This mural is uniquely different from all my other murals.  It wasn't really a community effort.  Because it was all lettering, it was impossible to have children help me, even though they most certainly volunteered.  It was also impossible to have adults help me, because none of them dared volunteer.  No, I was on my own with this one.  However, I love doing lettering so it was I was completely in my comfort zone.  Well, it was as comfortable as it can be next to a restroom where at least one or more grade levels (seemingly) continuously lined up.  And if they were not in line, lingering odors from those rooms reminded me of their presence and presents.
 
If you have ever worked with really young children at school, you probably know all about "duck tails" and "bubbles".  It was all new to me.  The dream was for kids to be silent in the hallways.  Duck tails and bubbles were supposed to help that dream come true.  So, if you hold your hands together behind your back, two things are hopefully accomplished.  One, your fingers form a little duck tail. And, two, you don't smack, poke, hit, slap, push or punch the person next to you in line.   As for that bubble, well, if you blow your cheeks up with a huge mouthful of air, and keep them all puffy, you can't talk to anyone in line. 
 
Such good plans!  So little success!
 
Okay, it was obvious that the kids were not supposed to talk to me or anyone else while in the hall.  It just wasn't possible.  What I did was too unusual, too interesting, and so very irresistible.  I sat on the floor, chair or table by the bathroom for more than two weeks carefully painting words of inspiration like compassion, responsibility, peacefulness, equality, generosity and cooperation.  And, in spite of all efforts to silence the masses, there were so many questions and comments.
 
The first question most people asked was, "Are you an artist?"  Nobody really seemed to believe that what I did could really be a real job.  Most thought it was very cool to do.  And, after it was established that I really was an artist, there was great debate that continued the entire time I painted whether I really was allowed to paint on the walls.  That was simply inconceivable.
 
The mural had around forty words and most of them were new vocabulary for the students.  And, it was fun to explain them to kids.  The ones who spoke to me most often were too small to even read the words.  However, they weren't the only ones learning new words in this process.  I learned a new word myself.  The older kids in school didn't talk to me as much.  They didn't ask as many questions.  But, they admired quality work when they saw it and I heard on multiple occasions that I was "beasty". 
 
To be very honest, I didn't know what it meant at first.  I could see it as a term for a grumpy person who acted like a beast to them.  But, I hadn't really done that.  I ended up asking the school counselor for the definition.  I was assured that it meant I had done something extremely well.
 
So now, you also know  I am beasty.
 
There were other questions.  Fortunately, the weather in Ohio was still warm and I wore sandals some days.  Unfortunately, there was no scaffolding, so I had to climb around on a reading table.  Watching a huge white man climb around on top of a table was already a new experience for the little ones.  None of them were certainly allowed to do that.  But, this guy didn't have any shoes or socks on.  That needed an explanation.  It made perfect sense when I said that I was much more likely to trip on a table while wearing sandals.  I was much more secure with bare feet and I really didn't want to fall.  Okay, it all made sense, but it still must have been an unusual sight.
 
Now, my favorite question only came once, but it might have been thought a few times.  The little girl must not have ever painted.  I guess she knew nothing about splattering paint on shirts.  She didn't understand that no matter how carefully I worked, paint always ended up on my pants.  Always.  She knew none of that.  She just watched me paint day after day after day.  And then, one day, she had to ask, "Do you have any nice clothes?"
 
I guess not.

I discovered water bearers in Morocco long before I ever found them in other parts of the Arab world.  I don't recall if local people ever drank the water in Morocco.  They probably did, but I certainly didn't.  I wanted my water clean and my water vessel even cleaner.  There were no guarantees for either in Casablanca.  Seriously, how can you ever make a goat skin clean enough to drink from?
 
Water wasn't the traditional drink that was served to guests in Morocco.  That was mint tea.  And, there were special ways to prepare it as well.  Most tea pots were about the size of a grapefruit.  The amount of sugar used was about the size of an orange.  Yep, there was no denying it.  Moroccan mint tea was sweet. 
 
