The Red Light District: A Glimpse

The Red Light District of Amsterdam. We walked down the main roads and narrow alleys, suppressing emotions of anger and deep disgust. Women, all trapped beyond their glass windows. Their bodies clad in next to nothing. Their faces caked in make-up to hide their tired eyes and beaten cheeks. Parents casually strolled hand in hand with their children, glancing at the women with little interest. Teenagers stopped to gawk. A young girl fixed her mascara in the reflection of an occupied window, seeing only herself and no one inside. Men briskly walked out of the rooms after paying 50 Euros for a body. For pleasure. For an insatiable and unattainable satisfaction.


Those women are laughed at by insensitive and oblivious tourists. Those women are perused and shopped like shoes and purses and light, summer dresses.

So what would I say to that woman in the window? I would tell her that although she may never meet them, she has advocates. Although she may never feel it, she is not alone. Although it may never be manifested in her liberation, there is hope. There is life beyond those windows. There is something more than either of us knows. We are both searching together. We are both looking for worth, value, meaning and, ultimately, love. She is not alone in her suffering. Look around! The whole world is crying out for liberation and redemption. We are all needy and broken. And so I will walk with her. Because I am her.


So join us in the abolition of men, women and children around the world who need you to be aware.

Educate yourself:

• http://www.notforsalecampaign.org/


• http://www.freetheslaves.net/


• http://www.hagarproject.org/


• http://www.polarisproject.org/

Cup-a-Soup: Euro Style

I am in Amsterdam; my favorite city in the world. It is just as striking and invigorating as I found it was the last time I was here, which just so happens to be a long five years ago. Back in 2004, I came to this city in search of greater understanding and knowledge. It was a trip all-together life changing for little, impressionable, 17-year old Molly. It was integral in my life, pushing me to take risks like leaving home at the age of 18 to live in Africa, and daring me to question beliefs and form my own ideology and thoughts on life. Amsterdam captured me. I fell in love with Amsterdam, fast and hard. For the past five years I have longed to return.
And somehow, someway, I am back. My emotions cannot be contained, my heart desires to delve into the culture and I can't wait to get lost among the canals and winding narrow alleyways. I would choose to be no other place in the world for the month of July 2009. Two of my closest friends and I will be living our dreams, together in Amsterdam.

Onto much more important news...

Cup-a-soup. To you, that image probably conjures up memories of broke college dinners or elementary school lunches. For me, it is glory in a little paper packet. Five years ago, at the age of 17, I sat in my one person room in this same building overlooking a lucious courtyard in a bustling city. I sat on my bed and ate soup. And not just any soup, Cup-A-Soup. Flavor: Kerrie (Curry). I sat on my bed with a mug full of that delicious liquid on the most life changing day of my life (exaggeration? I think not). It became my comfort food for the trip and when I returned, to my utmost horror, I found that Cup-a-Soup America did not in fact supply their customers with my all-time favorite flavor packet. So what's a girl to do when her preservative filled soup box is noticeably absent from the shelves of her local grocery store? Why email Cup-a-Soup, of course! Thus, I emailed those buggers and told them my concern. I knew that they had Kerrie, but where was it? Where could I find it? Could they mail it to me? Their response was kind and thoughtful but disappointing nonetheless. Kerrie is produced only in Europe because the demand is too low in the States. And no, they appreciated my enthusiasm for their product but they could not mail it to me.

And then yesterday we were shopping at Alber Hein- the grocery store- and to my surprise, atop the shelf next to the typical- and let's be honest, boring- soups like broccoli cheddar and chicken noodle sat one lone row of Kerrie. I am back. And it feels oh so nice.


Confession: It is quite likely that Kerrie Cup-a-Soup will taste slightly less incredible this time as my taste has improved and my love for real curry has only increased. That being said, I will update you immediately upon the finishing of my first mug of Kerrie Cup-a-Soup 2009.

Resurrection Fern

One month ago I was sipping Cuba Libres in Managua with twenty of my closest friends. We were celebrating the end of final presentations and soaking up the remaining hours of our grand adventure. I was deliberately procrastinating packing the big green backpack that would lead me toward a post-Central American life. Elizabeth and I were sneaking out to the park across from the President's house to play on the teeter totters and make fools of ourselves in front of the young ice cream vendors. Chelsea and I were making plans to bike across the country and have book clubs together and prolong the inevitable goodbyes that were to take place soon. Amy and I were probably pouting. One month ago I was living with the Sandovals. I felt alive.

