Suna telefonul.

-  Da?

-  Ce faci fata?

- Bine fata, uite, ma pregatesc sa plec. Uofff…rimelul asta e pe duca…

- Te faci frumoasa?

- Eeee, ce-ai ma? Sunt deja! Doar ma machiez si eu ca e o zi mai speciala.

- Ma scutesti? Tu mereu te machiezi! Dormi machiata!

- Ha ha…Da. Taci tu, ca asa trebuie. Cine stie, poate vine sfarsitul lumii si trebuie sa fug afara noaptea! Cum sa ies nemachiata? Nici nu vreau sa imi imaginez. Bleah!

- Si cu ce te imbraci?

- Stai, ca-mi scapa telu’. Ca doar n-am 10 maini!

Poc!

- Hai fata, ca mi-a si scapat. Saracutul, s-a ciobit…si deh, cine sa-mi ia altul? Poate ca viitorul meu iubit. Hi hi!

Rad amandoua.

- Zi, cu ce te imbraci?

- Pai cu rochia aia a mea de seara aurie. Si cu pantofii aia noi, desi or sa ma rupa tocurile alea…

- Dar unde mergeti draga?

- La un restaurant, banuiesc... Nu asa se procedeaza?

- Fataaa, poate te duce ala in padure sau altundeva si o patesti! Nici nu il cunosti!

- Taci, ma, ca e stilat. Mi-a vorbit frumos pe net. Nici nu am inteles ce vroia sa zica uneori, asa de frumos vorbea… E respectuos tipul.

- Da?

- Eh, e dragutel foc el asa, si bine facut…Ca altfel nu ma intalneam eu cu el, zise tuguindu-si buzele in oglinda ca sa si le rujeze.

- E apetisant fata?

- Ha ha! Da, fata..Are niste ochi…si buze…si muschi…

- E ca Fane? Cheliosul ala cu care ai fost tu?

- Nuuu…Nu e asa halterofil…E mai slabut.

- Aoleu, bine…Ca daca se enerveaza si asta ca ala, ai fi stat iar cu mana in gips si ochelari de soare...

- Lasa, fata, ca tin geanta mai bine pe mana aia in gips. Si tocmai mi-am luat niste ochelari pe care am dat o avere. Macar de i-as purta! Ha ha ha!

Rasera amandoua iar.

- Si unde va vedeti?

- Pe la Herastrau. Iau un taxi.

- Pe la Herastrau?

- Da, sunt 2-3 restaurante misto pe acolo. Abia astept, sunt curioasa la care!

- Suna promitator.

- Fata, eu inchid ca tre’ sa ma imbrac.

- Bine, fata. Sa fie cu noroc! Poate gasesti si tu unul care sa se poarte frumos si sa aiba bani de data asta!

- Sper fata, ca m-am saturat de RATB...

Si inchizand telefonul, continua sa se aranjeze cat poate ea de bine...si de exagerat, pentru ca pana la urma se ducea la un „blind date”, nu la un „blinding date” pentru partener.

Lua un taxi si tot drumul isi facu in cap scenarii despre cum il va lasa ea mut pe baiatul la 4 ace care va plati o masa de lux.

Coborand cu greu din taxi datorita rochiei vaporoase, lungi, ridica privirea si tot entuziasmul i se risipi in vant. Dadu cu ochii de un baiat dragut, imbracat in tricou, bermude si tenesi. Cu o mana in buzunar si cu alta tinand ceva care ea spera sa nu fie pentru ea. Baiatul de pe net trebuia sa fie...pentru ca altcineva nu era pe tot trotuarul ala, si in plus, semana cu cel din poze.

Se indrepta spre el cu pasi apasati.

Cu zambetul pe buze, il intreba:

- Or sa te primeasca asa inauntru?

- Buna, eu sunt Stefan, veni raspunsul.

- Da, eu sunt Olimpia.

- La ce te referi?...intreba el stanjenit.

- La restaurant! Bineinteles...

- Care restaurant?

- Asta de aici, zise ea aratand spre restaurantul de alaturi.

- Nu...Aaa...Scuza-ma, cred ca ai inteles gresit. Rase el amuzat.

- Poftim?

- Pai eu am zis sa ne vedem la Herastrau...

- Da, si?

- Pai...ce restaurant? Ideea mea era sa mergem prin parc sa ne plimbam. Stiu cateva locusoare dragute acum toamna.

- Proasta idee! Zise ea direct.

El ramase inmarmurit, dar totusi gasi glas sa ii spuna, intinzandu-i o floare si o portocala:

- Uite, sunt pentru tine! Ca dar de prima intalnire...

Ea isi incrucisa bratele la piept si il privi furioasa.

- Prima si ultima intalnire, sper ca stii asta! Ce sa fac eu cu portocala ta?!? N-am mancat toata ziua ca sa arat bine in rochia asta si acum nici nu o sa mai mananc! Si ce amarata de floare! De unde ai luat-o? Din vreo gradina?

- Da, de fapt...din gradina mea...zise el trist.

- Mie imi plac trandafirii rosii dragul meu...Si ma asteptam sa apari si tu mai frumos imbracat, avand in vedere ca te intalneai cu o fata. Tu te uiti cum sunt imbracata eu? Ma vezi pe mine plimbandu-ma pe nenorocitele alea de alei? Vezi ca am pantofi noi? Cum sa ii stric acolo? Esti nebun!

- Da, sunt nebun! Nebun ca am venit pana aici ca sa cunosc pe cineva ca tine! Trebuia sa-mi fi dat seama, dar asa sunt eu: cred ca toti oamenii sunt buni din start.

- Ca mine?? Ce vrei sa spui?!?

- Da! Uita-te si tu! Falsa, impopotonata peste masura, egoista, increzuta, prostuta si nesuferita! Ce incerci sa ascunzi sub machiajul si rochia aia stralucitoare si cu atitudinea asta? Tu crezi ca asa te pui in valoare? Asa te ascunzi de fapt! Si hainele astea si masca asta de pe chipul tau, iti intra in suflet si devi o actrita proasta care capata numai roluri marunte in viata ei si in vietile altora! Crezi ca merita sa te chinuiesti pe tocurile alea? Ca esti mai inalta? Mai gratioasa? Visele tale, daca ai avea, te-ar face si mai inalta si mai gratioasa, caci ti-ar da aripi ca unei pasari! Tu crezi ca felul in care sunt imbracat eu spune cum sunt? Intr-adevar, sunt modest, dar nu sunt simplu si nici sarac...si ma refer la sufletul meu. Pe cand tu, desi rochia ta straluceste in mii de scantei, nu ai sclipire nici in privire, nici in suflet.

