Stamped Magazine Fall 2015

STAMPED PENN’S TRAVEL MAGAZINE | FALL 2015

CLASSIC CUBA

Photo essay on the old and the new

AMERICANIZED CUISINE ...But nothing’s better than the real thing

AFTER the QUAKE

A student’s first-hand account of the Nepal earthquake

WHO I AM IS

CONTEXTUAL A shift in identity from America to Sevilla

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Letter from the Editor

If the water were any colder, we wouldn’t have been able to laugh through our clenched jaws and chattering teeth. We jumped around splashing and screaming, tossing a Go Pro back and forth after throwing on our bathing suits and sprinting down the shores.

After tromping around the Grand Canyon all morning, we were on the way to our next campsite and really didn’t have time for a detour. We’d seen a sign for something called Lone Rock, turned around, and drove back to where a long, empty road began with the windows rolled down and a whole lot of Utah all around. It was a cold, grey day in May, maybe two other cars and one family in an RV, and no one even close to the water. The only thing hiding us from the highway was space, and a distant rim of mountains circled our little pocket while hugging the air. We were at Lake Powell, but we’d never heard of it before and figured we found a secret.

In this instance, it was me who pushed us to waste time going swimming. For whatever reason, I felt up to it. Kate told me that two weeks before, she’d been the one who convinced her friends to jump in a cold stream while hiking. I started thinking about my own irrelevance, about the fluidity of emotions and the healthiness of understanding that in any relationship, the roles should not be fixed.

I had the fortune of taking two cross-country road trips this summer, from my home on the Alabama Gulf Coast to my job in California and back. I felt further blessed by the accompaniment of two of my closest friends, one on each trip, and the wisdom I gleaned from spending so much uninterrupted time with another person. I was reminded to focus on the largeness of small things,

EXECUTIVE BOARD

EDITORS

Editor-in-Chief: Virginia Walcott April Chen Managing Editor: Vera Kirilov Amanda Geiser Marketing Director: Michelle Riband Riane Puno Photo Editor: Garett Nelson Advertising Director: Yasmin Meleis Digital Media Director: Emma Soren Creative Director: Virginia Walcott

WRITERS

like spending 14-hour days in the car and letting Casey make me laugh until I cried instead of wallowing in my sleep-deprived discomfort. I existed outside myself in order to be filled with something new, from someone else.

To be everything at once is unrealistic, but often expected. We find balance in our lives and complete our “everything” from the people we choose to surround ourselves with, and there are moments where we push and moments where we are pulled.

When we talk about lessons we learn from traveling, they’re often things we want to make normal in our everyday lives. Our magazine’s mission has always been to make travel accessible, and learning how your role can shift is a lesson transferrable to the most sedentary periods of life.

In this issue, we talk about the contextual fluidity of personal identity, what it means to be a short-term volunteer in a faraway place, and how Disney represented a student’s hometown of McFarland, California. Our personalities are tested and revealed in certain contexts more than others, and our experiences away from home bear a lot of meaning on our return. We are privileged as young people and as students to have a network with which we can share these stories, and I am proud to have Stamped as a way to fill this niche.

Thanks for reading!

Virginia Walcott Editor-in-Chief

PHOTO

DESIGN

MARKETING

Madison Bell-Rosof Isabel Zapata Zac Goldstein Tshay Williams Flora Carneiro Madoka Amari Haina Pattaramalai Riane Puno Justin Estreicher Kanako Tajima Emma Soren Erin Kennedy Zac Goldstein Garett Nelson Michelle Lyu Kiara Hernandez Sanna Johnson Stella Lemper-Tabatsky James Meadows special thanks to Kelly Writers’ House Marie McFalls for their guidance and support Jordyn Myers Alix Steerman

WDEOH of contents

South Beach for Cheap..............................................................................................................................................................................6 Exploring Miami on a budget Chai Life...............................................................................................................................................................................................................8 Reflecting on the Indian tradition Brasilia, a poem................................................................................................................................................................................................9 Written by Flora Carneiro, a French-Portuguese exchange student Americanized Cuisine...............................................................................................................................................................................10 Weighing in on how the real thing compares Giant Lessons in a Far-off Place.........................................................................................................................................................12 Living and learning in an elephant sanctuary The Ocular Lens..........................................................................................................................................................................................15 Witnessing and remembering without a camera Who I Am is Contextual........................................................................................................................................................................16 To be ajena in a foreign place Classic Cuba...................................................................................................................................................................................................18 Photo essay on the old and the new Big Screen, Real Life...................................................................................................................................................................................20 Mcfarlald, USA: Disney’s story, a student’s hometown After the Quake...........................................................................................................................................................................................22 Switching from travelever to helper in the wake of the Nepal earthquake The Dirt Road Less Traveled................................................................................................................................................................25 A summer of conservation on Martha’s Vineyard Getting Lost on Purpose........................................................................................................................................................................27 Put down the phone and go Aridity is not the Absense of Life.....................................................................................................................................................28 Photo essay on Joshua Tree National Park Tear-out Poster.............................................................................................................................................................................................31 See the States! stampedmag.com

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south beach

for cheap

by Marie McFalls Philadelphia, PA

illustrations by Virginia Walcott

Although Will Smith’s 1997 hit “Miami” embellishes the “Magic City” a bit, it is a must-see for any traveler. Lines like “Cause you gotta have cheese for the summerhouse piece on South Beach / Water so clear, you can see to the bottom / Hundred-thousand dollar cars, e’ybody got em” only slightly exaggerate the highly evident wealth of Miami; however, enjoying the luxury of South Beach doesn’t have to mean shelling out the cash for a Ferrari of your own.

where to eat Latino culture permeates nearly every aspect of the city, especially through its cuisine. Spots such as Puerto Sagua offer authentic cubanos (toasted ham, roasted pork, Swiss cheese, and pickle sandwich), ropa vieja (stewed beef ), and empanadas (stuffed pastries). Also check out Las Olas Café for a cortadito (Cuban espresso shot topped with steamed milk) and guava pastelito (pastry filled with guava). If you’re in it purely for the people watching, check out the News Café, the locale favored by the late Gianni Versace for reading the daily paper.

where to sleep For the frugal among us, you’ll want to look into Brickell for lodging. Although it’s the city’s financial district, Brickell is close enough to enjoy the culture of South Beach at a fraction of the price.