I taught at an international school in Casablanca for two years.  Towards the end of my Moroccan experience, my school had a cultural festival that included the making of mint tea.  In addition to all that sugar, a large bunch of fresh mint as well as ground tea leaves were steeped together in hot water.  Now, back home, after very little steeping, I'm good to gulp.  Not so in Morocco.  The tea must be poured into the special tea glasses from at least a foot above.  You actually start with the spout right at the glass' lip and then raise the tea pot while pouring.  Yes, it takes a little practice.  But, it didn't take me that long to learn.  Then, the tea was poured into the tea pot and the process was repeated.  I was assured that the aeration made the tea taste better.

I never believed it.
 

 
My biggest shock was that after two years, some of the teachers at my school were surprised by the process of making tea.  It was their first time to witness it.  I could not -- and still can't -- figure out how you could be in Morocco for two years and never once get served tea.   It was an everyday experience for me.  But unlike most foreigners I knew, I had two Moroccan families and a whole lot of tea.
 
On my second week in Casablanca, I needed a little help at a shoe repair shop to fix my briefcase.  Someone from my school made a map for me.  I “followed” as best as I could, but I became completely lost.  Fortunately, I wandered up to a shoe repair shop that was not much larger than a bathroom.

That’s when I kind of panicked.  I couldn’t speak a word of Arabic.  I could barely speak any French.  How in the world was I supposed to tell the shoe repairman what I needed?  I stood there speechless.

Mohamed looked up at me and said, “I speak English.  What do you need?”

He fixed my briefcase for free.  Then, he closed up the shop so he could give me a walking tour of the city.  That brought me to the oldest part of the city, the medina, with its narrow winding streets and crowds of Arabic speakers.  Mohamed directed me up a dark hallway to the apartment he shared with his parents, two brothers and two sisters. 

For a brief moment, I thought about not going up those stairs.  Anything could have happened.  What did happen was never expected.  I met this Moroccan family who became my family from that very first day.  Only Mohamed and his brother Abdelhadi spoke English.  All the others spoke Arabic or French.  It didn’t matter.  They were family.  Whenever there was a Moroccan celebration, I was not invited to their home.  I was expected.  I had a Moroccan experience like nobody else I ever met and a whole lot of mint tea.

My apartment in Casablanca was a tiny studio that was actually a larger apartment split in two.  One half was my home.  The other half was a guest living room and play area for my landlord and his family who lived on the floor above me.  There was one entrance to this flat.  Go forward to the family section or take a left turn to my place.  The kids were in their play area a lot.  It wasn't hard at all to get drawn into the lives of my second Moroccan family as well.
 
If I was home sick when I should have been at work, everyone knew about it.  Sick people were served tea.  Healthy people were served tea.  Breathing people were served tea.  Everyone was served tea.  And, "tea" in Morocco was much more than a brown liquid with too much sugar.  "Tea" included oranges, figs, dates, nuts, cake, cookies, pancakes and leftovers from the previous meal.  After tea, I never needed to eat anything else the rest of the day.
 
One time I got a cold from Abdelhadi.  As I was in decline, he perked up and said, "Does this mean that I am contagious?"  I don't think I shared his joy in using a new vocabulary word.   As it turned out, things went from bad to worse with the cold.  I missed three and a half days of school.  I had fever, headache, body aches and my landlord's family.  There is nothing quite like Moroccan mothering.  It goes way beyond anything expected.  But, sometimes I wondered how I got any sleep. 
 
The first day that they noticed that I was sick, they came to my room to check on me.  By "they" I mean my landlord, his wife, all four children and anyone else who might have been in their apartment.  None of them spoke any English.  They brought me orange juice.  Later, breakfast.  Again, lunch.  And, coffee in the afternoon.  They brought me supper and even cleaned the whole apartment.  Yes, it was a mess, but I was sick!  They picked up my clothes, washed all the dishes and even mopped the floor.   They were simply amazing.  They took care of me the whole time I was sick (but I made sure the apartment only needed cleaning the one time).  