Crezi ca banii sunt totul? Ca definesc oamenii si vietile lor? Crezi ca aspectul exterior al cuiva te poate face sa te indragostesti cu adevarat si sa te simti fericita? Crezi ca e de ajuns sa ai un corp frumos ca sa ai un un suflet plin? Cum poti trai asa? De fapt, traiesti? Tu, in adancul tau, adormi linistita cand nu te poti odihni in bratele cuiva care sa te iubeasca mai presus de orice? Nu e un gol in tine? In pat? In viata ta?

Floarea mea e adusa din suflet. Am ales-o pe cea mai frumoasa...I-am luat viata ca sa ti-o daruiesc tie si nu vreau sa cred ca a fost in zadar!

Si portocala asta e cel mai pur cadou pe care am stiut sa ti-l aduc. E perfecta. Rotunda. Colorata viu si cald. Aromata. Parfumata. Dulce... Zi-mi un lucru care ar putea fi asa!

Si tu vii aici si ma judeci doar pentru ca nu sunt imbracat cum ai vrea tu si pentru ca nu te duc sa mananci ceva scump intr-un loc cu alti snobi! Dumnezeule...cum poti trai cu tine?!?

Termina el, ramanand la fel de calm cum vorbise tot timpul.

Fata, care il privise muta si aproape fara suflare in tot acest timp, ceda si incepu sa planga si sa suspine. Isi lasa capul in jos si isi ascunse chipul in palme.

El, uimit, se apropie si o imbratisa.

Ea incepu sa planga si mai tare. El o mangaie pe par si ii sopti la ureche:

- De ce plangi?

- Nu...nu vreau sa fiu asa....dar...asa sunt toti in jurul meu...prietenii...rudele...familia...zise ea printre hohote de plans. Stiu ca sunt un monstru...mi-e sila de mine in momentul asta. Dar, asa am fost crescuta...asa m-am dezvoltat....alta viata nu am cunoscut...Si n-am avut ochi sa vad si alti oameni...pe cei diferiti...ca tine. Spuse ea ridicandu-si chipul si privindu-l in ochi.

- Vorbele tale m-au ranit tare. Mi-am dat seama cum sunt vazuta din afara...E groaznic. Doare...

- Hei, linisteste-te...se pare ca ai un sufletel inca viu acolo, ii spuse el zambind, in timp ce ii stergea o lacrima de pe obraz.

Ea se indeparta din imbratisarea lui. Isi ridica pe rand talpile si ramase in picioarele goale pe asfalt. Cu rimelul scurs pe obraji, cu talpile goale, parea neajutorata stand asa acolo...

Apoi ii spuse lui:

- Hai in parc...Da-o incolo de rochie...Vreau sa stam pe marginea lacului. Nu am mai fost aici din copilarie...zambi ea plangand.

El rase:

- Chiar acolo vroiam sa te duc!

Se prinsera de mana si ea lua floarea si portocala de la el. Rupse codita florii si si-o puse apoi la ureche.

El o privi uimit si ea ii zambi emotionata. Lua portocala si mirosind-o cu ochii inchisi, adauga:

- Portocala asta se asorteaza cu rochia mea!

Si rasera amandoi.

Si in seara aceea, asezati pe malul lacului, cei doi au privit rasaritul.

***

- Ai schimbat apa la crizanteme?

- Da, dragul meu...Cum sa uit eu asta? zise batranica cuibarindu-se la pieptul lui.

- Mai stii tu, iubita mea, ca atunci cand ti-am adus-o pe prima nu ti-a placut mai intai?

- Da, ce prostuta eram...Dar stii ca apoi mi-am prins-o in par...

- Nu as putea uita niciodata cum iti statea cu ea...zise el sarutand-o pe frunte.

- Nici eu nu as putea uita vreodata seara aceea...

- Si cand te gandesti ca venisesi hotarata sa ma amutesti cu rochia ta....si te-am lasat eu fara cuvinte cu tricoul si bermudele mele.

Rasera amandoi.

- Eh, dragul meu...Asa a inceput o mare iubire...Ciudat, dar frumos...Si daca ar fi sa ma intorc in timp, nu as schimba nimic.

- Nici eu.

- Mergem pe afara cu bicicleta?

- Da, hai!

***

Ehe...De s-ar fisura toate scuturile atat de usor...

Acho-o muito interessante porque fala de uma causa muito humanitária de que vos tenho falado muitas vezes: a Partilha.

Cada um de nós pode dar alguma coisa. Todos temos alguma coisa para dar e há muita coisa a fazer, seja na nossa terra ou noutras. Também nunca é tarde ou demasiadamente cedo para começar a dar: velhos e novos, ricos e pobres, qualificados e analfabetos, ....

Hoje há novas formas de dar. Há iniciativas e organizações ou instituições.

Podemos dar dinheiro, disponibilizar tempo para trabalho voluntário, dar bens e organizar acções de solidariedade. Porque devemos dar; como escolher uma causa e contribuir com dinheiro, com tempo ou coisas... sendo úteis a instituições de bem-fazer, analisando as necessidades das pessoas, animais e meio ambiente.

Nós já damos dinheiro por exemplo, na Igreja, em ofertórios destinados à CARITAS, às missões, aos seminários...e para ajudar a resolver problemas resultantes de desgraças.

Nem todos temos dinheiro para dar, mas todos dispomos das 24 horas do dia. Uns têm mais tempo livre do que outros; porém quase todos terão alguma oportunidade. Até é verdade que muitas vezes os que dão mais tempo são os que estão mais ocupados.

Muitos cidadãos, famílias e empresas dispõem de coisas que podem doar a quem delas precisam. O desafio é identificar as doações úteis e fazê-las chegar aonde são necessárias. Há tanto material recuperável. Solicitando donativos directos aos fabricantes, recolhendo material e equipamento junto de médicos, enfermeiros e farmácias,... Por exemplo a Fundação João XXIII/Casa do Oeste, através de Grupos de Voluntários, na Solidariedade com a Guiné, tem levado ali grandes apoios a 4 projectos que acompanha: no Ensino, na Educação, na Saúde e na Agricultura.

