Travelogs...     aka - Stories from the Heart

The Monkey Bay Wildlife Sanctuary lies at mile 31 and a half on the Western Highway of Belize, a grand name for a modest paved road leading from Belize City on the Caribbean coast all the way across to Guatemala at the western border. But this is what I love about the Central American country of Belize; everything is low-key, laid-back, green and beautiful. My good friend Matthew Miller runs the Sanctuary, a field research station dedicated to environmental education and ecotourism, and I was staying there for a few days at the end of January.

Monkey Bay hosts visiting students from all over, with internship programs, volunteer positions, classroom and library programs, environmental education, field ecology programs and lectures, and arranges for cave expeditions, village home stays, hiking, canoeing, bird-watching, the Indian Creek jungle trek (I highly recommend this), visits to the crocodile sanctuary, Maya villages, and a baboon sanctuary. Down the road is a wildlife orphanage, where howler monkeys and parrots are carefully raised and eventually returned to the jungle (and I hope the bucket of baby parrot formula I brought last time has helped to fledge them). On the Sanctuary grounds there's a gigantic aviary with colonies of chameleons and endangered green iguanas, with a wooden walkway and a little stream running through it. In fact, Monkey Bay is a veritable enclave of tree-huggers, and I love staying here.

Posted on the door are the Monkey Bay Office Hours:

On most days we open at about 9 or 10 o'clock AM. Occasionally as early as 7 AM, but some days as late as 12 or 1 PM, we close at about 5:30 or 6 PM, occasionally at about 4 or 5 PM, but sometimes as late as 12 or 1 PM. Some days we are not here at all, but lately we've been here just about all the time. Except when we're someplace else. But we should be here then, too.

Inside the office are instructions on how to be an artist: stay loose. Learn to watch snails. Invite dangerous people to tea. Refuse to be "responsible." Take lots of naps. Give money away. Play with everything. Build a fort with blankets. Get wet. Have wild imaginings. (Words to live by, I say.)

My room was above the office in the library, and although the building does have electricity, there's no running water. For the bathroom you have to go outside, down the stairs and along the path to the biogas latrine, a marvel of environmental architecture, recycling human waste into methane gas, which is then used for the stoves in the kitchen. A large diagram on the front of the building explains how this all works in excruciating detail, with the entire inner workings of the structure - expansion chamber, lowest slurry line, overflow line - complete with a drawing of a human being 'in action.' I guess this is so you can contemplate your role in the great scheme of nature as you're making your contribution, the circle of biochemistry and living organisms (wait, maybe that's the 'Circle of Life' I'm thinking of, from The Lion King. If Elton John ever visits Monkey Bay, maybe he'll write a song about the biogas latrine: The Circle of Gas.)

The technical details of the biogas diagram are offset by a large, colorful poster with poetry on the use of the latrine. It begins 'When you lighten your load on this commode. . . . '(And it gets worse from there. Come to Monkey Bay someday if you want to read the rest.)

So, with my veterinary background and years of teaching conservation and ecology in Africa and New Zealand, did I come here to study wildlife or work on environmental education? Nope. I came to Belize to sing. I spent several days planning two concerts for my return in June, when I'll be singing at the Bliss Centre for the Performing Arts in Belize City, and then at the Price Centre for Peace and Development in Belmopan (not too far from Monkey Bay). At the Belmopan concert I'll be performing with drummers from the Maroon Creole Drum School, in order to promote local music and culture, and part of the proceeds will benefit the drum school and Monkey Bay.

But first I had to visit many offices and do a lot of scheduling. Bliss Centre is located in Belize City, and although I had a rental car and a map, finding it turned into something of a challenge. I didn't actually mean to take myself on a trip of the entire city, but this is what comes of the 'drive around until you happen to find it' method of navigation. However, I did discover a Pirate Museum (which I otherwise might never have known about) and saw a witchdoctor in the middle of the street. I think he was a witchdoctor, he was dressed entirely in leaves, with white chalk coloring his face, and he grinned at me and shook his leaves while he crossed the street. How cool was that. I did finally find the Bliss Centre, which has a beautiful, state-of-the-art theatre with a good sound system, a grand piano and video projection, all of which I will use in the June 15 concert.

Then I drove to Belmopan, in the center of the country, to meet with the director of the Price Centre, check out the auditorium and figure out details for the sound system, etc. Everyone I spoke to was enthusiastic about the concerts (especially Matthew of Monkey Bay, who is acting as sponsor), and gave me more contacts and ideas. Matthew is one of those people whose presence tends to light up an entire room when he's in it, and his gift for understanding people and bringing them together is truly amazing. I want to send him to the Middle East with Condoleezza Rice, where I am sure he would be able to bring peace and communication. He knows everyone, and he suggested I go see Mick Fleming, a hotelier who sometimes hosts musicians at his lodge. So I continued westward to Cha Creek, a lodge deep in the jungle forests of western Belize.

