The vast majority of affiliate marketing sites online are run by people who have no great interest in turning a huge profit. For example, you’ll find thousands of blogs where people put up a few Amazon listings and/or Google links on the off chance that a passing browser will click on them. That’s all well and good, but this is no way to make a dent in the affiliate marketing game. To be a super affiliate, you need to treat affiliate marketing as a job, not just something that you do on the side to put a couple of bucks in your pocket.

There is a misconception that affiliate marketing is not a real business. After all, the affiliate is not putting out a product. This is patently false. Even though an affiliate marketer is not manufacturing a product, he or she is still offering the product up for sale. An affiliate marketer still needs to be in charge of search engine optimization, custom content, quality web design, financial management, and everything else that goes into running a successful e-business. As with any business, an affiliate marketing plan is only as strong as the amount of work you put into it.

A super affiliate will be able to turn as hefty a profit as a standard business—several sales a day on a number of different fronts. Remember, successful affiliate marketers don’t necessarily stop at one site. They set up a variety of affiliate sites with a good web address, quality web design, and lucrative affiliate marketing opportunities. Additionally, once you start selling at an accelerated rate, some affiliate programs will promote you from regular affiliate to super affiliate. If you start sending sales and traffic to a business, they will reward you with better terms.

This isn’t an easy proposition, but it is possible. Make sure that an affiliate program has a corresponding super affiliate program in place—better terms for more sales. Even if they don’t, an affiliate with good terms up front can really pay off if you’re able to make a several sales a month. Affiliate programs with great terms are also sometimes referred to as super affiliates. Find these and you know you’ll have a good marketing in place at the start.

“I can tell from the hue of skin, your blood is blue, like mine,” lisps the wan, wheelchair-bound man in his high-pitched Eastern European accent. “You must come visit your home. Come visit Zvezdara.” The lanky giant of chiseled stone towering behind the chair grunts in assent. I smile and nod; what else can I do?

No, I’m not in Serbia, but Budapest, 200 or so kilometers north of that country’s border. Truthfully, only later did I learn of my interlocutor’s Serbian connection after Googling various spellings of the word “Zvezdara.” As far as I could tell, it’s just one of many municipalities that make up the city of Belgrade. But tonight, it is being cast as my forgotten homeland.

Kara and I had been at the Viking Pub for a while and had already downed a few pints of Kaltenburg Barna when my long-lost relative and his sinister cohort wheeled in. I felt his stare immediately, but with the strong beer warming my blood, I didn’t care much.

He soon struck up a conversation. Introducing himself as Dr. Zorica, he queried me on the normal topics at first, but the subject gradually shifted to what I knew of my ethnic background. Before long, he was expounding at great length about a place I had never heard of with a pronunciation I could not repeat, where all the people were of noble, ‘blue-blooded’ descent. They had been forced out of this paradise over the centuries by one tragedy or another, and now Dr. Zorica was trying to bring them back.

“I know a man with same name as you. He is Zvezdarian, and he lives in Zvezdara. He is a baker, and he’s happy for you to stay with him.” Every so often, the rigid henchman leans down out of the shadows to whisper something in deep, thick Slavic into the good doctor’s ear. They both chuckle. “Yes, yes, my associate thinks you would like it very much in Zvezdara.”

By the end, I am so utterly perplexed, and more than a little intoxicated, that I go along with his request to take my photo and my email address. He shows no interest in Kara. “Sorry,” she is told, “your blood is not blue like ours.” And then he quite matter-of-factly states that he needs to measure my cranium.

This is a bit too much. Kara and I awkwardly make our exit, stumbling into the crisp spring night, speechless.

Several days go by, and I get an email from Dr. Milosh Zorica, Project Coordinator for the USA, Canada, and Scandinavia, of the Institute Deda Mile in Zvezdara. I’m in luck, it tells me. Researchers at the Institute are 95% sure my origins are Zvezdarian. However, to be sure, they require a sample of my DNA. “Just cut a little bit of your hair and send it to me in way I will describe you later.”

Even though I send no reply, a follow-up email the next week offers me a Zvezdarian ID card. And then of course there’s my free three-month trip, to be overseen by my own personal host, Earl Darko Trifunovic XVI. To seal the mystery, the correspondence closes with this: “Have nice time and lots of luck in life as Zvezdarian. You should keep it secret for next six months.”

