Paro, Bhutan: A Mystical Trek to Tiger's Nest - May 2016

"How much farther?" I asked, bent forward, hands on my knees, dripping with perspiration and gasping for air. Sonam, our twenty-something Bhutanese guide with calves chiseled of granite, grinned over his shoulder and waved me on, "We are nearly halfway to the halfway point."

After a gratuitous sigh and a serious swig of water, I planted one dusty sneaker forward and continued up the rocky, dirt trail trying my hardest to acclimate to the altitude. My husband and I, and our cheery local guide, were trekking to the mystical Tiger's Nest, also known as Taktsang, tucked in the Himalayan Mountains overlooking Paro, Bhutan.

Tiger's Nest, the most famous cultural icon in Bhutan, is an elaborate temple complex built into a rock face with a legend that dates back hundreds of years. The monastery was given its name from the tale that Guru Padmasambhava flew from Tibet to the sacred site in 1692 on the back of a tigress to introduce Buddhism to Bhutan. It was on the peak that the Guru spent three years, three months, three weeks, three days and three hours during the 8th century meditating in a cave.

Today the monastery clings to a cliff side at an elevation of more than 10,000 feet above sea level towering over the Upper Paro Valley and is comprised of four main temples interconnected through rock stairways and 13 taktsang or "tiger lair" caves used for meditation.

The southern pass trek used by religious devotees led us for four hours through blue pine forests, by colorful prayer flags, and up almost vertical rock slopes to reach the summit. While it took more than a few moments to catch our breath, standing atop one of the most sacred mountains in the world was a magical experience ... and the hour and a half run downhill was a pretty exhilarating reward as well.

Imatra, Finland: The Refugees Next Door - July 2016

When my husband called and told me that Syrian refugees were moving in down the street, I was flooded with emotion. Feelings not of fear or uncertainty, but of excitement. We had watched the news unfold over the last several months and heard the heart-breaking stories of families being uprooted and masses fleeing their home country for safety.

When I learned that nearly 100 families were coming to the small town where we lived in southeastern Finland, I saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: a chance to take a headline we had only seen on the television and read about in the newspapers and make it more than a fleeting story but to make it real and to affect change in the lives of those in need. So days later without a second thought, my husband and I, outfitted with bags of groceries and toys, visited the nearby hotel where we had heard the refugee families had set up camp. We were eager to welcome them to the small community where we were once considered outsiders but now call home.

According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, since the crisis began nearly one million Syrian refugees have requested asylum in Europe. In recent years, the country of Finland has accepted 1,050 refugees annually - many of whom recently are from Syria.

As we approached the former four-star hotel we noticed that both of the entrance drives were gated off and signs were nailed to the trees that read no trespassing. We looked at each other in surprise, then proceeded past the barricades through the snow-covered grass and to the front door of the hotel. Walking into the lobby we were met with a crowd of people sitting on chairs, steps and the floor; some smiled at us while others looked away. Upon asking if anyone could speak English, a black-haired man in a soccer jersey pointed up the stairs.

On the second level of the hotel was a restaurant where we found two Finnish volunteers scooping buffet food onto the plates of a line of people. Trying not to get in the way, we inquired about donating the items we had in our car and opportunities to volunteer with the refugees. Our questions were met with silence and puzzled expressions. "The Finnish Red Cross is managing this situation," we were advised coldly. "If you want to volunteer you must take a multi-day training class. No donations are accepted here." Far from the reception we were hoping for but none-the-less very Finnish in its statement of facts, we were then hurried out of the hotel with an email address for someone affiliated with the local chapter of the Red Cross.

Months passed and our attempts to contact someone at the Red Cross proved fruitless. Throughout town we would occasionally see women wearing hijabs and hear groups of people speaking in Arabic, but the refugee presence in our small town of less than 30,000 people was far less than we expected. With it being summertime, we hoped the warmer temperatures may have helped to thaw the frosty welcome the town's new arrivals most likely received ... so we decided to try again.

The sun shining now, there were no barricades surrounding the hotel, and we saw people outside chatting at picnic tables and riding bikes. Walking up the steps of the hotel, we were approached by two men. They greeted us with a smile. "My name is Muhammad. I'm from Baghdad," one of the men said. "Can you help me?"

He was looking for a job. We learned that Muhammad was a lawyer in Iraq, but since he came to Finland nine months ago with his two younger brothers, he was unable to find work. From talking with the men, we also came to understand that the hotel housed refugees from Iraq, Syria, Palestine and Somalia; most of whom did not speak English or Finnish and were having trouble acclimating.

Our conversation with the tattooed Finnish girl at the reception desk resulted again in an email address printed on a yellow Post-It note. She was noticeably uneasy about our unplanned visit and hesitant to provide us with information. As we once again turned around and left the hotel none the wiser, we shook our heads: How can it be so hard to volunteer or make donations in this country? What is the town's plan for helping these refugees learn English, find work and assimilate into the community? Will anyone return our email this time?

Yangon, Myanmar: Facts about a Relatively Unknown Nation - May 2016

Nestled alongside India, China and Thailand, sits the enchanting Southeast Asian nation of Myanmar. Formerly known as Burma, the country is now stepping out from its tumultuous history plagued with civil war, occupation and military rule. Known for its towering golden pagodas and devout Buddhist followers, there is more to this formerly closed nation than meets the eye.