In order to reach Cha Creek I had to drive nearly to the end of the Western Highway, which ends at the border of Guatemala. Along the way I passed Spanish Town, an enclave of Mennonites who have been here in Belize for several decades, having left North America in search of religious freedom. They're originally an Anabaptist group from Holland and Germany, who migrated to Prussia, then North America, and now Belize. (There's also a sub-group who thought life in Belize was getting too posh and worldly and moved to Bolivia). They have an agreement with the government of Belize granting exemption from military service, and make their living with agriculture and livestock (in fact, I have heard that 90% of the poultry in Belize comes from these Mennonite communities). The Old Colony Mennonites don't use any modern conveniences, electricity, etc., but the "progressive" communities do, and they've built a hydroelectric dam. They don't interact much with outsiders, Belizean or otherwise, and have their own language, an archaic amalgamation of Dutch and German, which they've been speaking for 400 years. I really wanted to visit their community, but they're not keen on visitors so I kept going. I kept my eyes open for their horse-drawn buggies along the road.

At the Lodge at Cha Creek I found Mick, a friendly, personable British ex-patriot whom I can only describe as an adventurer and world traveler who has settled down to run an elegant lodge in an exquisitely beautiful jungle setting. Thatched roofs are nestled among the rolling hills, gardens and thick stands of mahogany trees and other jungle hardwoods, and horses from the stables graze on green lawns. There's a butterfly farm, a wood-working shop, and all kinds of nature walks, tubing in the river, exploring caves and . . . music. Mick is a music lover, having worked with a Zambian rock band while living in East Africa, now he occasionally hosts musicians to come and perform at Cha Creek.

Once I discovered that his dogs had Swahili names, the Africa connection materialized, and a delightful (but enigmatic) tale of living in Uganda and Kenya emerged, progressing to being given five days to leave Africa, and the influence of a paralyzed veterinarian from Uganda leading him here to Belize. The veterinarian became paralyzed after doing a necropsy on a monkey's brain, and I'm not sure how he ended up in Belize, but I hope to hear more of Mick's story when I return in June to sing at the Lodge. (And see the butterflies and go horseback riding, and tubing in the river.)

The greatest perks of traveling (or, perhaps the fundamental reason) are the opportunities to meet and get to know these unique people, to have their lives cross your orbit for an hour, or a day, or a week. It keeps us all from becoming mediocre brain-dead couch-potato uber-consumers sleepwalking through life. For instance, how did the path of a classically-trained soprano end up in Gales Point, meeting with the leader of a reggae band to discuss doing a concert together?

Matthew sent me there. Gales Point is a tiny village clinging to a narrow peninsula in a huge saltwater lagoon, where the manatees play and the pace of life is slow-slow. Rickety shacks along the dirt road are perched atop stilts, held together with twine and wire and the hope that the hurricanes will be kind to them. It's the most 'African' community of Belize; being the site where escaped slaves from the slave ships settled once they reached the shore. Although the present-day descendants of these people have never actually been to Africa, they hold strong to their heritage, which is why Emmeth Young calls his band of drummers 'Fore Afrique' (Black Africa). Neither Emmeth nor his young protégés read music, but they don't have to - their music comes directly from their hearts, through their arms and hands, and out their drums. And I will be singing with them onstage for the "New World" concert in Belmopan on June 22.

You are all invited to Belize in June for some amazing musical experiences. Start in Belize City for the Moonfall concert on June 15, watch for the chalk-faced witchdoctor and don't forget the Pirate Museum. Have some johnny cakes and powder buns, and about a thousand other kinds of home-cooking from the kitchens of Belize. Then head out the Western highway, watching out for progressive and Old Colony Mennonites, and come to the New World concert in Belmopan on June 22. You shouldn't have too much trouble recognizing me there; I will be the only one onstage without dreadlocks.

The Maori are the indigenous people of New Zealand, Polynesians who came here about a thousand years ago. They brought with them customs and traditions from somewhere in the South Pacific, including the marae and the powhiri ceremony. The marae is the spiritual center of the Maori community, with several buildings and a courtyard, the most important of these being the meeting house, which is covered with ornate carvings of gods and ancestors. The powhiri is an official welcoming ceremony, required of anyone wanting to approach a Maori community and serving two purposes: to remove the tapu (sacredness) from newcomers, and to determine if a strange group was coming to kill them or not.

