Burma Journal 5 Aug 2010

It’s late and I am tired. I don’t think I have digested today’s events well enough to provide analysis, but I have to write before I forget. Before I came to Burma, I had some e-mail correspondence with a guy my age that I will call “Tom”. I met him in Chiang Mai when he asked to interview me for a short documentary. I soon found out he was from Burma, and since I wanted to know more about life in Burma, I asked to exchange e-mails. When I decided to visit Burma, I contacted him. He is from here in Mandalay and asked if I wanted to meet some people who are working for social change in Myanmar.

All I really knew about Tom is that he ran a facebook group dedicated to creating social change in Myanmar. I envisioned myself meeting with a bunch of college students who got together and talked about change and revolution. I came all the way to Mandalay expecting just that. (8 hoursby bus to Bangkok, 2 hours flying to Yangon, 14 hours bussing to Mandalay) I went to the internet café this morning to see if he had scheduled a time to meet or responded to my e-mails. I read about 65 happy birthday e-mails, but nothing from Tom. I was a little discouraged because I had no other plans and no idea what I would do with my time in Mandalay. Then, on facebook, he chatted me. “where are you?”

“I am at an internet café in Mandalay.”

“You mean you are at NetCom on computer #2. I am behind you on computer #12.”

Shocked, but cautious not to cause a scene, I slowly turned around.

We shook hands without really saying anything, finished our computers, and left.

I rented an oversized rickety bike with no breaks and we rode off through the heat to meet his friends. We rode first to the YMCA where I was led into a dark room, all blinds closed, only the glow of the screen saver and the light from a cracked door. His friend was maybe 40 and runs outreach programs for youth. Education, English, computers. He says he helps the youth of Mandalay find hope. Our conversation was more like a formal interview. He simply asked, “Ok, you are here, what do you want to know?” I was not ready, but years of practice in awkward situations allowed me to proceed like I had a list of well thought out questions.

In Burma, its hard to get money, even if you receive a grant, there are no good banks to transfer the money to. You have to find someone to smuggle in cash. That is one of the main obstacles to doing work here. He says his staff get very poor wages. They need help translating for their website and people to help edit their fundraising proposals.

From there, lunch at a corner café, my first meal in over 24 hours. I had eaten since the snacks I bought in Yangon, which is a shame because I love Burmese food. We sat in the back room where we could talk without others hearing or seeing. From there, we rode our bikes on a grid of broken flooded streets to a large monastic school. It serves over 6,000 students free of charge. About 1,000 of which live at the school. Mostly they are orphans- 95 orphans from the cyclone in 2008- a couple hundred kids from various ethnic groups (Shan, Karen, Karenni, Kachin) and lots of little monks. The girl who showed me around moved to the school in grade 4. Now, 18 years later, she is a teacher and still lives at the school. There are over 200 teachers. Also, a free medical clinic, a library, internet, cabinetry school and sewing school.

The school started small and is run by a monk, whom I was privileged to meet. Same question, “So what do you want to know about my school?” I praised his efforts and then launched into my questions. He gets money through the bank of Myanamar, but at a disadvantaged exchange rate. In Burma you can deposit only in dollars and withdraw only in Kyat (pronounced Jet)- at the govt. rate (600:1 instead of the street rate of 1000:1).

He has been to America twice- to meet with congress and the state department about sanctions on Burma and their effect on non-profit organizations. He has a friend in San Francisco and promised to come to dinner with me on his next visit.

From there we rode around the oddly dusty yet muddy roads looking for other “friends,” finally arriving at an internet café. This time, a man in his late 50’s, “What do you want to know?” I did not even know who he was or what he did, so I began with, “Who are you and what do you do?” Turns out he runs a support group for people living with HIV/AIDS. He helps them combat discrimination and works with faith leaders to use their sermons to combat stigma. He helps them access medical help and is a friend throughout the struggle. In Myanmar, it is illegal to meet in groups of more than 5, but for faiths, it is rarely enforced, so he works with Buddhist, Christian, and Muslim leaders to network faster and disseminate information quickly to the masses. He is nominated for a special award from UNAIDS for his work.