Têm sido campanhas junto de Comunidades, Catequeses, Escolas, junto de amigos: material escolar, livros, equipamento desportivo, bolas, jogos, bicicletas, máquinas de costura, alfaias agrícolas (recordo a campanha do tractor) e outros objectos como materiais de construção...

Dar conhecimentos: muitos de nós sabemos fazer coisas que outros não sabem. Transferir esse conhecimento e a habilidade para o usar pode ajudar os outros de formas surpreendentes... ou ajudar a conseguir uma qualificação, nem que seja proporcionar uma bicicleta para poder ir estudar.

Outras dádivas que podemos fazer serão a reconciliação, a capacidade de ver os outros como pessoas, respeitando-as, comunicando e trabalhando com elas, partilhando a vida, promovendo a compreensão mútua, a reconciliação e o perdão...

Estamos a iniciar um novo Ano Pastoral: cultivemos o espírito e a generosidade da doação; e para nós cristãos este dever das Obras da Misericórdia começa em casa. É desde logo na família que este espírito da partilha e esta prática se inicia.

Neste ano dedicado a S. Paulo, encontramos nele este espírito de doação. Sigamos o seu exemplo e os seus ensinamentos. Assim cada um de nós pode ajudar a mudar o mundo para melhor.

P. Batalha

"Oriunde ma voi duce si cu oricine ma voi intalni, voi darui ceva. Darul meu poate fi un compliment, o floare sau o rugaciune. Voi incepe chiar astazi prin a darui ceva tuturor celor cu care ma voi intalni, activand astfel procesul de circulare a fericirii, bogatiei si abundentei in viata mea si in vietile celor din jur" (Deepak Chopra, "Cele sapte legi spirituale ale succesului")

De ce spun toate astea? Pentru ca au legatura mai mult sau mai putin cu ce am visat.
Am visat asa... ca mergeam pe un hol imens, care avea pe ambele parti din loc in loc usi deschise. La un moment dat pe un perete de pe partea dreapta, am vazut un copil tare trist care plangea si era desfigurat, nu stiu daca de la plans, din cauza unei dureri, sau fizic... cert e ca arata intr-un mod care iti starnea mila. De jur imprejurul lui au inceput sa creasca niste copaci si iti dadea o senzatie de racoare, de raceala... ca o padure deasa in care nu patrund razele soarelui niciodata. Apoi copacii se lipeau de pereti si deveneau un desen. Ca in spitalale pentru copii, unde peretii mai au desenate flori, copaci, fluturasi, personaje din povesti etc.
Am mers mai departe pe acel hol si la un moment dat am inceput sa ma simt intr-un basm. Ma simteam un fel de Alba-ca-Zapada ceva... pentru ca din fata mea, de pe acel hol lung, care nu avea nici macar in departare un strop de lumina, vedeam umbre care pe masura ce se apropiau, se transformau in vrajitoare urate ce imi ofereau mere otravite. Jumatate in basm, jumatate in viata reala, mi-am amintit de acea carte, de acel pasaj si am simtit nevoia sa pun in aplicare si eu ce scria acolo. In timp ce mergeam, aveam senzatia ca merg a doua oara pe acolo, ca mai mersesem o data, dar... atunci nu procedasem corect. Acum intentionam sa o fac. Cum am mai spus, pe stanga si pe dreapta holului erau din loc in loc usi deschise, nu intrasem niciodata in acele camere, totusi, stiam ce se afla in fiecare, mai ales CINE se afla. Am intrat in prima camera si am dat peste o femeie oarecum batrana care tesea ceva... am salutat-o, i-am zambit... i-am facut un compliment, apoi cand sa plec si sa ii urez o zi buna, in spatele meu a aparut acea vrajitoare urata de care spuneam... m-a intrebat daca imi poate oferi ceva, i-am spus nu si am continuat discutia cu femeie aceea. La scurt timp, vrajitoarea disparuse... Am iesit din camera aia si am intrat intr-o alta, unde o femeie framanta o coca, asa ca pentru cozonaci, am salutat-o si pe ea si am mers mai departe. Ziceai ca sunt in "Fata babei si fata mosneagului", daca stiti povestea... Eram supusa la o groaza de probe.
Pe hol am vazut o femeie cu un copilas mic in brate care era cam bolnavior, caci avea o fetisoara care reflecta suferinta. L-am luat de manuta si am inceput sa ma joc cu el, sa ii vorbesc in timp ce mama lui imi explica ce a patit cel mic. Cand am pus mana pe el, au inceput sa apara din senin oameni in jurul nostru, multi tineri care o cunoasteau pe mama copilului si ii puneam o multme de intrebari. Mi-am dat seama ca probabil e o persoana cunoscuta, celebra... m-am retras, facandu-i cu mana bebelui.
Am ajuns la capatul holului si eram tare multumita ca le daruisem tuturor in acea zi putin din timpul meu, din atentia mea... pana cand mi-am amintit de copilul pe care il vazusem langa peretii pe care erau pictati copaci. Am strabatut tot drumul inapoi, am ajuns la cel mic si l-am luat in brate... Apoi, imi amintesc ca l-am vazut pe tatal tau razand si l-am pupat (probabil atat de stresata am fost ca ii sunt datoare cu asa ceva, incat asta mi-a influentat visele - explic imediat ce am vrut sa spun*).
Aa, inainte de asta... am intrat intr-o camera unde erau ai mei si tatal tau, de aici imi amintesc detalii vagi despre vis, asa... si am intrat putin in camera (copilul nu stiu unde disparuse) si am strigat: "Tata"
De-abia atunci a venit tatal tau razand si atunci l-am pupat :D
iti dai seama ce tare, "apád" sa raspunda la "apa" ca si cand ar fi "apám" :))
Oricum, jur ca a fost cel mai ciudat si lung vis pe care l-am avut in viata mea... Inca imi bat capul cu interpretari ale visului, dar nu stiu de unde sa incep, e prea complicat...

*ce voiam sa zic mai sus, cand am fost la tine, tatal tau mi-a dat monitorul tau, mi l-a si carat pana jos, la masina lu' tata. Pe mess acasa, i-am multumit ca mi l-a dat, mi-a zis sa nu ii multumesc etc, si i-am zis ca macar pentru ca mi l-a carat sa ii multumesc. Si tatal tau a zis ca pentru asta accepta "multumesc"-ul si ca puteam chiar sa il pup. :D (pe mama ta am pupat-o, desi era racita si pe tatal tau nu am apucat, ma urcasem in masina, mi-a pus monitorul in brate si am plecat. I-am promis ca il pup de 3 ori cu prima ocazie, ca sa ma ierte, a aceptat :D)
La asta ma refeream cand am zis ce am zis mai sus.