So, if you have an inkling that blue blood courses through your veins, I suggest you head to the Viking Pub in Budapest. If you’re lucky, Dr. Zorica will be waiting for you.

About the author:Freelance writer Hal Amen has been an avid traveler for as long as he can remember, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. His articles have appeared on the Traveler’s Notebook website, and he has recently created a blog to document his wayward experiences at http://wayworded.blogspot.com/.

The Dakar Rally 2008, scheduled to begin January 5 and end on January 20, was cancelled on January 4, 2008 for the first time in its thirty-year history. This legendary race, originally known as the Paris-Dakar, usually began in the City of Lights and finished in Dakar. However, the routes were changed frequently, so that the last time the rally actually began in Paris was in 2001, which is why nowadays it seems most accurate to refer simply to the Dakar rally, or le Dakar. The planned route was to wind through Morocco, Western Sahara, as well as the sand dunes and canyons of Mauritania’s Adrar Region, which are said to be among the most challenging in all off-road racing.

Last year, two stages of the event in Mali were called off because France claimed that participants risked being kidnapped or ambushed by Algerian rebels. This year’s rally has now been cancelled entirely again due to safety concerns: four French tourists were murdered in Mauritania during a picnic on Christmas Eve, and the French government expressed grave concerns about holding the anticipated 8 stages in the region. Only three days later, there was another incident in which three Mauritanian soldiers manning a checkpoint were killed. This event sent further shock waves through a country which is otherwise known to be a generally stable and peaceful Islamic republic. After officials suggested that both attacks might be linked to a terrorist network affiliated with al-Qaeda, the French government issued a formal statement recommending that the event be cancelled. This left the leaders of the France-based Amaury Sport Organisation with little choice but to acquiesce, despite Mauritania’s stated willingness to mobilize 3,000 security forces to ensure the safety of all participants.

Personally, I am not entirely sure what al-Qaeda stands to gain by all this, if indeed it is actually involved (please excuse my skepticism here, but coming as I do from a country in which nonexistent ‘Weapons of Mass Destruction’ (WMDs) have been used as a pretext for waging war, I prefer concrete evidence, myself) but the losers are clear, namely those countries along the route such as Mali and Mauritania whose struggling economies would have benefited from an event drawing thousands of international racing enthusiasts. Tourism in Mauritania will clearly suffer tremendously as a result of all this negative media attention, in spite of President Sidi Mohamed Ould Cheikh Abdallahi’s unflagging attempts to emphasize the safety and hospitality of his country.

Granted, the Mauritanians are far away, but the repercussions of canceling such an event are crippling for many others as well: there were 551 car, motorcycles and truck drivers scheduled to take part; flights and hotels were booked and deposits paid. Trucks containing the vehicles had to be called back and containers of petrol which had been sent on ahead to Lisbon will probably be written up as a loss.

Some cities had already invested up to 1.5 million Euros preparing for the event. France Télévisions, the French TV station planning to cover the rally, expects to be reimbursed to the tune of almost 5 million Euros (!), and so the last-minute cancellation poses a logistical as well as an economic nightmare for many.

Of course, security must take priority over economic concerns, and there are vast areas within the Sahara Desert which form a poorly regulated, huge gray zone that some claim represent an open feeding ground for drug smugglers, arms traffickers and jihadists. (Others contend with equal vigor that this is nonsense). In 2005, under the Bush Administration (who else?), the US initiated a Trans-Sahara Counter-Terrorism Initiative, pledging 100 million dollars a year for 5 years to help bolster security in the area, conveniently giving the US a foothold in West Africa, a region which is (somewhat coincidentally?) poised to become a leading supplier of oil. One official projection has it that by 2015, the US may be getting a quarter of its oil supply from West Africa, according to Global Research reports.
Critics of the Initiative assert that it is US involvement there that could ultimately destabilize the region, fuelling radicalism and inviting resistance to its flimsy attempts to legitimize a US presence in the Sahara.

But before we become too mired in political speculation, let me go on to mention some other rally details. It should be noted, for example, that in 1982, Margaret Thatcher’s son Mark, who competed in the race, created quite a sensation when he went missing for 6 days only to be discovered later, unharmed. Over the years, others – frequently children crossing streets – have been less fortunate, ending up crushed beneath service trucks or film crew vehicles. More recently, Green Party members and other environmental activists have raised concerns about the race. Given these factors, as well as relatively sparse television coverage internationally plus the additional specter of terrorism, I wonder whether the entire event may not be racing to a finish?

