Feature Photo: eschipul

I was lost, driving around Santiago attempting to find the freeway. While stopped at a red light, I looked up from the map to see a twenty-something guy standing in the crosswalk chucking knives into the air and catching them.

Forgetting about the map, I grabbed my camera and took a photo. The imprint of the knife juggler stuck, in my mind as well as my camera.

I wondered: how does someone get started as a knife juggler? Can people actually make a living doing this type of thing?

After I was able to build up the Spanish language skills and the courage, I decided to get to know some of the street performers in Santiago and find out what motivates them.

For the Cash

With low wages and a high cost of living, everyone looks for ways to make some extra luca. While some Chileans opt for selling jewelry, food or clothes, others go for a chance in the spotlight. In the case of street performers, many times this ends up being at a traffic intersection.

Photo: Herkie

One street performer I had the chance to talk to is Leo Cartagenas. He had been juggling golo (Chinese sticks) for eight years. As I watched him perform, the sticks seemed like extensions of his own hands. He held two plain wooden dowels and juggled a third that was wrapped in tape like a candy cane. Tiny bud earphones piped in fast-paced music to his ears to help him keep moving in rhythm. Leo tossed the sticks with ease, confident that he would catch them. He ended his routine holding the golo like a trophy.

Leo said he started street performing as a way to avoid the corporate world. One day he wants to have enough money saved up so that he can open his own tattoo shop.

For the Challenge…and the Girls?

Willy Cabello Urrutia and Luis Humberto Mancilla have less than a minute to give the captive audience in their cars a compelling show. The life of the street performer is all about timing: these two have 38 seconds to perform and 8 seconds to collect the money and get to the sidewalk before the traffic light changes.

While Willy threw the juggling knives into the air, focused yet seemingly unconcerned about the blades, Luis juggled with fire. What stood out to me were their hands. Luis’s hands were black with soot, yet unharmed from the flames. Willy’s hands, too, didn’t have a scratch on them.

I found out why when I ran my finger along the edge of one of the juggling knives: it was as dull as a spoon.

Photo: franklin_hunting

They told me they performed to earn extra party money, but after watching them flirt with onlookers, I have no doubt that they enjoy being able to impress the ladies with their juggling skills.

For the Family

Sometimes people don’t have a choice about taking up street performing; it may be a family affair. Such is the case with Francisco Javier Palma, who at age 11, works after school as a chinchinero, a skill his cousin taught him.

Chinchineros carry a bass drum and cymbal like a backpack. A rope attached to their foot works the cymbal while they carry two drumsticks to play the bass drum. The players dance and spin as they hammer out their percussive rhythms.

The bass drum strapped to the back of Francisco was smaller than the adult size, weighing almost 7 lbs. Francisco told me he can make over 10,000 Chilean pesos – about $20 – per day for his family. Though he didn’t know what he wanted to do when he grew up, he was adamant about one thing: he doesn’t want to be a chinchinero.

Bayan Ulgii is Mongolia’s western-most province, set in the Altai mountains where Mongolia, China, and Russia converge. It is also the only province where Mongolians are not the majority: about 90 percent of the population is ethnically Kazakh.

The Islamic Kazakh community has a higher birthrate than its Mongolian neighbors, as well as one of the highest maternal mortality rates in the country. In 2008, Bayan Ulgii’s maternal mortality rate was 76.7 deaths per 100,000 live births, compared to the national average of 49 per 100,000 live births. And while infant mortality hovers near the national average, Mongolia as a whole has the 67th worst infant mortality rate in the world, according to the CIA’s 2009 estimate.

On a recent visit to Ulgii, I tried to learn more about the beginnings of life and premature death there.

In the central hospital’s maternity ward, I saw Soviet made equipment, decades old, waiting to be replaced. The hospital- the main source of intensive health care for the roughly 100,000 people in the province- generally sees a handful of births a day. The ward has only a few doctors and a handful of nurses on staff.

Although none of the women I talked to at the hospital complained about the care they received, I heard rumors from a number of people around town that the doctors of Bayan Ulgii do not always act professionally. Some blamed the low government salary doctors receive (currently the national doctors’ union, alongside the teachers’ and railroad workers’ unions, are in negotiations with the government and threatening to strike if their salaries aren’t doubled). Some said that the doctors may be drunk on the job; others told me that bribes, including gifts of vodka, were necessary to secure the best care.

The bribes aren’t necessarily solicited. “To be more safe, they will give money, then the doctor will check carefully,” one nurse’s husband (the couple themselves the parents of a healthy infant) told me.

Such rumors are unsubstantiated. The director of one INGO’s regional health project said, “It’s difficult, we can’t catch them. I haven’t seen them taking money, so I can’t say that they are. But I can say they are, because people are saying it.”

Bayan Ulgii’s head pediatrician, Khuatkhan, says that the hospital didn’t have all the essential resources it needed until October of 2009, when an $11,000 World Vision grant allowed them to purchase new equipment. The hospital’s facilities remain less than desirable.

“The children that died this year”- 19 in January and February alone- “had treatable conditions, if the hospital had sufficient funds, equipment, and medicine,” he says.