Check out Hotel Urbano ($140 a night) for expansive views and funky art, or YVE Miami ($100) for a sleeker, more modern experience. You can also take part in the scene at some of the landmark hotels, such as The Fontainebleau (a cool $280), by visiting its restaurants. SOLO offers delicious, albeit slightly overpriced, pastries and chocolate (try the strawberry champagne flavor).

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where to drink For cocktails, try the Broken Shaker at the Freehand Hostel ($170), which was recently named the number 14 bar in the world. Known for its imaginative drinks (think homemade bitters, local tangerines, rosemary & thyme) and hipster staff, it’s definitely worth a visit.

where to (window) shop To continue brushing shoulders with Miami’s high society, browse The Alchemist. Located on the fifth floor of a car park, this impossibly cool boutique carries labels such as Isabel Marant and Dries Van Noten. As owner Rona Cohen sums up the boutique’s aesthetic, “We thought it would be crazy to do it, crazy not to do it.” In actuality, the only craziness would be would be dropping four figures on a skirt while you’re trying to do Miami on a budget. But alas — there’s no harm in looking.

where to look For more culture, the Bass Museum of Art hosts modern art exhibitions unlike anything else. In 2016, the museum will feature a show entitled “Art & Sole: Fantasy Shoes from the Jane Gershom Weitzman Collection,” featuring footwear made from materials such as corrugated cardboard, Plexiglas, and cake frosting. The museum also puts on inventive performances — such as one exploring the “classical Roman and Greek accounts of southern Africa and modern activists’ dreams of the pre- and post-apartheid black African utopia.”

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I woke up to the 108 °F sweltering Indian sun. My friends and I had just spent the night sleeping on the roof of our new village home in Kotri, Rajasthan, India because we had heard that sleeping outside helped keep the locals cool. Off in the distance, we could hear the chanting of the Hindu prayers, which signaled to us that the day had commenced. We decided to eat a quick breakfast of fresh mango and sweet lassi to ensure that each of us would not be late to our first days of work. As I walked to my first day of teaching at the Kotri Public School, I made sure to take in all of my new surroundings. I had never seen a place with such effortless beauty. The houses were quaint, colorful saris draped their hanging lines, coating the village with color.

As we got closer I became nervous. I was unsure of the conditions of the public school system in India and I feared being unable to communicate with my students.

I was welcomed with excitement, but quickly noticed that all of the children were huddled around one textbook. It was brought to my attention that they had been in school for over a month without a teacher. I felt immense pressure, but the day progressed easily. My students were eager to learn and had a vast wealth of knowledge. I put practice algebra problems on the board and the kids actively participated in solving them. At the end of my first day, a boy from my 8th grade class approached me and told me he wanted to

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show me his home. With great intrigue, I followed him to his roofless house. When we arrived, I sat quietly with 2 friends on the concrete floor of their home while listening to a woman, who appeared to be his mother, speak avidly to the family in a dialect of Hindi. Immediately, her eldest son started milking their goat and her husband began lighting a fire for the stove.

I was confused about the events that were unfolding before my eyes, but since this was my first adventure out into the village I knew that much of what I would experience would seem foreign to me. Within seconds, a tantalizing scent of mixed spices, including the pungent smell of cardamom, permeated throughout the room. In a tin cup -- practically the size of a bowl -- his mother handed me my first traditional Indian masala chai (tea). I said “dhanyavad” (thank you) while staring at the caramel colored liquid and took a sip. I let the spices linger on my taste buds -- savoring each of the flavorful notes.

From that moment forward I was welcomed into the world of chai. I learned that chai was not only a tasty treat used to punctuate the end of a meal, but also a social commodity. Although I could barely speak any Hindi during my first few days in India, my interaction with chai created interactions that helped bridge the language barrier and promoted experiences that would have otherwise been near impossible. Each day was personalized and heightened with a new chai story. I drank chai at the dukan (shop) on the street corner and engaged in conversation with locals about their businesses. I drank chai with the village goat herders before they embarked on their day-long journey out into the grazing fields. I drank chai because chai was the glue that kept our separate spheres united.

It is a simple drink, only: milk, masala chai, and sugar. However, its effects are far greater than any other refreshment. I remember sitting down for a traditional dinner in one of the village homes that I had frequented for “chat and chai” -- the best social drinking experience (yes, better than alcohol) -- and feeling like a part of their family. I remember being invited back to the sweets maker’s home to cook “lapsi” because he had enjoyed the time we spent talking over chai. Without chai and the experiences that accompanied its consumption, a vast majority of the opportunities I gained from my month in India would have never come about.

poem and photo by Flora Carneiro French- Portuguese Exchange Student

Americanized Cuisine photos by Kanako Tajima and Isabel Zapata

Stamped staff weighs in on favorite foreign foods and their flawed American counterparts.

SARAH WITT on CROISSANTS Exchange student Spring ‘14, Paris, France I must admit that I was surprised by something during my stay in Philadelphia: the US croissants. In France, this buttery pastry is a morning staple, always simply made with just butter, milk, sugar, and flour, and costs less than one euro. In the states, however, I discovered a completely new type of croissant. Although the pastries were labeled “French croissants,” they were always filled with more ingredients, such as chocolate, jam, or even peanut butter.

For French people, finding extra filling in one of our country’s most renowned baked goods amounts to no less than a culinary sin. Perhaps, though, these two styles of preparing the breakfast treat represent greater cultural differences between our two countries: one that is more classic and the other that is more creative.

