Another sip of coffee, and another woman approaches us. This one is somewhat older, carrying a baby, carefully wrapped in colourful material on her back. She is selling gum.

Unfortunately for this lady, I dont like gum either. Jess buys some, more out of pity than want, and the lady, after hanging around for a while watching us, eventually moves on to the next foreigners.

Next, a young woman also carrying a child on her back picks the area directly in front of us to adjust the unhappy baby, whilst staring at us drinking coffee and eating specialty chocolates.

Guiltily, we try to avoid her gaze, and together discuss the awkwardness of the situation…

Next, a little boy carrying a sleeve of bracelets and bagful of small pouches comes along. Nibbling an icecream, his red cheeks shining, he introduces himself and shows off what he is selling. After some contemplation about the over priced pouch, but feeling like we cant bargain with a 10-year-old, Jess purchases a colourful pouch for thirty bolivianos and the boy goes on his way with a big grin.

We dont even have time to take a sip of coffee before the next person comes along. Not in all our time in South America have we been approached by so many people in a plaza.

Our once steaming coffees sit beside us, willing us to take a sip but somehow we feel out of place.

Next comes Diego. He is also 10-years-old and speaks a little bit of english, he says, indicating the amount with his thumb and forefinger. He goes to school, and wants to polish our shoes for just three bolivianitos.

This would be fine, except we are wearing sandals. As we point this out, he motions to the scuff marks near the big toe. Nice try buddy!

Then, Diego holds up a piece of laminated paper.

The piece of paper tells us about the working children of sucre. As we read, Diego pulls out two small magazines.

If we purchase these magazines, says the paper, half the money goes to the child and his family, and the other half to creating the magazine. So we get two of the things and give him a bit of a tip. The adorable kid looks so pleased.

Another small boy joins Diego offering his shoe-shining services. We politely decline, feeling slightly overwhelmed now by all the attention. Then, an old man comes over, so now we are surrounded by two young boys and an older man.

He is selling beautifully crafted wall hangings. Behind him stands a woman, again with child on back, watching on.

Anna-Marie, with the pigeon food hovers nearby.

We skull our luke-warm coffees, continue to politely decline offers of shoeshining and handicrafts and try to ignore the attention.

As that idea fails, we pack up our gear, pick up our rubbish and decide its probably time to go back to the hostel.

 

 

Wow!

Below us, an aqua-coloured lagoon dotted with flamingos makes its mark on the bare surroundings.

Turn around, and all you can see is the flat plains of red desert sand, stretching for miles.

In the distance, snowcapped peaks make their mark against the afternoon sky.

We are atop a rocky knoll in the middle of the Bolivian desert. The Landrover sits below us, its tyre tracks showing the way we came.

Our driver, Juan, prepares lunch on the tray of the boot. Today, we are having chicken schnitzel, known as pollo milanesa over here. Yesterday, we ate llama steak with salad.

Australian music blares from Jess´ipod blares out across the plains, and our group of six enjoys the bright sunshine, and the cool breeze.

We trudge down the knoll when lunch is ready. Mayonaise is the condiment of choice, lathered over the milanesa, beans, carrots and pasta.

And, of course, Coca Cola to drink.

As we finish up lunch, the other girls keep chatting and I climb back up the rocky knoll to look out over the incredible surroundings.

I move a few rocks to sit down on a flat one, and I find a note.

Yep, a note. In the middle of the Bolivian desert, written on paper and hidden beneath two rocks.

It contains a letter, written in a different language, and an email address. On the front it reads in english, ¨If you find this, please leave it here and email me.¨

I havent emailed yet, but I will. What an interesting concept, to leave a piece of paper under rocks in the desert, and then for someone to actually find that piece of paper.

Anyway, back in the Landrover and we speed across the flat desert to our next destination.

Past more lagoons filled with flamingos, past more snow capped mountains and volcanoes and on to thermal hot springs, altitudes of more than 4200 metres, and red-wine fueled fun at hostels in the middle of the desert with no electricity.

Hence how I lost my passport, camera and wallet. But thats another story.

It´s not the destination.

It´s not even the journey.

It´s not the 15kg bag you cart around. And it´s not the new food you try.