Medical facilities aside, the families of Bayan Ulgii face another obstacle to fighting infant and maternal mortality: poverty. Forty percent of the population is very poor, according to Khuatkhan. Severe malnutrition is common among the children treated in Bayan Ulgii’s hospital, as is anemia, which afflicts forty percent of mothers in the province.

Three months old, the boy has gained just 300 grams- less than a pound- since his birth. A health baby gains about 900 grams a month. He lives with his parents, both unemployed, in a one room mud plaster house. They own just five goats, and since the government suspended a program which provided families with a small monthly payment for each child a few months ago, survival has been a struggle. Local doctors who normally make house calls refuse to give the baby check-ups at home, saying it is too cold there; while it continues to snow sporadically, the family has run out of heating fuel.

Maternal and infant mortality rates have dropped significantly in Bayan Ulgii during the last decade, as they have globally, although progress is not a given: more of Bayan Ulgii’s mothers died during childbirth in 2009 than in 2008. Neither Bayan Ulgii’s hospital nor its economy seem likely to improve significantly in the near future. In the meantime, its people will carry on as they always have. Says the regional INGO health director, “I would say that Bayan Ulgii is very hardworking. That is the only reason they’re surviving.”

Photos: author

Edward S. Tingatinga, a Tanzanian casual laborer in the 1960s, was the first person to paint in the style that now bears his name. I, Cara J. Giaimo, an American student in the 2010s, am now among the most recent.

In order to really connect Mr. Tingatinga and I, that one similarity has to counterbalance a lot of differences. Edward S. made his art with bicycle paint and masonite ceiling tiles leftover from the odd jobs he originally made a living off of. I’m using new materials: brightly colored, brand-name Master Paints, brought in from Dar es Salaam and brushed onto cloth that has been rubbed with wheat flour, waterproofed with white oil paint, and nailed to a homemade wooden frame.

I go to a liberal arts college; Edward didn’t go to any sort of arts school at all. And Edward was good enough that people solicited his work, good enough that dozens, if not hundreds, of Tanzanians now make a living imitating it and selling the results to tourists. I’m just supposed to be striping a zebra and I’m royally screwing up.

“No no no. Hold the brush like this . . . and put your little finger against the cloth, here.” My teacher, Max, is patient. We are seated very close together on a small bench in the entranceway to Suleman’s Art Shop in Mto wa Mbu, Tanzania, bent over a painting the size of a potholder. Currently it’s three silhouettes on a bus-yellow background, but soon it will be a zebra, a giraffe, and a hippopotamus.

Photos: author

There are six more paintings almost exactly like it on the ground, displaying various states of completion, and from then I can infer what Max did before I got here – stretched and waterproofed the campus, coated the background and let it dry, sketched out the main actors, filled in landscape details (a foamy river and trees, all children’s-book soft) – and what he’ll do after I leave, assuming I don’t botch it beyond repair.

After the animals are patterned they will be afforded eyes, big Betty Boop ones encircled in red. Then they can look around at all the each others there are, herds and herds of Tingatinga animals, hung up and propped up and laid out, covering the ex- and interior of every shop, up and down and on both sides of the long section of street. Max reaches over and calmly scrapes my latest stripe off with a fingernail.

Tingatinga is a type of what’s known as airport art – art made exclusively to be sold to tourists. And tourism is the largest and fastest-growing industry in Tanzania. People come from all over to see the wildlife, and when they leave, they want to take home nice, authentic, packable souvenirs.

That’s why the switch from ceiling tile to waterproofed cloth – the latter doesn’t break or smudge, and can be rolled down to the size of a pair or two of socks (plus you can bring it into Australia, which doesn’t allow in any foreign wood products).

It’s also why so much of it looks the same – it’s much easier and faster to paint the same things over and over. Max can make four or five notebook-sized Tingatinga in a day. Subjects are determined in the first place by what tourists want and expect to see in Tanzanian art, which may explain the colors, the jumbled and overlapping patterns (which match the fabrics that are used for everything here) and the preponderance of large savannah mammals. You look at it long enough and you start to hear thumb pianos.

Photos: author

All of this is explained to my companions and I by Big Sam, who we meet in Suleman’s shop. In spectacles and a Cape Cod baseball cap, Big Sam looks (and probably is) nearly twice the age of any of the other painters we meet in Mto wa Mbu, but he came here for the same reasons as everyone else – to learn an interesting trade and make money doing it.

He was a schoolteacher in Dar es Salaam until the pay dried up. Now, along with Max and Young Sam (who originally led us to the shop, calling it a “Tingatinga factory”), he’s being taught by Suleman, the shop’s owner and namesake. When Edward S. Tingatinga realized that his solo production team couldn’t keep up with customer demands, he taught some of his young relatives his tricks. Those boys taught other boys, and on and on, until someone taught Suleman.

Someone else taught Charles, who rushes into the shop about midway through my painting lesson, sweating through a black muscle shirt and a knit cap. We’ve run out of yellow paint and he’s generously lending us some.