The worst part of the sickness was that I had a headache that just didn't seem to want to end.  Aspirin didn't help.  Finally, Abdelhadi decided that it was time for a Moroccan treatment.  He brought the goodies to the landlord's wife and she prepared the treatment.  The "goodies" were a mystery herb that looked sort of like parsley, a few onions, cloves and vinegar.  These were ground in a mortar to make a sort of paste.  What did they do with the paste?  Well, they wrapped it in a cloth around my head and left it on for the night.  It smelled awful.  While applying it, my landlady dribbled the green stuff all over me.  I mumbled, a combination blessing and insult in Arabic.  It was so unexpected that if fueled a whole lot of laughter for several days.
 
So, I experienced this very unusual treatment but I don't really know if it worked.  By the time I got pasted and wrapped, I was nearly recovered.  However, it really was a Moroccan experience not to be missed.  Besides, I'm not sure I would have been allowed to say no anyway.

If you are old enough, the idea of vacationing in Vietnam is simply inconceivable.  It would be like taking a fun-filled trip to Afghanistan or Iraq today.  But, times have changed.  Most of the present population in Vietnam was born after the war.  They may have heard stories about the war from their parents and grandparents, but tourists -- and Americans -- are welcomed with open arms.
 
So, I found myself in the Mekong Delta.
 
That destination stirs up all kinds of memories from news stories about the war.  Everyone knows it was a hotbed for war stories.  And, as I walked through the jungle trail in the delta, I knew my experience was nothing like what anyone once faced during the Vietnam War.  I walked on an elevated surface, high above the muck and mire of a swamp that soldiers of both sides faced.  I knew right away that if I had been old enough to go to Vietnam during the war, I most likely would not have survived the delta and its jungle.

I try to avoid tours whenever possible, and it is usually possible.  However, I took a tour of the Mekong Delta.  It made it so much easier to see so many things I could not have managed on my own, with or without fifteen other foreigners.  I enjoyed a boat trip around the Mekong River.  We stopped at rice terraces to witness some really hot and hard work.  There was that jungle trek, some souvenir shops, and one very unusual snake market.  There were live snakes, bottled snakes in some kind of alcohol and one man "fished" through a container of what hopefully was dead snakes.  I wasn't completely certain they were all dead and I would never put my hand in there under any circumstances.  What can you do with a dead snake?  Of course, what can you do with a live snake either?

As always, the best part of any visit to any country is not the markets, or tours, or the dead snakes you might come upon.  It is always the people.  The Vietnamese people were so gracious and friendly everywhere I went.  It didn't matter if they were bicycle taxi drivers, waiters, rice field laborers, snake dealers, merchants, neighbors on the porch or this very friendly old Buddhist who I passed by in the marketplace.  Everyone I met made me very welcome in their country.

My most unusual experience in Vietnam was probably at the Cu Chi Tunnels.  The tunnels, more than 100 miles of them, were built by the communists so they could travel and live completely hidden underground.  My guide through a portion of the tunnels was the son of a Viet Cong soldier.  Yes, the world had changed.

The original entrance to the tunnels I visited was tiny, built for a population much smaller than the average tourist.   Fortunately, there was an additional entrance for tourists.  Once inside the tunnels, it was cramped and hot.  It was hard to believe that they had been enlarged for tourists.   In some areas I could crawl on all fours.  Other sections didn't provide that luxury.  It required belly crawling.  I ventured down to the second level beneath the surface.  Even if I were allowed, I would not have opted to go down to the third level. 
 
Some things never change no matter where I travel.  If it is hot, I am a sweltering, wet mess worse than anyone else.  It was no different at the Cu Chi tunnels.  I was absolutely and completely drenched.  But somehow, my guide didn't have a drop of perspiration on him. 
 
It just wasn't fair.

I stay away from motorcycles. 

