Cheerleader in Africa


The confluence of three seemingly disparate events last week has my mind returning to the time I spent living and working in Africa more than twenty years ago.  My book group in Hong Kong chose Aayan Hirsi Ali’s book Infidel as our first book of the season.  Ali was born the same year as I, but at Digfer Hospital in Mogadishu, the very same hospital our medical team set up shop when we arrived to help in Somalia twenty-two years later.  Our book discussion took place one evening as the stand off at the Westgate mall, just miles from my former home in Nairobi remained unresolved.  Learning that the attack was likely planned by radicalized Somalis, precisely those Ali had described in her memoir, was disheartening.  Finally, reading Kathy Eldon’s new memoir, In the Heart of Life, makes it all seem like it was yesterday.  It makes me want to share this part of the story myself…

Twenty-two years ago, a recent college graduate, I was hired to join the first American medical relief team to respond to the growing humanitarian crisis in Somalia.  Siad Barre had fled the country and clans were aligning around two main rivals, Ali Mahdi and General Aideed, vying for power in a chaotic and dangerous war.  By November our team was doing the best they could under severe conditions at Digfer Hospital in Mogadishu.  Despite our best efforts and those of a few intrepid journalists, no one was paying attention to Somalia.  By the spring of the following year, more international relief agencies had arrived and the situation had worsened as signs of famine were appearing along with the war casualties.  Jane Perlez, a New York Times reporter based in Nairobi was finally successful in placing a story, and the world began to take notice.  Seasoned Africa journalists and youthful stringers flocked to Somalia demanding international security to enable food distribution into the countryside.  Eventually, President Bush authorized U.S. intervention and some of our staff were among those Somalis waiting on the beach on December 9, 1992 when the Marines made their night landing.  The next few months were a honeymoon period as caravans of CARE’s food were escorted out to the worst hit areas like Baidoa and Belet Weyne and signs of the worst of the famine abated.  We all felt good.  Yes, there were turf battles between relief agencies, Somalis and the military, but the daily coordination meetings in Mogadishu were cordial and Operation Restore Hope was working.  I left Africa and moved to Los Angeles for a new role with the same organization, naively emboldened by a job well done.

Most people blame the turning point in public opinion of Somalia on the fateful day, October 3, known as Blackhawk Down when Somalis shot down a US helicopter and dragged a Marine through the streets.   To me, the turning point was nearly three months earlier on July 12 when an angry mob of Somalis, rightly furious at the UN for attacking a meeting of Somali elders erroneously thought to be a safe house for Aideed, turned on a group of journalists, stoning four of them to death.   My friend, twenty-two year old Dan Eldon was among those killed.  I kept working to try to help in Somalia, but the honeymoon was over.

Dan and I had bonded over dinner at the IMC compound in Baidoa one night as he teased stories of my hidden life as a high school cheerleader out of me.  He was playful, passionate and beguiling.  Both in our early twenties, the youngest expats in Somalia by at least five years, I always thought of Dan and me as the little brother & sister to the older, more experienced relief crowd.  I thought that kept us out of trouble.  One day back in Nairobi, Dan took me to lunch at the Muthaiga Club where I tasted my very first oysters.  We giggled at how the pink décor matched the ruddy cheeks of the older British expatriate crowd. After lunch Dan darted out for an appointment at Nairobi hospital where he had arranged to x-ray the posterior of a Kenyan woman who could move her hips in a way he’d never seen before.  He wanted to know if she was physiologically different from other people.   Dan was curious about everything, afraid of nothing and genuinely interested in everyone’s story.

Years later, still living in Los Angeles, I attended a book signing by author, former Reuters reporter and dear friend of Dan’s, Aidan Hartley.  As he spoke about his book, Zanzibar Chest, he gave credit to international journalists for having roused public attention to Somalia.  Then he proceeded to talk about how the international community had royally screwed it all up.  He remains among the most critical of international intervention in Somalia today and one of the few who is still paying attention.  Later that night over drinks with some friends I asked Aidan, given how it all turned out, would he still have done the same thing?  He didn’t say so directly, but I suspect not.

That’s the fundamental question we all face.  Knowing that humanitarian intervention is imperfect, that unintended consequences of well-intended efforts can often make things worse, and that donating to a relief organization feels like renting instead of buying your home, whereby the immediate benefit is clear, but over the long term you feel like you’re throwing money away.  Still, what’s the alternative?  It is easy for journalists to criticize interventions without offering a solution and for those of us who see the system as flawed to armchair quarterback and keep our money in the bank.  I applaud the imperfect interventions by those still drawn to do something, even as I yearn for a different model altogether.

This week Dan’s mother, Kathy Eldon, published her own memoir, In the Heart of Life, as a way to share her journey from grief to creative activism in Dan’s memory.  The launch of her story of hopefulness and resilience poignantly coincides with the horrific attack at the Westgate shopping center last week, only miles from Dan’s childhood home in Nairobi.  While Kathy has spent the intervening twenty years since Dan’s tragic death methodically rebuilding her life in a vision of engagement and hope for the future, Somalia sinks deeper into a twenty-five year spiral of turmoil and despair, continued violence and destruction.  It makes me wonder if Kathy’s Creative Visions Foundation approach, one that works to engage youth just like those Ali describes in her memoir and the nightly news describes at the Westgate mall, might just be Dan’s greatest life’s work?

Don’t Stop

“Run as fast as you possibly can at any given moment, and don’t stop.”  I repeated this phrase to myself thousands of times over the course of the four hours, two minutes and 13 seconds it took me to complete the New York Marathon in November 2001, just six weeks after hijacked airplanes toppled the World Trade Centers right across the Hudson from the start of the race.   This being my third New York Marathon, I knew that it would be different from the two before because every marathon is a new experience, but I had no idea that showing up to participate would turn out to have as much of an impact as did finishing the race itself.