While myself and the student group could certainly be considered strange, we had no intention of killing anyone, and we put ourselves to the task of learning the protocol required for the ceremony. This involved dressing in our Sunday best, learning several Maori songs (which was mostly me singing with gusto and several students mumbling the words), and speeches from two of the men in our group. Only men ever speak during a powhiri ceremony, so I asked for two volunteers for each of the two maraes we would be visiting. One student, Ben, notably did not volunteer; he wasn't keen on speaking in front of people and was happy to let his fellow students do it.

The four volunteers went to work writing up their speeches, which included announcing the name of their mountain, their river, their tribe and their ancestors. This was a challenge for one guy who comes from Iowa; he had to borrow someone else's mountain. Then they could say whatever they thought appropriate, and during the actual ceremonies they did a splendid job, thanking the Maori people profusely for this opportunity to be part of their community, for the unique opportunity to learn and travel in New Zealand, and thanking the ancestors. All four of them were in some state of screaming nerves, but they hid this well. Ben remained in the background, thankful that it wasn't HIM up there reading from a shaking piece of paper.

At the end of the ceremony, a solemn affair, we were officially welcomed by doing the hongi with everyone. This was where we passed single-file past our hosts, shaking hands and pressing noses together at the same time. This requires a little finesse; it's easy to clunk glasses or teeth together, and sometimes it involves a peck on the cheek, so you can end up bending forward with nose and lips invading someone's personal space, wondering where they're supposed to land. But overall I think we did pretty well, and then proceeded to a friendly feast with our hosts in the eating hall.

After these two ceremonies, within three days of each other, we settled into classes and home stays for a week. Then we went on a road trip to Rotorua for another cultural tour, starting with the Maori Arts and Crafts Center. We needed two more speeches from our guys, and there were now two guys left who hadn't yet done this. We were part of an abbreviated powhiri ceremony there, with about a hundred tourists, and the guide asked for a volunteer 'rangatira' (chief) to represent us. Once again Ben managed to get out of doing this when several students 'volunteered' Evan.

As it turned out, Evan didn't actually have to do a speech, he just had to accept the 'challenge', a small leaf or feather placed on the ground in front of him by a warrior. Picking up this proffered gift signified that we all came in peace, and then we were allowed to enter the marae. There was a really excellent show put on by the Maori staff of traditional music and dance once we were inside.

That afternoon we went to the home of a master weaver, who taught us how to weave with pieces of flax, and then we learned some Maori dances. The guys went off to the other side of the house to learn the 'haka', and I stayed with the women to learn the 'poi-ball dance'. Poi-balls are lightweight balls made of wadded-up plastic or cloth, attached to long woven cords, which the women twirl around in both hands at the speed of light and make patterns in the air resembling birds in flight and other striking images from the natural world.

I took my two poi-balls and started twirling them. Round and round they went at the ends of their strings, their movements a blur as they whizzed back and forth around me, hitting nearly every part of my body at one-second intervals. However, none of this was actually part of the dance. We tried, though! We spent an hour learning the song and the dance, and then performed it for the guys, hitting ourselves and each other with the poi-balls, wrapping the cords around our necks and trying to remember the Maori words to the song.

Then it was the guys' turn to perform the 'haka' dance for us. Now, the haka is only ever done by men, and is a celebration of pure testosterone. I have never seen so much grunting, shouting, stomping and posturing, all with terrifying grimaces, tongues stuck out and eyes wide, in order to intimidate enemy warriors. I can't say that we were all that intimidated, but we were quite entertained. And I must admit that had we been attacked by warriors at that moment, they would have been more impressed by the guys and their haka dance than us women hitting ourselves with our poi-balls.

That evening was our last powhiri ceremony. In the bus on the way to the Rotoiti marae, our guide wanted to know who would be our rangatira. Ben, the last guy left, had finally warmed up to the idea and grinned and raised his hand. No problem! He could pick up a leaf as well as anyone. No speeches, a few nose-touches, piece a' cake! He looked relaxed and happy; he was actually looking forward to this.