It may have something to do with the everchanging company, or the only constant throughout the trip – your travel buddy.

Mostly, it´s about the self-reflection.

Travel can be stressful, blissful, tiring, relaxing, annoying or just downright fun.

On all the bus trips, all the downtime spent in hostel courtyards, sitting in the park with that damn 15kg (that although you curse it actually contains your life for the next two months), the same one you use as a pillow when you arrive at a random bus terminal, in the middle of the desert, without booking accomodation first.

It´s these times when you see what travelling is really about.

Reflecting on all the other things you have seen, the people you have met along the way. It´s that moment that happens every so often when you find yourself thinking,

¨I feel like the luckiest person alive right now.¨

And knowing, quite possbily, that its true.

So as I sit here in the park with the only constant (shoutout to Jess!) and think back over the last two months, and often over the last 22 years, I cant help keeping the smile off my face.

I am the luckiest person in the world.
In this moment, having the trip of lifetime, with no responsibility (except to be on that bus we booked… that we just missed…), and no plans (the reason we ended up sleeping in the bus terminal).

Right at this moment, when I am definately not the richest person in the world.

Right at this moment, when I am definately not the most comfortable person in the world.

And right at this moment, when I have no idea where i´ll be tomorrow, or even this time next month…

I am the luckiest person alive.

 

Flying by the seat of our pants

Last night, Jess and I were wandering around the main plaza in Salta, a beautiful city on the edge of the desert.

Bottle of red wine in hand, we sit down under a tree to listen to two guys playing guitar. Not busking, just playing quietly to themselves.

We aren´t sitting far away from them, and after a few songs one of them turns to us.

¨If you want to keep listening, you´ll have to give us some of your wine,¨he says jokingly.

Happily we agree, we sit down next to them, we share wine, they share music.

We find out that they are from Mar Del Plata, which is south of Buenos Aires on the coast.

They also tell us about a festival next weekend, its up and coming bands from Mar Del Plata, the university town of La Plata, and a well-known band from Buenos Aires, the Biciletas.

Their band is also playing in the festival, which, as it turns out, they are the organisers of.

So our plans have changed. Instead of going from Salta to San Pedro de Atacama, and then into Bolivia, we are going back to Cordoba, Buenos Aires, La Plata and Mar Del Plata.  Then taking the train, 30 hours straight back up!

Our plans are constantly changing. The other night, we saw a poster for a Reggae Festival, four hours north of Salta in Maimara. It started at 5pm the next day, until 4am in the morning.

We asked our hostel owner to call the ticket people, and after a long discussion on the phone he said, well, we thought he said we could no longer get tickets.

After being in South America for two months you might think I know some spanish by now… But I dont. I know cerveza (beer), vino tinto (red wine) and some other important words…

Anyway, we resigned ourselves to the fact that we weren´t going. Then the next morning we decided to go visit the place where they sold the tickets, just in case!

It was a little skate shop and the lovely people working there (luckily for us) spoke very good english! They told us we could buy tickets at the door, and catch a private van up and back.

They organised the van for us, it was leaving in two hours, and we went back to the hostel to pack our stuff.

As it was after checkout, the hostel man was angry. But we offered to pay the night anyway, which, thankfully, he refused.

We took our bags to the hostel next door, booked in for the following night and left our valuables locked in the safe.

We met the van in the city (yes, we got into a white van with 15 strangers) and after bumping into the car in front of us (that did nothing for our confidence in the driver), we were on our way.

We drove through desert covered in cacti, and through mountains that were all sorts of colours.

We pulled up about an hour in to the drive at a corner store, where we bought two litres of beer that came in giant plastic cups, and two litres of red wine for later. All that cost us $8 Australian dollars!

So back on the bus and our next stop was a bathroom stop about two hours up the road. We hopped out of the van and looked around. A dusty truck stop, lined with palm trees… Hmm. As we were about to get back in to the van, a llama comes strutting out from a building.

Its shaggy coat was covered in dust, and standing behind it was a goat.

They both posed nicely for photos, and then we were back on our way.

We arrived at the festival at about 8pm. We organised a place to meet, and decided we should all stay together.