Living in Los Angeles, I had felt almost entirely detached from the events of September 11th.  Of course witnessing it “live” on CNN, I felt profoundly sad and horrified, but in that “saw it on TV” kind of way.  We sat in our comfortable living room on one of the most beautiful Southern California September mornings and watched the clips play over and over for hours, waiting to see what would happen next, but not feeling any sense of personal danger or fear.  Then, to get our toddler out of the house, we went to the playground by the beach.  It was empty…and beautiful.  Our family and friends were safe and accounted for, and our lives were not immediately disrupted.  I have never felt more disconnected from the rest of the world then I did at that very minute.  So standing on Staten Island in the crowd of 25,000 waiting for Mayor Guliani to share a word of encouragement and sound the gun to start the race, I felt fear for the first time.  Myopically, I wondered if the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge would blow up when we crossed it?

It didn’t.  The crowd got moving quickly and I began to settle into my marathon mode.  “Not too fast, you don’t want to burn out …Shake out your arms and stretch your neck…I hope my son’s OK with the babysitter…Please let me get back to him quickly…Take off your hat and throw it on the dumpster ahead…and so it went for the first few miles.  My running pace was entirely erratic and undisciplined.  I watched the timer clock as each mile passed.  More than ten minutes for the first mile, then an eight minute mile…eight-and-a-half minutes…seven minutes and fifty seconds…and so on.  I knew this was faster than my usual pace and that I probably couldn’t keep it up for the whole race.  I also knew that this kind of erratic pace made me a dreadful running partner, but that didn’t turn out to matter.  I lost track of my husband in the first quarter mile when he stopped to pee.  My in-laws, preferring a slow and steady pace, hung back and disappeared into the crowd by the end of the first mile.  Even my best friend and running partner of 15 years got a stitch in her side at mile six and said I should go on without her.  So, there I was, mother of a not-yet-two-year-old, casually trained, and coaxing myself through the marathon alone.

It’s often said that marathon running is 10% physical and 90% mental.  In my own experience, I have found this to be entirely true.  As the time wore on and everything began to ache, my body begged for relief, but I was determined not to drop out.  After all, my friends were watching my progress on the Internet and I had told so many people I was going to do this, I couldn’t not finish.  Not to mention the fact that my son was at my friend’s place with a new babysitter and I was desperate to get home to him.  In this marathon, like none other before, I found a powerful new voice inside, coaching me to “run as fast as you possibly can at any given moment, and, don’t stop.”

As I ran with my head down staring at the pavement before me to avoid an emotional reaction to the crowds that would derail my breathing pattern and preclude my completion of the race, I found myself in need of very different motivations at different times.  Sometimes I would get a rush of euphoria and energy thinking of crossing the finish line, of how good the bath after the marathon would feel.  Then, seconds later, I’d realize there were still so many miles to go and feel an overwhelming desire to quit right then and there, sure that I couldn’t finish.  My mantra worked under both these circumstances.  When I was feeling energetic, I picked up the pace moving more quickly toward that goal I had in mind.  For those times I wanted to quit, the second half of it, and, don’t stop became a bottom line as I shuffled along at a snails pace, but moving just the same.

Brooklyn, for me, is the best part of the race.  I’m still feeling good enough to look around and enjoy the bands and the crowds.  I love Lafayette Street and all the children who come to cheer us on.  The mixture of reggae blaring from 4th floor windows and Hassidic Jewish families dressed in somber black coats, but always with chairs to sit for the duration, I find incredibly invigorating.  I am amazed by how many fire stations there are along the route in Brooklyn, and how many firemen are out cheering us on.  The first ten miles pass in a blur and, just as the first wave of fatigue arrives, the crowds die out and we move into Queens for the most silent and solitary phase of the marathon.  The red carpet on the Pulaski Bridge signals the approaching half marathon mark, a huge milestone.  I cross the half marathon at one hour, fifty-eight minutes and change.  If I keep up this pace I’ll beat four hours!  Now I have a bigger goal, but a lot of work ahead of me.

In the three NY marathons I have run over the years, the end of the Queensboro Bridge as it empties out into Manhattan to the roars of the largest crowd along the entire route is always the most difficult part for me.  On the one hand, I’ve finally reached Manhattan and the marathon is technically more than half over.  On the other hand, I know miles of 1st avenue lay before me, and a dismal trek through upper Manhattan and the Bronx separates me from the Central Park finish line that, as the crow flies, is only blocks away.  I always hyperventilate a bit as I come over the bridge.  I think it’s partly being overwhelmed by the crowds and partly the road ahead that does it, but I find I really have to put my head down and block out all noise around me to keep my breathing steady and even (this compared to my friend who enjoys socializing, munching on bananas, sipping beer and stopping to chat right at that spot).   I find hunkering down and focusing on the road ahead to be my only recourse for this mental hurdle.  I make it up 1st avenue, across the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx and round the turn back into Harlem, realizing I’ve reached the ultimate mental battle of the race.

The last four miles are excruciating.  Not only do I have the requisite fatigue and sore toes, but I’m also getting a strange ache in my stomach every time I run downhill.  I find myself wondering if I could be causing permanent damage that might preclude producing a sibling for my son?  My mind plays heavy, powerful tricks to try to coax me to stop running and drop out of the race.  The pressure to quit is relentless, even down to the last quarter mile I struggle to keep going, but my mantra is stronger.  It’s amazing the clarity that can go hand-and-hand with pain and struggle.  The constant stream of thoughts, the monkey mind, disappears, replaced by a clear focus on and don’t stop.  Simple.  Then, with the finish line finally in site, a flood of euphoria comes over me and I pick up the pace, take off my sunglasses and raise my arms in victory sprinting to the finish line as if I had run a fifty-yard dash.