'Okay,' said the guide, using the bus' microphone, so no one would miss a word. 'Listen carefully, because it's very important that the protocol be followed exactly.' He went on for fifteen minutes, describing in excruciating detail all that Ben would have to do, which was far more involved and complex than what any of the previous guys had had to do. He would have to meet the 'challenge' brought forth by the warrior, and this could get very tense - the warriors at this marae could be very hostile and aggressive, and if Ben didn't handle it just right, or made too much eye contact, or if any of the group smiled or giggled, Ben could actually be attacked. The guide regaled us with horror stories of poor sods who had made the wrong move or hadn't shown proper respect, who'd gotten cracked in the head by the warrior's war stick. He couldn't pick up the leaf too soon or too late, and he must never, never turn his back on the warrior, as this would be seen as an affront. In the old days, of course, the warrior would have killed the leader of the newcomers for any breach of protocol, but nowadays they didn't really kill anyone. But the rangatira could be injured or knocked down, and could bring horribly deep shame on the whole group and the marae if he didn't show the proper respect. Then, if we were admitted to the meeting-house, the rangatira would stand up on the stage, he would make a lengthy speech, he would lead the singing, etc. etc.

I was sitting in the front of the bus, and I turned and watched Ben's face with interest. The cocky, relaxed expression quickly drained from him, like water running out of a bathtub. Real worry crept across his face, turning to consternation, and finally white-faced shock. This really didn't sound like the casual picking up of a leaf, as he had just seen Evan do that afternoon! And he only had about twenty minutes to prepare. Good thing I'm trained in CPR, I thought, he looks like he might need it soon.

Ben's fellow students offered their support: 'Dude, good thing you're wearing dark-colored pants, huh? That way it won't be so obvious if you, you know, when you're attacked by the warrior.' He didn't seem to appreciate this. Finally we were standing with our guides at the edge of the marae, ready to begin, with Ben out in front as our leader. I stood as close as I could, for moral support, and repeated the Maori words of thanks to him several times, which he would need to wrap up his speech. He whispered to me through clenched teeth, 'Meredith, I don't know the words to the songs.' That's okay, I whispered back, I'll sing really loud.

The warrior appeared at the door to the meeting house, and there was no more talking. He was dressed in traditional garb, with grass and coconut-leaf loin-cloth and headdress, and the long war stick in his hands twirled and slashed through the air like it had a life of its own. He was a young man, perhaps Ben's age, in top physical condition, and he leaped and shouted as he approached our quaking rangatira. His face was a mask of blazing fury, and his eyes were open wide in challenge and hostility. He locked gazes with Ben and slowly approached, snarling and shouting with barely controlled rage, swinging and twirling his stick, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he could crack Ben's head open in the blink of an eye. (I'm sure this thought crossed Ben's mind as well.)

Finally the warrior laid the leaf down on the walkway about ten feet in front of Ben, who slowly walked out to pick it up, prompted by our guide. Slowly, carefully, he bent down to pick it up, and the warrior, still staring at Ben, suddenly raised one leg and slapped his thigh. This was the signal to the women back at the meeting house that the peace offering had been accepted and they could sing the welcome songs.

Once inside the meeting house, Ben had to sit in the very front, near the stage, and he was instructed to stand up and do some part of the ritual about every five minutes. He had come up with a decent speech of thanks on short notice, although he couldn't remember the final words of thanks in Maori. When it was time to sing the songs, I stood and sung as loud as I could from the women's section, with scattered student voices trailing along with me. Ben looked like he would rather be having a root canal than standing there doing this.

Finally the ceremony was complete and Ben was invited on stage to do the hongi with the Maori, including the very warrior who had issued the challenge. Then they did an excellent performance, including the poi-ball dance and the haka, and Ben was dragged up onstage to demonstrate the haka. However, he was allowed to choose two of his fellow male students to come up and 'help' him, so he finally got a little revenge. That evening at the welcome feast, our bus driver found Ben standing outside letting the evening breeze dry the sweat on his face, drinking a beer. 'Now, Ben,' he said, 'For the thank-you speech you're going to give after the meal -' Ben's eyes flew open and he nearly dropped his beer. 'What! Another speech! I thought I was all done! I can't believe I have to give another speech!'

There's a Polynesian island well known for its burrowing land crabs. Well, not so much for the crab itself but for what it digs up and piles around its holes - the piles of sand and dirt kicked out by the digging process (there must be a term for this but I don't know it) have the highest content of human bone fragments found anywhere in the South Pacific From the days when the marae was the site of human sacrifices. So I guess we should count ourselves lucky that we didn't have to provide a human sacrifice; although if pressed I could have volunteered one or two. However, I wouldn't want to risk offending the ancestors with our available specimens; I can just imagine our sacrifice getting to the Otherworld and the ancestors taking one look at him and declaring, 'Who is THIS guy? And what's that fuzz on his lip?' They'd probably send him back, and who knows what kind of revenge they would wreak upon us. We've only narrowly missed this fate, since Ben nearly sacrificed himself - only his youthful good health prevented him from expiring from fright right then and there.