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com

Adventurer, explorer and conservationist Sir Edmund Hillary passed away on Jan 10th, 2008, at age 88. He was the first to conquer Mount Everest, along with the sherpa, Tenzing Norgay. Known for his humility and humanism, Hillary founded the Himalayan Trust in 1962 and spent decades setting up schools and health clinics in Nepal from his own fund-raising efforts. Ray Lilley writes about Edmund Hillary and his life and achievements.

Compassion is a noble and worthy cause for travel. Health volunteers from several countries travel to affected areas during times of natural disasters in an effort to alleviate the suffering. During such times, volunteers are in short supply. Flood ravaged Bangladesh is now a breeding ground for water-borne illnesses like polio. Here is an inspiring report of volunteers from the United States, Canada, Norway, and Denmark heading to Bangaladesh to immunize children against polio.

Conservation and eco-friendly are terms not usually associated with air travel. But the days of green air transportation might not be too far away as innovative methods of using battery powered light planes are being successfully tested. Range and speed are still bottlenecks, but lower costs and environmental benefits are attractive says Charles Bremner in Air Travel Switches to Electricity.

Environmental causes, warring regimes and uncontrolled tourism have led to the endangerment of ancient monuments and natural expanses. Askmen.com has put together a list of ten most endangered locales which include Babylon, affected by the Iraq conflict and Greenland where melting ice is feared to affect wildlife habitats.

Stereotypes of people from other countries is often the material for email jokes and wisecracks. It is shocking how little of those images is based on facts and how much springs from ignorance. Education and respect for diversity are key to shed judgmental attitudes and shatter stereotypes. Chris from Nomad4ever collects the perceived personality traits from 55 countries and is surprised that the negative perceptions are stronger. As the world gets smaller, we hope the interaction will leave human bonds stronger!

Photo:Flickr/rdraio

Batu Caves in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia attracts millions of pilgrims and rock-climbing, hiking and other adventure seekers every year. The fauna around the limestone formations range from the tiniest insects to elephants. Youtube user and traveler Worldli is fascinated by the ubiquitous monkeys as he tours the caves in Monkey See, Monkey Do

Photos by author

Cool weather, green surroundings, flowing river, scenes of adolescent youths diving and bathing, full bloom of colorful flowers, ready to harvest sugarcanes, smell of earth and to-be-harvested paddy present a lively picture of the countryside which is fresh and unpolluted. Besides this, a touch of thick Bhakthi(devotional) culture is engulfed in the air.

Situated at an altitude of 482 feet, Kodumudi, called as the Trimurthy Sthala and Kavadi Theeilham is on the bank of the river Cauvery (Ponni Nadhi) in the Periyar district. The river dubbed as the Ganges of the South flows through several important towns to propagate culture and irrigate lands.

In the ancient South, Saivaite shrines have been predominantly higher. Kodumudi falling within the zone of Kongunadu is a centre noted for devotion, tradition and literary hymns.

During the pilgrimage to Palani, the devotees carry Kavadi, Cauvery water and Vanni leaves as part of tradition.

According to legend, in a duel between Vayu (the god of wind) and Adhisesha (multi-headed serpent believed to be the couch Lord Vishnu rests on) about mightiness, Meru hill was moved by Vayu and broken into five pieces which were transformed into gems. The fifth part fell here as diamond and the ‘makuta’ or cliff of the hill came to be known as Kodumudi. On the cliff of the Meru is the Shiva Linga worshiped as the main deity. It was here the legendary Cauvery was contained in the Kamandala (container) by sage Agasthya and later released by Lord Ganesha who took the form of a crow. Some inscriptions on Agasthya Rock narrate the divine event of how the river regained its flow.

The famous poet-trio Gnanasambandar, Appar and Sundarar have sung hymns on Lord Shiva of this shrine called as Makudeswarar and his consort Vadivudai Nayaki. The stone tablets within the shrine premises expose the direct contribution of grants by many Pandya kings in the 12th century. Many of the ‘panchaloha‘ (alloy of 5 metals – gold,silver,copper, iron, brass) idols displayed were unearthed during various periods. The temple surrounded by majestic walls has tall towers with beautiful sculptures. It was King Malayadvaja Pandya who designed this peaceful town and built structures around it.