He’s come all the way from the first shop on our side of the road, which he owns with his brother Thomson – Charles learned to paint Tingatinga and Maasai knife paintings in Dar es Salaam and is teaching his brother. Right now, in an attempt to diversify their styles, they’re both working on paintings of only hippos. I’m interested in this technique, and this goal – if it’s all just for money, why bother developing a personal style? Why not just go with what’s been working, and selling?

Later that day, taking a break from my zebra, I voice my question out loud to O-Man, the owner of the shop next to Suleman’s and (of course) a Tingatinga painter. He is surprised. “Personal style is key,” he assures me. “Why else would anyone buy your Tingatinga and no one else’s?”

I had been assuming that it was a matter of practical skill rather than artistic ability; that, having learned the basic components, the Tingatinga painter was more of a rearranger, a human scrapbook-and-photocopy machine. My attention is directed to a table of about 12 different paintings, some by Suleman and others by Maiko, a nationally famous Tingatinga artist who sells to many of the smaller shops.

“You’ll see,” he says, “Maiko paints fewer animals, but he paints them bigger. Suleman does many small animals.” He’s right. And there are other, subtler differences, too – color choice, placement, thickness of brush strokes, even the expressions on the animals’ faces, how they appear to be relating to each other. I can suddenly see why Maiko is renowned, and what Suleman has passed down to his apprentice.

Photos: author

Even their versions of common paintings, arrangements I’ve seen dozens of times (the canvas-wide whirlpool of fish, the impossibly long and thin birds set out in vertical parallel) have their own spin. Soon I can pick the work of either artist out of a lineup.

I go back outside and look up and down the impossibly colorful street. I’d been very close to losing interest in Tingatinga – purposefully plagiarized paintings that are originally based on stereotypes? Artists that want to sell out? I’m an English major from the American East Coast, I hang around people who would rather get thrown out of school or off a cliff than be deliberately derivative.

But to be able to be original within limits, to simultaneously express yourself, feed your family, and represent and support your country seems admirable. So I go back in to Max and keep attempting to paint, and maybe earn, my stripes.

Feature Photo: Pink Sherbet Photography Photo: shoobydooby

“Meagan, your popo like watermelons! Mine like apple,” said Nida, a professional dancer in Fire of Anatolia. We were standing backstage in our underwear, preparing to change costumes.

I had been dancing in Turkey with Fire of Anatolia for two months. I actually thought my butt was in great shape from hours of squeezing it in ballet class. At the very least, I saw myself as more of a pear than a watermelon.

It was time to put Nida in her place. I made her follow me to a mirror in our skin-colored booty shorts.

“See!” I proclaimed. “ Not watermelons! Maybe not apples…but not watermelons!” I wouldn’t normally do this in a bathroom, but my rear end’s reputation was on the line.

Photo: Pink Sherbet Photography

Then Nida peeled away my confidence. She pointed and laughed at my butt, which appeared to be twice the size of hers. I had never so closely compared cheeks with anyone, and now I knew why. It made me feel inadequate, inferior, and fat.

Back home, friends call me “the skinny one.” I take good care of my body, and I’m healthy, strong, and confident. However, standing at the mirror with Nida, I couldn’t deny it anymore: dancing in Turkey was damaging my body image.

I was warned about the importance of sticking to a “dancer’s diet” if I wanted to fit into the company’s costumes. I was supposed to watch what I ate, but more often I found myself watching what the other dancers ate. They were filling their plates at the buffet with mounds of pasta and baklava. Yet, these women strutted around with slender stomachs and nearly non-existent inner thighs. I figured they burned through all the calories in class. I relished in the idea that I too could indulge in a few desserts and still have a six-pack.

At first, the calories didn’t catch up with me, and my stomach toned up from Pilates. After a few weeks of dining at the buffet, however, I stepped onto the scale and the numbers taunted me. I had gained weight, and I knew I couldn’t chalk it all up to extra muscle. Some of the dancers had already pointed in horror at my miniature potbelly. I would have probably never noticed it, but dancers can detect every ounce.

I was aware of certain physical standards I had to adhere to as a dancer, but I didn’t realize just how important those standards are at the professional level. I don’t dance for the muscles; I dance because it gives me joy. I wanted to be moving to music, not counting every calorie.

When Nida gave me the nickname “watermelon popo,” I reached the peak of my insecurities. I felt like a forbidden fruit, and I realized my body image could mirror how a culture perceives my shape, for better or for worse.

Photo: Scott W Charters

Similarly, within minutes of arriving in Hong Kong, I felt like I was starring in a film titled Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. I’m just below six feet tall, but I felt like a Hong Kong skyscraper. I towered over the crowds of petite women in this megacity. I walked onto the subway for the first time to see that most of the passengers barely reached my armpits, making me feel freakishly tall. I had to duck in doorways, crouch through alleys, and sleep with both feet dangling over the edge of my bed.

Just when I started getting used to standing tall in the crowd, a visit to the market brought my confidence back down. I was merely browsing through a rack of floral-printed skirts, when the shop owner promptly snatched the item I was holding. She slammed it back on the rack.

“No big sizes!! No big sizes!!” she declared, frantically waving her arms around. It was as if she was banishing me from the shop for being too large. I’m only 148 pounds, a perfectly acceptable weight for my height. I told myself the owner didn’t really mean big, she meant tall, so I moved on to another stall to try on some t-shirts. Even the alleged XL shirts barely covered my belly button.