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ZAC GOLDSTEIN on HUMMUS

HAINA PATTARAMALAI on TOM YUM SOUP

MICHELLE RIBAND on SWISS CHEESE

West Palm Beach, FL

Bangkok. Thailand

Lutry, Switzerland

Although you might not know it, Sabra hummus is not the only (or the best) choice out there. There are more brands than you can count, but none of them live up to the creamy, smooth goodness that is Israeli hummus. The main difference between the good stuff and the rest is freshness. In Israel, hummus is made in-house and served with olive oil and sometimes a little paprika.

It’s also put in everything from shwarma pitas to schnitzel laffas. Nothing compares to sitting on Jaffa street in Jerusalem and eating hummus and warm pita. Especially not hummus from a contatiner.

Believe it or not, if you ask local Thais to name their top ten favorite Thai dishes, Pad Thai would not even make the cut.

Although popularized in the US, real Thais are generally inclined towards a spicier and more sour palate. One dish that epitomizes this combination of flavors is Tom Yum Soup, also known in America as “Lemongrass Soup”. (Generally, my rule of thumb is that if the restaurant calls it “Lemongrass Soup,” the hope of the food tasting authentic is bleak). Real Tom Yum, found in restaurants, homes and on the streets of Bangkok, is red, tangy and burning hot.

Various herbs and spices like kaffir lime leaves, lemongrass, tamarind, galangal, lime juice and crushed chili peppers typically flavor the broth. You can also ask for Tom Yum Nam Khon if you want coconut milk and flesh to be added for an extra creamy taste. Typically served in a large, metallic hot pot with a flaming chimney in the middle, the soup is commonly made with prawn, as seafood is cheap and accessible in Thailand. In contrast, lemongrass soup found in much of the United States is bland, brown and quite unfortunate when compared to its richly flavorful Thai counterpart.

The first time I went to a deli in the U.S., the server asked if I wanted “Swiss cheese” with my sandwich. I stared at him, perplexed. Of course I wanted Swiss cheese, but what kind? Switzerland has over 450 varieties of cheese that are all, by definition, Swiss--my favorites are Tomme and Gruyère. Meanwhile, American “Swiss cheese” is actually produced in the U.S. and is a rubbery, bland replica of Emmental from the German-speaking region of Switzerland. Cheese producers high in the Alps or rolling Swiss countryside would be disappointed to know that thousands of Americans are mistaking “Swiss cheese” for real Swiss cheese. As smart consumers, you should know that this generic product name is just another ploy to fake authenticity.

But, now you know the truth! So, next time you visit FroGro or order a sub, just remember that while American “Swiss cheese” is tasty in its own way, it is not comparable to the hundreds of delicious varieties of true Swiss cheese.

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Giant

photos by Stella Lemper-Tabatsky and Haina Pattaramalai

Lessons

in a Far-Off Place

by Stella Lemper-Tabatsky New York, NY

Navigating the complexities and rewards of short-term “voluntourism” in Thailand.

Gentle giants, stoic beauties, silent fighters. All descriptions I had previously heard and associated with elephants. In the U.S., elephants are most commonly seen in zoos and circuses, regarded with excitement and awe and novelty, clearly out of place in their surroundings and therefore a fascinating spectacle.

Upon my decision to devote my post-freshman year summer to volunteer work, and hopefully an adventure abroad, elephants were an abstract possibility in my head as far off and obscure as working in the circus. After an incredible yet profoundly overwhelming freshman year,

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I felt the intense need to escape, regroup, and seek growth on my own. This did not come without a struggle of feeling inadequate within the Penn bubble, as I sought a very different path from the corporate internship route we all feel pressure to follow. I had engaged in volunteer work all my life, mainly in my neighborhood and school, and I felt compelled suddenly to pursue this path as a means of experiencing the world beyond where I had been before — to seek some perspective on the confusing and chaotic experience I had during my first year at Penn and at home.

After many thwarted attempts to convince

my parents to let me live and teach English alone in a Buddhist monastery in the Nepalese Himalayas, I went back to the drawing board to search for a group-style trip that would allow me to travel while leaving my folks’ minds at least somewhat at ease. It was through this incomprehensibly random and serendipitous sequence of key-strokes and Google searches that I came to plan my journey to Thailand and, more specifically, to the Elephant Nature Park.

Nestled outside of Chiang Mai, northern Thailand’s up-and-coming hippie backpacker haven, Elephant Nature Park

is among a unique and small selection of elephant sanctuaries. Amid a culture where elephants are of utmost value and sanctity, they are routinely and severely abused and mistreated as a product of the tourism industry. The practice of riding elephants, as is fortunately now becoming more publicized, is terribly abusive and harmful. Elephants have had enormous intrinsic importance in Thai culture for most of the country’s history, playing large spiritual roles — appearing in many Buddhist symbols and dominating temple imagery — as well as being essential to the physical creation of much of the nation’s infrastructure and architecture.

Since realizing the immense amount of capital that could come from selling the “Elephant Experience” to tourists, these creatures’ treatment in a place that valued them so much has plummeted. Elephant rides are now sold to tourists left and right, leaving the animals with broken backs from saddles, blinded from the brutal training process, and emotionally battered from being forced into complete submission and endless hours of work.

Because cultural experience has become a commodity in the modern tourism market, the need for the money elephant riding brings in continues to win out over all humane considerations. Tourism is a driving force of many Thai people’s incomes, but it is necessary to explain its faults in order to appreciate the heroism of the organizations that choose to be different.

