I am sitting in my family's small general store that doubles as a tailor being fanned by my mom who is overly worried about the mosquitos around me. She repeats the only English phrase my sisters have taught her to describe me and mosquitos' infatuation with me: "sweet meat." Every so often, a new neighbor will come into the store, sit down for a few minutes and giggle every time I smile. Often, they come with delicious (chengang!) banana snacks or sugar cane pieces to feed to me. Though I am still full from this morning's Cambodian noodle breakfast, I graciously accept the sweet treats.

I know that it's time for my mom and I to take our daily side-by-side hammock naps when she stands up. I follow her to the kitchen/living room area where we meet my dad. He only has to shoot me one look to let me know that before my nap, he wants to list all the presidents names and American cities that he knows. 

As I drift off to sleep in my hammock, I can't help but to think about how easy it has been to communicate with a family that does not speak any of my native tongue simply through action, laughs, and rituals. Though they are certainly more convenient, words are really just bottles for communication; they are nothing more than containers holding the names of the common wants, needs, preferences, and thoughts of people everywhere. 

For the past 10 days I've been in a remote village outside Dali. I was volunteering for an organization called Joy in Action with 25 Chinese university students, repairing roofs, collecting firewood, and cleaning the drainage system. The government set up this village 30 years ago for people affected by leprosy, removing them from their homes and relocating them to Huang Cai Ba. Most of the villagers suffered terrible disabilities; many had several fingers missing, or exaggerated limps, deafness, or an eye missing. Although the government pays them a small sum of money each year, there were only about 4 able-bodied decendents that could handle hard labor. Thus the village had fallen into disrepair, with holes in many of the roofs, causing flooding whenever it rained. And since summer means rainy season, rain comes at least every other day.

So we set out to replace the worn roof tiles. This meant lifting heavy roofing material, measuring, drawing straight lines, and hammering nails along the lines until we could effectly break them in half. No saws, no screw-drivers, no clamps, just hammers and nails. Then we had to scale the roofs and remove the bad tiles and replace them with the new ones.

Everyone was hard-working and driven, so we finished this work in about four days. We moved on to the even more labor-intensive job of collecting branches. Wood is crucial in a village like Huang Cai Ba; fire is required for cooking every meal, boiling water to drink, and keeping warm at night. Wood is also used for fences for their fields of dou zi or white beans, penning in chickens, rabbits, and goats, and creating bridges over the big ditches that act as drains. This work involved hiking up the surrounding mountains, and gathering fallen branches, from the size of twigs, to large tree trunks. Then we hacked at them with axes until they were a managable size for carrying. After we had a few large piles, we would set to the task of carrying them down the mountain, which was harder than it sounds. Every slope was muddy, and we had to navigate through narrow paths with thorn bushes and other spiky plants. Once to the village, we sorted them into piles based on size. This effectively covered me in scrapes and sap everyday.

We had one free day on which we hiked up a nearby mountain to see amazingly beautiful views, take pictures, and walk around the valley. During our other free time we would visit with the villagers, walk around collecting wild fruit like papaya, strawberries, blackberries, and small apples, or help with the cooking and various other chores.

Our living conditions were cramped, dirty, and smoky. Most girls and I slept on the floor of an unused roomed that also acted as our kitchen. A tarp seperated the rows of sleeping bags from the fire pits that acted as stoves. Every morning we were woken up by the smoke from the fire cooking breakfast. We would brush our teeth outside with water carried in buckets from the other side of the village, where the one faucet of clean water was located. There was no showering, thus lots and lots and lots of wet wipes. The toilet situation was okay, it was a muddy trek to a structure with two holes in the ground, which meant a terrible smell with no privacy. Eating was more like feeding; everyone was always really hungry from the work, and we ate from metal trays, sitting on tiny stools, and no one talked.

Every night we had a meeting where we would sit around a fire, and people would express their feelings about the day. We would check in with the various leaders; there were the kitchen police, a care leader, a work leader, recording leaders, an accountant, and so on. Although I had an unofficial translator, a 22-year-old business major named Li Zi Ming/ Daniel, I never fully understood what happened during these meetings, or what the various leaders actually did. His English was the best out of the 26, but it was by no means fluent. Afterwards, we would always play some sort of game. Though the games were always different, they always involved being 'punished'/'giving a performance', which meant singing. Here, singing is just what people do all the time, whether they're good or bad. Thus on multiple occasions I was forced to sing various songs, from The Beatles to the Dixie Chicks.

Before the trip, I expected to be left on my own a lot, since Chinese students are very shy about using English. Though they are required to study it in school, they learn a formal written English, and hardly ever practice speaking. Thus I brought a huge book and my iPod... but I never used them. Everyone was so kind to me, and everyone always tried their hardest to include to me. I kept finding myself thinking, 'how could can I be so close to people I can barely talk to?' A girl named Gou Chiou became my bestbest friend. I followed her everywhere, and eventually I was calling her jie jie or older sister, and she was calling me mei mei or younger sister. Although we spent a lot of time in silence, just the act of being together bonded us together. As I'm writing this, I'm in the Kunming program house, waiting for her text so we can go out to lunch. My other favorites included Long Long or Dragon Dragon, a goofy 20-year-old with a crazy laugh, and Xiao Fei, our 17-year-old leader.

I learned so much in these short ten days, that's it felt like I've been away for eons. I'm glad to be back in Kunming now, not speaking broken English, seeing my homestay family, laughing with the group, but I miss the clean air, the stunning views, the happy villagers, and the friends I made.