Exhausted and elated, I finished and achieved a personal best time for the NY Marathon, though I missed my goal of beating four hours by just over two minutes. As I file out with hundreds of other runners, I reflect on the marathon itself and my accomplishment.  In the initial minutes following the end of the race, it is all about me.  How exciting it had been… How proud I am to have finished…  How great my finish line photo will be… How terrific the celebration dinner will be… How to cut out of the line and get to 85th Street as fast as I can… How sore my legs are already.

Yet, as the immediate euphoria subsides, a new sensation begins to creep in.  Throughout the marathon, I had kept emotion at bay, trying to push aside any thoughts of sadness or personal grief of my fellow runners or spectators.  Now, with the luxury of the race behind me, I allow myself to absorb the sites I had witnessed along the way.    I had heard stories before the race started of people running in memory of friends who had died in the attacks, but nothing had prepared me to run along side a man wearing a t-shirt listing dozens of friends he knew and lost, or a single photograph of a loved one bobbing ridiculously on the back of a runner’s t-shirt.  As we passed fire trucks seemingly every mile or two, hoards of firemen stood outside the trucks cheering us on.  I couldn’t believe they were clapping for us. They were the heroes – we should have been clapping for them, and many of us were.    There were hundreds of signs thanking us for showing up, and more expressions of solidarity and patriotism than I had ever seen displayed before.  American flags decorated the route and the runners.  Collectively, we were a diversion for the morning, a few hours off from the weight of grief that hung palpably over the city.

Looking back more than a decade later, I realize that in many ways, I ran the marathon in the same way I witnessed the events of September 11th; with detachment.   Not as the result of apathy, but as an ultimate defense mechanism.  Maybe deciding to get on a plane when the country was at high alert and go to New York to run the marathon was, in my own way, an effort to be present there and to gain some kind of understanding and connection to an event that was so defining for the world, but seemed so unreal to me?  These days we all face busy, overscheduled personal lives, an over-heating planet, crumbling financial markets and struggling politicians.  We’re bombarded with so much daily tragedy that we are becoming desensitized to the grief and suffering of others. The magnitude of these challenges coupled with the entertaining formats via which they are conveyed, makes it easy to sit back and watch the spectacle with detachment, as I did that day.  Opting out altogether is the most comfortable option, but also the most vacant.  I’m beginning to see that making the conscious decision to participate rather than just sit back and watch, might just turn out to be the greatest accomplishment of all.

Trip Report: Yunnan Province, China


Our suitcases are barely unpacked, but I fear if I don’t write this update immediately I might forget a detail from our eye-opening trip to Yunnan Province in Southwestern China with the Shetty family this week.  Yunnan is home to half of China’s ethnic minorities and hosts the most diverse terrain imaginable, from green, fertile rice terraces in the south on the Myanmar and Laotian border to soaring peaks of the snow capped mountains bordering Tibet in the North.  Our trip traced the southern trade route where tea from the Kunming area was picked, taken to Dali to be made into cakes and then transported up to the higher elevations where Tibetans exchanged meat and jewels for the desired tea that they couldn’t grow at elevation.

I did my research before we left, but it did not prepare me for the stunning beauty of the region.  Bright blue skies, crisp autumn air, wide vistas and sparkly blue lakes, as well as a window into China’s rapid transformation has finally ignited an honest interest in China for me.


We began our trip in Kunming, the capital of the province, home of the Yi people, and the endpoint of the infamous Burma Road.  Larger than I anticipated (as all Chinese cities inevitably are), Kunming is a city of 7.2 million that is vying for “spring city” green capital status.  Last year alone the government planted 5 million trees and continues to plant more even as construction moves at an equally rapid pace. We arrived in Kunming late in the evening and immediately encountered two other HKIS families in the lobby of our hotel.  We headed out to find some dinner and ended up at a bar with some lame Halloween decorations on Green Lake where we wolfed down some surprisingly tasty “across the bridge noodles” while a Chinese man sang Mandarin pop in a smoky room.  Tobacco is a hugely profitable crop in Yunnan, and smoking is still epidemic in the area.  The kids were beat, so we headed quickly back to our Green Lake Hotel down the street.



We were up early the next morning to meet our tour guide Mike and head to the Bamboo Temple about an hour’s drive from downtown.  This Tang Dynasty Buddhist temple perched on the side of a hill overlooking the city is peaceful and green.  It is known for the 500 arhats (statues) that were made of clay by famous sculptor Li who renovated the temple in the 19th C.  He went into the town and captured the expressions of local people, creating the life-sized statues that seem to stare as you walk by.    A bit eerie, but cool and the setting of the temple is great.

Back in the van we drove two hours to the Stone Forrest in Shilin.  We had a passable lunch at a tourist spot outside the park then went in on foot to explore this geological wonder.  Reminiscent of Stony Batter in New Zealand, huge rock outcroppings littered the horizon for as far as the eye could see.  These, however, used to be under the sea rather than volcanic as were those in NZ.  Our guide was skilled at leading us off the beaten path to explore the park without the throngs of Chinese tourists, but every once in awhile our paths met and we became the primary attraction.  Mr.E’s blond hair was like a magnet to the Chinese tourists and they aggressively sought photographs with him and the other children.  While the others were happy to oblige, Mr.E was not.  He thought they were laughing at him and would yell, “Tell them to shut up.”  He even rightly shoved one person who got too close in trying to cozy up to him for a shot.


After the Stone Forest we headed back to town with a stop at a touristy shop where we were presented with demonstrations of both silk and tea.  Rod couldn’t resist the purported health benefits of a pillow made from the excrement of silkworms and bought one.  We also bought some pu’er tea that looks like a cow pie, and headed out as quickly as we could.  We found a great restaurant on Green Lake for dinner that night called 1923 and our guide and driver joined us for the meal, helping with the ordering.   Kunming is known for its delicious produce and specifically its mushrooms, so I feel a special affinity for the region being from the mushroom capital of the world.  We ate some truly exceptional mushrooms on this trip!