Piled into an overheated, rickety van for the two hour drive from where we had just finished a four-day trek in the northern region of Pai, my group members and I shared our anticipation and excitement about coming into contact with elephants for the first time. I realized as we turned onto the winding road lined with signs beckoning us to “Ride an Elephant!” and “Experience a Day with Thai Elephants!” that I had never seen an elephant up close, or really ever for that matter. Driving past the Elephant

Nature Park sign, we looked out of the car windows and were instantly confronted with one of the most awe-inducing, peaceful, yet slightly terrifying sights I had ever beheld. Elephants calmly grazed in the tall grass, every so often interacting with one another or taking a break to roll in the cool mud — a relief we wished we could share in the sweltering heat of Thailand’s wet season. Upon meeting our volunteer coordinator, the spunky and social media-savvy Apple, we were educated in more depth on the philosophy and practices of Elephant Nature Park.

ENP, an elephant rescue and rehabilitation center, provides refuge to elephants previously wounded from being ridden, working in logging, and suffering abuse by their owners. They live freely as they please within the grounds of ENP — a true miracle for most, as they would have little to no chance of surviving on their own in the wild. There is a certain special energy to the place, buzzing with constant activity, people shuffling through the all-vegetarian cafeteria, dogs running around unleashed and joyous, and a seemingly perpetual ring of laughter floating over this parallel universe of harmony and genuine care. ENP hosts oneday visits for tourists, where they have the opportunity to be escorted around the grounds with a mahout — the men who work closest to the elephants and with whom they often share loving bonds — and even engage in a guided elephant bathing experience, flinging buckets of water onto their large, sweeping backs to help the blind and disabled ones clean off after long days in the dirt. Volunteers are accepted for more long-term stays, engaging in various tasks around the park to help staff with their heavy-lifting jobs and farm labor and gaining invaluable knowledge about the logistics of creating and running their facility.

I have found it difficult to articulate, since coming back, the experience I had at ENP. Through working in the elephant kitchen, shoveling heaps of poop into

pickup trucks, and planting and cutting grass under the relentless sun, I gained a sense of fulfillment and gratitude that truly consumed me, but at the same time I could not seem to avoid a looming feeling of emptiness.

In recent years, “voluntourism” has emerged as a growing trend in the travel industry — one most people do not realize is inherently destructive to the communities it seeks to help. Voluntourism is defined as “a form of tourism in which travelers participate in voluntary work,” which sounds as if it should be nothing but beneficial to the world.

The problems often arise, however, when these volunteer endeavors are so short-term and temporary that the only people who truly gain from them are the tourists themselves — and the travel companies who sent them for a handsome commission. Short-term voluntourism can be irreversibly damaging to local communities and wildlife, as untrained volunteers often complete tasks incorrectly, which later have to be redone at the expense of local workers. In other instances, tourists and local people can form emotional

14 STAMPED // Fall 2015

attachments, only for the volunteers to depart— sometimes abruptly at that.

These negative connotations surrounding short-term volunteering never ceased to haunt me during my time at ENP, constantly forcing me to question if what I was doing was having any positive impact, or if I was there out of a solely selfish desire to feel like I was giving back and relieve my inescapable guilt about the fortunate life I have been lucky to lead.

My worries about not leaving a lasting impression were, at least temporarily, appeased by our time working on the farm. The intensity and immediacy of that close and tangible interaction with the Earth was the first time in my life I felt truly useful and productive. Being able to see and feel my labor right in front of my eyes, as I pulled back mounds of soil and sliced tall stalks of grass with the sharp flick of my rusty scythe, all for the purpose of filling the elephants’ food troughs later that day, was an experience so cathartic and beautiful and unlike anything I had ever felt before. At that moment, I knew I was there for a greater purpose than quelling my own privilege-induced guilt. No

matter how many people pass through and how many pounds of grass the elephants consume, those few that I cut were significant and concrete and part of a larger goal. Through those realizations, I came to conclude that it wasn’t about me at all, but about the ability to be part of a wonderful and honorable mission to better the lives of innocent and mistreated creatures.

As much as many short-term volunteer efforts are harmful and self-serving, it is possible to navigate the circumstances to achieve a positive journey by combining small efforts for the greater picture — by treating the experience not as a means of verifying our own individual needs to feel like good people, but out of a curiosity and a love for this special world and the strange, intense, and amazing human experience we are so lucky to take part in. It is very easy to forget these sentiments, succumbing to the emotional stress and daily grind of life at Penn, but remembering the gentle giants that taught me so much steadfastly grounds me and reminds me that while I may not matter much at all in the context of this vast world, the things I choose to contribute to certainly do.

the ocular lens article and photo by Justin Estreicher Dix Hills, NY In a haste to document everything, sometimes the camera gets in the way.

In the film Up in the Air, George Clooney’s character is a part-time motivational speaker who holds up his rootless, globetrottingg existence as the model d of a life u unburdened by commitments. In one scene that resonates with me, this character stands before a conference room full of people and tells them, “Photos are for people who can’t remember. Drink some ginkgo and let the photos burn.” Now, I won’t tell you that there is never a good time to take photos. All I will say is that there is a limit to what you can see through a camera lens. It pays to stop, look up, and let the moment be an experience.

Far too often while traveling, I’ve caught myself snapping too many photographs.

When you are in an amazing place, it can be hard not to go overboard with the picture-taking. Maybe it’s a compulsion to prove to others what we have seen, or perhaps a lack of faith in our own ability to recall our happiest days once several years have passed, but there is something that makes us feel that each moment must be documented on film or a memory card. It is possible that, without photos, we won’t remember exactly what we have seen, and we won’t have “evidence” for our friends, but I would like to believe that we can never forget how truly incredible places make us feel feel. In the end end, isn’t that why we travel—to be moved by things we cannot see at home?

This past summer, I had the exceptional pleasure of traveling to Southern Africa for a safari. The stunning wildlife would often pass by in an instant, and no one wants to

miss an elephant or leopard sighting for the world. The trouble for me, though, was that it wasn’t just my eyes that I had poised for u v up ; I always w y seemed d to unbelievable surprises; have my camera in hand, too.

Though I tried to strike a satisfying

balance between physical and mental picture taking, I quickly found myself feeling the all-too-familiar photo overload.