Lord Vishnu in marvelous monolithic sculpture as Veeranaryana Perumal is simply divine. One’s soul will never be satisfied even after fixing the eyes on the Lord for hours together. Brahma is seated under an ancient vanni tree (Indian Mesquit) estimated to be around 2000 years old. It is said that this tree bears no flowers or fruits and has no thorns. I collected a few fallen leaves as souvenirs.

It is believed the divine saint Sadasiva Brahmendra of Nerur who lived in the late 18th century entered into a dark tunnel here at the sanctum of Bala Dhandayudhapani temple and attained ‘Nirvikalpa Samadhi‘. He demonstrated the concept of dematerialization and swift transportation of body to distant places through yoga.

With the passage of time, several inscriptions have faded away and very few are left to mention the glory of this temple. It is here that the broad river takes a turn to the east. The day I visited was cloudy and the rough weather did not dampen the spirit of pilgrims dipping in the river. Though the meteorological department issued a warning about the possible breach of the banks of Amaravathi and its tributary Noyyal that flows into the Cauvery, the mighty river showed no symptom of spate. The ever passionate Cauvery continues to flow for a noble cause.

When the gates of the Mettur dam are open, the river swells up. The bamboo lined coracle, thoni, is a perfect vehicle to reach the other shore. I also noticed a small sized ferryboat at a distance from the bathing spot. The bathing ghat is very long and steep.

The next day it was moderately hot and ideal to go around the town. The eminent freedom fighter and actress K.B.Sundarambal hailed from this tiny hamlet. The rupees one lakh remuneration for her acting in Nandanar in the 1930s has always been the talk of this town. Some nonagenarians recalled that Gandhiji visited the town during his South India visit.

The town has a railway station, hospital, bus stand, market, century old Sankara Vidyalaya High School, Sub-Registrar office, police station, post office and a cinema theater. This helps to visualize the small town description as narrated in the famous novel Malgudi days of R.K.Narayan.

Excepting the current generation, the occupation of the people had been predominantly agriculture. The fertile riverbed makes it suitable for intensive farming to cultivate crops like paddy, turmeric, groundnut and sugarcane.

On a brief stroll to the railway station at noon I noticed the station master with folded colors in hand walking past the yellow board KODUMUDI. No tension, no pressure and a life just enough to match with nature.

After dusk, seated on the steps of the river, it was a wonderful experience to see the reflection of the dazzling lights of TNPL on the swirling waters. A photographer would crave for it.

For those not keen on hygiene, a few roadside eateries are available, but cannot assure a tasty, sumptuous meal.

How to reach

By road: Kodumudi is reachable by road from Erode, Coimbatore, Tiruchi and Karur. Buses are available every ten minutes.

By rail: Board train from Chennai Central and alight at Erode. Take the connecting Passenger and mail trains from Erode and get down at Kodumudi.

By air: Coimbatore is the nearest airport which is 105 km from Kodumudi.

About the Author : S.Chandrasekar writes from Chennai, India. He is a freelance creative writer for Travel & Shopp magazine (Chennai & Bengaluru). With a post graduate degree in Science and Business Administration, he is currently working for a BPO company as Manager-HR. He has authored two books on self-improvement and has penned a few hundred essays and articles in English & Tamil. His website is http://www.geocities.com/chandruselva/Divine-Pearl.html

Photo: Flickr/Pavangupta

Pushkar Lake in central India is unnaturally vibrant green in color and has a visibility no greater than half of a foot down. An accumulation of tobacco wrappers, cardboard boxes, and diapers clog the shores which sit stagnant and breed mosquitoes. This is India’s holiest lake.

To devout Hindus, the lake represents cleanliness and creativity. While the idea of physical purity is fundamental to Hindu belief, the notion of such freedom from contamination also extends to the metaphorical purity of mind, body, speech, and action. Ironically, although 60 percent of India’s population is Hindu, visitors to the subcontinent find economic corruption rampant, treatment of women atrocious, and environmental degradation to be some of the worst in the world.