About 5 minutes into our conversation, he asked if we could leave. He was uncomfortable talking in the internet café. We left to the same corner restaurant I had been to earlier with Tom. We sat at the same hidden table in the back. There, we talked about everything. We talked about social change and transformation, about the government spying and the lack of support for people living with HIV/AIDS. He told me of a current man he was working with. When he was diagnosed with AIDS, his family disowned him. He was kicked out of the house. He went to the hospital and was not allowed admittance. In time, he found my new friends outreach group who negotiated with the man’s family to let him stay in the sister’s extra room. He also found a doctor that was willing to see him. The man had terrible gain green from unattended bed sores and infections from the street. His health has improved, but he is still going to die. Hopefully with less pain and certainly with more dignity and support.

After that we went to another friends home. This time a peer, 25 years old, who works on environmental issues in Myanmar. I was invited into his home, which is sort of a risk for anyone. We drank gross Burmese orange soda and talked before all 3 of us loaded onto one small scooter and rode to Mandalay Hill. We walked up the hill cause the scooter would never have made it, me in my broken fake Puma sandals that I got in Guatemala a few years back, them in proper shoes. We arrived at the top just in time for the sunset, gorgeous views of the rice patties, spotted with temples, and the flooding Irriwady River. It looked like a giant lake, miles across. At the top, a Burmese girl stopped me. “Hey, I remember you from the internet today. You were computer 2, I was computer 1.” Its strange being noticed and remembered. The 3 of us watched the light disappear, conversation changing with the colors. Girls, politics, music, Burma. We hiked down in the dark.

We separated for dinner and met back up, all 3 of us overloading the motorcycle all the way across the city to an open air bar/restaurant, on the outskirts of town. There we met a man drinking whiskey and talking with other men. As soon as we arrived, he excused himself from the group and joined us at a different table. He is the leader of the United Muslim Association and the UDP political party. He was well drunk and talked openly about his political goals, to sow divisions amongst the top generals in Burma. He concluded that the people would not be able to have a revolution unless there was division within the government itself. “They are not robots. They are people, and some of them must yearn for change too.” However, he has very little hope of this happening anytime soon. We talked openly for about an hour. 3 Muslim men, smoking and drinking and me, with rice and a Coke imported from China. In time, the man got too drunk to make much sense and I was getting worried about riding with my certainly not sober friends on the motorbike. Turns out they were worried about something else.

We left the bar and precariously sandwiched ourselves back on the motorcycle. On our way over I asked where we were going and my friends replied, “we are going to meet another friend, actually it’s my brother. He is a member of Al Qaeda” I laughed, thinking they were obviously drunk/joking with me. “No seriously, he is.” “Al Qaeda Burma?” I laughed. “Yes, exactly, but its confidential.” Tom interrupted, “ But don’t worry, for some reason he likes Americans. He is not going to blow you up or anything.” They both laughed. We stopped at a nightclub of sorts. It was dark, lit only by a few neon lights and a stage where they were having what was advertised as a beauty pageant. The pageant consisted of pretty girls in nightclub dresses walking around and having beer-drinking contests. We walked over to a table where the brother was waiting, seats reserved just for us. To our left were 3 men who looked like monks in regular attire, smoking and drinking. The rest of the tables were full of middle aged, slightly overweight men. The waiters were all teenage boys and the entertainment, all girls, with numbers on them. The brother leaned over to me and offered me a drink. “No thanks. I don’t drink.” “Yes you do. Tonight you do.” “No, I really don’t, thanks though.” He seemed satisfied, but then hailed the waiter and ordered a drink for me. I told him again, “I don’t drink at all, like ever.” I put my arm around him and leaned in. “You see, I am a good Muslim.” He smiled a giant red beetle nut smile and cancelled the order. The other two laughed.

We sat and watched the girls dance and drink their beer until the music stopped and the lights came on. All the girls were loaded into 2 trucks. Tom explained that after the show they are driven to a hotel of sorts where they are auctioned off to the men who were watching. It can be as little as 5 dollars for sex and up to 60 dollars for a whole night with a girl. Tom says the girls only see a small portion of the money, as little as 50 cents. The rest goes to the club and the hotel.

As we left, Tom pulled me aside and explained what I had been wondering the whole time: why we had come to the brothel in the first place. He says they had good reason to believe the secret police had been watching us throughout the day and the best place to throw them off was a night club, where they all hang out. He said the place was full of police and army men because they are some of the only men who can afford it. Them, some monks, and apparently members of Al Quaeda. Who would have thought the safest place in Burma would be a brothel?

We rode, an awkward sandwich on wheels, back across the dimly lit city, the air getting cooler along the mote separating the old and new city. Now its time to sleep.