Interestingly I discovered that some of Interestingly, the animals did not simply dart by, but rather seemed to pose perfectly for photographing.

As it turned out, the one thing I could absolutely count on going by quickly was the sunset. Every afternoon, just as day became night, the Southern African sky put on some

of the most beautiful shows of light and color that I will surely ever see. But there is no real twilight in that area of the world; the u plummets pu w the horizon w sun below with a rayo pidity you wouldn’t believe until you’ve seen it, making this gorgeous time of d day a mad dash for any eager photographer. I ended up taking numerous sunset photos, adding a few more to my collection almost ev every day. I thought some of them were quite nice, but n a sinafter a while, I realized that not gle shot I’d captured—not even the best—could do justice to what I was seeing.

It was when I set down my camera, whet whether I was satisfied with my photos or not, th that I discovered that the true witne joy in witnessing the fleeting sun sunset was simply watc watching the golden disk of light o disappear over the brush-cover dunes brush-covered or the wate waters of the Th Zambezi. That was Th was a a feeling. That genuine exper experience. It esc could have escaped me entirely if I’d ke kept looking at the world through mechanized eyes, bu but instead, I let my mind take its own pictures—a patchwork of im images and fo the rest emotions that I will carry for of my life.

In the age of the smartphone, a camera is available at all times, propagating the myth that this technology is the key to p preserving come In realour experiences for years to come. that— that ity, all we’ve ever needed for that—all right are our own ever could do the job right—are eyes. Whether you are in an off-road vehicle bouncing through the bush in Botswana or are simply strolling down city streets, you will never find a better tool for drinking in all that this life has to offer. stampedmag.com

15

WHO I AM IS Reflections on “ajena� from America to Sevilla.

It has been terrifying to consider the cruel thought that maybe, without the oppressive and toxic social systems of the United States, I do not know how to be.

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In Spanish, the word ajeno/a means something that is someone else’s; it does not belong or pertain to you; foreign. As a woman of color in the US, I have had a 20-year intensive course on what my country does and does not ascribe to me. It’s an education that has, for better or for worse, made me hyper-aware of myself and the effect my presence has on my surroundings.

It’s a performance I must unwillingly give everyday, a show with very detailed cues and blocking. I know that when I walk into the recitation for my political science class, I won’t immediately be viewed as an intellectual contender. Knowing this — when I feel like it — I lean in a little with my knees apart and my shoulders relaxed. I look directly at the person who just spoke and respond to what they said as if the conversation is between only the two of us. When I’m about to finish speaking, I lean out again, addressing the entire room. It’s a technique I learned from those law school-bound white boys with their feet on the table. I know that when I do this, I can pull the attention of most of the people in the room, even when I’m saying absolutely nothing of value. Seeing a young black woman look at ease, exuding a kind of confidence that is generally restricted to men, is surprising enough to shock a classroom into captive listening.

Some days I feel up to playing this game, which is in and of itself a highly problematic borrowing of power. What I mean by this is that when I’m truly comfortable in an intellectual setting, I take my shoes off, tuck one foot under one leg, and put my chin in my hands. The stance I take to be respected is not me — it is a version of me that knows how to manipulate a world that does not respect me for me. It is ajeno.

In the United States, I have a very acute knowledge of how I am perceived, knowledge so acute I am sometimes able to manipulate the world around me — to play them at their own game. Three thousand miles away in a city that is very much not mine, where I do not speak the language fluently, know the history, or possess an insider’s guide to the culture, I find myself completely off-kilter. It has been terrifying to consider the cruel thought that maybe, without the oppressive and toxic social systems of the United States, I do not know how to be.

I don’t understand leaning in for a kiss on the cheek with some person I have never met. I actually don’t know what the woman next to me is saying about “la chica morena” as she throws curious stares my way every so often. When I don’t understand what someone is saying, I revert to smiling and giggling uncomfortably. I don’t know if someone is treating me a certain way because I am black, a cis-woman, a foreigner, or all of the above. There is no more illusion of power. For a while, it was a horribly frightening and confusing feeling — as though everyone was laughing at a joke I didn’t understand, a joke that could possibly be at my expense.

Little by little, I am learning new ways to relate to people, new ways to be me. It is odd to think that who I am is contextual — to see how much of me is shaped by how I am forced to navigate in this body. It’s strange, this floating without a raft or a shoreline in sight. But this is partly why I am here — because I was getting too comfortable with being ajena in my own country, I wanted to see if I could be comfortable in a country that was ajena.

by Jordyn Myers Plainfield, NJ

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by Garett Nelson Las Vegas, NV

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19

big screen, real life

by Kiara Hernandez Houston, TX

Picture this: The land is still, and its people are equally quiet. It is neither night nor day, and the community of McFarland, California rests heavy in its beds. The sky is still a deep blackberry-blue, and in the moments between dreams when she readjusts herself, a mother listens for the call of the rooster that signals the beginning of a new day.

Before the crack of dawn, the mother rolls out of bed, cooking a traditional breakfast of chorizo and eggs, and then drags her kids to the table for the meal. They groggily load up into the back of a rusty, old truck, and as dawn awakens and stretches its pink arms into the black sky, the kids, accompanied by other men and women, young and old, drive off towards fields where they will spend 9 hours picking lettuce, almonds, carrots, and an assortment of other vegetables.

This scene seems like it would be straight out of a documentary, and indeed it is; it parallels the opening of the popular Disney movie released last February called McFarland, USA. The movie documents the daily struggles of the immigrant agricultural workers of this Southern California town and the subsequent social and cultural effects felt by the workers’ children, who have grown up straddling two worlds: Mexicans and Americans, field workers and high school students trying to balance where they come from with what they can become. The movie is based on a true story, but what may be surprising is how much this parallels the real life of a student here at Penn. While

A behind-the-scenes look at life in the vineyards of Mcfarland, CA beyond Walt Disney’s portrayal. the struggles of an agricultural community in California may seem far removed from our campus and its student body, Ivan Sandoval saw an all too familiar reality in the film. This past summer, he returned to McFarland to work in the town’s vineyards.