While Pushkar is indeed a place of pilgrimage, it is also home to the biggest camel mela– or trade show– in the world. In recent years, the mela has become an enormous fair-like celebration week during which many of Pushkar’s traders make enough money to sustain themselves for the remainder of the year. The spirit of the fair also created an enormous influx of drug trade, turning the small town into one of India’s largest drug hubs, in turn increasing Pushkar’s popularity among travelers. Bhang—the dried leaves and shoot of marijuana leaf— are readily available in any form, and restaurants in the Sadar Bazaar offer tourists treats like the ‘special lassi’, to make their visit ‘more spiritual’. Thus, Pushkar has also become a popular resting place for washed-up, new-age hippie travelers attempting to discover a spiritual meaning to life. The result of such a combination is a town crawling with con artists, bustling with holy men, and with an economy created to connive money from two of India’s easiest targets: tourists and the pious.

Making my own way down the steps of the Pushkar Lake, I was immediately confronted by a man in a white Indian-style suit who began to explain the mystic powers of the water before me. According to Hindu belief, Brahma—the God of creation, time, and all causation—dropped a petal of a lotus flower on the site of Pushkar after avenging the murder of his children by the evil demon Vajra Nabha. From the petal sprang the lake and the city, a holy site for Brahma.

The priest also informed me that it might be of interest to visit the famous Brahma Temple, one of few in the world, located in Pushkar. He explained that, in mythological literature, Brahma used this site for a self-mortification sacrifice that required that his wife, Savritri, be present. When she failed to join him, he married a girl from a nearby village. Out of anger, his wife swore that he would never be worshiped anywhere else in the world, and she nearly succeeded: the temple remains one of four in the world.

When he finished his story, I noticed that he had led me down the staircase of a ghat–a small temple with stairs used to access the lake waters– which was white marble and spotted with cows that roamed freely and left a trail of excrement trickling into the lake. While the cows deposited their digested meals at the feet of the holiest lake in India, the man insisted I take of my shoes quickly as the Hindu’s believe shoes to be impure. Amused, I removed mine, and followed him across the stairs to a covered area.

Like so many places in India, the scene was an odd mélange of the holy, the tourist, and those trying to take advantage of the two. Aided by the priest who had told me the story of Brahma, a flower vendor handed me a tray, and together, the two men piled it with three bowls, a stack of wilted flowers, and brilliant red powder. Before I could question, I was hurried down the steps to the lake’s edge. The priest pushed me into sitting position and ran down to the water to fill the bowls. Returning, he quickly recited Hindu mantras and demanded that I repeat after him, reprimanding me for stopping or contemplating. I stopped short when I recognized the words, “and you will pay me 350 rupees”—or $8 American. I skipped over those words and allowed him to dip my fingers in the filthy water and then apply the water and red powder to my forehead. Tying a red string around my wrist, he demanded, “350 rupees for the good wishes of your family.” I smiled at him and told him that I owed him nothing because I hadn’t repeated that line. Sensing impending anger, I stood up, dropped a five-rupee coin onto the tray, and ran up the steps, side-stepping the enraged holy men who yelled after me, disturbing all those who sat in prayer.

The pilgrimage, which occurs simultaneous to the camel mela, also attracts tourists from across the world. As a result, ‘false priests’, such as the friendly character I met, make a living by conniving unassuming victims into paying for a faux religious experience.

Following the false priest’s advice, I made my way along the Sadar Bazaar to the Brahma Temple. At the entrance, yet another man in white thrust flowers into my hands, whisked me up the steps, and explained that he would be my guide and assured me I only need pay him, “as I wished.”

He then led me up the stairs and to the top of the walls of the temple. From my vantage point, I could see Pushkar’s 52 palaces and 500 other temples representing the Hindu, Sikh, Muslim, and Buddhist faiths, as well as the lake, rippling from the bathing pilgrims. Beyond it all, I could see the outskirts of the Islamic neighboring city of Ajmer where, five days later, Bangladeshi extremists would detonate a bomb in a mosque and kill two and injure seventeen.

Leaving the temple, I was forced to pay a small boy who had stolen my shoes at the entrance for their return. While I waited, a man asked me for my donation. Reluctantly, I dropped another 5-rupee coin into the tin, slipped on my sandals, and began walking down the street. As I walked, I could hear the calls of my guide, “ma’am, your money! You have forgotten to give me your money!”