Yes, I know I rode motorcycle taxis on my most recent journey to Liberia.  However, as a general rule, I stay away -- and off -- of them.  I certainly will not drive one by choice.   I can give you several reasons why.

I was a Peace Corps Volunteer back in the days when volunteers were given motorcycles.  That doesn't happen anymore and I understand that completely.  I am part of the reason for that policy.  Yes, I am the first to admit that I was not a good driver.  Combine that with Liberia's awful roads, and it was a recipe for a muddy or dusty disaster. 

On one occasion, I headed off to a nearby village just outside of Zwedru to see a Liberian friend.  Somewhere between Zleitown and me was a massive mud hole.  It was more like a trench.  I noticed it about the time my front wheel went in the hole and I flew over the handlebars.  Who knew motorcycles could cartwheel?  Who knew I could fly?

I could have broken something.  I should have broken something.  Instead, I had a rather nasty gash on my right elbow.  And, when you have a nasty gash, you also have a lot of blood.  I had to make a quick decision.  Should I return to Zwedru to a hospital that I really didn't trust or go on to Tappita to the Catholic mission?  I turned to God.  It may or may not have been the best decision in this case.  The nuns cleaned the gash but it really needed stitches.  I didn't get any but I did get a really nasty scar as a souvenir.  However, the best part of the whole situation was getting through the numerous police checkpoints along the road.  Usually, always, they were a troublesome annoyance.  But, no policeman wanted to delay a bleeding white man on the way to medical treatment.  It was the fastest I ever got through police checkpoints on my own.

As bad as that was, it wasn't my worst Liberian motorcycle experience.  That happened just a month before departing the Peace Corps.  I was in Zwedru when I heard an airplane approaching the air field.  That meant mail!  So, I hopped on my motorcycle and made a beeline to the airport.  It was a straight line and, yes, I was going faster than I should have.  I was going too fast to really swerve out of the way of the truck that ran a stop sign and turned right into me.

I went bouncing on one of the few paved roads in the country.

Peace Corps had a strict rule about wearing helmets.  I had my helmet on.  There were not so many rules about shorts and flip flops.  As I bounced along that pavement, I scraped a lot of things including feet, elbows, knees, hip and a long strip along my back.  But, I got up to walk away from it.  Again, lots of things could have and should have been broken.  The motorcycle was in much worse shape than me.  Once again, I give a lot of credit to my guardian angel. 

Sad to say, my motorcycle stories continued after Peace Corps days.  And, one of my more memorable rides took place in the mountain resort of Dalat, Vietnam.  This area was not damaged during the long war because both North and South Vietnamese officers had their private villas there.  Anyway, in one very charming restaurant, my path crossed with a delightful waiter who was thrilled to practice his English.  In fact, Chung took the following day off of work to show three foreigners all the sites that could be seen on two motorcycles.

My two previous accidents in Africa happened really quickly.  There was no real warning.  On this particular day, as I clung on from the passenger spot for dear life, I just knew an accident was going to happen.  Both of the drivers were madmen behind the wheels and I knew first-hand that there wasn't much protection between the wheel and me. 

In the process, Chung took us to places that we never would have found on our own.  The most serene spot was of the Buddha statue in the photo below.  The most charming location was a Buddhist complex with a whole lot of novice boys wearing woolen caps.  It's a mystery to me how or why anyone in tropical weather wears woolen caps.  I see it all over the world.  But, the bigger surprise was when the caps came off.  The novices had long locks of hair growing above their foreheads, but the rest of their heads were completely shaved.  It's a style I'd never seen anywhere else in all of my travels.

Then, the wild ride continued.  I managed to hop off the motorcycle before my driver completely spun out of control at one turn.  I cut my palms a little.  The driver banged and bruised a little more than that.  Enough with the stupidity already.  No need to challenge the dedication of my guardian angel any longer.  Although I may be a slow learner, I think experience has taught me to limit my time on two wheels to a bicycle.