Aaa... pe tine nu te-am visat, b(loggere)... eram prea deprimata gandindu-ma la regretele tale.

Then she whirled around and handed me this note (I can’t represent the relative sizes of the letters very easily here, but I think it’s always interesting to look at which letters she ends up putting in lowercase):

Dear PAPA I
hAve something
to TELL You.
That you will
Be very
Excited aBout.
it hapened at
SchooL.  When
I Was
Sitting At
MY Desk Love DAR

I hardly had time to ask what it could be before she had one finger on her lower left incisor, and she was WIGGLING IT!  And by ‘wiggle’, I don’t mean an imperceptible movement that we all have to pretend is much more noticeable and impressive than we really believe it to be.  I mean that the thing looks like she could pull it out tonight if she put her mind to it.

Let me tell you, it couldn’t happen to a nicer 6-year-old.  I’m not sure she even knows about the tooth fairy, much less expects any cash payment.  (She’s only getting a quarter, though, tops.  The way things are going lately, any tooth-related budget I may scrounge together needs to be socked away for orthodonture.  Rique’s teeth are already a mess, and he sucks his thumb to boot.  The girls didn’t use binks or thumbs, but their genetic predisposition definitely points toward at least one round of braces apiece.)

Anyway, I didn’t have time before dinner to get the full story of what exactly “hapened” when she was sitting at her desk, but I imagine it made her feel roughly the same way I would feel if you told me I had just won 5 round-trip tickets to Johannesburg.

Roughly.

I know this because he's taken me along on bank runs several times now, sometimes because he wants the status-boost of being seen driving off with the "mtoto mzuri"—as his assistant, who is possibly even sketchier than Respy and whom I avoid with religious strenuousness, likes to call me—and sometimes because I've got an errand, and I'd rather sit in his front seat than stand crammed in a daladala if I'm going to spend an hour and half getting downtown.

Tuesday I went along because I wanted to renew my visa at Immigration, a dilapidated, Eastern European housing-bloc mess of a place half-way between the bank and the Moevenpick (of incredible swimming pool fame). My unsuccessful hour in the cesspool that is Immigration aside ["You may not renew your visa until the day it expires! Next!" (uttered in a cadence suspiciously like 'No soup for you!') "Wait! I'm not going to be here in Dar on the day it expires!" "Then you will pay a fine! Next!" "Wait—but I am here now to avoid paying any fines!" "Return in fifteen days. Next!" "But—" "Next!"), it was an interesting trip. Respicious has never been particularly talkative, but I managed to extract some pretty interesting information from him on this jaunt:

1) The reason all of his windows, mirrors, and other potentially-removable car parts are labeled "RESPY" is not (merely) out of vanity. Rather, it is only a question of time before these items are stolen, at which point he will have to go to Pugu Street (lined with used auto-part dealerships) to "replace" them. It is much easier if the replacements are actually the originals—which the thieves will have surely sold to a dealer somewhere along Pugu—and having his crest printed on them streamlines this process.

2) The reason all of the cell phone companies are changing their names this fall (for instance, Celtel has been reinvented as "Zain", which may rhyme with "brain" or with "whine" depending on whom you ask) is because they are just about to run out of tax breaks. Apparently a big corporation in Tanzania is allowed to operate tax-free for its first five years—an excellent situation. How do make this last into perpetuity? Simple: re-brand yourself every four-and-a-half years. It's as good as pressing the re-set button.

3) No one knows where the president of Tanzania lives after he is elected. Indeed, the concept of the White House struck Respy as about the most idiotic, absurd, and unsafe way for a president to live ("Is it on a map? Can you visit it? What about terrorists? You are serious?"). I referred him to Dick Cheney.

Indeed, as much as Respicious laughs at the United States, I spend a lot of time chuckling to myself as we drive along: I am constantly amazed and amused by the way Tanzania functions. It's so crazy—yet, in its own way, it makes a lot of sense. Indeed, as I confided to Respy on the way home, I'd take a great deal more interest in the political process, too, if I knew the government bought all the Parliamentarians a new SUV.

Este felino encontra-se para adopção e tem cerca de 2 meses. Contacto: 96 9110771. Para ver cães que se encontram igualmente para adopção, clique aqui. Ver mais.

Honestly, nothing is going wrong. In fact, everything seems as if it is going unnaturally well. I am content with all of things I have, and all of things I don't have. I should be happy. Shouldn't I? 

I'm not happy. Life has this way of hitting highs and lows and then falling into dull and monotonous. I keep living my life waiting for the next high and the next low, but mostly just waiting for it to average right back out to monotonous, and when I'm in this place of dullness I just wish I could know when I'll be extremely happy  or when I'll be in a bad situation again. 

When I was younger my mom wanted me to take a dance class with her, and I did not want to take the class with her. I was embarrassed to be dancing with my mom (not because she is a bad dancer, but the cheesinesss of dancing with your mom). So, my mom took the class without me, and because I wasn't dancing I had to watch the dance class from behind the glass. Everyone started thrusting there hips, smiling, laughing, and having the best dance class of their lives. Their I was behind the glass , knowing I'd missed and opportunity to participate in the happiness, and longing to be in the dance class. Longing to participate to have a closer position with the happiness in the class.

I feel like I'm staring at most the people I know through that same glass. Like I am longing to know them better, and they are pushing farther and farther away. Its as if the glass is holding me back, and I wish I could push through, but I can't. 

Like monotony the distance always come. I'm afraid. Terrified. Terrified that I'll always live life with this distance from people. Right when I feel like I'm starting to get to know someone the glass wall will rise, and they'll pull back or I'll pull back. I'd hate to live my life never really feeling close to someone, or always waiting for the inevitable distance.

In the mornings I present myself at the clinic prayer-service, which primarily involves acapella renditions of Kiswahili hymns from memory. (I am, clearly, merely a spectator at this event.) I then try to find Dr. Chilo, pester him until I extract promises with a meaningless deadline of "today", and then, having absolved myself of my official duties, I distract the two secretaries from their full-time jobs of listening to Celine Dion and Fifty Cent, evade the sketchy accountant who keeps inviting me to visit his home (like hell), find out what Ananiya is doing, and/or otherwise wander off somewhere to look at something. Lately I've taken up bread baking. Often I nap. It's a riveting life.