A story from "the middle"

This is an Al Jazeera report from Mae Sot, the border town where I suffered with Dengue Fever and wandered around for a few days. I am still typing up my journal from Burma. Law school is killing me, but I will get the rest up soon... until then:

4 August 2010

Burmese Birthday

2 Somosas and a Banana Roti for 20 cents. Burma is quite the place. I spent the morning walking around Yangon in the rain, eating from street vendors and trying to find the friends I made yesterday. Not much luck.

Now, I am sitting on an over-air-conditioned bus to Mandalay. The man sitting next to me has "Freedom" tattood down his forearm. It is obviously an amateur job, but its a poignant reminder of what is missing in Myanmar. Freedom. The bus is just waiting to leave. 10,300 Kyat ($10.30). The taxi across the sprawling yet rural feeling city was 5,000 Kyat. Only twice as much to go across the whole country.

Sam, the kid that runs the guesthouse, talked to me for about an hour practicing his American accent. He prefers the American accent over the European and he is baffled by all the Europeans who don’t like Americans. He says we speak strong. He goes to the cinema with his friends in Shan State, near the highly touristed Inle Lake. He says they go to comedies and try to laugh when the foreigners laugh, even though they don’t understand why sometimes.

Last night the other man that runs the guesthouse told me about love and sex in Burma. “You are lucky. In your country, the women touch you back. Here, they just lay there and only the man touches, but you are not lucky because your women leave you. It’s hard to find lasting love in America. Is that true?” Yes, I told him. It’s so true. He recounted rural Burma life. You can only date in secret and in the dark, sneaking to the girl’s house in the night and whispering that you like her (only after getting permission from the villages head of bachelors). She will tell you to wait for her decision, maybe a week, maybe a year, but you have to go back every day until she says yes or no. If she says yes, you hurry and marry so you can have sex.

I got an email today detailing reports out of Eastern Burma, about attacks by the SPDC (the Orwellian name for Burma's military government: State Peace and Development Council. Unfortunately they provide neither peace nor development and don't even allow many residents to be part of their state) against rural villagers. They bombed and burned several villages this week. The people are fleeing… likely to Thailand. I feel so strange being in a country that is killing its residents. I am here on a bus with A/C and a flat screen TV and thousands of villagers are being hunted and killed in the same country. The police officer that stopped me from walking in front of a government building works for the same regime that is CURRENTLY killing its people.

I don’t know what to say.

I am on a bus. It’s my birthday.

There are no other foreigners

Maybe we are all foreigners

Lost in a world far from home

Strangers in a strange land

Talking, helping, hurting, killing

Will we ever get home?

Burma: My introduction

3 Aug 2010

Yangon, Myanmar (Burma)

I made it. Last year I wrote in my journal, “Next summer I want to go to Burma. I don’t know how I will be able to though.” I arrived via Air Asia from Bangkok. I made a potentially disastrous mistake by failing to change money before I came. I arrived with only Thai Baht and you have to pay a 30-dollar visa fee upon arrival. 30 dollars literally means 30 dollars, and not just any dollars- crisp clean new dollars. An American guy overheard me explaining my situation and offered to sell me dollars for Baht. 60 dollars. He was teaching at a school in a northern province and had 15,000 US dollars in his duffel bag, for the school. Anything over 2,000 is illegal, so he was nervous. When I cleared customs I went to departures to look for more people to exchange Baht to dollars with. No one, for 2 hours. Finally, I found 3 very nice French backpackers who sold me 200 Euros at a good rate. The 200 Euro bill was clean and crisp and fetched a higher rate than smaller bills. Thank the Lord for nice people. Oh yes, back to customs, I was harassed about my money too old. They then told me they would take my old money if I paid 50 instead of 30. I gave them 40 and asked for change. The 3 men stared. I said “I know its 30, you owe me 10 dollars.” One said, Give me more and I will let you through. I said it louder, “Its only 30. Give me 10 dollars.” I was drawing too much attention. They gave me the ten dollars and I got through.

Now I am staying at Golden Smiles Inn. It’s just that, a very friendly place with very friendly staff.