Just another day Down Under!

The first time I visited the village of Banko, in the Ashanti kingdom of central Ghana, I was working for SIT and brought a group of American college students. We stayed for a week, and as part of our official visit, I brought along and presented several bags of cement (which they had requested) to the king and council of elders. This was one of my first experiences with the elaborate greeting protocol in Ghana, in which you bring a bottle of Schnapps, a case of 'minerals,' (bottled sodas) and some small gift or money.

The village of Banko is found at the end of smaller and smaller dirt roads a couple of hours outside of Kumasi, nestled among the groves of cocoa trees and surrounding rocky escarpments. The red iron-rich soil of the roads makes a startling contrast to the rich green of the jungle-like vegetation, and the community survives on growing cocoa, yams, subsistence crops, and cattle, goats and chickens. At that time there was no electricity, and water was collected in buckets at pumps and rivers.

When we approached the king's compound, the king was already positioned on his throne, a beautiful caved wooden chair decorated with silver studs. He and the elders were wearing their ceremonial dress, long lengths of handmade textiles wrapped and draped around their bodies, usually with baggy shorts on underneath. Several were seated on their special stool, each carved with a different Adinkra symbol. We spent about an hour exchanging greetings in a particular order, well known to the Ghanaian participants but not to I, who spoke very little Twi; I had to just stand up and speak when told to by Yaw, our program assistant. We all filed past the king and elders in order to shake hands with everyone, always from right to left (unless you are greeting a spirit medium who speaks to magic dwarves, and then everything is opposite because they live in another dimension. The magic dwarves, not the spirit medium.).

The chief linguist was the master of ceremonies, and waxed eloquent for long periods about the king, the king's family, the village, the ancestors and the welcoming of guests. He was an odd little man, probably about sixty-five or seventy years old, scrawny and birdlike, with a few tufts of frizzly gray hair and a giant pair of coke-bottle thick plastic glasses perched on his nose. He was wiry and energetic, waving his thin arms and gesticulating as he orated, in stark contrast to the king, a large and phlegmatic man who sat motionless on his throne.

The bottle of Schnapps was opened and a libation was poured on the ground for the benefit of the ancestors, whose benevolent presence and blessings are always respectfully cultivated. Then the Schapps were passed around for everyone to drink, or you could take the glass, pour a little on the ground to the ancestors, and hand it back to the server, if you don't want to drink it. (The server's face always lights up when this happens, he is quite happy to drink your share).

No one actually speaks to the king. It is the job of the chief linguist to be the go-between, the interpreter between his majesty and the rest of us commoners. Whenever I was cued by Yaw to stand and speak, explaining our mission, I would give my best speech about who we were, what we were doing, and how thankful we were that the king and the people of Banko were opening their homes to us. Then I would sit down, and Yaw would translate my speech into Twi for the chief linguist, who would then relate it to the king. I suspect, however, that he was dressing it up quite a bit, with florid gestures and long, descriptive phrases, and it always ended up being a lot longer than my original speech. So you can see that this whole process could take quite a while.

It was interesting to watch the people of the village, creeping closer and closer to watch the proceedings, until we were completely surrounded by a phalanx of men, women and children, with the children squeezing and crawling between legs and chairs, ending up draped over our shoulders and staring in fascination. Although it's a formal ceremony, the whole atmosphere is one of excitement and entertainment, and no one seems to mind the kids crawling around everywhere. Rather than a stiff, uncomfortable conformity to a sacred tradition, the people of Banko seem to use their greeting ceremony as a beloved heirloom, carefully taken from a special closet and unfolded for everyone to touch and see. It never unfolds exactly the same way twice, but the familiarity of the traditional speeches and rituals combined with the novelty of a group of Americans seemed to create an atmosphere of friendly curiosity.

The bags of cement were graciously received, and Yaw told me they were going to use them to build a public toilet for the village. Well, I guess I had to be happy with the idea that our contribution would end up being something that everyone could use!