One month from today, I will be meandering down the cobbled and bike filled streets of Amsterdam. I will view history and art and a brand new culture. I will attempt bits and pieces of the Dutch language from a soon to be bought phrase book. I will live in an Amsterdam all together different from the one I visited five long years ago. I have changed, my perspective on life has been drastically altered and the Molly from 2002 is not the same as today. In one month, I will be in Europe. The Spanish language will not be prevalent and I am sure that I will find myself lost in a culture and language and people that are deep and beautiful. My heart will be broken each day as I walk through the Red Light District. I am going to be immersing myself in brokenness and hurt unlike anything I have ever experienced. And yet... I wouldn't have it any other way.

So as I sit here in my dad's adobe house with lush vegetation and a new lavender plant at my side, I wonder how I got this life. I am living what I have dreamed to live. I am traveling the world, country by country, continent by continent. I get to read books about history and politics. I get to live in the homes of women and men who profoundly change my life. I get to eat tasty foods and drink local beers. I get be outside. I get to study. I get to learn languages. I get to talk with prostitutes and politicians and farmers. And as I do this, as I plunge myself into uncomfortable and all together intimidating situations, I am learning more about the richness of life, the beauty of love and the pain of humanness. How did this happen? I feel like I just might be growing up... maybe.

The Final Days

I am trying to find words. Words to explain or express or give a glimpse into my life in Central America. But I can't seem to find these words. This morning I left my Batahola home to move into the house with my eighteen other housemates to share our final week together. Mom, Leo and little Lupita held our hands as we carried our oversized luggage and heavy hearts to the bus. We hugged and kissed and said our temporary goodbyes, knowing that Thursday we would come back with pizza and Coke in hand to have our final dinner together as a familia. We'll watch our telenovelas and gasp with horror as Catalina pushes her ex-boyfriend's car down a hill. We'll play UNO for hours and attempt to get along knowing that cheating is abundant and UNO is serious. We'll eat pizza and marvel in the goodness of cheese. We'll sit on the rocking chairs. We'll say "Lupiiiiiitaaaaa!" over and over and over just to see that cute little smile emerge. We'll let Lola the bird sit on our heads. We'll listen to Dad play guitar and hum. We'll let brother read everything printed on the television screen in a loud, soothing, booming voice. We'll enjoy each other and laugh and giggle and love on each other. And then, some time in the future, maybe distant or maybe closer than I can imagine, we'll get to share it all again.

Meet the kids: Leo. Lupita. Jose Andres.

El Sontule

Sandinistas. The Contra War. President Reagan. US foreign policy. Torture. Inequality. Rape. Money.

These words infiltrate my mind as I sit in this house in the middle of Managua. They are words that were once only defined by other words with other meanings in other times. However, as I sit here, legs folded in a comfortable chair, I cannot escape these words. They carry a new weight. They hold within each syllable a story. It is a strange phenomenon when words become personal.

Last week I stayed in the very rural village of El Sontule. No running water. No electricity. No internet. No sink. No door. No luxuries. Mountains surrounded the valley that held my wood plank and cement home. As I stepped outside in the mornings, the brisk air awakened my senses and the view was indescribable. Each night as I carefully made my way toward the latrine, I stopped to stare at the stars- the most brilliant and numerous stars I've ever seen, second only to Mt. Gemi in Amedzofe when the electricity would go off in the surrounding villages. It was romantic and breathtaking.

Aside from the simplicity of a life lacking in luxuries that I tend to always fall in love with, I had the incredible opportunity to live with one of the strongest and bravest women I have ever met. Isabel, a mother of six children ranging from 26 to 8, survived the Contra attacks on her community. Kidnapped. Tortured. Raped. The Contra War hit me like a slap in the face. It is not a story told by politicians and authors and journalists. It did not end in 1987. The war continues to rage. And as I sat there on the wooden bench next to the stove heated by dried corn husks, I listened to Isabel. She spoke delicately and intently. She made the war real as she showed us the mountains where she hid and escaped. We walked on the same land. We looked at the same trees. And at night, we stared at the same stars.

In countries where history, culture and politics merge so drastically and conflict so often, it is easy to overlook the personal stories. It is easier to read about war and human rights abuses and torture than it is to stare it in the face. This week, I was forced to stare it in the face. And I am honored to have the opportunity to hear firsthand, to translate the words, to sit with a strong Sandinista woman in her own home and to glance into a community with a heavy past and a bright future.

Because it's been too long...

I'm sitting in the darkened living room of my mom's high rise apartment in Venezuela. The bright lights of Caracas illuminate a city nestled beneath breathtaking mountains on all sides. For some reason, I am forcing myself to blog. It's been too long since I made the effort to write for writing's sake, so tonight, as I sit with my legs propped up on the leather couch, I will write.