Goosebumps covered my body as I awoke engulfed by darkness. My sleeping bag wrapped around me, I could still feel the chilly wind rush in between the crack formed by the rocky earth and our Black Diamond tent. It was 5 AM and the sun hadn't yet risen; time to wake up. Groggily, with sleep still in my eyes, I dared slide out of my cocoon of warmth and into the clothes that had been tucked at my feet. Packing my clothes into compression bags, loose things into colorful stuff sacks, I arranged the interior of my giant backpack carefully, conscious of the size, weight and location of it's contents. Finally, there was just my sleeping bag and Thermarest to roll up and pack. The tent was next.

I will never forget the mornings during our eight-day trek through the Middle and High Atlas. Waking up before dawn each day, we rapidly and efficiently packed up all of our belongings into the backpack the mules would carry to our next campsite; then, we packed up the tent that had sheltered us and acted as our temporary home the previous night. With breakfast at six, we held morning meeting while sipping mint tea, and in my case, ingesting absurd amounts of coffee, and munching on Moroccan bread spread with delicious strawberrry marmalade. By seven, we were on our way: the beginning of our daily five to six hour hike.

Eight days of physical uncomfort, breathtaking scenery, laughter shared, and people discovered, has shown me a side of Morocco that was hidden to me before. Our lifestyle during this time was one of little material importance, relative subsistence on nature around us, and a connection with the people whose villages we passed through on our journey. When nomads came to speak with us one evening, I could not help but notice similarities between the way they lived and the way we had been living.

Each time we set up camp, always beside a source of water, we grouped our tents together and set up a meeting area towards the middle, where our lessons and meals took place. After making use of our space and time, the next day we would pack everything up and leave no trace of our presence behind. The fact that we were essentially in the middle of nowhere forced us to adopt methods of living that had been foreign to us, but most likely ordinary to the nomads we passed. I learned to wash my clothes with Tide in a small, blue banyo next to any available stream of water; our bathroom was the dirt and grass around us, with rocks protecting us from intruding eyes and friendly "kulchi lebas?" But, what most struck me about our trek was the day a little fluffy goat became our dinner.

I saw a black goat tied by his hind leg to a rock, never making the connection that this animal was to accompany our couscous in dinner. Our guides had bought him from a nomadic goat herder, and slaughtered the animal several hours before nightfall. Never having seen an animal alive before eating it, I was stunned by the experience, ambivalent thoughts and emotions running through my head. However, I later realized what this goat signified in the larger experience of our trek: we were living surrounded by nature, camping each day in a different site, making use of it's facilities, and, this goat was simply one of these. This subsistence lifestyle of nomads became ours for a little over a week, and it made me gain respect for those who share it as well; it's really a lot more difficult than it looks.

goings-on from a few days ago in paru paru in the potato park:

i awake with my sleeping back tight around my face, warm beneath my countless layers. the light shines dimly through the cracks in the door, and i hear a harmony of roosters crowing combined with the shrieks of my four year old host brother. pulling our hiking boots, gabriela and i make the walk to the kitchen, in awe of the thick frost that has fallen outside our little room. it sparkles in the fierce mountain sunlight.

we sit on the bench in the kitchen as our mother fuels the fire by blowing into it with a metal tube. we slurp mate as our seven-year-old sister carolina fetchs more water to quench our thirst. our mother does not let us help- she learned not to the first day when we spent four times longer peeling potatoes than she did.

after feasting, we begin the walk to a nearby lake, kinsa ccocha. on the shores, we meet up with the rest of the group with hugs ang laughter. we haven´t been together for over eight hours, and it feels strange. 

we walk, up, up. slowed by sheep in the path, we stop to hear stories surrounding the lake and the apus that are towering above us. we walk, and the rocky path suddenly opens into a field. it is a time for solo thoughts, and i sit by the stream with my fingers in the clear, cool mountain water and i think about home and i think about here. i think about the peruvian sun and the hair in my face and the cadence of quechua.

we walk back, we talk, we laugh, we take pictures. we feast on alpaca meat, papas, and corn pudding.

some time later, we meet for a rousing game of soccer: gringos vs. peruvians. there is a lot of laughter, a lot of laboured breathing in the thin air. my mother appears to dress us in some of her clothing- fiesta time! 

we dance, feeling slightly ridiculous yet ridiculously happy.

as the sun sets over the mountains, i see where i am. i see the patterns of the clothes i am wearing and the faces of my companions. i feel my little brothers hand in mine, warm. i hear the flute and the drum and i tap my feet on the ground.

the music fades.

i walk back to my little room and pull my sleeping bag tight around my face, warm beneath my countless layers.

I honestly would love to explain how I felt as we entered the same room as the Dalai Lama, and how I feel now after such an experience; but I don't think any words I choose could portray or recreate such an emotion. But I'll do my best...

Waiting to enter the room was both thrilling and nerve-wrecking. Feeling faint, nervous, and excited all at the same time.

But the moment we entered the room, every fear and any bit of anxiousness that was felt evaporated into the Kaza air. His Holiness' smiling face and contageous laugh made for a relaxed environment, although his recognizability made me feel star-struck.

He spoke of the Buddhist lifestyle, and preached compassion, forgiveness, and respect. Of course, he said it a bit more eloquently than I just did.

While I cannot repeat what His Holiness said, or recreate the feeling I experienced, I can say that all of us are incredibly greatful to have had such an opportunity.