About the Author : Annie Hay is a student in Portland, Oregon where she is majoring in International Affairs and writes for the student publication, The Pioneer Log. She has just returned from her second study abroad experience, this time in India. When she is not traveling, she competes in triathlons, plays classical guitar, and paints.

I´m on my way home, and it´s really late, from the best party I have ever been to … and had a FAB-U-LOUS time. The Gay Mardi Gras was on tonight beginning at Plaza De Mayo, and ending at Congresso, travelling along the famous and historic Avenida De Mayo.

All Beunos Aires´ queens, tranvestites, Goths, Visigoths, gays, lesbians, Goth lesbians, drag queens were ALL there .. really Argies know how to party! People dressed up in the most amazing getups ..

There were thousands of people, the widest street in the world, Avenida de 9 Julio was blocked off, plus all the streets crossing Avenida de Mayo for several hours, it must have caused chaos for the Saturday night traffic .. the floats were fantastic, music pulsating and everybody dancing in the street, tickertape flying everywhere.

Some gals tried a bit of a pick up with me, but it was all good natured.

The evening was warm and balmy, everyone in a festive mood. I am really happy I didn´t miss it, because I did last year. There sure are a lot of handsome gay men around, it was a feast for the eyes. Lots of people going about scantily clad, some not at all. I am sure it was as big as the one in Sydney. Really it was a superb fun night, one to meet lots of people.

The weather being good, and only a few days left now, tomorrow’s plan is to go to San Telmo in the morning for the fabulous feria and street theatre, then in the afternoon I plan to visit Palermo Polo ground to see a match. Tomorrow night I have another ticket to the Borges Cultural Centre to see another fabulous show.

Saw a really good movie the other night ¨Lions For Lambs¨with Robert Redford, Tom Cruise & Meryl Streep, about the Iraq War, was fabulous film. Forgot to tell you that 2 weeks ago I saw Viggo Mortensen, the actor, at the San Telmo market with a woman! That was a bit of a thrill .. I always seem to be in the right place for star spotting.

I still have my ticket for my last night on Tuesday for the Ballet of Spain, apparently they are really great.

About the Author : Marcela di Gianni is from Buenos Aires, Argentina. She works on the Internet selling goods. She loves travel, reading and writing.

The TSM Fall Travel Writing Contest has been organised in association with On The Beach Holidays

“SSSQQUUAAKK” Whoa, crap. What the… As soon as I peak under the seat, my face is the prime target of the chicken tied up in a burlap sack stuffed under my seat. My twisted position barley lets me escape its beak in time. The guy behind me kicks his man eating beast to get it to shut up. Once I convince myself that the man behind me keeps kicking the chicken and my feet for my own safety, I sit back and think to my self that this two hour bus ride is off to a great start and can’t get much worse.

I should have known that it is only after you think nothing more could possibly go wrong, that that is when things in fact, do get worse. The road we are traveling down is like driving over rows of dead petrified bodies. It’s so bumpy that even at our unbearably slow speed I have still managed to slam my head against the window several times. We are only going a dozen miles or so to the next town but these road conditions and numerous stops make our trip a true test of endurance that even a tri-athlete would cringe at.

At one stop a young girl gets on with a small dog and takes one of the only empty seats left next to me. Actually, she places the dog next to me and her self on the outside of the seat. Great, now I have some flea covered dog beside me and a carnivorous chicken underneath me. Maybe I should warn the dog? Perhaps not. I suppose if the dog really pisses me off I can feed it to the chicken and no one will be the wiser.

I know its raining a little outside and the window on the seat ahead of me is open but its not raining hard enough for me to be wet. So why is it butt wet? I look down at my seat only to see the dog first with its wet tail and a puddle under its seat. I stare at the dog and scream profanities at it in my head. Where’s that damn chicken when you need it?

It’s raining harder now and I’m starting to get wet from the rain blowing in from the window in front of me.

I lean forward and say “pardon” to the man in front of me.

Nothing. No response. Surely he cant be ignoring me but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. Nobody else on this bus seems to care about my well being. Why should he? How could he not know I was getting soaking wet because his window was down. Its the only window on the whole bus thats down.

Again I lean forward and say “pardon” . This time tapping the man on the shoulder.