Our final event of the evening was a show called Dynamic Yunnan at a theatre in town.  Like most Chinese mega performances, it is perfectly choreographed and this one is particularly innovative.  It’s a fusion of traditional ethnic folk music and modern dance created by world famous performance artist Yang Liping.  It was a little long. Sidewalk, in particular, loved it.


The next morning we were up early for our flight to Dali.  Our guide, Elena, met us at the airport and from that moment on we were in great hands.  We would be treated to Mandarin lessons, the best food in the most unlikely locations and an earnest and thoughtful tour of some of the world’s most beautiful territory, all while driven around in a comfortable Toyota van for our two families with a skilled driver whose family had been wealthy home owners in Lijiang, then lost everything in the Cultural Revolution.

We started our adventure in Dali at a really tasty restaurant (Shui Shang Ren Jia) near the Dali Prefecture Museum on the edge of Erhai Lake.  All the kids upped their vegetable consumption quotient on this trip in spades.  Next we went to Erhai Park.  We climbed 287 steps (how do you think we got the kids to the top?) to a beautifully manicured scenic park perched above the lake and surrounded by mountains.  From that vantage point, Dali New Town looked just like Queenstown.  The kids got their first Mandarin test as we looked at the gate and they had to name the animals and colors.  Elena had trained as a teacher before she changed professions to tour guide, so we hit the jackpot in finding her.

We descended the stairs and got back in the van to head to Dali Old Town for a walk about.  Dali Old Town is authentic and low key.  It feels “real” despite some tourist shops and, to me, has a Berkeley vibe.  Dali is predominantly home to the hard-working and sensible Bai people.  Elena referred to them as the “Jews of China.” Hmm?  I had forgotten my coat on the trip, so I picked one up there and the kids had fun running around the car-less cobblestone paths, crisscrossing the stone bridges over the many streams that ran through the center of town and trying fried yak cheese (not so good!).


On our way from Dali to Xizhou where we would spend the night, we made a stop at the lake where we did our most touristy thing of the whole trip.  We didn’t really realize what we had signed up for and I think I would skip this if I go back, but it was beautiful to be out on the lake and certainly a memorable experience.  We were suited up with bright orange life jackets and sent out on a long skinny boat rowed by a graceful old man in a cone shaped hat.

The sun was just beginning to set and, while it was chilly, it was a gorgeous time of night to be out on the water.  As we rode along we looked back and behind us saw a boat with a woman rowing and a man standing up.  On the rails of the boat perched about a dozen huge black birds.  When we got out a bit further the man began to hit the side of the boat with a long bamboo stick and the birds jumped in the water.  Then he started to yell and a bird surfaced with an enormous fish in its mouth, which he scooped up in a net and held high in the air.  Another boat of Chinese tourists joined us and we all took photos as the man manhandled these birds quite aggressively.

The evening got weirder when the man came on our boat with the birds and proceeded to perch them on the head and arms of our children.  All we could think was how we would answer those questions about being in contact with birds and livestock when we got back to Hong Kong?!

Elena had promised us a wonderful meal in downtown Xizhou at a local place, but when we walked up my heart sank.  The restaurant was dark, dank and by western standards, grubby.  It didn’t have a restroom, so we ventured down the street to the public toilets.  This was the most disgusting bathroom experience I’ve had post-Africa.  Having lived in China for a few years I am adept at the ‘squatty potty’ and have taught my kids to use them too, but this one hit a new low.  I won’t bother to describe, but…wow.

Back in the restaurant (a lot of hand sanitizer later), I sat skeptically by as we all consulted the cabinet of fresh ingredients that would be prepared for us on the spot.  A few minutes later the dishes began to arrive and we were all blown away.  The food was so incredibly delicious.  The kids actually said it was the best meal of their lives and the adults agreed!  Perfectly spiced, fresh ingredients prepared simply but with great skill, we could not stop eating.  When the owner pulled out his guest book and we read comments from travelers around the world who had had the same experience, we were convinced that we had discovered a treasure.  The Golden Flower (Jin Hua) in Xizhou is a must do experience for those whojudge a book by its cover. And at about 250 yuan ($36) to feed nine of us and keep the parents in free flowing beer, it was the beginning evidence for us that price and food quality may be negatively correlated in China.

The only disappointing thing about eating dinner out that night was that we arrived at our hotel late that evening and realized that we had found another treasure that we were not going to be able to enjoy long enough.  Remember earlier I referenced that David Brooks article in the NY Times about the Hamish Line?  Well, this place was all Hamish.  The moment we arrived the owner of the hotel, Brian Linden, approached the kids and announced that we were just in time for his son’s 16th birthday party and did they want to see the cake?  He took them into the kitchen as we began to take in the exquisitely restored traditional Bai courtyard home, refurbished to be both a comfortable retreat center for guests from around the world and their home.

An American couple that spent a lot of their lives traveling in China, Brian and Jeanee Linden opted a few years ago to leave the US and to home school their two boys while operating a visionary place where visitors can experience authentic China.  I loved everything about it from the twenty- something ivy-league guys who made their ways there to work with the Lindens (providing inspiration to Dudah who now wants to apprentice there as soon as he’s old enough) to the place itself and to Brian and Jeanee, whose passion for China and people is infectious. Within ten minutes of our arrival we were singing happy birthday to Shane, eating cake and signing camp and Beatles songs as Vinny, their VP of Business Development and a Dartmouth grad, played guitar.  Our family will return to this place again, I am quite sure.

Reluctantly we left the Linden Centre the next morning to tour the Xizhou morning market (another thing on Sidewalk’s ongoing list of animal-related discomforts in China).  Dudah’s untied shoelaces dragged through animal blood and other muck, and my husband tried to prevent the start of a new global contagion by wiping them down later with hand sanitizer.

