An old building that had beautiful stonework.

The cobble stone streets, which are closed off to all cars.

The raised sidewalk along with the slanted streets were designed to clean the city during high tide.

A secluded area high up above the Gold Trail, giving you a chance to swim in the cool water.

An old Cachaça factory that used to gather water from the stream.

Rock surfing.

An old tree that sits in front of a beach hut restaurant, its passed relative were used to make the benches and tables we ate off of.

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Flinging Photos: Paraty, Brazil is a post from: Monkey Brewster

Jimador, Tequila Jalisco Mexico. by Celso Flores, on Flickr via Creative Commons

Tequila is produced through an age-old technique of distilling the juices of the agave plant. This member of the lily family is responsible for the whole family of Mezcal spirits, but while all Tequila is Mezcal, but not all Mezcal is Tequila!

By Mexican law, genuine Tequila can only be made from the blue agave plant, and only in certain regions – primarily the state of Jalisco in west-central Mexico. To experience the rich flavours of real 100% Agave Tequila, it’s recommended to go straight to the source and travel to Mexico.

Tequila and the Aztecs

Tequila boasts a history that dates back two thousand years. The early Aztecs found that when left exposed to air, the juice of the agave plant would ferment into a milky-white alcoholic liquid.

The called this drink ‘octili poliqhui’, which the Spaniards later corrupted into ‘pulque’. Apart from on feast days, pulque was only drunk by the ruling classes, as well as captive warriors, who were usually treated to a tipple just before they had their hearts cut out on a sacrificial altar.

Harvesting the agave

Before harvesting the agave, the plants are carefully tended for as long as ten years. The agave farmer, or campesino, waits until the plant reaches sexual maturity, before cutting off the flower stalk. This causes growth to be redirected to the bulb, which grows and swells, coming to resemble a bizarre green and white pineapple. Hence the name given to the harvested agave bulb – the ‘piña’, or ‘pineapple’.

Pina de agave by Celso Flores, on Flickr via Creative Commons

The Evolution of Tequila

Tequila enjoys a rich and fascinating heritage. After the Spanish arrived in Mexico in the 16th Century, pulque was enjoyed for some time by the conquistadores – though not as much as they enjoyed their European wines, as at this stage it still had a very low alcohol content.

It was later discovered that cooking the agave pulp produced a sweeter juice, which could then be fermented to produce the superior Mezcal wine. This flourished in the local tavernas, despite attempts to inhibit it by the Spanish royalty.

In the 17th century, the small village of Tequila in the province of Guadalajara was granted an official charter to produce the wine. Trade boomed, and shipments of Tequila Mezcal wine were soon being exported in all directions. In 1795, the Spanish Crown granted a license to a man by the name of José Cuervo, who soon began distilling the much stronger Tequila that we know today. The rest, as they say, is history.

Aging the Tequila

Tequila will usually be referred to as añejo (‘old’) or reposado (‘rested’), depending on how long it has been aged.

While reposado Tequila must be aged for a minimum legal period of two months, the older variety spends at least a year in oak barrels before being served. Some may be matured for as long as three years, but generally four years is considered to be the maximum. Any more than this, and there is a danger of the oak flavours overwhelming the subtler agave notes.

100% Agave

A number of ‘mixto’ Tequilas are available, where the ‘honey water’ is mixed with non-agave sweeteners, such as cane sugar. The higher quality, pure varieties are more popular however, containing nothing other than agave juice and a little water, and are renowned for their superior flavour characteristics. By Mexican law, all 100% agave Tequila must be bottled in Mexico.

Tequila by saguayo, on Flickr via Creative Commons

Gold and Silver

There are two main varieties of Tequila, which are either gold or silver (clear) in colour. Silver Tequila is not aged for as long, generally spending no more than 60 days maturing in stainless steel tanks. Some varieties are not aged at all.

Gold Tequila on the other hand is often barrel aged for up to four years, and the colour comes from the addition of caramel, as well as various other flavourings – popular choices in the past have included sherry, prunes and coconut!

The Worm

One famous Tequila tradition is eating the worm that can often be found floating in the bottle. This alcohol pickled larva is notoriously potent, and, according to some, can have hallucinogenic effects!

The worm itself is actually the larva of one of the two moths that live on the agave plant, and technically, it is never added to Tequila – finding a worm in your bottle is a pretty sure indicator that you’re actually drinking Tequila’s country cousin, Mezcal.