Occasionally, however, something happens. Sometimes this means that I have spent enough hours looking desolate, lonely and/or bored outside of Dr. Chilo's office, and a focus group gets scheduled. More often this means that someone has discovered a project where the handy, resident Mzungu can actually make herself useful.

On Tuesday such a project materialized: a church group from the US had shipped over two trunks of food when they visited in July. The food didn't arrive in time for them to use it, so Chilo decided to donate everything to a local orphanage—but first the staff needed to know what the food was and how to cook it. Which is where I came in.

Try explaining what chicken broth is to a group of Tanzanian health workers—"You cook a chicken, remove it, and keep the salty water." From a Tanzanian perspective, this makes extraordinarily little sense ("Why you remove the chicken, Maria? Why?"). Equally mystifying was the idea of bacon [I realized that I have no clear idea of exactly how bacon is made, so there are now 10 village health workers who (falsely?) believe pork is made into bacon by being hung from the ceilings of smoky huts]. And everyone decided, instead of donating the ten tins of cream of mushroom soup ("Mawsh-vroom? Mawsh-vroom? What is, Maria?") that they would each take one can of this fascinating product home instead and try it for themselves. Unfortunately I was person number 11, so I had to watch sadly as my favorite condensed soup disappeared into handbags and hip pockets.

In a similar vein, I was dragged off yesterday to help fix Dr. Chilowaka's ancient Nissan safari car. Now the extent of my car-fixing abilities is as follows: (1) I can successfully change the clock for daylight savings time. (2) I know how to check the oil. (3) I supposedly know how to load more window-washer fluid, although I have never done so.

However, I was not invited for my automobile expertise: Dr. Chilo has decided that I am "lucky" (one white woman is approximately equal to one rabbit's foot), and so I stood in the midst of a ghastly smelling puddle and provided moral support while Ananiya jumped Dr. Chilo's car with the battery from the clinic jeep—which he was holding in his arms and connecting to the terminals of Dr. Chilo's battery via two wrenches (Me: "So where are the cables?" Ananiya: "Tanzanian cables!"). By the time the engine successfully turned over, Ananiya's arms were covered with tiny little burns from the electrical sparks that crackled back and forth below the hood. I applauded loudly and unhelpfully.

Ananiya and I have a joke about the people at the clinic, in the city, or on the streets who seem just to sit around all the time. As we drive by such a crew, one of us begins: "Many people…" and the other finishes: "… Nothing to do!" This, we have agreed, is the essence of Tanzania.

This also may explain why I fear I am rapidly becoming a full-fledged Tanzanian.

We made it to the airport in less than ten minutes, but Dr. Chilo had difficulty getting through security: he had every metallic contraption under the sun in his pockets, and his belt buckle must have been reconstituted from a cannon ball. Once he was finally through, we started running for the departure gate. It was not an easy run, however: Dr. Chilo was toting a giant box full of 1,000 of my questionnaires, and—despite his pants being weighed down by all of his key chains and paper weights and metal ring fobs and lighters and who knows what all—he hadn't managed to put his belt back on. In short, the distance developed into an agonizing battle between dropping the box and dropping Dr. Chilo's pants. I was not sure how to assist without violating a slew of social norms, so I pretended not to notice anything amiss.

Fortunately we made the flight with both Dr. Chilo's modesty and my questionnaires intact. This, however, was only the beginning of the Mafia Experience.

The experience also included being met at the airport [a tin shack without walls, whose roof was labeled in red: "Mafia Airport" and which had a pole in the middle with an arrow pointing to the field at the right ("Arrivals") and another pointing to the field at the left ("Departure Lounge")] by Jorji, a Burguruni health worker who had come ahead of time in a boat with a load of mosquito nets. Relevant fact: Jorji did not know how to drive a car when he left Dar last week. Related fact: Jorji proudly drove us into the village of Kilondoni in a 4WD, all-terrain vehicle, freely making use of both sides of the dirt road (and associated drainage ditches), several inappropriate gears in the engine, the far upper range of the speedometer, and two cans of Guinness. I spent the trip clutching the door handle (my stomach still recovering from the landing of the mono-prop on the unpaved airstrip), while Dr. Chilo laughed till he cried.

Fortunately the experience lost some of its slapstick air over the next two days.

Indeed, while we were there we played the game of anthropologically-sensitive public health at its best: we visited all of the appropriate officials, shook hands, signed guest books, looked dutifully impressed by the ubiquitous framed photographic likenesses of President Kikwete adorning the walls, noticed that all of the chairs in the mayor's office were numbered and wondered what had happened to #035, and figured out how to gather my data when none of the necessary preparations had been made.

In the end, I think we'll get most of the data I needed--I became convinced of this Thursday morning when I found myself in front of a classroom of 20 community health workers in the tiny village of Mkambari, lecturing on how to gather data responsibly ("There are no right or wrong answers; you must honestly record what your interviewee tells you!"). The floor was dirt, the windows didn't have mesh to keep out the bugs, and the chickens kept following in after the latecomers—men in Islamic hats and robes who would hop off their bicycles and rush to their seats, mopping their faces with handkerchiefs. In the midst of this pandemonium, Chilo stood next to me, unflappably leading the meeting and stopping to translate my interjections into Kiswahili. I went home that night drained, but also really excited. This is what I came to Africa to do--and, although none of this trip went the way I had imagined ahead of time, something important was always happening! The Mafia Experience: pretty awesome.

Eigentlich wollte ich heute relaxen, die Wohnung aufräumen und auch gleich putzen - besonders das Badezimmer. So eine Aktion war wirklich mal wieder bitter nötig - vor allem in Anbetracht des (Damen-) Besuches**, den ich für das kommende Wochenende erwarte.

Wie ich also im Heimwerker/Putzfrauen-Outift zugange bin lädt mich mein Nachbar spontan auf nen Kaffee ein. Bin ich natürlich sofort für zu haben und deshalb direkt mitgekommen (alles, aber wirklich alles, liegen und stehen gelassen - gerade mal Hände waschen war drin). Ist ja nicht so dass ich mich aufbretzeln müsste um auf Hausschuhen (!) in die Nachbarwohnung zu gehen.