Afterwards we got in the van and settled in for a three-hour drive up into the mountains to the picturesque town of Lijiang.  The drive was bumpy, but by the time you go it will be smooth sailing.  Huge road construction projects are underway to have a state-of-the-art divided highway linking these cities in order to manage the throngs of Chinese tourists flocking to this paradise.  I fear, like Bali and other amazing spots that have been partially ruined by their beauty, Lijiang will suffer a similar fate, but for now it’s still lovely.

We arrived in Lijiang in time for a late lunch at yet another solid spot (Jin Sheng Li Shui), then out to tour the Old Town.  Lijiang, home to the Naxi people, is a backpacker paradise.  It’s a series of windy walkways along water streams filled with wifi cafes and strong coffee, bars and funky little restaurants, along with their fair share of tourist shops.  It teeters on the precipice of Disneyland, but isn’t quite there yet.  It’s stunning in the wood carved architecture and hillside construction.  We wandered and took it all in, but eventually began to feel the fatigue of nonstop touring and opted to head to the hotel for a quiet evening.


We had decided to splurge a little bit and stay at the Banyan Tree on the outskirts of town.  I had not intended to splurge quite as much as we did, as traveling with 5 people often necessitates booking two rooms.  That I knew.   What I didn’t realize was that we had booked two “spa rooms” that created a ridiculously huge compound and had my kids in another building in an adjoining private courtyard with two Jacuzzis; disconcerting, but very nice.  They won’t forget that experience and all but Dudah may be ruined for the future backpacker youth hostel right of passage.

We all rested up and the next morning felt refreshed and ready to tour the Dongba Museum and Black Dragon Pool Park on the edge of town.  It was a perfect crisp clear morning with puffy clouds and turning leaves and we spent several hours circling the lake as Elena told us about the culture of her hometown of Lijiang.  We laughed at the English translation of the signs in the park like “Unrecycle” and “The Grass is Sleeping.  Please don’t disturb.”

We headed to Shuhe old town close to our hotel for lunch.  It’s a much smaller and quainter version of Lijiang, but still charming with waterways, cobblestones and bridges lined with shops and restaurants.  Elena knew of a dumpling place she recommended (Xi’an Xiao Chi) and we headed there to sit in the sunshine while a couple from Xi’an hand-made five plates of dumplings for our crew.  We devoured them along with a few beers and I must admit, they’re even better than Din Tai Fung’s!  Our entire bill came to 105 RMB, less than the cost of a scoop of ice cream at the fancy hotel where we stayed.

Next we headed further out of town to the banks of Lashi Lake where we mounted horses and were led up into the hills on a trail ride through spectacular countryside. None of the adults were keen to ride horses when we arrived, but by the end we were all pleased we had done so.  It was a highlight for the kids and riding to the shores of the lake was picturesque.  After the horses, we headed straight to dinner in Lijiang at a place that specialized in Across the Bridge Noodles (OK, but not my favorite meal).

The next morning we were on the road again, headed this time to Jade Dragon Snow Mountain.  Heavily controlled by the “guns” as Elena called them, this area feels like Wyoming or Colorado.  Wide-open planes and soaring snow-capped mountains tower in the distance.  It’s spectacular and not what I expected.  We went to an extremely touristy show called Impression Lijiang that hubbie dubbed the “Propaganda Racial Harmony Show”, but was in fact visually stunning.  I think he was just cold because we had to sit outside!  It was OK, but not as good as the show we had seen in Kunming. Next we rode sanctioned buses through the Malibu Canyon-like terrain to the Blue Moon Valley where we spent the next few hours marveling at the turquoise waters of the pools.  Elena said the color came from the copper in the mountains.  It was picturesque and we had a picnic along the banks of the pools in a private little spot and enjoyed skipping stones and wandering around.


On our way back to town we went to our first Lamasery, the Yufeng Temple, where Elena gave the kids a wonderful lesson in Buddhism.  I wish I had it video taped, as I think she wrapped a whole college course level into one lesson.  We explored the temple and the 600-year-old camillia tree that is a significant attraction there, but a kitten in the courtyard was the highlight here for Sidewalk and Mr.E.

Our final adventure for the day was apple picking.  Though intimidated by the very aggressive tied up dog on the property, we had a great time climbing into the trees and picking apples.  Lijiang has the tastiest apples I’ve ever had, so it really was fun to get them ourselves, and will be a family memory that our very first apple picking experience was in China.


Dinner that night was our greatest challenge yet.  Elena had talked up a Muslim beef restaurant that sounded fantastic, but when we pulled up we were squeamish.  Hunks of meat hung from the ceiling and an entire wall was lined with drying cow intestines.  It was gross.  The place looked filthy, but we loved Elena so much we didn’t have the heart (or the guts) to decline, so we took a deep breath and sat down.  True to form, the dishes that appeared on the table minutes later were delicious and everyone but Sidewalk ate well.  You’d need Elena there to order for you and you have to be willing to suspend your idea of hygiene, but it’s worth it in the end.  The food is cheap and good, and I have to brag that no one on our trip got sick even once, while other HK families traveling in the same region but taken to more typical tourist restaurants all suffered intestinal blues.

Saturday we had to be up before sunrise in order to get on the road to Zhongdian.  If you look it up on a map it will probably say “Shangri-la” as this is the moniker the town has adopted for tourism purposes. Zhongdian is thought to possibly be that place, inspired by Joseph Rock’s National Geographic articles and popularized by a 1933 novel called Lost Horizon by James Hilton.

On the way up to 11,000 feet we had our first glimpse of the Yangtze River and then saw it’s power in the Tiger Leaping Gorge.  We climbed the 500 steps down to the viewing platform above the deep gorge and then back up again while a few Chinese tourists opted to be carried in chairs by two men.