The man turns his head to look at me. Not knowing much Spanish at all I simply use the universal language of pointing. I point at his window and motion my hands in a upward motion implying I want him to put the window up. He shakes his head and nods. Ok, good I thought, hes going to put the window up and maybe I will be dry by the time we get to the next town. He reaches for the window and messes around with it for a minute and then stops. The window is still down. Whats the problem? I tap him on the shoulder again. This time he shakes his head no and rambles off something in Spanish. I give up. At least the rain will wash away this dog piss I’m sitting in.

I am officially soaked all the way through. The dog is at the edge of the seat and the girl is standing up in the aisle so as not to get wet. I supposed I could do the same but by now it wouldn’t matter. Again I give up. As I try to doze off in my drenched clothes, head banging against the window, I wish my friend the blood thirsty chicken would have finished the job he started earlier.

About the Author : Daved Brosche is a travel writer and soon to be expat. He writes for Travel Gear Blog ( travelgearblog.com ), Costa Rica Logue (costaricalogue.com ), and Adventure Logue (adventurelogue.com ). As of February he will be living in Costa Rica for who knows how long.

Who is ready for the next Traveling Stories Magazine writing contest?

Our last contest was a serious success with over 50 original stories being submitted. These are stories that would otherwise remain untold, but with a little motivating cold hard cash (always a soft spot for travelers) and a supportive community providing feedback, many are finally finding it within them to tell their cherished tales.

Photo: Flickr/Charlie2.0

This winter’s contest is going to have a $150 prize which will be determined by what I believe to be an interesting voting system. The contest will run from January 8th through February 28th with a winner being announced on March 14th. The top 3 reader voted stories will then be sent to a committee composed of 3 Online traveling magazines as well as the 2 previous contest winners.

Designing a voting system is always challenging. This contest’s votes will be centered around the social bookmarking site Digg.com. When a link is submitted to Digg.com, hundreds and sometimes thousands of readers come to the site to read the story. If they like the story they will vote (by clicking the digg button) which will encourage even more Digg.com users to read the story.

The beauty of this system (hopefully) is three fold:

1. Dilutes the impact of any single person trying to impact the votes as thousands of people will be participating

2. It exposes the travel writing of TSM participants (which a major goal of the writers), and

3. It spreads the word of the writing contest which will encourage more submissions. I love win-win models and hopefully this will prove to be one of them.

The submission deadline for this writing contest is February 15, 2008, and the winner will be announced on February 28th, 2008.

What is the purpose of this contest? To motivate travelers who are full of enlightening stories to actually put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and tell their tales to the world. Share your adventures, impart your wisdom, and encourage others to follow in your footsteps. After all, you would never go on a journey and return without telling anybody about it, would you?

What does it take to enter? Simply put, it takes a great, well-written story or article. Be interesting. Be informative. Be entertaining.

What does it take to win? Votes by readers. Each reader may vote for your story or article by clicking the Digg.com button. Feel free start the ball rolling yourself. Link your story from your own website. Submit the link to social networking sites like Facebook, MySpace, Digg, StumbledUpon, etc. Create a buzz about your submission!

What is expected of submissions? Your submission can take the form of either a traveling story or a traveling article. You could provide travel advice, or address philosophical questions pertaining to the traveling community. Please consider replacing profane expressions with milder ones to appeal to a wider readership. A translation of foreign language expressions is appreciated (in brackets).

Upon submission, your story will be reviewed for quality and originality, after which you will be contacted (within 3 days) to be notified of your publishing date. Minor editing may occur to match our format.

Specifications for submissions are as follows:

Photo:Flickr/Sagar Shresta

1. Submissions must be flawlessly written, be of high quality, and be between 300-1000 words.

2.Submissons should be concise and creative without being destination based.

3. Submissions must include a brief bio (you may include a website if you have one) which will be added to the end of your travel story or article.

4. Submissions can include a photograph. The photograph does not necessarily have to be your own, but proper credit must be given to the photographer for the submission to be accepted. An excellent resource to find related photographs is flickr.com.

What will you gain by submitting to the TSM Writing Contest, besides a chance at the $150?