I thought back to the last time I went shopping abroad, which had a markedly different effect on my body image. In Rwanda, I felt as confident as ever, surrounded by other pear shapes just like me.

A month into my stay, I had fallen into a fashion funk of cargo-pants, sandals and t-shirts. I decided it was time to don my floral yellow sundress. Little did I know, my dress would drive the Rwandans wild.

Photo: configmanager

The maid, the cook, and the guard stopped in their tracks. “You look so smart,” they told me. As I walked towards to the local newspaper where I worked, a car slammed on the brakes, kicking up a cloud of red dust.

“I love your dress. It is very beautiful and it makes you look beautiful.” I stood there in astonishment, showered in dirt and compliments. I had a bounce in my step for the rest of the day.

While in Turkey the other dancers saw any extra ounce of fat as negative, our Rwandan cook Mary kept telling me to eat more because I needed some meat on my bones. For dinner, she often filled the plate with a parade of carbohydrates: spaghetti, potatoes and rice. A few pounds soon crept up around my waist.

At first, I freaked out, and began to devise a way to lose the weight. Mary, however, made a point of affectionately grabbing my little muffin top. It made me take a good look in the mirror, and I recognized that I had blown things out of proportion. Mary was right. My body looked great.

Travel changes perceptions about everything: life, love, freedom, and culture. That’s the best part of travel in my opinion: as I open myself up to other points of view, my point of view transforms. The same can go for body image while traveling. Different cultures have different ideas of what constitutes feminine beauty. I’m trying to learn how to appreciate the cultural norm while still managing to appreciate myself.

I made the first step in Turkey. After Nida made her fruity comments about my backside, this is what I told her:
“You bet I have a watermelon butt: juicy and delicious.”

Photos: author

“Humans learn. That is what we do. It is part of who we are.”

Masaba’s father, a slow-speaking pillar of a man, stood before us next to a pole flashing with Christmas lights. With red, green, orange, and blue light splashing across his face, he said, “If you cease to learn, you perish.”

Silence had settled over the room like a morning fog, and this statement seemed to echo. Anywhere else, a sentence like this could be mistaken for hyperbole; here in Uganda, a place where education directly determines one’s access to employment and quality healthcare, it served as an ominous warning: Learn or lose.

Masaba, my co-worker, had just received his post-graduate diploma, marking the completion of the first year of a two-year masters program. Thirty of us had gathered at a local restaurant to celebrate the achievement. For a few hours we ate, danced, and listened as people gave heartfelt speeches. Most speeches focused not only on Masaba’s tenacity, but also on the importance of education.

Listening to people describe the way Masaba latched onto education, using it to pull himself up to where he is today, I couldn’t help but think about how I took school for granted while growing up. If learning is living, was I half-dead in college?

*****

Once exams were finished, as campus emptied and slipped into its quiet summer hibernation, I did what most American students do after leaving their universities for the last time: I had dozens of people over to my parent’s house for a graduation party. I think I gave a three-minute thank you speech to my folks, but for the most part, the night revolved around food and socializing, around reveling in the present. Graduation in northern Uganda is a different affair.

For starters, a proper graduation party is only thrown for college graduates; one of my co-workers said it best: “When you finish high school here, you have only made it half-way.”

Finishing college, for many, is something that requires such extreme levels of personal and familial sacrifice that a cathartic party is almost a necessity.

Most universities charge fees that are well beyond what any family of farmers or laborers (ie. most families in Uganda) can comfortably pay. As such, many college students in Uganda are so broke from paying school fees that they eat one meal or less a day to save money—the common expression ‘having a university figure’ comes from this scenario. Parents, too, will often starve themselves of meals to avoid spending their child’s potential tuition funds.

The Acholi, the most populous tribe in Gulu district where I live, see college graduation as an event that is as important for a student’s parents as it is for the student. Graduation is an affirmation of parental prowess, a public declaration that parents have accomplished their responsibilities and primed their kids for life.

Students, too, don’t take graduation lightly, for it changes the way their communities see them. A Ugandan friend of mine said, “After graduation, members of your clan will look at you as an achiever. They will want to be associated with you. In clans where not many people have gone to university, you will be seen as one of your clan’s problem-solvers.”

The party itself can take one of two forms: a Western-style party with a DJ, rented sound system, and catered food, or a traditional party with Acholi dancing and a home cooked feast. With each passing year, fewer and fewer graduates are opting to dance the bwola and the dingi-dingi at their parties, replacing the sounds of the adungu, lukema, and the nanga with the pounding bass of Ugandan club hits.

*****

“When Masaba used to bring home his grades at the end of term, I’d look at the high marks—he always scored well—and I would say, ‘Son, these are good, but good is not great.’ ” His father cracked a smile. With the sting of these moments long buried in memory, Masaba too let a small smile slip.

His father continued. “And so today, Masaba, as we gather to congratulate you on your most recent accomplishment, I want to remind of you one thing.” He paused and turned to grin at his son. We all started laughing, knowing what was coming.