As we drove along the windy road to Shangri-La the terrain got fiercer, drier and the architecture changed.  We were entering Tibetan territory.  The houses are enormous, made of mud and straw pounded into two-foot thick-sloped walls.  Traditionally the livestock live on the bottom floor and the families live above, but the Tibetans are generally a well-funded nation and those traditional houses are now outfitted with sun porches, glass roofs and parking lots.  I think the livestock – yak, cows, buffalo, goats, more and more, are being relegated to their own separate living quarters.

Arriving in Zhongdian is like arriving in a Colorado frontier town; a little rough around the edges, but with an appealing little downtown area.  We were hungry, so Elena took us to Red Heart Snacks, another one of her gems that you would never choose on your own, but is completely worth it.  The food here was different.  The Tibetan influence has added Yak butter tea, pizza crust-like bread and meat-stuffed buns.  Still, there were delicious fresh sautéed greens and eggplants with tomatoes and perfect potatoes.  They even had fire-roasted chili peppers, which made our travel companions very happy.  We walked around old town and bought a few souvenirs, wandering the cobblestone walkways adorned with Tibetan prayer flags and Internet cafes.  It was less charming than we anticipated, but still interesting.  A good collector could score some wonderful things here, but I am a terrible shopper, so came away with photographs and memories, and a few trinkets for other people.


Just outside of town, perched on a hill is the very impressive Songzanlin Monastery, built to house two thousand monks.  Undergoing renovations at the moment, it is still a dramatic site to behold, modeled almost exactly on the Buddhist temple of the same yellow branch in Lhasa.  We climbed the stairs and entered the main hall.  Elena again explained the pictography and customs inside.  I chuckled to see a monk, seated cross-legged on a pillow counting the pile of money to his right as he talked on a cell phone and absent mindedly blessed tourists and handed them a wood prayer bracelet.  Is nothing pure anymore or was it ever?


Still, it’s a lovely visual to see monks in burgundy robes walking around the grounds with their prayer beads.  The monks build their own houses on the grounds of the temple, and villagers come to assist with honor.  Across the pond below was a hillside that was pointed out to us, as it is the site for sky burials.  Now this sounds innocuous enough by the name, but in fact, in Tibetan culture a common way to dispose of the human body after death is to chop it into 108 pieces and then place them on the hillside for the vultures to consume.  We were also told that the same could be done and then placed in the stream to return most quickly to nature.  I must admit I made a mental note not to eat fish that night.

Our final wow moment came when we drove around behind the Lamasery to a place called the Songstam Retreat, which would be our accommodations for the night.  Set over 21 acres of land looking out on the monastery, this collection of 24 structures built of hand-cut dry stones and wood is spectacular.  One building houses a Tibetan restaurant and a lounge that felt like a ski lodge out West in the US.  We went for our welcome drink and met another family of dear friends from HK who were also there that night.  For dinner, we set the eight kids from our three families up in one room for their first Western meal of the trip while the six adults had a Tibetan meal in the adjoining room.

We were up again before sunrise, had a quick breakfast then headed to the airport, but not before we experienced a few snow flurries.  We flew back through Kunming and, though we had to kill four hours in the airport and suffer KFC for lunch, we survived and arrived home by dinnertime. The kids are off to school this morning and I can’t believe the trip has now come and gone.  In every way the trip was a grand success and I can not recommend it highly enough, particularly as the region is developing at a breakneck pace and will soon replace rugged charm with bland efficiency and some of the beauty may be lost.  Go right now!

And one final word; traveling with another family was a complete delight and has transformed my approach to family vacations.  Though their kids are not the exact ages of ours and they didn’t know each other well before the trip, the got along famously and reduced the amount of sibling fighting that would have gone on considerably.  Kids are happy when they have friends around, and so traveling with another family, particularly one as nice as theirs, was a complete delight for all of us.   I took 500 photos on the trip and wish I could attach them all as each one tells a part of the story.








Trip Report: New Zealand, Part I

Even if I posted every one of the five hundred photos I took on our first trip to New Zealand, I wouldn’t be able to convey to you the expansiveness of the country and its impact on our flat sky choked family.  Everything in us expanded on this trip – our minds, lungs, hearts, comfort zones and waistlines – as we took a peek at a country we hope to explore again and again.  We had only ten days, but with mom’s perseverance and many recommendations from friends who had paved the way, we came up with a winning itinerary that included Waiheke Island near Auckland, Queenstown (with a little Arrowtown and Wanaka thrown in) and Nelson’s stunning Abel Tasman National Park.

Would you be as surprised as was I to learn that New Zealand is a ten-and-a-half-hour flight and five hour time difference from Hong Kong (which changed to four while we were there)? You can get there from Los Angeles in only one hour more.  Before looking into it, I thought NZ was a rounding error from HK.  This was the first of many discoveries about a country I knew only as having good inexpensive wine, the Haka, a winning Rugby team, a Lord of the Rings connection and a lot of sheep.

I had resisted the idea of a trip to NZ not because I didn’t want to go, but because I thought Mr.E was too young.  I’m so glad mom pushed and we went anyway because the amount of growth I saw in all the kids, but Mr.E in particular, was remarkable.

Despite stiff competition, we were all in agreement that our best day was spent on Waiheke Island.  That particular day, we kicked off the morning with a much-needed run.  I don’t know about you, but for us there’s nothing more fun than a run that includes getting completely lost in a new place, finding a sign that says “tramping trail,” climbing a stile through a cow pasture and ending up at the most beautiful vineyard where we easily secured reservations for dinner that night, then rounding out the run with a stop for the best-boysenberry-muffin-you-ever-tasted consumed on a stroll back along the sands of a nude beach.  Meanwhile mom wrestled the kids up and we headed out to Stony Batter on the East side of the island.  Without too many details, the fort is a combination of incongruous lava rocks scattered across green rolling hillsides left from a volcanic eruption, and a series of spooky tunnels carved in the hillsides to protect Auckland from enemy attacks during WWII (though completed several years after the war ended).