• Burma was renamed Myanmar in 1989, however some western nations, like the U.S., refuse to recognize the change.
• The Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon is the country's most famous site and a revered Buddhist monument; it was erected more than 2,500 years ago using 22,041 solid bars of gold.
• Traditional Burmese dance features double-jointed performers who bend wrists, elbows, knees, ankles, fingers and toes to stylized choreography.
• In Burmese culture, white, or albino, elephants are worshipped. The animals are collected by politicians to bring good luck in elections. Currently eight white elephants are actively involved in blessing the country's affairs.
• About 5,000 elephants are employed throughout the country in forestry operations to haul logs. Elephants start timber-work at age five and typically retire at age 53.
• Burmese women and children smear fragrant paste made from tree bark, called thanaka, on their faces to combat the sun.
• In the mountainous northeastern regions of Myanmar, the local diet consists of insect larvae, ants and grasshoppers.
• Burmese people don't only drink tea, but eat it as well. Lahpet, or tea-leaf salad, consists of fermented tea leaves packed into bamboo tubes along with a variety of spices and accompaniments.
• The Myanmar border with Laos and Thailand is often referred to as the "Golden Triangle." It is regarded as lawless badlands overrun with drug lords, arms dealers and insurgent armies, and is the primary poppy crop region for opium production.
  
• Myanmar is the second-largest producer of opium in the world after Afghanistan, producing around a fifth of the world's supply.
• 100 days after the birth of a child, the parents invite family and friends to a naming ceremony where the baby is given a name based on astrological calculations.
• There are no family surnames in Burmese culture or shared names between children and parents; Burmese women keep their maiden names upon marriage.
• The term "U" is added to the names of senior figures in Burmese culture to signify honor and respect.
• Burmese girls mark the end of childhood at age 9 with an ear-piercing ceremony.
• The Chin people inhabiting the western part of the country are known for their dying tradition of facial tattooing. Worn by women, the tattoos cover the entire face with a blue-green spider's-web pattern. A German photographer showcases the tradition on his site: www.bloodfaces.com 

Kyaiktiyo, Myanmar: Our Pilgrimage to Golden Rock Pagoda - May 2016

Precariously perched on the top of rock dangerously close to a mountain's edge, a granite boulder covered in gold hoists a 24-foot-tall pagoda into the sky. Legend has it that the golden rock balances on a single thread of the Buddha's hair. The Golden Rock Pagoda is one of the world's most revered Buddhist sites; it is said that one look at the gravity-defying wonder is enough to inspire any person to become a follower of the faith.

Our pilgrimage to the Golden Rock Pagoda began in Yangon. We were up at dawn waving goodbye to the city as we drove east into the Burmese countryside. Wooden stands with thatch roofs flanked the roadways selling fruits and fish. Past the rice paddy fields and river valleys, we met the mountains upon entering the Mon state.

After nearly four hours of driving we reached the small town of Kyaiktiyo. "Base camp" as they referred to it was a crowded bus depot on the outskirts of town. We were pulled out of our air-conditioned car and thrust into the blanketing 107 degree Fahrenheit heat.

A young Burmese boy motioned for us to climb onto a platform and wait our turn to be loaded into a truck. The back of the truck was open with seven wooden pew-like planks. The noticeably over-heated driver was strict in enforcing six people per plank. After nearly an hour of waiting and organizing in the back of the truck, we held on tight to the metal bar in front of our seat as we began the ascent of Mount Kyaiktiyo with forty of our 'closest' Burmese friends.

The heat was suffocating and the sun scorched our skin. Two children behind us were pulling at my hair and an Indian woman in front was somehow sitting on my knees. We were crammed in so tight we couldn't move. The 45-minute journey to the top of the forested mountain took us up a steep switch back paved road. Tree branches beat the truck. Our only relief was the breeze that sometimes penetrated the pile of cramped pilgrims and the sight of the towering pagoda we would steal every once and again.

Upon reaching the top of the mountain, all of the pilgrims eagerly jumped out of the truck and into the arms of the sweat-drenched locals surrounding the truck peddling everything from straw hats and umbrellas, to snake oil. After pushing through the crowd, we proceeded down a narrow road lined with stores and hotels towards the pagoda.

A few moments later we reached the entrance to the religious area. There we removed our sandals out of respect and left them in a crate. The rest of our journey was to be done barefoot on marble slabs. Our walk turned into a jog as we jumped for the white and gray marble bricks which seemed much cooler than the darker ones. After nearly one mile by foot we finally set our sights on the pagoda.

It was smaller than we had expected but the way in which the boulder appeared to balance on the mountain face was awe-inspiring. The men were permitted to purchase gold leaves to press onto the golden rock. Incense swirled in the air and a line of newly appointed monks marched past us. Hundreds of fellow pilgrims crowded the site many preparing blankets and food to spend the night on the marble grounds. It appeared that from every angle the golden rock glowed a differing hue of gold-yellow-orange as it reflected the light. As the sun set behind the Golden Rock Pagoda it was hard not to be entranced by the beauty of this sacred site.