“As nice as this degree is, as hard as you have worked, know that this is not the end–there are more degrees to get. Good, remember, is not great.”

Feature Photo: bradipo Photo of Sana’a, Yemen: Tom Volger

A year ago my husband and I were living in a posh three-bedroom apartment, driving a 2002 Toyota and eating out twice a week. Now we live in a windowless basement, drive a Volvo wagon with over 260k, and allow ourselves to splurge on a coffee date twice a month.

We’re making more money per month now than we were last year, but moving from one of the cheapest places in the world to one of the most expensive places seriously changed our lifestyle. This move made us realize that local cost of living is much more important than the bottom line on any expat contract.

Xpatulator quarterly publishes an index of 282 international cities by cost of living. By comparing thirteen different categories including things like the cost of housing, groceries and recreation, Xpatulator ranks the cities from most expensive to least expensive.

According to the April 2010 rankings, here are the 10 cheapest international cities in the world.

1. Harare, Zimbabwe

While Harare ranks as the cheapest city in the world, there are numerous reasons why expats and travelers won’t be flocking there. Zimbabwe has a 94% unemployment rate and a major refugee problem due to the country’s financial collapse. In 2008 there was more than 150% inflation and the national currency was eventually ditched for the U.S. dollar.

Zimbabwe also scored pretty high on the Transparency.org’s 2009 corruption index with a rank of 146. If you’re not familiar with the rankings, keep in mind that New Zealand is 1 and Somalia is 180. The higher the number, the more corruption pervades every day life.

2. Tianjin, China

Buenos Aires: Armando Maynez

It’s not Beijing or Shanghai, but China’s sixth most-populous city is one of the cheapest places to live. Eating out is inexpensive and you can visit Beijing for a day trip, although the Tianjin expat scene is small and there aren’t really a lot of sights or attractions in the city.

For language students Tianjin University offers Mandarin classes.

3. Sana’a, Yemen

Sana’a, Yemen’s capital, is not only a cheap city to live in but also an excellent place to learn Arabic. Grocery and housing costs are some of the lowest in the world, although opportunities to experience nightlife are limited. Female expats may feel more comfortable wearing a headscarf or full-length black abaya in public, and foreigners may be required to apply for special permits to travel outside Sana’a.

4. Buenos Aires, Argentina

Out of these 10 locations, Buenos Aires has the lowest hardship level according to Xpatulator. “Hardship level” refers to how difficult it is for expats to live in certain place. Foreign employees serving in extreme hardship areas can often negotiate higher salaries or special allowances. While Sana’a scores 40% (extreme hardship), Buenos Aires scores 20% (some hardship).

Buenos Aires is an excellent place to learn Argentine tango, binge on beef and empanadas, and enjoy the street art scene.

But living in Buenos Aires isn’t for “those without street smarts,” as Matador Nights editor Kate Sedgwick warns. Expats need to be prepared to deal with noise, poverty and layers of bureaucratic hurdles. Foreigners can’t sign lease agreements without a co-signer who owns property.

5. Thimphu, Bhutan

Living in Bhutan’s capital and largest city, Thimpu, is relatively inexpensive. The country still hasn’t developed a large tourism industry, largely due to the fact that foreign tourists visiting the country are obligated to spend $200 per day. Matador destination expert Tim Patterson gives the skinny in The Rucksack Wanderer’s Guide to Bhutan .

As an expat you would be able to travel in Bhutan without having to abide by the tourist regulations. Everyday groceries and housing are cheap, but eating out and staying in hotels could run up your monthly budget.

Bhutan: jmhullot

Although living in Bhutan is classified as an extreme hardship, the country has the least amount of corruption out of the 10 on this list. It comes in at 49 even beating out countries that are popular with expats like Italy (63), Greece (71) and Brazil (75).

6. Dushanbe, Tajikistan

Dushanbe has a small expat community, temperate weather and easy access to Central Asia’s Pamir Mountains. It’s a great place to learn Tajik or Farsi, although jobs for expats tend to be limited to diplomatic posts, teaching positions and humanitarian aid work.

7. Colombo, Sri Lanka

Colombo is a good base for exploring Sri Lanka and India. You can picture what living in Sri Lanka is like by checking out this photo essay or reading about a visit to a Sri Lankan tea estate.

The city has a sizeable expat community, tropical weather and uber-cheap housing, although if you to move to Colombo you must also be ready to experience monsoon season.

8. Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Cambodia and Tajikistan are tied as the “most corrupt” countries on this list coming in at 158 out of 180, and Phnom Penh is listed as an extreme hardship location. At the same time, Cambodia is a sweet jump-off point for exploring Southeast Asia, and it’s much cheaper to live in Phnom Penh than in any of the region’s other capital cities.

Quito: _PaulS_

Learn what life in Cambodia is like in this video about Getting Around in Phnom Penh or check out this Tales from the Road: Cambodia.

9. Quito, Ecuador

Expat and international investor Simon Black recently blogged about reasons to consider Ecuador. Some of the benefits he mentions are quality medical care, low rental costs and excellent fresh produce. At 9,300 feet (2,835m), Quito is also the second highest administrative capital in the world.