I walked, wandering for 4 hours tonight, ending up totally by accident, at the Shwedagon Pagoda, one of Buddhism’s holiest sites. I debated paying the 6,000 Kyat (about 6 dollars) fee to enter because I thought the money might go to the government. I was assured that it goes only to restoring and maintaining the site. I hope that is true. I hired a guide, which is rare for me, but I got good vibes from the guy and I made a goal to talk to as many local people as possible. We talked for 2 hours, covering a range of topics, always resorting to hushed tones when anything sensitive came up, which in Burma, is often. “The security is everywhere. They don’t wear the uniform. It could be you or me or anyone. Nobody knows.” Later, “You are lucky to travel and visit other countries. I am 31. I have never been outside Burma and I have no money to travel in Burma.” “My country is so poor but some people, they have so much. In Yangon, we have one Rolls Royce and 2 Hummers. Who has that much money? How did they get it?”

I walked back into the city in the dark. A young man, who looked maybe 20, came from a gate and made eye contact. I said, “How’s it going?” He mumbled, and started walking behind me. He followed me for maybe 30 minutes, stopping where I stopped, turning where I turned. I stopped to eat dinner. He took the table next to me. I chatted with the gaged-eared boy who ran the place and my follower just watched us. When I got up, he followed. Finally, when crossing in front of Sule Paya, the 2000-year-old pagoda in the middle of a round about, he called out to me. I could not understand, but I waited for him and we walked toward my hotel. Hs English is very basic, my Burmese non-existent. He wanted to talk though, so we sat on a planter under a tree in front of Independence monument, one of the darkest spots in the area. We worked hard to communicate. He said is 28 and a teacher, not married, no girlfriend, “I don’t like.” He wants to meet at 10 AM tomorrow, same spot. I said OK. It crossed my mind that he is gay, but I don’t think so, and I don’t care unless he thinks I am looking for more than just to talk. We will see I guess.

The Middle

Looking back on the weekend in retrospect, I can piece together why certain things happened the way they did and perhaps why I felt the way I felt. However, I still cannot fully understand how I survived and with so much success.

Turns out the fever and rash I was experiencing were Dengue Fever. I did not want to admit it at the time, even though the thought had crossed my mind. But I had something to accomplish an

d I was not going to let Dengue Fever or anything else get in my way.

I had arranged with my student's cousin the night before, to meet with her friend and go out to the camp together. Right before we were scheduled to meet, I got a text, “My friend is sick today, so he cannot go with you. Sorry, you will have to find the camp alone”

I believed that he was sick because I could feel his sickness. I could feel every sickness existing along the border, raging in my body. I was slightly discouraged, but confidant I could find the camp. After all. I had directions, “Go out to the Asia highway. Drive your motorcylcle toward... toward.... drive your motorcycle.....” I could not remember. Where was I driving? “I just need to go out to the highway and I will see a sign that will jarr my memory. First, I need to eat. I have to have food” I got the motorcycle, and was driving into town to get food when the whole bike started shaking violently. “No!!!! not a flat tire. I am too tired to do this” I could not be too tired. I had to change the tire. Eating would wait. I wandered around the town looking for a place to change the tire. I could not understand anyone. No one was speaking English. No one was speaking Thai. I got directions and forgot them right away. 1 hour later, I finally located the Yamaha store. It had been right down the street the whole time.

While they changed the tire, I sat in a chair sweating. Head spinning and throbbing, eyes hurting, muscles aching, and I fell asleep. It must not have been too long, because they were still fixing the tire when I woke up. Were they still fixing the tire? I could not remember where I was. I stumbled out to the curb. “Where am I? What country am I in

?” “I am near the border, but what border?” I am in India. No, this is Bangladesh. Nicaragua. I am here, near to Bhutan. No. Burma! Thailand. I am in Thailand and I need to make it to the camp.

I was panicking. I honestly thought I would not remember where I was and I would not make it home... ever.

I paid for the tire and rode off. 20 minutes later, I passed the Yamaha store again. 20 more minutes, I was still in the town. Where is the highway? I could not find anything. Food! I still needed to get food. I had not eaten and I was so thirsty. I did not want to eat, but I knew I had to eat. So I forced down some bread and yogurt and I took off.... the wrong direction. Luckily I have a mind for mountains, and even in my state of delirium, I recognized the mountains from my motorcycle ride the day before. I was going the exact opposite direction, which was convenient, cause I could just turn around. Before I did, I stopped my bike. I looked around. I asked for clarity. I explained out loud what I was trying to do and that even though its not important to everyone, its important to some people. I just needed a little more strength and a little more focus.