When it was time for us to finish up the ceremony and repeat our hand-shakes to the entire ensemble again, I found myself standing in front of the king on his throne, shaking hands with him, and he held on to my right hand, not letting it go. I kept smiling, looking into his face, and leaned closer, since he was apparently trying to talk to me. But his voice was a tiny mumble, his face largely impassive, and I could not understand him. It dawned on me then that the king was not well, he had apparently had a stroke of some kind, and the silent, motionless demeanor we had seen throughout the ceremony was really due to disability. He could grasp my hand, and his eyes were alive with cognition, but he could do little else. In fact, the council members had helped him to drink his Schnapps when it was being passed around. I gave up trying to understand the king, and simply smiled and repeated how happy we were to be staying in Banko, and what an honor it was to meet him. At the end of our week in Banko, I was surprised by a request from one of the assemblymen (an elected village council official) to please come back in two months since they wanted to 'enstool' me as a Queen Mother. The traditional stool, hand-carved and decorated with ritual sumbols, was the official royal seat. Becoming a Queen Mother, or an Honorary Chief, is something Ghanaian communities do periodically, to show respect, hospitality and to include people as part of their communities (do we have anything even remotely like this in America??). They hardly knew me, but my position as one of the directors of the American student program was all they needed, and they hoped to make contact with the USA this way. In fact, it was a good move on their part, since most Ghanaian communities receive very little support from the government, and are largely self-sufficient. If they want to develop in the directions of education, health care, economic opportunities, bringing electricity to their villages, etc., they have to do most of it themselves, and having an American as a member of their community had the potential to provide opportunities. Queen Mothers in the community provide help, advice and counseling to families of Banko, looking after orphaned children, intervening in domestic disputes, and organizing the women into economic cooperatives. I was to become a Queen Mother of Development, and my first contribution was apparently a public toilet. (This did give me a moment of trepidation when I thought about the whole 'stool' ceremony I was going to participate in, but it passed quickly).

I returned two months later with my mother, who was visiting from the US. The whole village was mobilized when we arrived, and it took about an hour for us to be properly dressed. I asked if my mom could participate in the ceremony, and they readily agreed, being always open and accommodating, and willing to include, rather than exclude, everyone. My mother and I were taken to a room where a throng of chattering, laughing women, dressed in their nicest clothes and in constant motion, stripped us down and started the whole procedure of dressing us up in formal robes. People ran in and out, shouting and laughing, kids giggled and dogs barked, and the man whose job it was to make the royal sandals kept coming in and out of the room to measure my feet and try out the leather sandals. A slight tangent here on the cultural nature of breasts: Having grown up in a society where they are, well, covertly studied and coveted but never actually displayed in public (case in point, the Janet Jackson boob-fest fiasco), it is a big change to plunge into an environment where they are simply body parts. You show them, you don't show them, whatever. Nobody cares. (I expect there are plenty of fifteen-year-old boys in these villages who care a great deal but they affect a blasé attitude.) So when both my mother and I found ourselves standing nearly naked in a roomful of people with the door opening and closing regularly, a few men coming in and out, it's a little tough not to suddenly gasp and start trying to cover everything with your hands. But I have long felt that, whatever the circumstances, the only thing worse than a semi-naked person in public is a semi-naked person frantically trying to cover up. So I kept my hands on my hips and a (hopefully) serene expression on my face, reminding myself that this is just like making other changes when coming to another country. Like driving on the left side of the road, you just take the plunge and do it. Like driving on the left wearing no shirt, and - never mind. I digress. My poor mother, however, was not into the Zen-like hands-on-hips let it hang out demeanor. I could see her on the other side of the room, surrounded by women (and the occasional man), the doors and windows open, trying desperately to keep covered, and shooting me earnest and beseeching looks - what's going on? What are we supposed to do? I merely smiled serenely and nodded, as if this were all perfectly normal. I expect she wondered, for the thousandth time, what past-life sins she was paying for in having me as a daughter. Part of our problem was that both my mother and I are good head taller (or more) than most everyone in the village.

The two most revered, and oldest, members of the entourage dressing us were my two home stay grandmas, whose names I never managed to learn but whom I called Grandma #1 and Grandma #2. It was hard to decide who was tinier, older or sweeter, with toothless grins and fragile heads covered with peppercorns of gray hair, hovering at about elbow-height for me. Neither one could have been more than about four foot ten or eleven, and they must have been at least eighty years old or maybe closer to ninety. Grandma #1 painstakingly wrapped and rewrapped the royal cloth around my chest, but could hardly reach up to my shoulders, so the wrap would end up sliding down to my waist. After ten minutes of careful pushing and pulling, a younger woman would come along and, declaring loudly that this would not do at all, would rip the entire mass of cloth off my body to start over, as I balanced on one foot with the shoemaker grabbing my other foot. Throughout the whole procedure Grandma #2 would rock her upper body and utter softly and rhythmically, mo - mo - mo - mo - mo, an expression of love and gratitude.