On the downside, the country is far from politically stable and alcohol can be expensive. In Simon Black’s words, “Ecuador is great for retirees, hermits, nomads, and internationalists. It’s terrible for hedonists.” It also scores quite poorly on the corruption index – 146 out of 180.

10. Karachi, Pakistan

Most often featured in the international news as the site of political protests or sectarian violence, Karachi is Pakistan’s most cosmopolitan city. It’s probably the only place in this officially “dry” country where you can attend an all night rave on the beach. Karachi is a major business center, has some top quality hospitals and international schools and is home to a dynamic arts scene.

Some expats positions in Karachi require employees to travel with an armed guard, although that is far from the norm for foreigners in Pakistan. If you’re interested in learning more about living in Pakistan, you can check out What NOT to Do in Pakistan and Tales from the Frontier of Expat Life: A Memsahib in Pakistan.

Out of these 10 international cities, which ones would you consider living in?

Community Connection

If you’re interested in moving to one of these cities but aren’t quite sure what you would do to pay the rent, check out 10 Tips for Becoming a Location Independent Professional and How to Decide if You’re Ready to Work Remotely.

Photos: author

As an avid traveler I often get asked how I deal with, you know, stares, when I travel in regions where not a lot of black people travel.

A prolonged stare is creepy enough to rattle even the most intrepid of travelers. As much as we don’t acknowledge it, we all experience travel differently. Sometimes on a much deeper level than we’re even aware of. And unfortunately, some experiences can be marred by how people react to us…physically.

Here’s an excerpt from a piece I wrote awhile back that talked about dealing with stereotypes:

Your friend just returned from the trip of a lifetime – traveling around remote regions, being invited into homes of locals, feasting on ethnic spreads, and immersing herself in centuries-old cultures.

You’re not readily welcomed with open arms and you’re constantly being gawked at. At that moment, no one can understand the level of dejection you’re feeling…..

Situations like these can leave travelers confused and unsure of themselves. Having experienced a range of reactions from locals over the years – from acceptance to blatant rejection – I’ve decoded various types of stares into seven distinct types:

The “What on Earth?” stare

This is your typical “I’ve just seen a ghost look.” Usually reserved for older men and women and accompanied with a slight jaw-drop.

The “Hellooooo…baby!” stare

They’ve watched the music videos. They’ve seen the stereotypes on TV. So when they see you, they put two-and-two together and react based on assumptions. “They” being middle-aged men.

The “Frozen in Time” stare

Similar to the way a cow stops and stares, half-chewing and frozen in time. This usually happens when I saunter into tiny villages. They stop and freeze. This look also pops up on occasion in city settings especially with much older folk (80s and older) who freeze their steps and stare. The difference between the ‘What on Earth?” and this look is that the “What on Earth?”s keep on walking while these just freeze.

The “Covert Operation” stare

The sneakiest of the bunch, they use every reflective surface to observe and study you. Unless you catch them via their reflection in the mirror. Usually reserved for older teenagers (both girls and boys) and young men who find you attractive.

The “Confused” stare

They know I exist yet are taken by surprise when I turn up in their ski lodge or on their yacht.

The “Abject Fascination” stare

Just the other day I watched as a little boy barely 8 months old, strapped into a grocery cart, trailed me up and down an aisle with just his eyes. His dad, walking back from another aisle, caught his baby rubbernecking and we shared a lighthearted laugh.

Kids point. They stare. They gawk. Sometimes they laugh. If their natural curiosity didn’t bubble to the surface, frankly, I’d be concerned.

The “Utterly Disgusted” stare

Definitely the most difficult to stomach. Sometimes, you look over your shoulder wondering who they’re staring at with such loathing only to realize it’s…you?! Usually born from previous negative experiences or just deep-seated prejudice you really can’t change in a day.

Note – All of these types of stares, excluding the “Covert Operation” stare, are usually followed by some serious rubbernecking to make sure what they’re seeing isn’t a figment of their imagination.

So, how do I handle stares, you ask?

I just keep on traveling.

That’s the only way.

All photos: Dale Frost, Port of San Diego

I looked up to see the M.V. Explorer about 300 yards away. Ignoring the dirt roads, I was running through wet fields to where she was docked. Having ditched my friends in Yangon for the comforts of my bed, I was alone and in a hurry to get through the dark shipyard and onto the dimly lit ship. Just then I heard bicycle pedals and men shouting in Burmese.

“Stop!” one of the three men screamed.

I stopped when I recognized the panic in his tone.

“Snakes! Snakes!”

I heard a rattling sound rise in a chorus around me; I was running through a field full of sleeping rattlesnakes. Before I could scream, my adrenaline kicked in and I sprinted toward the nearest road.

As I awkwardly stumbled to safety and waved in thanks, the Burmese men looked relieved and slightly amused.

Just one more thing I never expected from Semester at Sea.

Studying at Sea

Usually when you think of studying abroad, you think of living in one place for a semester or a whole academic year. If you sign up for Semester at Sea you will instead circumnavigate the globe aboard a ship for about 100 days. Once on board you will take classes, explore different countries, and likely to find yourself in some unexpected situations both on and offshore.