3 hours after I left, I finally found the highway. I still did not know what city I was going toward, but once I found the highway, I felt a click inside my brain. Like a switch full of warm energy. I smiled and thats all it really took. I needed to have a smile on my face if I was going to make it to the camp.

I rode my motorcycle for about an hour along a winding highway. I passed 3 police chec

kpoints. I had been instructed to lie to them, but there was no need. They saw my western face and flagged me right through. After all, why would a western kid like me be looking for a refugee camp?

The road drops from agricultural plains into a valley with sharp limestone ridges, clouds and mist obscuring the tops of the cliffs so as to make them appear unending, heaven meeting the earth.

After about an hour, bamboo houses began to appear, and before I knew it, I was in the middle of the camp. Barbed wire fences lining the highway, making it clear that I was in no ordinary village. Just then, the rain came. Heaven literally met earth and I was getting soaked. The camp is over 7 kilometers long, housing between 40 and 70 thousand refugees. There are many different gates, opening to many different zones, none of them labeled.

I had to find zone B5. The grandma lived in zone B5. My back was hurting. My head was aching. I was soaking wet. I pulled over and hid under a bamboo shelter. From there, I sat watching people pass. I had to find someone to help me. My phone had no service and I would never find one person in 40,000 unless someone helped me. I had to pick a nice person, someone who speaks a little English and who has a good heart. I could not pick a cop or a guard or I could be arrested or made to leave. No one had uniforms, so I had to choose extra wisely.

I picked a young man with his girlfriend standing under an awning. Her smile was disarming and he treated her so gently. I knew they were my best bet. I showed them the pictures I brought from America. Pictures of the Karen new year celebration in Utah. Pictures of my students playing in a band with other Karen people. They sat talking to each other for long enough that I thought they had forgotten me. I was about to walk away, when the young man said, “OK, we go. You follow me” He escorted his girlfriend to a group of her friends getting in a truck and then he jumped on the back of my motorcycle. His name was Bway.

We made our way to a gate where Bway knew the guards. He showed them my pictures and talked them into letting us in. We walked into the camp. Everything was bamboo and rivers. The paths were muddy flows and we walked right through the middle of them. We stopped at a house to ask for directions and were immediately invited in. The whole family looked through my pictures. They gave me water and they played guitar and sang. One of them joined us on the search, running ahead to find the right way. We crossed wood plank bridges and wandered through a maze of bamboo houses before they stopped and said, “This is the one you are looking for”

I approached slowly and saw Moo Doh and Elve's grandma rocking side to side on the ground under the stilt house. I got her attention and she looked at me so confused. I pulled out the pictures and handed them to her. She did not seem to recognize anyone. My new friend interjected and explained who I was and what the photos were. The grandmas aged face lit up when she realized who she was looking at. She touched their faces as if they were really there. She quickly got to her feet, climbed the ladder into her house and returned in finely woven traditional Karen clothing. She invited me to join her family in the house. We all sat on the bamboo floor while they passed the pictures and talked about each one. My new friend translating their questions as best as he could.

“Do they go to school in America?” “Do they do well?” “Will Elve go to post-high school?” “How many Karen live in Utah?” All the answers made her happy.

I took pictures of the grandparents and the others living there, who I assume are relatives. The grandpa put on his best clothes. They posed, looking straight forward, not smiling. Bway was trying to make them laugh. He asked them to move closer to each other. The grandpa reached down and grabbed his wife's hand. When they held hands, I thought about all that they must have been through together. I imagine they had been married about 50 years. 50 years of war. 50 years of constant fear and attack by the Burmese army. I thought about what they must have survived together, the jungles they had walked through and the rivers they had crossed. The bombs they had avoided. The homes that they had lost. But here they were, living their final years in a refugee camp, still holding hands. My smile returned and I forgot I was sick.

After the pictures, the grandma got nervous. She was worried the police would catch me at their house. It was illegal for me to be there and I did not want to get them in trouble. The visit lasted only 30 minutes or so, but it was worth all the pain and effort. I am so happy I made it.

Bway walked me out of the camp and told me his story. He is only 20, all his family is dead. He is being resettled in 2 months to Australia... all alone. I gave him my e-mail and told him to write me with any questions when he gets to Australia. I wish I could do more. All I can do is hope that someone will show him around Australia and be kind to him like he was to me.