We bought tickets from a hole in the wall. Literally. One of the guys pointed and said thats where we get tickets, and we thought he was pointing to some dodgy looking people. Uh oh.

But no, the hole in the wall was legit, we paid our 80 pesos and in we went.

The festival was amazing, the atmosphere was great. There were tributes to Bob Marley all night, and apart from that everything was in spanish (funnily enough).

When the festival finished, we got choripan (chorizo in bread), and got back into the van at about 4.30 am.

Got back to Salta about 8am and headed slowly to our new hostel. The lovely cleaning lady let us in and fed us a breakfast of facturas (sweet crossaints) and cafe con leche (coffee with milk). We waited until 10am for our room to be ready and then we slept. All day.

A great South American experience. Flying by the seat of our pants seems to be working out for us. Fingers crossed the luck and lack of planning keeps working for us!

 

 

to title this ´I´m on a Boat´ would just be tacky.

It´s hot. Very hot. And stuffy.

I look at the other girls, almost fed up with this trip that hasnt yet started.
There are people crowding around us, pushing past with cold drinks and we there is a smell of freshly cooked fish wafting around.

We walk up some stairs and peer around, hoping to find a nice spot in the shade but there is nothing left. Too many people!

Back downstairs we go and use our lack of language skills to pretend we´re a bit dim. We climb onto the small pillow-covered deck, there are more than twenty people laying on it already.

We squeeze in to the middle where there is a little bit of space left, and we sit cross-legged, giving the people around us apologetic we-dont-speak-portugese-and-there-really-is-nowhere-else-to-sit smiles.

For a few minutes, we sit in uncomfortable heat, our legs sticking to the plastic pillows covering the deck.

Music fills the air around us, and we peer back to see a man sitting down the back, guitar in hand. Instantly the trip got better.

As we relax into our small stolen spot, the engine roars to life and we are relieved from the heat by the cool ocean breeze.
The tourist boat pulls out of the dock and we are on our way to our first stop.

Everyone starts to move around and the boat feels less crowded. We claim our spot up the front, wind in our hair and sun on our bikini-clad, sunscreen-lathered bodies.

For the next few hours, we are mesmerised by the Brazilian jungle, the many islands and the brilliantly clear, warm water.

We snorkel, swim, dive and jump – becoming affectionately (or annoyingly) known as the Australian Diving Team.

We dock back at the beautiful port of Paraty and make our way through market stalls and bustling crowds of people, all the while stepping carefully to avoid tripping on the uneven cobblestones.

We arrive back at the hostel and book an extra two nights accomodation for Paraty.
Bye bye Australia, I think we´re all in love.

Especially Jess.

I ♥ Rio

Copacabana Beach is getting geared up for New Years Eve!

There are people everywhere, the hostel is full to capacity,  luckily we booked seven months in advance.

Our white clothes are layed out, ready to be put on later tonight, after a nap and a shower.

The beach is covered with mostly naked bodies, but also littered with white, yellow and red roses, and the remains of spirit boats, which the locals float out to sea to prepare for the new year. By float out to sea, I mean they take them as far as the hige dumping waves will allow and let them go, only to get crushed to pieces seconds later and end up back on the white sand.

There are four stages along the beach at various points, the biggest is outside the Copacabana Palace and is hosting David Guetta later on tonight, or early tomorrow morning.

Off the beach, the streets are packed with tourists. The party has almost begun already, at 4.30pm, and it is not slowing down until after 5am tomorrow morning.

Off for nap time now, Feliz Ano Novo everyone!

Canyoning anyone?!

A nine metre jump from a cliff in to water? Easy.

Sure, easy after twenty minutes of hesitation, two hundred calls of 1. 2. 3. and a whole lot of encouragement from the American wanting to go next.

¨Once in a lifetime¨

¨You´re never going to be back here¨

¨When was the last time you did something stupid?¨

So I did it. I jumped off a nine metre high cliff. Into water. Alright it doesnt sound that bad when you´re not standing on the edge of it.

With shaking hands… actually shaking body, and nose full of water, I climb out of the pool and back onto the rocks.