Es gab dann so richtig spiessermässiges Kaffekränzchen. Wie sich das gehört mit Kaffee, Kuchen und massenweise Tratsch Informationen aus der Nachbarschaft. Schön.
Dass ich beim Rechner des Nachbar-Sohnes ein kleines Problemchen durch fachmännisches Rumgeklicke beheben durfte war dann eigentlich nur sekundär (obwohl vermutlich der eigentliche Auslöser für meine Einladung). Mit Sohnemann hab ich  dann noch ein bisschen Fussball gekickt und auch prompt gewonnen - er ist nämlich aus dem Alter raus, in dem man Kinder gewinnen lässt (wobei mir gerade einfällt, dass vielleicht er mich alten Sack hat gewinnen lassen... egal). Ich als "Sportskanone" war davon natürlich total geschafft und habe geschwitzt wie Sau - fast schon eklig. Aber mittlerweile war es schon Zeit fürs Abendessen und da wurde ich doch auch gleich eingeladen.

Tja: ein - Zitat - "besonders nettes Mädchen" in genau meinem Alter sollte spontan auch vorbeikommen.
Spontan? Ja ne, is klar... Und ich lauf hier rum wie der Assi vom Dienst: unrasiert, verschwitzt und im zu den Hausschuhen passenden Outfit. Soll ich die jetzt komplett verschrecken oder wie? Oder deshalb die Spontaneität besser rüberkommen? Und wieso kriegt sie eine ausreichende Vorbereitungszeit und ich nicht?
Egal. Ich wollte das erst mal ganz cool nehmen und hab mir nichts anmerken lassen.

Miss hat dann immerhin noch etwas auf sich warten lassen. Aber dann kam sie (Dar) natürlich doch. Mein erster Eindruck: blond, hübsch und sehr gepflegt. Dafür gibts schonmal Pluspunkte. Der Verkuppler vom Dienst Gastgeber hatte die Sitzordnung natürlich genau festgelegt und ich durfte sie die ganze Zeit frontal betrachten. Erzählt hat sie dann natürlich auch von sich - und ich von mir (wie sich das eben so ergibt). Wobei ich mich besonders angestrengt habe auch mal nur zuzuhören und nicht die ganze Zeit nur zu Quasseln. Ist mir ausnahmsweise sogar irgendwie gelungen (bis auf ein paar - meiner Meinung nach - witzige Kommentar ab und an). Miss hat mich dann mehr und mehr beeindruckt: sie ist nämlich Anwältin und hat wohl sehr sehr klare Vorstellungen vom Leben, das sich übrigens irgendwie perfekt angehört hat. Angesichts solch geballter Bildung, Intelligenz und Eloquenz (nochmal Extrapunkte!) war ich erstmal baff. Das war schon überhaupt kein leichter Smalltalk mehr - sonder wirklich vollkommen ernste erwachsene Themen. Gefühlt habe ich mich deshalb leider zusehends kindlich und ... blöd. Passiert mir sonst nie (ich bin normalerweise der Spiesser, Besserwisser, ...). Nicht schlecht Frau Anwältin. Da hats dem Chauvinisten in mir erstmal komplett die Sprache verschlagen...

Tja. Angeregt durch ein Fläschchen Wein wurde dann noch ziemlich gequatscht. Immerhin konnte ich zu Ende hin auch einzelne intelligente Sachen hervorbringen - ich sollte also noch nicht ganz unten durch sein. Das Ende war dann wieder mal relativ überstürzt: spontanes Aufbrechen und schnelle Verabschiedung. Keine Kontaktdaten ausgetauscht (wobei wir immerhin wissen wo der jeweils andere wohnt).

Ich bin jetzt nicht irgendwie besonders interessiert oder so (ich befürchte ja sowieso dass ich der Frau in keinster Weise gewachsen wäre). Aber trotzdem möchte ich schon in etwa wissen wo ich bei ihr so stehe.
Ansonsten muss ich erstmal eine Nacht drüber schlafen und mir so meine Gedanken machen. Erstmal geh ich davon aus, dass mein Imponiergehabe im Gespräch bzw. die Tatsache, dass ich hier darüber schreibe, nichts weiter zu bedeuten haben. Genau so wird es dann wohl auch sein.

Aber: mal sehen was Herr Nachbar noch so geplant hat...

---
* wohl eine Nebenwirkung der Kopfschmerzmittel von gestern
** Eem kommt!

VISITANOS!

Din ce credeti ca sunt facute sculpturile de mai sus?

Din GHEATA!

Pentru a putea fi realizate a fost investit timp,talent,energie,au fost investiti bani.

Daca soarele va trimite sageti de caldura peste aceste minunatii se vor transforma in:

Cam asa este si cu viata omului,muncim,ne trudim,ca sa avem de toate si dupa ce reusim sa atingem ce ne-am propus,observam ca,,bucata de gheata'' incepe sa se topeasca.

Viata este prea scurta spre a fi risipita fara rost.In loc sa ne cladim o viata din gheata,ar trebui sa avem grija cum ne petrecem timpul,cum ne hranim,cum ne protejam corpul s.a.m.d

Stimate cititor,

Nu uita:

,,Tu esti un DAR

pentru acesta LUME

,o lucrare DE ARTA DIVINA,

semnata de DUMNEZEU''.

,,Te laud ca sunt o faptura minunata.Minunate sunt lucrarile Tale,si ce bine vede sufletul meu lucrul acesta!''

Bucuria ta este de gheata?

Cum putem sa ne schimbam gheata in alt material?

Din ce marerial ai vrea sa fie bucuria ta?

]]> http://verymary.wordpress.com/?p=57 Tue, 23 Sep 2008 15:53:30 +0000 verymary http://verymary.pt.wordpress.com/2008/09/23/gone-postal/ Ananiya and I spent two hours inside the postal customs office last Friday, picking up a package sent by my brother and his fiancée. This was quite an intimidating process—not only because the long, dark room is a menace of looming, floor-to-ceiling metal cages, distended by a jumble of boxes, but also because I was constantly being pushed about by a series of young men trying to interest the customs officers in their buckets of smoked fish, visible only as a bristle of glazed eyes peering out from an oily newspaper lining.

And, as if this rotating audience of aggressively-hawked fish were not enough, the process was conducted by a very fat and unkind woman officer, who first demanded that I pay an imaginary handling fee—and then unabashedly attempted to give me grossly incorrect change—before looking for my package in the cages. When she finally returned with the box (I had begun to wonder), she set it on the counter while she fished around in her pants a moment—what turned out to be the prelude to the smooth unsheathing of a large machete, with which she eagerly prepared to open my package.