Voyages take place during the spring, fall and summer semesters, although while full-semester trips dock at 10-12 international ports, summer trips only stop at 8. During the spring or fall you can earn up to 15 transfer credits, and during the summer you can earn up to 12.

Students live on a 25,000-ton ship called the M.V. Explorer. The ship can cruise at up to 28 knots, has six decks, a pool, gym, and a salon. There are nine classrooms on the ship where students take classes, study, or simply lounge. There are two separate dining halls, along with outside decks that are popular with students for catching sunset views. On board you’ll also find a computer lab, library, and campus store.

You can choose cabin accommodations with inside or outside views, although different views are different prices. A porthole serves as your view to the outside world and can offer quite the show during rough waters. Furnishings in a double room consist of two beds, one shared wardrobe, two nightstands and a desk.

A steward does your laundry, makes your bed daily, and folds your clothes. These services and amenities can be a strange juxtaposition to the countries visited when off the ship.

The Classes

Classes run when the ship is at sea, and students are free to explore on the days the ship is docked. All students are required to take Global Studies, a class where you learn about the countries you will visit.

Students are also expected to take three or four additional classes. It’s best to research the class offerings beforehand and get the approval from your home university to make sure what you are taking is transferable. Many students save general education requirements such as art or science to complete while at sea.

Professors on the ship are selected for each voyage, so for them it may also be their first time living at sea and visiting international ports. As a student, you will come to see your professors as part of your community much more than you would in a traditional university setting.

Trips and Field activities

Field activities are organized by the ship staff and offer students cool and educational opportunities in each port. The type of trips that may be offered on a voyage include things like touring an orphanage in India, exploring a museum in Brazil, or visiting the townships of Cape Town, South Africa. Semester at Sea sets up flights, buses and accommodations for you. All you have to do is show up on time.

The ship docks at each country for three to seven days, and in that time you are free to explore at your own leisure. In some countries you may want to skip out on your own, other times you may want to sit back and have someone else do the planning.

Preparation

The University of Virginia is the academic sponsor of Semester at Sea, so the credits you receive will be transferred from that university. To be eligible to apply, you must be enrolled full time at an accredited university, have completed at least one full term at post-secondary level, and have a cumulative G.P.A of 2.75 or higher.

In order to get credit for your semester abroad, your university may require additional applications. Each university has its own study abroad policies, so it’s best to find out these details early in the process.

Once accepted, you’ll need to get your vaccinations in line and research which classes offered by Semester at Sea will count for credit at your home university. When it comes time to pack for the trip, make sure you account for all the souvenirs, clothes and trinkets you’ll pick up along the way.

Many of my family members have participated in Semester at Sea, including my mother. I can remember looking back at pictures of my mom in Africa and counting down the years until I was in college and could experience for myself the places in the pictures she showed me.

And finally, I did – rattlesnakes and all.

The days are short, the nights long. The river freezes and the land turns monochrome, rust brown and gray on the steppes and frozen blues in the mountains.

The view from our apartment is an expressionist palette of muted colors and uncertain shapes through the quarter inch of ice frozen on the inside of the window. We put on six and seven layers of clothes before venturing outside. Mongolia is winter’s domain, and the season does not relinquish its grasp easily.

Certainly not this year, when months of deep snow and arctic temperatures wreaked havoc on the country’s nomadic herders and their livestock; a tenth of the nation’s animals have died since January. Now, in the third week of April, winter has broken, but not disappeared.

The river, still flanked by ice, is rushing with melt water. A few brave trees have begun to unfurl tight buds of future leaves, and the temperature has recently peaked above freezing on consecutive days.

I welcome the new season for the sake of the struggling herders I met with in February and March and to escape the constant inquiry of “are you cold?” from Mongolian acquaintances not yet convinced that an American should be able to survive their fearsome winters, but I am always disappointed when the snow begins to release the mountains ringing Hovd and winter makes its quiet exit.

I’ll admit to thriving perversely from challenges. And the Mongolian spring is not much better a friend than winter. Winter is a harsh regime that makes you forget that the other seasons come and go, but spring here is a gritty mess of false-promise mornings and blinding sandstorm afternoons, blackouts, and little of the flowery April optimism inherent in more temperate regions.

I’ll admit too, that spring leads to summer, and Mongolian summers are a glorious explosion of rambling adventures, long carefree evenings, and 10 p.m. sunsets. It’s a transient state, though, and the truth is that winter is the essence of Mongolia. It is somehow more still, more silent, and yet more dynamic than any other time of year. And while summer is great fun, the depths of winter here are truly phenomenal.

In spite of my fondness for epic winters, there isn’t much to gain from mourning their end. Trying to keep up with the times, I took a walk with my dog and my camera a few days ago. I was not the only person with the same idea, and it was obvious from the number of people in the streets and the energy that filled that air that I am in the minority in wishing that it would just go ahead and stay cold right up through June.

Children raced through the dirt lanes between their yards. Mothers carried their infants out into the fresh air. A few wheeling kites waited for their mates to return from migration and anticipated the summer picnics they’ll bother like seagulls at a busy beach front.

Winter may be my leaving me and Mongolia, but I suppose I can get through the next few months with bare arms and watermelon lunch breaks. After all, I know it will be back some day.