A scenic walk leads visitors to the tunnel entrance. A local mother and her two sons, volunteers for the Stony Batter Preservation Society, linger there with an equal number of tame sheep, one with a terrible cold.  After petting the sheep, paying a fee for flashlight rental and trying desperately to decipher the ominous instructions given about which way to turn and when to ascend the series of tunnels, we headed into the darkness.   We poked around the tunnels until we came to a steep staircase leading to a ladder to a gun emplacement about 100 yards from where we started. This place is wild.

With no time to spare, we made it back to the car and tore off across the island for an afternoon kayak.  After some hesitation on the part of the tour operator over Mr.E’s age, he agreed and set us up with double sea kayaks.  Dudah was on his own, Sidewalk was grumpy about it and Mr.E was raring to go with grand mom.  You should have seen him.  We handed him a paddle and he intuitively knew how to do it and proceeded to paddle like a pro the whole two hours!  He was completely awesome, but not to be outdone by his big brother who had learned a thing or two at Telluride Academy last summer and handled his own kayak masterfully.  Dudah even made a very impressive attempt to swallow an oyster our guide knocked off a rock, but ultimately it ended up back in the sea.  We definitely saw seals, fish, starfish, shags and a baby shark on our peregrination, and possibly though unconfirmed, a penguin and a shark twice the size of the kayaks (personally, I think this was tip fishing, but who am I to say?).

Heading home, we cleaned ourselves up and were off again to Mudbrick Vineyard for one of the greatest meals of recent memory.  Nestled on a hill surrounded by organic gardens, grapevines and lavender with a view of downtown Auckland in the distance, Mudbrick has the most beautiful location, excellent wine and great food.  The kids were terrific and even spent time waiting for dinner to arrive rolling down the hill behind the restaurant.  You can’t beat that for kid-friendly!

Waiheke Island sits in the Hauraki Gulf, a 40-minute ferry ride from downtown Auckland on the North island.  Originally settled and named “Te Motu-Arui-Roa” in 950, Captain Cook sailed by the island in 1769 and the first Europeans arrived in 1818.  I would describe it as half-hippy, half-wealthy second homeowner, it reminds me of so many places I’ve been and liked.  A little bit Bolinas/Stinson Beach, a little bit Telluride, Bainbridge Island, Swan’s Island, ME or Salt Spring Island, BC, it has that laid back artist-community island vibe where you can putter the day away at the beach or farmer’s market, but is also teeming with award-winning wineries & restaurants when you want a refined splurge.

We had surfed the Internet to find a house to rent while we were there and ended up with a lovely, quirky cottage with its own orchard and swing in the back and great views in every direction.  You never know what you’re going to get booking accommodations that way, but I was not disappointed with any of the three houses we ended up in this trip, and it’s more fun than a hotel!

Our other days on Waiheke were mostly spent on the beaches.  Onetangi Beach was covered in sea life that made for interesting exploration and play.  Zoë collected over 100 dead sand dollars and lined them up artistically while Ethan and I found a starfish and searched for trophy shells.  We ate meals at the local beachside places, Charlie Farley’s being the best, and wandered the farmer’s market too.

As with every place, our time there was too short, but off to Queenstown we went.  Queenstown is about as opposite from Waiheke as you can get.  Located on the southern end of the south island, Queenstown was in the throws of an unseasonably cold fall.  We built fires every day, wore every stitch of warm clothes we brought and wished we had more, but in exchange were treated to a bona fide fall, Vermont style!  Snow on the imposing surrounding mountain tops, gold and red flaming trees on the hillsides and dramatic skies over lake Wakatipu.  The house we rented matched the city.  It was new and sleek, dramatic, vulnerable to the elements and cool though somehow a little imposing.  I found myself wondering if anyone does anything but extreme sport tourism in Queenstown?  My Brother-in-law would be in his element here.  At any given moment you can see jet boaters, Para gliders jumping off mountain tops, helicopters and prop planes, bungee platforms, mountain bikes, luges and any other number of adrenaline-inducing events interacting simultaneously with the jagged mountains that ring the city perched on the banks of the icy lake. It feels like a “do” rather than “be” kind of place.

I loved sleepy Arrowtown.  This charming to the point of precious main street town ½ an hour from QT was lined with restaurants and quaint shops.  We spent a morning there then dropped Dudah and mom at the stables for frigid but great horseback riding while we went to Wanaka to explore another lakeside town that was equally dramatic, but with a Lake Havasu vibe.

Most of our time in QT was spent on bicycles, the gondola, the luge, and the trampoline at the house.  We enjoyed the unstructured time to be outside, kick the soccer ball around the huge yard and improve the bicycle skills of all the kids.  One morning we ventured to town to see the Kiwi Bird Park, an endangered animal sanctuary that is clever and informative.  We saw a real live Kiwi and were surprised by how big they are and that they have evolved to have neither wings nor feathers.  Even calling them birds is a bit of a misnomer.  Who knew?  They have a small Maori culture exhibit there as well.  We also enjoyed great meals in QT and Arrowtown at Saffron, Joe’s Garage (for breakfast) and Jack’s Point as well as the famous Fergburger.  Our best discovery was a dry Riesling from Amisfield Vineyards, which we sampled and then sent home a case to Hong Kong. It’s surprising and tasty if you’re a dry white wine drinker.

Our one adventure day in QT was unforgettably cool in my opinion.  At the recommendation of friends I booked a flight to Milford Sound on a prop plane and then a two-hour nature cruise on the fjord.  My entire party balked at the flight and was more scared than excited, but they all got on the plane and though white knuckled, they all made it.