I paused. The large knife, quite clearly, propelled this adventure into a whole new realm of intimidating. But—knife or no knife—there was no way I was going to allow some fat, greedy, fish-eye-eating female to machete my new "socks, dried fruits/nuts, and nutrition bars" (I had sneaked a peek at the US Customs declaration taped to the outside) before their time. So I leaned across the counter, grabbing the convenient tab labeled "Pull here to open," and tugging sharply, unleashed a jar of organic peanut butter that rolled, with a solid womp, onto the countertop. The knife hovered, thwarted, in mid-air.

I watched in relief as the officer re-stowed her weapon. I did, however, clearly sense my plummeting popularity—my mail had, so far, failed to provide either supplemental income or afternoon sport——and I began to fear the official VAT duties I would be charged during inspection.

Fortunately I was saved by the Strawberry-Pomegranate Odwalla bars. The officer—raising one between pinched thumb and index fingers—sniffed at it, her nose wrinkling with revulsion. Casting the bar back onto the counter, she looked at the estimated value Sally had recorded for US Customs, and, sniffing ruminatively (is the money instinct olfactory?), divided by four on her ancient calculator and stamped my box six times.

I was relieved. I had begun to picture the officer doing multiplication, factorial-ization, or exponentiation to Sally's estimate, and so division—no matter the number of stamps required to make it official—stuck me as a highly lucky event.

Not so with Ananiya.

I have never seen him so upset. He argued with the customs officer, ungracefully stood by as I paid the cashier, and, ushering me back out to the car, insisted to me in an undertone that he hated Tanzanian corruption. Then, safely in the Jeep and hunched over the steering wheel, he turned to me broken-heartedly, "Do not be mad because I do not help you, Zucchini. I want to help you, but I am poor. Do not be mad."

"Shit" was my most eloquent thought at that moment. I hadn't seen that coming at all. And despite my reassurances, I don't think he really calmed down until I gave him one of the Spider Man stickers Sally had enclosed (works on all ages of male). We stuck it on the windshield and talked about the US Postal service the rest of the way home ("You just open the door, and there is your mail... every morning."). Crisis averted.

I have, however, another package from my mother that I have to pick up tomorrow. I know what she sent me (new running shoes), and I am wondering what the customs officer will charge me in VAT—and how I will manage things with Ananiya then.

Basically, my job is to write an official evaluation of how Dr. Ziegler's NetsForLife franchise (for want of a better term) is functioning. Perhaps I should back up even from there—NetsForLife is an ERD effort to distribute long-lasting, insecticide-treated mosquito nets throughout sub-Saharan Africa, and Dr. Ziegler has been tapped to distribute nets in Buguruni (the community in which I live) and in some of the most impoverished areas in the coastal region of Tanzania.

[Chemistry digression: the long-lasting nets NFL distributes are pretty ghastly-looking things but are made of a fascinating material—the plastic polymer is the insecticide, so unlike nylon nets, they don't have to be reimpregnated with chemicals every 6 months (an additional expense and hassle) and instead can repel mosquitoes for a minimum of 5 years. The material feels similar to the plastic rings that link six-packs of Coke together and that you're supposed to cut apart to protect the seals.]

In return for NFL's funding--basically a lot of these ugly nets and a big truck with their name on it--we are expected to generate several official evaluations of our campaign's effectivity. Usually an "official evaluation" means that whoever is running the local NetsForLife franchise goes out, finds a friendly-looking African person who speaks impeccable English with a full grasp of health-care vocabulary, and asks them what they think of mosquitoes. The evaluator then puts together a spiffy-looking bar graph showing that a bunch more people have a new, plastic net, a bunch more people use that net, and a bunch more people know that malaria is a Bad Thing. Everyone feels great.

We're not doing that.

We are trying, instead, to take a real, in-depth look at how our distribution of nets has worked and (more importantly) how effective our health-education programs on malaria have been (it doesn't matter if everyone has a net if they don't think it's important to use them). And, as the person charged with doing this evaluation, I find myself reading lots of manuals on social marketing and statistical sampling methods (Jo Hardin: THANK YOU!) and trying to figure out the best way to measure local health knowledge.

So here's the first part of my plan: I've composed a form that the clinic's doctors are using for the next two weeks to record the age, sex, and days of symptoms before treatment was sought for all our malaria patients. This should be a pretty good measure of the diffusion of our scare-mongering (a.k.a. health education) in Buguruni: as we have been repeating in flyers, home visits, and at the clinic for the past year-and-one-half, malaria is much more treatable if caught within 48 hours, especially for the most-vulnerable (young children and pregnant women).

I've also written a questionnaire that we're going to be administering to a random sample of Bugurunians. The questionnaires are the result of my time with those manuals (My favorite question, composed with much blood and tears: "Why do you think malaria might be important if everyone gets it at some point?") and is what I referred to in the past post—we were doing a pre-test last week to make sure I was asking the right questions to get the information I wanted.

There's a lot going on in this questionnaire that's really eye-opening: I've had to get someone to translate it into KiSwahili for me and then get someone else to translate it back into English as a double-check (are those still the same questions?); I am relying on our staff of village health workers to "administer" the questionnaires by reading them aloud to our sampled individuals and recording their answers--rather than allowing individuals to fill the questionnaire out independently--because so many here are illiterate; and in order to generate that random sample I've been sitting down with the giant, official ledgers listing all the Buguruni residents, and writing down every fifth name recorded--and while I never thought I would hanker after another Excel spreadsheet in my life, here I am, longing for the "sort data" button.

And I've got to get all this information from the rural communities, too, before I even start writing! But this is too much "blah blah blah", I fear--if you want to know more, drop me a line.

I'm sure that even if you haven't done it to yourself, you can at least see how it might happen. Can't you? Please say you can.

If you can't, then you will have no way of imagining how I might actually be able to punch myself in the face while taking off a shirt. I mean, I still have no idea how it happened. Therefore, as you can see, I am unequipped to describe to you what went on when I tried to take it off.

Let's just realize that I am speshul, and leave it at that.

The Frequent Cat Napper--

The frequent cat nap study session is structured like this. Study for 30 minutes. Sleep for 15 minutes. Study for an hour.Sleep for 15 minutes....This is repeated until time for the test. 