Finally we were paraded through the street to the king's compound, where he waited on his throne, surrounded by his elders, the chief linguist and the royal drummers, as well as the paramount Queen Mother (who is not related or married to the king), and two or three hundred other people from the village. There were tents set up, microphones and plenty of drumming, singing and dancing, and a two-hour ceremony followed in which I was made to sit down, stand up, dance, make speeches, and finally make an oath to the king. The chief linguist was in fine form, shouting and speechifying, leaping and gesticulating, making pronouncements and speaking to the king, the elders, the ancestors, and the whole village. I was given a piece of paper to read aloud into the microphone, in which I pledged my allegiance to the king and the people of Banko, promising to come whenever they needed me, and then I was grabbed by the arms and shoulders by several women, who raised and lowered me three time s above the stool, and then made me sit down. It was done.

Then a hush fell as the king leaned forward and the chief linguist spoke in low tones with him (something I had not thought him capable of). The chief linguist began making another formal pronouncement, and a ripple of chatter flowed through the crowd. Something was happening, but I had no idea what. I turned to Yaw, who smiled and whispered, "He is giving you your name. It is 'Nana Yaa Sagua Mmorosa II.'" Nana means queen or king, Yaa is my day-name (Yaa indicates a girl who was born on Thursday; Yaw is a boy born on Thursday), and Sagua Mmorosa was a previous Queen Mother. Then we were re-dressed with a different colored head-dress and the leather sandals, and I was given several heavy gold necklaces and rings - the gold which gave Ghana its colonial name, the Gold Coast. A royal umbrella bearer now carried a large red and yellow umbrella over myself and my mother, henceforth to be known as the 'Queen Mum' (!!).

We found ourselves swept through the streets of the village with hundreds of people, under the hot tropical sun, accompanied by drumming, dancing, shouting, children running around like whirling dervishes, dogs barking and ducks quacking. We smiled endlessly, shook hands and danced our way to my home stay, the abode of Grandma's #1 and 2, and finally crawled into the waiting van to take us back to Kumasi. Inside the van I collapsed into a stupor, my head spinning. "I need a beer," I said to the Queen Mum. "But you don't drink," she replied. "Oh....yeah." I had enough neurons still firing at that point to make a promise to myself, that I would never be one of those foreigners who are given an honor by African communities, who make a lot of empty promises and are never heard from again. The village of Banko would see their Queen of the facilities, the royal toilet bringer, again.

Pizza and ice cream, as far as I'm concerned, constitute a perfectly balanced diet while traveling in Italy. However, my sister pointed out in a recent email that Italian cuisine has a lot more to offer, and that I should branch out. So I went to a classy-looking outdoor restaurant at the Pizzale Michelangelo in Florence, and perused the menu, posted at the entrance.

I could have 'Florentine Steak,' or 'Guinea Fowl Breast stuffed with Black Cabbage,' or 'Pork Fillet in a Crust of Chicken flavored with Apple Sauce.' Then there was 'Quail Eggs with Krunchy Baken,' 'Salt Cod Pudding on Tomato Cream,' and to top it all off, 'Parmesan Zest with Marinated Savoy Cabbage, Celery, White Beans and Turkey.' It all looked tantalizing and delicious and I was dying to go in and try it all. But the cost was not within a student traveler's budget. In fact, looking at the prices, it occurred to me that one would need a rich boyfriend in order to dine here. And dang it, I seem to have forgotten my rich boyfriend.

But I knew where to find one, in the hilltop fortresses of a tiny independent city-state called San Marino.

Seventeen hundred years ago Marinus, a stonemason from Croatia, came to what is now the Emilia-Romanga region of Italy and founded a free city-state on top of a mountain stronghold. Three fortress towers were built on the top of Mount Titano, where their legendary crossbowmen defended the tiny republic (the oldest republic in the world) from every scheming count, bishop and warlord who wanted to plunder and annex San Marino to their own territories.

Now, apparently, a different kind of invasion has been taking place: gold-digging women travel to San Marino to marry rich old men, and so many of them have been picked off that the state of San Marino has actually passed a law prohibiting foreign domestic servants under the age of fifty! San Marino suffers from a loss of population, from this and also from the 'Sammarinese' as they are called emigrated to - you won't believe this - Detroit, Michigan! (Why Detroit, for heaven's sake?).

But what the heck, I wouldn't have to get a job as a domestic, I could hang out in the diamond district or something and keep my eyes out for a well-heeled older Sammarinese man. I really had a penchant for the 'Guinea Fowl Breast with Black Cabbage,' and what a great plan this would be. (We all have to have goals, you know.)

So that's how I ended up at a camping hostel a few kilometers from the state of San Marino, staying in a house trailer, and then taking the bus up to the city. I got dropped off at the 'Funivia,' which turned out to be a sky-tram, where you are air-lifted up to the old city, perched atop Mount Titano.