He has provided a firsthand account of what it was like growing up in this historic agricultural community, and what it feels like to belong to such contrasting worlds.

Ivan’s days this summer and throughout his adolescence - all began in a similar way. Almost everyone he knows from back home began working summers in the fields at age 14. In a place where there is always work to be done, it’s no surprise that working the fields at the tender age of 14 is considered a rite of passage for his community. The crews head out before the crack of dawn and work until 3 PM, when temperatures north of 100 degrees make working outside illegal in the state of California. It is backbreaking work, but it is one of the few ways of life that undocumented and underprivileged families know in McFarland.

The fields seem never-ending to Ivan.

Spread out all over the region, the vines each respond to California microclimates differently, making production better in some areas than others; the large distribution helps reduce the risk of poorly performing crops. Thus workers find themselves moving on a daily basis from field to field, arranged and facilitated by contractors.

Ivan's grandparents have mostly worked

in McFarland's famous vineyards, picking and sorting grapes day in and day out, season after season. However, this summer Ivan took on a new role within this familiar setting. A Science, Technology and Society major in the College of Arts and Sciences, Ivan received a grant from the Wharton School’s Innovation Fund to pursue a project researching the inefficiencies in picking, loading, and transporting grapes from the vineyard to cold storage facilities.

The first inefficiency Ivan identified in the grape harvesting process was the intense physical labor required to pick and pack the grapes. After being picked, boxes were transported by “swampers" on flat bed trucks from the vineyard to cold storage facilities. The packers would pack large boxes with up to 20 pounds of fruit and load them into the truck beds, a dull, ceaseless work which they performed continuously every day. Having experienced it firsthand growing up, the intensity of the labor was something with which Ivan was all too familiar. Thus the eventual replacement of humans with machinery or robots would be the first step towards increased efficiency and healthier working conditions.

Upon packaging, the grapes were transported to storage facilities to be kept at a strict 29° F and underwent a 7-day treatment process which comprised of workers checking the grapes for pests and foreign objects before shipping them off.

Ninety-nine percent of all table grapes in the US are produced in California, but Ivan worked specifically with grapes that were going to Australia and New Zealand.

Thus it was of the utmost importance that

the grapes be free of pests, as continental cross-contamination could have disastrous results.

Going back to research management and supply chain methods within the vineyards was both a way of honoring Ivan’s family legacy and of connecting the two worlds within which he lives. What resonated most with Ivan is “how absolutely lucky [he] is to have…the luxury of living in one place.”

His mother, like most other field workers, grew up in different farm working camps in California and Washington, as her parents migrated for agricultural jobs in both states.

Now that Ivan has been able to break away from the all-consuming life of agricultural picking, he realizes the immense privilege he has of being educated somewhere like Penn. “You don’t choose to work in the fields, it becomes a necessity, the only way. I met educated people out [in the fields] who had gone to college. My father is an electrical engineer, I met chemists, lawyers, etc. but when you are new to a country, you need to learn its ways and survive,” Ivan said regarding the dire working situations of his hometown. He feels lucky to now have two homes - McFarland and Penn and to be able to appreciate them for everything they are.

photo by Isabel Zapata

IVAN SANDOVAL C ’17 McFARLAND, CA

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after the quake A first-hand account of the April 25, 2015 Nepal earhquake. article and photos

by James Meadows Philadelphia, PA

22 STAMPED // Fall 2015

At first, all we noticed were the langurs.

My Nepali guide, Kido, and I had been backpacking in the Annapurna region of the Himalayas for 7 days up until that point, and that morning we started our slow descent back to civilization from basecamp at 13,500 feet. We left at dawn and after walking down the mountain for four hours, we paused to take a drink. We watched in awe as the langurs, blackfaced monkeys clad in white fur, franticly swung through the tree canopy to reach the bottom of the mountain, escaping the oncoming devastation. Desperately trying to capture the native species in our camera frames, we had not grasped the source of their distress and naively continued down the mountain after the last one disappeared over the tree line.

Moments later, a tremor shook through the earth, triggering a series of rockslides and avalanches across the mountain range.

The surrounding trees bowed in unison, causing the birds to jettison out of the tree line and fill the sky with black clouds. We were out of harm’s way, but we could look across the valley and see fragments of the cliff-side crumbling away and tumbling into the valley below. While we were safe, what of the other hikers? We just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

It took us two days to reach a low enough altitude to regain phone reception.

I typed my father’s cell with the international extension, let it ring a few times, and instantly heard the relief in his voice. That was when I learned about everything: the 7.8 magnitude earthquake right outside of Kathmandu, the thousands dead, and even more homeless. Kido had contacted his family and friends from his home village near the epicenter and discovered that his family was safe, but two of his childhood friends had died in an avalanche while they were assisting an expedition to Everest’s summit. I was stunned. For me, a natural disaster had always been confined to a television screen or a morning paper; however now, I was near the epicenter itself, next to people who had lost loved ones. I could not process it.

Struggling to overcome a history of Maoist insurrection, Nepal is considered one of the poorest countries in Asia according to UNESCO. With such poor infrastructure, Nepal would be severely damaged by any quake above a certain magnitude, and a 7.8 on the Richter scale was more than enough to decimate the country. Knowing this, many NGOs had contingency plans in place for such a disastrous event and had mobilized and arrived in the capital to provide assistance within days.