In theory, the frequent cat nap technique should work because, you get the two things you want before an important test. Sleep and study. But for me, the cat nap has NEVER EVER succesfully worked. The reason it doesn't work is because, I get so stressed out before a test, I can NOT fall asleep for 15 minutes. When the alarm clock rings for me to wake up, sometimes I can't wake up, and just stay asleep. Really all that results is me getting a goodnights sleep, and wishing I had stayed up all night when I am staring at the test without any of the knowledge I need.

The All Night Spazz

"Hello local coffee shop. I don't believe in decaf."

The all-night-spazz is staying awake (no cat naps) with coffee. Just you and the text book and tons of caffeine. I think this works for people who do not completely SPAZZ out at the smallest amounts of caffeine. The last time I tried the all-night-spazz technique I nearly had a nervous-break-down, couldn't breathe, and almost ended up in the emergency room. Of course no studying was done. This is the post I wrote the day after my spazzing

So both study techniques have their pros and mostly there cons. Honestly, trying to cram last minute study information is a con within itself. You can not learn 6 weeks of material into one all-night session, no matter how many stupid movies you've seen where this is succesful. My study techniques for all night cram sessions.
In order to maximize your study time:
Take a Nap Before the Study Session--By By Sleeping Schedule
If you know you've got a long study session coming take an early nap. (Like around 2:00 or 3:00 PM). The nap needs to last for 1 1/2 to 3 hours. The purpose of the early nap is to throw your sleeping schedule off. Once your schedule is thrown it will make the onset of sleepiness happen later into the nighttime. Thereby making you study more effectively in the night (for a longer period of time). 

Do Your Study Preparation Beforehand

Ok...So, if you're not a procrastinator make your index cards before 1 AM...But chances are if you're studying late at night then you haven't bothered to make those yet. At 1 AM the time for making study tools is a bit late. Unless you are a visual learner, and retain mass amounts of information by re-writing information g on to an index cards, Abandon hope of index cards. Just try to really understand the information

Know Where the Test Material Is Coming From

Does your professor test mainly out of the books???

Usually, you can tell by whether or not your professor references the book ALOT during class. If the professor wrote the book, then most of your test is coming from the book. If he/she talks about the book ALOT during the class then a good deal of your test material is probably coming from that. If your professor often criticizes the book, and doesn't assign you much to read from the book then most of your test is coming from lecture.

In book studying-->Effectively

--Make sure you understand the terms

--Do the practice problems (Especially in math or Science)

--Answer the in-book questions

--Read the first and last paragraphs (at least) of every chapter.

--Some textbooks are a bit slanted in their ideas. I had one sociology book that only used Marxist rationalization for its articles. If you're book is slanted towards a particular theory (most of the time you questions will also maintain that slant) And it helps in the fine art of bsing essay questions.

--If you have a study guide. DO THE STUDY GUIDE...

--Make sure you don't know the definitions, but can apply it. 

Thats the difference between college and highschool tests. College tests expect you to be able to apply the information not JUST regurgitate. You don't need to know definitions word for word, as long as you understand its concept. 

Lecture based Tests:

--What are the main ideas in each lecture? 

--Main definitions...Certain words you recall hearing over and over again.

--What things are repeated in the lecture?

--What did your professor say was important?

--Remember how the examples were used, and in reference to what. 

--Borrow notes for lectures you missed (I read a quote somewhere that said "90% of the tests are based on the one chapter you didn't read, and the one lecture you didn't attend) FILL IN YOUR MISSING NOTES.

Study for Your Test in an EFFECTIVE study group, but don't forget to study by yourself.

I'm all for a little bit of studying in an EFFECTIVE study group. The main thing to know about study groups is that they can be AWESOME for learning the material, but they aren't always effective. If you're in a study group and you feel like you're not learning/retaining information, your comrades aren't taking your test as seriously as you are, you need to read to catch up, or your group is distracting you then you need to go study alone. Fine somewhere where people can't find you. You need to make sure your study group is effective, because if it isn't you're wasting a lot of time when you could be learning about osmosis. Also, you can study in a study-group but make sure you get some ALONE study time. Alone study time is important, because you learn the most information alone without any distractions.

DO NOT STUDY IN Your Room, NEAR A COMPUTER, OR NEAR A PHONE

If you're reading this right now while you're supposed to be pulling an all-nighter this shows how the computer is DISTRACTING you. Computers are a great source of knowledge, but the World Wide Web is just a the World Wide Distraction while trying to study. You don't need distractions. Learn what you can without the computer. when you need computer information (print it down before or after hand when you're ready to leave the library. 

Your room is filled with things you love. Do you think that all the things you love won't be distracting when trying to study? Go far enough from your room that it takes effort to come back. Because you won't get distracted with your room if you have to travel to get to it. The best place to study is a quiet corner of the library. A secret study spot where none of your friends know you are, so they can't come distracting you. Once you find your secret corner you've got a great study space.

Try to get your professor to tell you what types of questions are on the test

If you can get your professor to tell you this answer you've hit gold. You know if you need to study on a broader bit of information,

Multiple Choice aka Multiple Guess

You just need to know how to apply the concept. Which answer is righter than others. Its an elimination process. If you get the concept you don't need to know the definition word for word.

Fill in The Blank aka Pretend You know the Dash

These you're probably going to need more exact information for. Study the things your professor REALLY REALLY harped on the best. Math questions you need to be able to apply information

Essays

Easiest thing in the world to bs. Study the main concepts discussed in class first. Then the more obscure ones. Make sure you know how every concept relates to the other one. 

Most importantly if you fail your first test don't get upset. Your second test you will do MUCH BETTER because you won't procrastinate EVER AGAIN (after you've failed the first), and you'll better understand your professors style of question asking so you will understand what to study, and the most effective way of taking notes.

BAGUIO CITY – The Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR), Department of Agrarian Reform (DAR) and the National Irrigation Administration (NIA) are jointly advocating the protection, preservation and rehabilitation of the Cordillera watersheds thru a concert tagged as “Danum Ken Biag”, which will be held at the University of Baguio on Sept. 26.

In a kapihan forum last week, DENR-CAR Director Samuel Peñafiel, stressed the importance of strengthening the advocacy campaign for the protection and rehabilitation of the Cordillera watersheds. Accdg to Peñafiel, with the present reforestation effort of the government/private sector/stakeholders, it would take a century and billion pesos worth of money to achieve the goal of reforesting the region. (--continue--)

http://karitoon.com/xoops/modules/news/article.php?storyid=721