I thought the views were tremendous and the cruise around the Sound was extremely chilly, but also glorious on a rare clear and sunny day.  It’s an extraordinary place to see and I stand by the flight as the best way to do it.  We saw the Milford Trail, the highest waterfall in NZ coming from a glacier lake we looked down upon, and so many other otherwise inaccessible sites on the way, but it was admittedly somewhat alarming to be flying straight at the mountain as the pilot often waited what seemed like too long to adjust our elevation to the seemingly quickly approaching cliff.  I hold firm that it’s much more dangerous, statistically, to put your kid in the car and drive to soccer practice, but fear is fear, rational or not.  You can’t reason people out of fear, and if you put me at the top of a Black Diamond on skis I’ll eat crow pretty fast.  Still, I think they ended up enjoying the day.

Our final destination was Nelson.  With only one full day to spend I took advice and booked an all-day charter boat on Abel Tasman National Park.  I’m so glad I did.  Though we had an unusually cloudy day and again were bundled as best we could, we still kayaked, waded in the water, hiked a small portion of the trail and enjoyed a nice fresh lunch on the deck of the boat.  Abel Tasman is known for it’s golden sand beaches, turquoise waters and prolific sea life and parkland.  Much of the territory is protected marine reserve and all a national park, so it’s teeming with sea life and kayakers who, like us, arrived to see it.  From our tour guide who grew up on the bay we learned so much about the area and even a few useful New Zealand phrases like “I’m wet as a shag” which means to be soaked to the bone (the shag being a cormorant) and “shagging around” which means to look like you’re not doing anything but you’re actually quite busy.

Our house in Nelson was a riot.  A turn of the century Victorian that mom suspects was jacked up a level to get a better view, it was one of those adorable charmers, but quirky beyond compare.  The attic room had a bathtub sunk in the middle of the wood floor, but the house was gracefully spacious and teeming with light through its gorgeous windows.  I could have sat on the porch all day.

Instead,  we again took advantage of rock star grand mom to hold down the fort while we ran the hilly town to get oriented and pick a dinner spot.  We ended up eating at a fantastic place located not two minutes from the house.  It was called the Boat Shed and the chef’s choice menu was out of this world.  We also had a solid breakfast at Lambretta’s right in town.  Nelson is much more industrial than I expected and seemed more like Berkeley or Santa Cruz than Laguna Beach (as a friend described it) to me. We definitely didn’t have enough time to explore here, but I’m glad we went and got a glimpse.

Summer arrived in Hong Kong while we were away.  By the time we got back the pool at the American Club has opened and the sun is shining.  We turned on the air conditioners and busted out the bathing suits again for the season.  While New Zealand really is the perfect antidote to Hong Kong, it’s everything that Hong Kong is not, still I was surprisingly happy to be in Hong Kong.  This life, while not always fulfilling, is a blessing to be enjoyed as long as it lasts.

Domestic Diplomacy: Book Proposal

A very smart writer told me once that writing a book, like running a marathon and many other difficult things to which this analogy is often applied, is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration.  Well, here’s my 1%.  Only 99 to go…


DOMESTIC DIPLOMACY:  Keeping the peace on the home front while raising a family abroad. 


I have a Master’s of Arts in Law and Diplomacy from Tufts University, but I’m neither a lawyer nor a diplomat.  I’m a mom.   For the past six years I have been raising my family of three children outside of the United States, first in London and presently in Hong Kong.  I have always joked that I have a master’s degree in “cocktail party conversation” when trying to explain the complex utility of a Fletcher degree and the typically nonlinear career trajectory of my fellow graduates.  My own career path was diverse, spanning two decades of work from humanitarian relief in Africa, to public relations in New York and LA, to directing a Center for Optimal Health for Amway and several others in-between.  My degree gave me a tool kit of skills rather than a career.

Overall, international relations theory, diplomacy and the discipline of studying law translated to skills in exhaustive research, examining all sides of a situation, paying attention to details, follow through, consistency of performance, teamwork and clear analytical writing.  These skills served me well in my professional career, but the real surprise, more than a decade into parenting, is how useful this training has been on the home front.  Raising children is chaotic.  But, view child rearing through the prism of international relations theory and a parallel discipline begins to emerge that can provide as useful an analytical framework as those offered by the latest popular child development specialist or clever mommy blogger.  Returning to those principles upon which our society has been organized, namely, the rule of law and a reliable justice system supported by rational human thought and some version of the golden rule, parenting becomes not a fear-based exercise, but a logical journey.

As I began to pay attention to conscious decisions I have made as a parent, or to analyze situations that have not gone as I expected, I started to draw clear associations with my Harvard Business School case method courses and positions I had argued in law classes.  Along with this realization emerged a growing sense that I was not “wasting my degree” but utilizing it in a new and profound way.  Having met up with three of my dearest friends and fellow Fletcher graduates one summer for a chaotic day shepherding our ten children around Cape Elizabeth, Maine, I realized that though we were all living in the far reaches of the earth, (Hong Kong, Tashkent, Washington, DC and Luanda, Angola respectively) we shared one thing in common.  We were all in the throws of parenting, applying our Fletcher degrees more to negotiating ice cream access than land usage rights, and that that was exactly what we were supposed to be doing.


In this book/series of articles, I will use my sixteen-course masters degree in law and diplomacy program as an outline and demonstrate, using real-life anechdotes, how the principles of international relations can be applied to parenting with fairness, respect and often, remarkable humor and compassion.  I have been blessed with three thoughtful, independent and sometimes challenging, but always engaging children who have put me to the test daily, but whom I love all the more for it. I hope that our experience resonates for you.   If I do it right, this book will be equally at home in the parenting and international relations sections of your bookstore.