Once Kido and I had concluded the trek in Pokhara, Nepal’s second largest city, we parted ways. He needed to go back to his home to help rebuild, and I needed to get back to Kathmandu. I met up with a group of travellers that I had befriended on the trail, and we came to the consensus that we should go to Kathmandu, check in with our respective embassies, and try to help with the relief effort in any way that we could. Once we had boarded the bus, it took us ten hours to move a hundred miles. While a handful of buses wanted to

go back to Kathmandu, hundreds wanted to leave. There was only one road snaking through the mountains to connect Nepal’s two largest cities, Pokhara and Kathmandu; avalanches and rockslides rendered parts of the highway one lane wide, and the road had to be supervised by the Nepali military. Driving past the outgoing buses, packed to the brim with Nepalese and the remnants of their homes, was demoralizing. Staring at them, they stared right back with weary, exhausted looks. It felt like we were driving unarmed into a war zone.

Our lodging in Kathmandu’s Thamel district was the notorious Alobar-1000 hostel, an establishment that was a frequent stop on the “Hippie Trail” of the 1970s. Now, the hostel acted as a shelter for Nepalese, tourists, relief workers, and journalists as well as a staging area for the relief effort. Most tourists, like us, wanted to help, but had neither the experience nor the expertise to do so. Fortunately, representatives from local and international NGOs would come to Alobar and ask for

our manpower to assist with their relief efforts. Most of us were happy to be put to work. We wanted the Nepalese to know that the world was standing with them in their struggle.

During the first few days after the quake, we were enlisted to help clear the rubble of two UNESCO world heritage sites: Kathmandu Durbar Square, known as the “noble court” or “palace square,” and Hanuman Dhoka, the city’s oldest palace. Most people would not enjoy the work: hours of removing rubble, carrying bodies, and assembling disaster relief kits.

However to us, the nature of the work did not matter as long as we felt like we were helping. Alongside hundreds of Nepali civilians and soldiers, we cleared the way for ambulances and followed South Korean and German K-9 units to uncover buried bodies. It was the first time that I had ever seen a dead body. Surprisingly, I was relatively calm. My sense of purpose buried my feeling of terror and anxiety, and I ceaselessly worked until it was too dark to see.

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After a majority of the rubble was removed from the inner city, our work shifted to assembling disaster relief kits that would be distributed outside the city.

The kits consisted of water sanitation tablets, a sack of lentils, and a tarp to use as a makeshift shelter. We worked in assembly lines for several hours, filling up trucks with thousands of kits to be distributed to devastated areas throughout the Kathmandu valley. Many of these kits were being sent to Bhaktapur, an ancient Newar province outside of Kathmandu located on top of the quake’s epicenter. The city was built of structures dating as far back as the 5th century, so many NGOs were trading supplies amongst themselves to provide assistance.

After assisting in the relief effort for a couple of weeks, I made the decision to leave the country. Much of the short-term relief work in the inner city of Kathmandu was over, and many NGOs were moving onwards to more distressed suburban and rural areas. These regions required more

professional experience in the proper distribution of supplies, and I, as a rising college freshman, did not want to burden the relief workers. At this point, I was exhausted both physically and emotionally.

I thought my best course of action would be to donate some blood and money, and spread the word about relief efforts.

Nepal’s beauty is indescribable. During my time there, I was able to walk through the country’s breathtaking scenery and meet people who warmly invited me into their homes and showed me only the utmost love and kindness. However, the country is still feeling the aftermath of the quake today, and the Nepalese still need help from the international community.

If you are interested in helping Nepal, I recommend two methods of action. First and foremost, visit. Nepal’s economy is heavily dependent on the tourism industry, and many people are no longer visiting in light of the quake, crippling livelihoods.

Many of the country’s major tourist attractions are open, and the Nepalese

encourage people to visit and experience their unparalleled hospitality. Otherwise, you can donate to several vetted NGOs that are conducting long-term relief operations. These efforts range from providing basic necessities such as food and shelter, to more complex issues such as providing adequate medicinal supplies and establishing temporary education centers.

I worked with an organization called All Hands Volunteers (www.hands.org), which worked to provide adequate shelter, food, and water sanitation as well as temporary learning centers for the Nepali community to continue education. Other charities that I encountered doing effective medical-based relief are the American Red Cross (www.redcross.org) and Doctors Without Borders (www.doctorswithoutborders.org), who had established emergency centers in heavy effected areas to combat illness, homelessness, and starvation.

by Madison Bell-Rosof Scarsdale, NY

photos by Lucy Hackney and Madison Bell-Rosof Eschewing crowded beaches for a summer among naturalists at Cedar Tree Neck Sanctuary in Martha’s Vineyard.

Before May, Martha’s Vineyard was a place I had only heard about as the set for the filming of Jaws, the choice vacation spot of the Obama’s, and Ted Kennedy’s crime scene. After spending last summer on the island off of Cape Cod, my perception changed. A friend offered me an intriguing opportunity to stay at her family’s home on the Vineyard, and at the end of a long freshman year at Penn, I was excited to accept.

First I had to find a job. My initial inclination was to work retail: that’s what teenagers do right? In class, I reread my application to be a sales associate at the original Vineyard Vines while a friend sitting next to me leaned over my computer screen and laughed. “You’re not ‘preppy’ enough to sell designer clothes to the vacationers,” referring to the species of whale-patterned beachgoers who frequent Edgartown during peak season. She was right. I had gotten excited about finding housing on the island, but now questioned whether it was

a worthwhile destination that would suit my personality, interests, and desire to live somewhere other than home.

In a stroke of luck and good timing, I noticed an employment application for a local land trust in the Vineyard Gazette.

It was perfect; I loved being outside, and a job as a park ranger would not necessitate modeling a polo. In three weeks, I was on a ferry bound for a new way of living, W-4 in hand. I wasn’t going into the experience completely blind, though. I had prepared for the trip by reading Hitchhiking with Larry David—a kind of self-help book about a man who moves to Martha’s Vineyard to rediscover himself. The author is greatly inspired when he is picked up off the street by the one and only creator of Seinfeld, who spends his summers blending in with the island locals. I was also ready to be inspired, as I waited for my ride to my first day of work on what very well could have been the same road. Only, my Larry David would be

a fifty-year old naturalist driving a red pick up truck.