Having already slid down one of the biggest slides, being a waterfall with incredibly slippery rocks and a deep pool at the bottom… not always that deep… and jumped off a five metre high rock, we continue down the canyon.

Dressed in 5mm thick neoprene, complete with jacket and hood, black booties, sneakers and black gloves, and a bright red helmet, for a bit of colour, we float down the next part of the river.

Floating is fun. The wetsuit material keeps you afloat, so really theres nothing to it at all, unless you have to manouvre round a rock or dodge the small droplets of water from above that have a habit of landing right in your eye.

Some more sliding, some more jumping, some repelling across slippery rock, above a high pool of water, and then, for the final trick, we repel down the side of a waterfall.

Incredible. Amazing. The scenery is one thing but mixed with the adrenaline of canyoning, the overall experience is… Incredible! Amazing!

So I happened to stumble upon a small hostel in Ancud, on the small island of Chiloe.

Hostel Austral. I hopped off my bus from Puerto Montt (crap place, dont recommend it at all… except for the woman I stayed with, but thats another story), and I began walking towards the centre of town. As it turned out, I was walking the wrong way. On the way, I passed this crazy woman waving at me. Great, I thought. A town of loonies.

As I walked back past, with this crazy woman still waving at me, I realised she was pointing to a sign on her house, ¨Hospedaje Austral¨.

¨Cuanto cuesta por la noche?¨ I ask.

The problem with trying to speak in spanish is that then they think your fluent, so she speaks to me for about a minute, until I can get in, ¨me no espanol! Habla ingles?¨

Apparently not. She goes on to say something else and I catch the word gringos, which generally means white people who speak english.

Yay, friends! I think. So into her house I go.

Three people are sitting at the table. Two from France and one from Germany.

After settling in to my one bedroom room (luxury) I go for a wander in to the town centre, with a map this time.

After getting drenched in a downpour, I head back to the hostel with my dinner, a packet of 2 minute noodles (luxury).

I watch as the Frenchies prepare their dinner, a small pile of crepes with some apple, looks delicious. However, I realise as I begin preparing my own (boiling the water) that their pile of crepes is getting a bit bigger.

And a bit bigger.

And a bit bigger.

By the time I sit down to eat my dinner, (about seven minutes after I begin preparing), their pile of crepes is enormous, and still growing. Now, there is also a caramel sauce and a chocolate sauce, plus the cooked apple.

Jealous!

I finish my dinner just as they sit down to eat theirs, which is not just for them but for three others as well.

And then, I get invited too! There we are, a Chilean woman, a Colombian man, a German guy, two Frenchies and me, the Aussie, eating a mountain of delicious French crepes.

If I had a picture I would post it, but they were eaten in about two seconds.

New life goal: Learn to make crepes like the french.

Volcan Villarica

¨Don´t leave anything behind on the mountain, please take all your rubish away with you,¨ says one of the hiking guides as we begin the walk up the rocky mountain, before we hit the snow later on.

Up and up we walk, over volcanic rock then onto the snow. The sun rises as we reach about halfway up the mountain, thats the reward you get for beginning the climb at 5am.

Pretty worth it though. Spectacular view.

We take a break and I sit my water bottle in the snow and turn away for one second. Clunk. I turn back to see it tumble down the white cliff. Clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk… it just keeps going.

So much for taking everything away. My guide looks at me.

¨Whoops,¨I say.

We keep on walking, up and up, further and further. Im not tired. I think its the adrenaline. Every time I look down I feel my heart beat a bit faster. Its steep. Very steep.

It really is like a white cliff. Im worried that one slip and ill end up like my drink bottle.

We have a few more breaks before we reach the top.

Climbing up the last part is the most exhilarating. Almost up, almost up… And then we reach it.

I dont know who says its the journey, but it sure as hell was the destination for this trip.

Goin down was the most fun. We got flat pieces of plastic to sit on, put on all the waterproof gear we took up with us and headed down the mountain.

WOOOHOO!! It was steep and bumpy but oh so much fun. It took us about four or five hours to get up and less than one hour to get down.

At the end I was freezing cold, snow all through my jacket and pants and exhausted for the tiresome walk up.

But it was worth it. My first volcano!