For the past three months I have been living among the people of Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua. Currently, I am living with the Sandovals in a small neighborhood in the middle of Managua, Nicaragua. The barrio of Batahola consists of dusty roads lined with cement block homes behind hammock hung porches. Not too quiet, not too loud, Batahola is tight knit and quaint. My house is hidden from street view, tucked behind two larger homes and a high concrete wall. We have no porch or hammock like our neighbors and our kitchen is outside, but what we lack in material possessions is readily made up in the personalities of the family. Papi, Mama, Jose Leo, Carmen, Leito, Lupita and Andre. What a family. Chelsea, my roommate and very close friend, and I have the incredible opportunity be a part of the lives of these amazing people.

Each night I take a bucket bath of the water saved from the days allotment of usuable agua. I attempt to clean the dust and sweat that accumulates throughout the miserably hot days of March and April in Managua. The rains have not come to temper the heat yet they taunt us with each passing cloud. After my bath, I sit with my family and watch telenovelas, futbol, talk, color with the children or read homework articles about the Sandinistas and revolutionaries. It is simple and crowded but very welcoming.

This past week I have been with my Mama. Oh how wonderful and altogether lovely it was to see her face! It was unreal. I walked through the Caracas airport, excitement building as I rushed past immigration toward my beautiful Mama. Over the past 7 days we have visited the ocean, drank refillable coffee cups, sat on the roof of a building with a view of the city drinking wine with her friends, met with a Chavista priest, peaked into mass, layed out by the pool, got sunburned, got tanned and simply spent much needed and much welcomed time together.

As I leave this world of air conditioning, toilets that let me throw toilet paper into them, constant electricity, hot water, a refridgerator full of food, cool nights, washing machines, spectacular views and time with my Mom, I am mentally preparing for the transition. When I arrived in Venezuela, to say that I experienced some culture shock is an understatement. Now as I pack my little bag that holds two pairs of clothes, a toothbrush, my journal and a book, I prepare to re-enter the Third World. It is more uncomfortable and harsher than this cozy apartment or the backrubs that my mom generously gives me when I visit, but the Third World enchants me. With all the normal amenities lacking, Nicaragua has a charm that shouldn't be ignored. I'm sad to say goodbye to my mom, as I always am and always will be, but I'm ready to embrace the next month. The final month of this little adventure of mine.

I´m just not that into you.

¨I think you just had your official welcome to Managua, Molly¨laughs my curly haired friend Amy from Rhode Island. Four girls squished into the back seat of a taxi in the heat of the Nicaraguan evening on the way to spin class turned into another eventful moment in the life of Molly Bryant. The stories keep building. Yesterday I was reminded that I am, indeed, immersed in another culture. A culture altogether different than my own; one that has undoubtedly provided moments of confusion, frustration and terror (which just comes with the territory of international travel) but mostly it has provided moments of pure humor and hilarity. As soon as I forget that I´m traveling through Central America, a man in a wheelchair tries to make out with me. At a stoplight. With a plate glass window as our only barrier.

´Tis true. I do not exaggerate, my virtual friends. Last night, our taxi driver Fernando pulled up to the stoplight of a busy intersection and immediately locked the doors and asked us to roll up our windows. We obeyed without question knowing that robbery has been on the rise here in Nicaragua. As I was innocently chatting with my friends and moving to the salsa music on the radio, a man´s face appeared directly to my left. Inches away. My eyesight might be horrific but I do have excellent peripheral vision. I slowly turned my head with the face of someone who might be described as one who feels both guilty and nervous because they know they shouldn´t be looking at whatever it is but they can´t not look at the same time. I looked. Failure! Never look.

¨Ho-laaaaaa!¨says the man as he nods and literally licks his lips. Cringe. I smiled and turned away. Surely the man will get the point. I´m just not that into him. He taps on the window. Shudder. He bangs on the window and starts talking. Holy shit. The car errupts into uncontrollable giggles. I try to remain adamant that I will not even laugh because that will just provoke the situation. Do not laugh. And then...

He sticks his mouth on the window. The window that is inches from my face. I turn to give him the look of ¨Ya Basta (Enough!)!¨And then I see it in plain view. His mouth. His tongue. The window. A part of me was literally scared. I wouldn´t say that it´s the most comforting thing in the world to have a man in a wheelchair make out with the window the lies adjacent to your body. Yet, slowly... slowly... slowly... a smile emerged. Then a snort. Then a snicker. And then laughter. Uncontrollable, deep laughter. Tears begin to stream down my face. With each kiss from the man, more tears. Tears of terror, tears of humor and tears that inevitably come with a situation like this. And then the car lost all control. It was contagious. And that damned stoplight lasted for what felt like hours.

Thankfully I had 50 minutes of spinning class from an instructor that had dance moves I´ve never ever seen before and who yelled at me to go faster to take my mind off the classy man at the stoplight. Perhaps we will meet again. Perhaps not. At least we had those 5 minutes together. On the street. With the doors locked and the windows up.