What an incredible place! From the city of San Marino you can see 360 degrees around to the entire countryside, dotted with villages and small castles. I walked up to the stronghold towers, threading my way through the tourists, restaurants and souvenir shops, where you could buy everything from a full suit of armor to a giant hand-painted pencil. And pizza and ice cream everywhere.

I made my way up to the first tower and then followed a little side-path off to a delightful little secluded picnic spot, with a stone bench and a beautiful view. I sat down to enjoy the scenery, and found the remains of two styrofoam boxes. On the covers of both boxes it said 'P.298 Air Pistol Gun, with infrared sights and torch, use 6 mm BB bullets.' So, someone was running around with two air guns, possibly for sniping at tourists from the turrets of the forts? The box did have a bold statement across the side, 'Do not shoot at any humans or animals.' Well, then, that was very reassuring. (If you do not receive any more travelogs from me, ever, now you know why. Although I'm sure there are those who will consider this a blessing.)

I continued on to the second and third towers, and by the time I reached the third and smallest tower I was inside the Mount Titano National Park and there were no longer any tourists around. It was spectacularly beautiful, with a mild breeze ruffling the foliage and church bells warbling in the distance. Tiny orange butterflies kissed the thistle blossoms clinging to the rocks at the edge of the ridge, and I could see for miles. But I wasn't going to find any rich old men here, so I made my way back into the city.

I spent the afternoon exploring the museums and shops, and discovered some interesting things: the crossbowmen of San Marino are world-famous, and were often borrowed by other communities in Emilia-Romagna for defense. The first canned meat was made for armies on the move, but the first can-opener was not invented until forty years later (up until then, each can was conveniently labeled: 'Please to make use of hammer and chisel.'). Decorative Chinese hair pins used by nobility had specialized tips used for scooping ear wax (eeewww!) These nobility also wore fancy little trinkets on chains around their neck for getting rid of fleas - tiny little holes in the trinket allowed the fleas to get inside to a blood-soaked piece of cotton. After sucking the blood, the fleas were too fat to get back out again. Now, if people could be clever enough to invent such a thing, why did it take forty years to invent a can-opener?

Inside the cool, serene Basilica of San Marino I found paintings of saints, each with a curious panel of electric candles in front of it. Instead of buying a candle for a prayer to a saint, you put coins in the slot in front of each panel and flip a switch to turn on the candle you want. (I'm not sure this is actually progress, but that's just me).

As I looked at my tourist map of the city of San Marino, an odd icon caught my eye: 'The Atomic Clepsydra.' What the heck? There it was on the map, along with the labels for churches, public restrooms, the state building, the grand hotel. It said 'THE' Atomic Clepsydra, as if it was something one would find on any map, and was common knowledge to all. I suddenly felt silly for not having the slightest idea what it was. Some kind of international symbol - proclaiming a nuclear-free zone? Some kind of monument for a site of ancient pyramid-builders? Now I had to find it, and see what it was.

My search for a rich old man fizzled out as I explored up and down the mountain-top city, in and out of archways, stone staircases and old monasteries. From a good vantage-point near the Funivia I scanned the rooftops but found only chimneys, satellite dishes and church bells. Finally I asked the attendant at the art museum where it was, pointing to 'The Atomic Clepsydra' on the map, and she nodded and stepped outside, pointing to a small, metallic-looking device on top of the abbey. "It's very small," she said apologetically, as if embarrassed. Of course, atomic clepsydras in other cities must be far grander and more splendid. We just have this old thing. My handle on Italian ran out at that point, and I still had no idea what it was. So I did what great thinkers have resorted to from the beginnings of cognitive thought in human beings: searched the internet.

It's an ancient Greek water-clock. There's a container with a small hole in the bottom where water seeps through at a constant pace. The drip-drop of water through the hole later became the 'tick-tock' of modern clocks. Apparently it was not really used to measure hours, but for time allotted for a particular event.

Well, who knew! By time I discovered all this it was time to leave San Marino and head to the coast, and my dream of finding a rich old man had evaporated. Among all the interesting factoids I'd discovered, I found that I really don't have the heart of a gold-digger. Self-centered, scheming, preying on the loneliness of old men? I don't think so. Besides, I'd probably have to give up my Skechers for those pointy-toed shoes Italian women wear, and I just couldn't do it. But I'd made some interesting discoveries; The Atomic Clepsydra, the origin of the 'tick-tock,' and the largest slugs in the world are found in Sierra Leone (up to two pounds each). Yes, I did check out the Museum of Curiosities...and I still had pizza and ice cream for dinner.