It certainly seems like a strange tradition, and no-one knows for sure when or why it started. However, one plausible story is that the worm provides evidence for the strength of the Mezcal; if the worm remains intact, it suggests that the alcohol content is high enough to preserve the pickled worm.

Republic Tequila organic varieties by JSDavis82, on Flickr via Creative Commons

The Birth of the Margarita

Although small amounts of Tequila were exported into the US as early as the 19th century, it wasn’t until the 1940s that it became widespread. A number of Hollywood actors caught on to this hip new drink, and pretty soon Tequila-infused drinks such as the Margarita and the Tequila Sunrise became fashionable at cocktail parties around the globe. Actor and crooner Bing Crosby was so taken with the beverage, that he even started importing Tequila himself!

A Town Called Tequila

For a great trip idea when on holiday in Guadalajara, ride the Tequila Express for a tour of the nearby town called Tequila. Here, dozens of different distilleries produce their own brands of Tequila. There are too many distilleries to see them all, but if you only visit one, make it La Rojena, the home of Jose Cuervo. Not only is Jose Cuervo the bestselling Tequila in the world, but La Rojena is also the oldest distillery in North America.

Meet the Author: David Clough   Dave Clough is a music journalist, blogger and travel writer from the UK. He has DJ’d across the globe and is involved in club night event promotions in London.

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A Historical Guide to Real Mexican Tequila is a post from: Monkey Brewster

Certain holidays are purely American, Halloween went by without so much as a boo. Before I knew it Thanksgiving was fast upon me. If I had it my way I wouldn’t of cared or missing the turkey or any other of the Thanksgiving traditions but the American School I was teaching at had a different idea in mind.

It was a sunny morning, we were getting closer and closer to summer time. The weather was beautiful! I had just stumbled into bed at about 7 or 8 am and had made plans to go out to the Feira Nordestina, Northeastern fair held in the São Cristóvão neighborhood of Rio, with my roommates and a fellow teacher that we had befriended. As noon rolled around we all met up, albeit slowly, and hopped into a taxi to the fair. It was a mixture of beautiful colors, music and scents of deliciously spiced foods, if there was any way to celebrate a holiday this was it. Little kids kept running up to take photos of my blond roommate, an oddity to those from the northern part of Brazil. I haggled with a few dealers and bought the hammock that I’ve been eying up, and no it wasn’t a banana hammock either.

After all of our shopping and walking around the sultry scent of fried yams and grilled steak lured us into a restaurant. It was a feast of feasts, and we didn’t leave much behind even for the birds. It was one of those meals that the company and conversations truly made it a memorable experience. Afterwords we walked around the labyrinth of shops and stands, ducking under the awnings as the rain began to come down. We stopped in the center and watch as the children danced in the rain while the band on stage played away the rhythmic sounds of Forro music. It was a perfect day and a perfect way to celebrate life with friends, holiday or not.

Yet, as all great things do they must come to an end, and how quickly they ended. We headed back home to prepare for a Thanksgiving celebration that the school puts on annually. As an American School it has teachers and students from the US and tries to share in their holidays. We lined up on rows of tables, sat and made small talk with whomever happened to be sitting across from us. The walls were lined with cheesy decorations purchased on trips to the US and the cafeteria was busy preparing a Thanksgiving feast for all its guests: students, teachers and family members alike.

Plop!

A square tray gets tossed on my table with something that appears to be croutons and corn. The corn is served cut and boiled into a mix of brown, white and yellow…I think its corn. The stuffing was croutons with a Thanksgiving spice sprinkled on top, something was lost in translation. Our turkey was pork, or was it chicken…I’m still not exactly sure but either way it was a perfect bologna circle of something. At that moment I looked up, looked around, looked down and in a sudden rush became homesick. Everyone was chit chatting their small talk in a way too formal setting and I was 5,000 miles from home. What just happened?

The four months that I lived there I never felt an ounce of homesickness, in fact I was trying to find ways I could sell my plane ticket home so I could stay a little longer. Yet, on Thanksgiving night I was just that, homesick.  In an attempt to give us a taste of home it brought me to the realization of just how very far I was from it.

I think that what prevented me from being homesick before was I never tried to mimic what I would be doing at home while I was in Brazil, no I did as the locals did and went with the flow. As long as I kept moving everything was fine, but the moment someone tried to plant me down in some psuedo traditional experience, the waves came crashing down. Luckily I was quick to get moving and we soon skipped out and headed to Lappa where we drank the night away listening to Samba in the streets, while watching the tourists pass by. I think my friend Adilson saved me from becoming a lonesome blubbering homesick mess that night, and all it cost me was a hangover.