The rain stung my face the whole way back to Mae Sot. My body ached, but nothing could make me sad. I had done what I came to do and I could finally go back and rest.

I slept and woke and walked 2 miles to the bus station. The 6 hour bus ride took 8 and I did not have a seat the whole time. I had a plastic stool that collapsed every time he went around a sharp curve. There was no A/C and I could not tell if I had a fever or if the whole bus did.

Back in Chiang Mai, I got diagnosed with Dengue Fever. My whole body is covered in rash and itching. I have been sleeping about 18 hours a day the last 3 days. I wake up, scratch myself until I am too tired and I fall back asleep. I have been to the hospital twice, and I should be recovering soon.

I appreciate everyones support.

Conversation with a Strong woman.

"Are you sure you are OK til your friend comes?" I asked a young woman who just spent the last 14 days trekking through the jungles of the Karen State (Burma). I did not realize how ridiculous that sounded. If anyone is OK waiting for a friend to pick her up, its this girl. "Is it dangerous?" I asked earlier. "Yes," she replied, "but for Karen people its normal."
I was sitting and conversing with a young woman whose bravery and dedication to her people surpassed anything I could comprehend. What do you say to someone whose relatively short life has been filled with so much stress and pain that smuggling medical supplies through a land-mine ridden jungle war-zone is just normal?
This is what I said (abridged)
"So did alot of your family resettle?"
-My parents and little brother and sister resettled to Canada. My older brother is in Nebraska.
"Did you choose to stay in Thailand?"
-Yes. (staring blankly off into space)
"So, do you have an ID card to work in Thailand? How do you live here?"
-Yes, I have a work permit (still staring)
"Oh good. I know it can be hard to get them"
-Yes, this is confidential. I used to get arrest every day. I bought my ID, paid money. That is why I do not resettle
"Do you plan on staying here in Mae Sot forever? Or maybe only a few years?"
-I dont know. I have to see. I travel alot.
"Really? What for? Around Thailand?"
-I go back and forth between here and Karen state.
"Burma! Across the border? Oh wow. Is that dangerous?"
-Yes, but for Karen people its normal.
"What do you do there? Do you have to walk?"
-We bring supplies, have meetings. We go by foot, by boat, and by walking, but we have gaurds"
"Wow, umm (me staring off into space) thats so brave.... You are so brave. (stare)..... Is the government still attacking the Karen?"
-(She looks me in the eye) Yes. Always.
"You are so brave.... Elve wants to come back to Thailand and be a nurse. Does she want to work with you?"
-All my relatives resettle (pause, thinking) yes. all of them except my grandparents in the Camp and my aunt, my dad's brother, he is still in Karen state. Cannot be resettled.
(I mumble) "so you are alone... lonely....... How often do you go to Karen state?
-Maybe 3 times a year, but for me its more, for special trips. I just got back this morning.
"You just got back -today- wow- thanks for meeting with me. You must be so tired"
-Yes, I am a little sick I think... from walking. We walk full days into the night.
"Through jungle.."
-Yes, on paths, but we have guards. Defense force.
"wow..... What do the Karen people think of Aung San Suu Kyi? Do they care about her?"

-Some, they care, but for me, personally, she can do nothing to help my people.

"Cause she is in prison..."

-Yes, but even if she got out, she could not help my people. Still, I stand in solidarity with her and her struggle as a woman.

Our conversation went on for over an hour. Perhaps equal time talking and sitting in silence staring. I told her stories about her cousins in America. She thanked me, but she never smiled, never laughed, just stayed flat, rigid, and kind. She took some of the photos I brought to give to her aunt (uncle?) in the Karen state on her next trip. I cannot post a picture or her name because she is in Thailand illegally on a fake ID and is also wanted by the Burmese government. I am inspired by her courage, but saddened that she has had need to be so courageous.

Ice Ice Baby

Sometimes pictures speak louder than words. Here are a few shots of me and my friend Ice. Ice lives on a commune for mothers fleeing abusive situations. We teach them human rights lessons once a week. If I am not in charge of giving the lesson, I like to go to the daycare and play games with Ice. I have taught him a few tricks like putting puzzle pieces on his feet, kicking them off, and trying to catch them (he has not quite mastered the catching part yet) He has really warmed up quite a bit since I first met him. Last time I went, he saw me and smiled. The girl working in the daycare said it was the first time she had seen him smile. He is a pretty serious kid most the time. I am glad we can have a little fun.