Photo: Fantaz

While I worked with local NGOs and universities in Pakistan, my husband Duarte took a two-year contract as a Physics teacher in an international high school. By connecting with other foreign teachers in the school, we quickly learned that making a career out of international teaching would be an ideal way for us to sustain long-term travel and life abroad.

International vs. National Schools

There are scores of schools that claim to be “international” in name, but what teachers often call a “true international school” is a school that enrolls students from a variety of countries. These schools tend to be located in major cities, diplomatic capitals and international financial centers. Students include ambassadors’ kids, expat kids, teachers’ kids and local children whose parents can foot the bill.

Other schools may be internationally accredited but enroll primarily local students. Teachers refer to this type of school as a “national” school, although both types hire foreign teachers. Some national schools hire only foreign-qualified staff; others hire most teachers locally but employ foreigners for certain subjects like English. The ratio of foreign to local faculty at schools can vary widely even within the same country or city.

School Curriculum

When Duarte and I first moved abroad, we had no idea what O-Levels and A-Levels were. Since he was teaching in a school that offered both the British system and the American system, he had to learn how to teach two different curriculums.

Photo: Steve & Jemma Copley

International schools usually belong to one of the following systems: British (IGCSE/GCSE), American (often offering AP classes), or International Baccalaureate (IB).

Teacher Qualifications

There are schools that will hire teachers without formal qualifications, but to be a competitive candidate you need at least two of the following: a Bachelor’s degree, a valid teaching license in the subject you plan to teach, and two years experience.

In the U.S., each state has its own process for teacher licensure. Many undergraduate education programs provide routes to state certification, but you can also find post-baccalaureate programs aimed at career changers.

The majority of these programs require a one-semester student teaching practicum, a series of education courses based on classroom observation, and a set of exams.

Massachusetts is one state that offers a five-year preliminary license without requiring student teaching or the completion of special course work. You can apply for this license by passing two exams: MTEL communication & literacy and MTEL content area. For either elementary or secondary teachers it costs about $230 for the exams and $100 for a one-subject license. Your license is valid for five years of employment in Massachusetts, so if you never teach in Massachusetts it can remain valid for your entire international teaching career.

Job Searching

Most schools offer two-year renewable contracts, although some offer one-year contracts or require a three-year commitment from new hires. Prime hiring season is from January through April, although hiring is done all the way through August for the upcoming school year.

A lot of hiring is done at international job fairs organized by school placement organizations. At job fairs, dozens of school administrators and hundreds of teacher candidates converge in a major city for the purpose of lining up jobs.

The biggest job fairs are run by Search Associates, International Schools Services (ISS) and University of Northern Iowa (UNI). To attend a Search or ISS fair you need to apply and become a member.

Before the fair, candidates are given a list of schools that will be represented and current job openings. Larger companies like Search and ISS have online databases with detailed information about each school and salary package. The best way to prepare is to research every school, city and country that you might be interested in.

Once at the fair you will sign up for interviews with different school administrators. Between interviews you can go to school information sessions or network with other teachers.

Photo: Bridget Christian

Factors to Consider

Attending a job fair can be expensive, especially if you need to factor in travel and hotel costs. It is worth contacting schools ahead of fair season, in November and December, to see if you can interview via Skype.

Not all schools, even those listed by placement companies, are legit. Before applying for a teaching position, read what other teachers have said about it on International Schools Review (ISR). It costs $29 per year to be a member of ISR, but this will put you in direct contact with other international teachers and expat parents. Reviews posted on schools and directors are anonymous, so be aware that some feedback may simply be venting by teachers or propaganda by school administrators.

When you compare salary packages, compare the cost of living and the local tax rate as well. Annual salaries range from about $15,000 through $70,000, but you can live much better on $20,000 in India than you can on $40,000 in Switzerland.

European schools tend not to offer housing or utilities as part of the salary package, although many other schools around the world do. Benefits to look for include round-trip airfare, medical insurance, life insurance, free tuition for school-age children, daycare for younger children, moving allowance, professional development training, transportation allowance and retirement funds.

Final Tips

Look at the number of contract days and the number of teacher-pupil contact days required per year before applying. An average number of contract days is 180-190; this is the number of days per year teachers are expected to work. An average number of contact days is 170-180; this is the number of days you will be expected to teach. A few days more or less aren’t anything to raise concern, but I was once looking at a job in a new international school that required 250 contact days. Yeah, no thanks. I’d like to keep my summer vacations and my sanity. A side note said that teachers would be required to arrive early in order to create the school curriculum from scratch.

The teaching culture of a given school can vary markedly. Some schools are isolated; some are set in urban centers. Some cater to a young-single crowd of teachers while others prefer hiring couples or pensioners.

For Duarte and I, international teaching is a combination of career flexibility and stability. Once a contract is completed, we can choose to stay or move on to another destination. Currently we’re back in the U.S. pursuing further education, but we’re psyched to find out what opportunities the next international job fair will bring about!

Community Connection

Interested in some other travel job ideas? Check out 20 Ideal Day or Seasonal Jobs for Travel Writers .