The red truck drove past farmland and stonewalls that could have been mistaken for part ofthe Irish countryside. I gazed out the window in awe. Before work had started, I hadn’t ventured outside the comforts of Edgartown, since that was the closest beach access. But “down island” was always crowded, and I would end up laying my towel on top of a sweaty family of four, or forgetting where I parked my bike in a maze of parking lots and humans. We veered off the State Highway and followed a road until we stopped in front of a small green plaque hanging from a tree, etched with a faint arrow that pointed to a side trail. Undaunted by the trail’s narrowness and lack of pavement, the truck bumped uncomfortably down this dirt road for a mile. It pulled into a small parking lot at the trail’s very end, distinguished by a sign that read Cedar Tree Neck Sanctuary. stampedmag.com

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After stepping out of the truck, we started down a hiking trail from the parking lot’s kiosk, which was marked by red paint that had been blazed onto the Cedar trees by the park ranger who went before me. The path wasn’t lined with woodchips, like most paths on the island, so the forest felt natural and undiscovered. The trail blazing ended at a small drawbridge, and when I crossed over it, the dirt floor turned into sand. I paused and looked up at the expansive stretch of beach before me. This beach, unlike most property belonging to the island’s elite, was completely open to the public. There was no one there.

I soon learned that the lack of human traffic was an advantage for this area’s fragile ecosystem. Cedar Tree Neck Sanctuary’s beach was priority habitat for a species of shorebirds called piping plovers, which have been considered endangered since 1986.

Among all the species I had learned about in Bio 102, these birds seemed to be burdened with perhaps the worst set of adaptations – they would return to the same spot each year and scrape out a ditch in the sand the

26 STAMPED // Fall 2015

size of a human palm in which to lay their eggs. Nevertheless, the island’s naturalists made it their mission to protect the plover nests from predators and the changing tides.

Further down the beach was another trail that led to the sanctuary’s summit – the Neck of Cedar Tree Neck. On a hill, lined with sassafras trees, lived a herd of goats (who knew Martha’s Vineyard had goats?).

They were the key players in an initiative called “Goatscaping” in which livestock was used to clear the Neck of invasive plants to make room for native species to grow, and conserve the once unobstructed views of the Elizabeth Islands to the north. Not only did this practice make it possible to maintain the sanctuary’s beauty without interrupting the shorebirds with machinery, but it was also a way of connecting the conservation territory with the island’s agricultural community.

I occasionally visited the farmer who leased us her goats to discuss progress and life. She had been born and raised on Martha’s Vineyard, and was as cut off from beach vacation life as it gets; upon arriving

at the farm, I overheard a family inquire about an advertisement for spinning classes that they saw at the local deli. I looked around for stationary bikes. She had no idea what any of us were talking about. She showed us how to spin wool, and demonstrated how she dyes it using sunflowers from her garden. She talked about struggling to keep the farm she had inherited from her grandparents forty years ago, which was why she had agreed to partner with the land trust in the first place. As long as she can afford to live off her farm, she does not plan to leave or even venture to down island, for that matter, where I told her people have different ideas about “spin classes.”

Reading a self-help book could not have prepared me for my summer as a park ranger on Martha’s Vineyard. Only after signing up for an accidental tour of a hidden island can I now identify with that hitchhiker and his novel about traveling outside one’s comfort zone in a place that may at first seem comfortable.

JHWWLQJ ORVW article and photo by Zac Goldstein West Palm Beach, FL

It was one of the hottest summers in recent memory, or at least that’s what I was telling myself.

All I knew was that it was over a hundred degrees out and my aunt’s apartment was only about four degrees cooler. Like many days during my six week stay in Jerusalem, I decided to find somewhere with air conditioning where I could eat and people-watch.

In a foreign city with surprisingly spotty Wi-Fi, I was left with my own memory (limited), middle school Hebrew (broken), and limited funds (20 shekels) to find somewhere I could spend the day. For some reason, I decided to take a “shortcut” that I thought would get me to the hummus store that I had been going to pretty regularly, but instead it took me to a slightly sketchy, slightly intriguing alley that looked promising.

While it looked intriguing, it ended up being ridiculously confusing; getting through to the other side took some bargaining and a lot of slichah (sorry) as I ended up in at least two families’ backyards. When I eventually did manage to get to the other side of the alley/tunnel/labyrinth, I found myself in a nice park with a well stocked makolet (convenience store). So, after spending my remaining shekels on a passion fruit slushy and some bourekas, I settled down on one of the park benches and relaxed, content with having absolutely no idea where I was or how I was going to get home.

By leaving Google Maps in my pocket (whether I wanted to or not), I was able to take the time to discover more not only about the places around me, but also about myself. Who knew I was so

good at maneuvering awkward social situations with confused Israelis? In reality, taking the time to get lost had let me take a break from being connected to everyone else and just focus on being aware of myself.

Today, we often get so caught up in what everyone else is doing that we find ourselves afraid to take a second and check in with ourselves.

Getting lost, whether intentional or not, takes away the option; in that moment, all you have is yourself. Once you get over the initial fear of getting kidnapped or never finding your way home, the experience is not only freeing — it’s addictive.

It’s as if someone has taken the social weight of constantly worrying about everyone else and how they see you, and thrown it away.

The rest of the day ended up being pretty uneventful. I found the closest bus stop and asked a boy my age which line to take. Even though I was going back to the comforts of Wi-Fi and air conditioning, I found myself strangely sad on the ride back up to the apartment. I was leaving behind the newfound freedom I had found, albeit accidentally, through my journey that day.

To this day, I often find myself leaving my house with a purpose, only to find myself wandering to nowhere in particular, my surroundings comfortingly unfamiliar. And instead of posting a picture of the city on Instagram or sending a selfie to my friends back home, I just put on my headphones and walk.

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JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL PARK

aridity is not the absence of

life

by Tshay Williams Amityville, NY stampedmag.com

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