1. Instant exposure for your travel writing, including traffic for your website or blog from TSM Online.

2. Constructive feedback from the Traveling Stories Magazine community.

3. And the supreme motivation of the chance at winning $150 USD!

Enter The TSM Fall Writing Contest by:

emailing your submission to tsmeditor@gmail.com

Photos by Author

When I left Bay Ridge, I left a number of things behind, including tons of clothes that I dutifully dropped off at the Salvation Army. I was not entirely sure what I would need here in Senegal, but knowing that I would be spending a lot of time in a sub-Saharan developing nation not big on air conditioning, I focused mainly on lived-in khaki pants and comfy cotton T-shirts as safe bets, along with bathing suits. Anything too tight or too short or too revealing I got rid of, as Senegal is predominantly Muslim. So I arrived here with a toned-down wardrobe only to discover that I had, once again, done everything all wrong: the Senegalese are among the most fashion-conscious people on the planet (a vestige of French colonialism, perhaps?). Extremely pointy shoes are currently in vogue, so they are the only kind to be found anywhere, and virtually all are marked Dior or Chanel, as are the matching handbags. Any jogging suits are emblazoned with the brand names Nike or Adidas, any T-shirts with the Dolce and Gabbana logo.

Women will spend hours at the salon getting their hair braided or having fiber extensions put in to create eye-catching styles, etc., and virtually any extra income goes straight into one’s tailor’s pocket, as appearance is of an importance that is hard to exaggerate. Any holiday or festive occasion requires a new, usually hand-sewn outfit, as it simply would not do to appear in something the others (who assuredly are keeping track!) have already seen. Women employed in domestic positions will leave their homes in extravagant boubous with matching shoes, head ties, earrings and bejeweled shawls (accessories are where it’s at for the ladies of Dakar, a.k.a. les dakaroises). They will arrive at the home of their employer, change, clean and sweep and mop and scrub for hours, then transform like butterflies before they set off again for home, undergoing a metamorphosis astounding to behold. Even in rural areas, where there is nothing more pressing on the agenda than drinking tea with family members under the tree in the yard, the ladies are resplendently turned out in boubous and dangling earrings.

With all this emphasis on feminine appearance, I felt sadly underdressed in my cottons and khakis, and so I decided to accompany two colleagues to their favorite tailor Lamine in downtown Dakar. First I had to stop and haggle over some fabrics I liked. Textiles in Africa make a fascinating study, by the way, from vibrant Kente cloth (colorful fabrics in a basket-woven design) to the popular Senegalese favorite bazin, the handmade brocade incorporating subtly imprinted designs into a glossy finish. Not feeling quite brave or extroverted enough to opt for the really flamboyant prints, I rather shyly fingered the linens, which tended to be the most understated of the lot, wondering whether by the end of my time here I would finally be un-self-conscious enough to sport lime green and orange in the same outfit!

When my colleagues and I made a sharp right turn into a mysterious alleyway whilst clutching several meters of fabric under our arms, we suddenly found ourselves in another world. We entered a veritable warren of tailors, tape measures dangling from their necks, each occupying no more space than his sewing machine. I would say there were no fewer than 7 tailors cooped up in a space no larger than an average NY kitchen (a claustrophobic space, to all those of you who may think of spacious skies when you think of America). For the first time I could envision what might be meant by the word sweatshop.

All seven machines were humming at once on the Friday evening we entered – some tailors were working on the imaginative and intricate embroidery so beloved by the Senegalese, some were hemming pants, and then there were boys doing the ironing – not with the kind of iron you might know, but with a charcoal-filled device that is NOT temperature controlled (which leads many expats to despair when their delicate fabrics are once more unwittingly destroyed by the local girls who do their ironing for them). Model boubous hung suspended from the ceiling while the floors were strewn with bright scraps of material ranging from lustrous fuchsia, yellow and blue to fabrics with bold red and brown and green patterns.

The cuts of necklines are all much more interesting than your standard V-neck or round neck, as they are often cut on an unusual bias, as are the slits in the (usually) ankle-length skirts. Sleeve styles also run the gamut; the only limit here seems to be the tailor’s imagination. Older women wear voluminous, loosely-cut gowns intended to conceal the shape of the body whereas the younger and hipper women wear more form-fitting tunics with plunging necklines. (Headties, shoes and handbags should all coordinate, of course).

Oh, dear, looks like I’ll have to leave myself in Lamine’s capable hands and kiss those khakis goodbye…!

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com