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Thanksgiving in Brazil: I think I’m Going to be Homesick is a post from: Monkey Brewster

Rosa Nautica Chicha Morada, By Infrogmation on June 12, 2010 via Flickr - Creative Commons

Low and behold my astonishment when walking down the beverage isle of a grocery store in Lima, Peru when I found a soft drink like bottle featuring a big cartoonish picture of purple corn on it. I laughed and thought giddily to myself, “Silly humans, corn isn’t purple and even if it was who would drink…corn?!?”

Well I would, eventually, after being shown that there is purple corn, I mean really purple…I wonder if that’s what made Barney purple? Anyways, the corn is not some genetic freak of nature but actually dates back thousands of years back to the Incas. Hell, this stuff even made its way into a scene in Moby Dick, which since I am now also an amazing animal with a link to this purple corn that somebody should write a book about me. It would be less piratey with the ‘argh mateys’ and more like a cooler version of Eat, Pray, Love but something like Eat, Drink, Fling Poo? I think it’s kind of catchy, throw in some purple corn and you have a best seller.

Back to the corn, the purple corn. I decided it was my duty to try this stuff out, because while I like corn I can’t imagine drinking it, or that enough people would like it to warrant it having its own bottling company.

But before I tell you how it taste, let me tell you how it is made. First they boil the purple corn, I guess you can’t or don’t actually eat the corn which is scary because they drink it. I didn’t get too much of an explanation just a look of, ‘Uh Duh!’ You add pineapple, quince and clove to the boiling mix until it is a deep purple. (Not sure where you would pick up quince though?) Then you add spices like Cinnamon, sugar and lime juice for flavoring although I’ve heard that every recipe is different this seems to be the base of it. After all is said and done you can serve this drink hot or cold and it is regularly compared to wine although without the alcohol. I’m guessing there are a few similar nutrients but the non alcoholic part isn’t it’s strongest selling point in my opinion.

Now that you see all that goes into this purple concoction you can believe me when I say it doesn’t taste like you’re drinking cream corn. It is sweet and fruity not quite like a juice but not like anything else I can quite compare it to either. It’s purple so I want to say grape juice but it is not. The complexities offer a sweet yet spicy drink with a fruity twist that if you ask around is supposed to be a cure all. Will it cure your ailments, sure I guess if you tap your red heals together enough while drinking it down, but more importantly you can boast that there is such a thing as purple corn and you have drank it.

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Chicha Morada – Peruvian Purple Corn is a post from: Monkey Brewster

Rain By spratmackrel, November 5, 2008 available through Creative Commons via Flickr

It’s raining again, damn! It hasn’t stopped raining for days. Normally this wouldn’t bother me because I like the rain, especially on a warm day where even the most mature individual is tempted to jump into a puddle. Today, today is my last day in Rio de Janeiro and I’d like to say my upset stomach was over my uneasiness of leaving a place I’ve called home for four months or that it’s because I am returning home only to be handed a piece of paper that says I’m capable of teaching. Teaching, ha! You would have thought that 23 years of life, four of which backed by a college education, would have taught me not to do six shots right before I leave the bar, after I already reached that ‘feel good’ point. Lesson learned, at least for now, but their are more pressing matters, like the rain.

The gentle drops create a hum on the roof disrupted only by the sound of a cart being pulled across a puddle. I’ll miss that scent, reheated butter and caramel as the street vendor waits outside the school selling popcorn. I should get up, any other day I’d sleep off this hangover but then again my last day isn’t just any other day.

I fill my pockets with the last of my money, slip on my Havaianas and head out to the store. as I round the corner the bus that would any other day take me to the beach squeaks to a stop. Maybe I should hop on just so I can get one last look?

I keep walking tracing the jagged lines of the odd shaped stones that line the sidewalk. Even through the dingy smell of wet pavement older than the US I can smell the sweet potent smell of coffee. I’m almost there.

I’ll miss this, the tiny cup of a coffee the same size, but twice as strong as anything I drank last night. It’s only rival is the fresh baked roll whose crackle as I break it in half is like a lullaby that soothes my stomach’s cries.

I feel like I should do something more, as if the past four months count for not and only this moment will last eternal in my memory of my time spent here. Maybe I should have got on that bus or any bus, never to return so that the ending is merely the beginning of a new story? No, I have to go back, my passport is in my room. They wouldn’t let me cross into Argentina without my passport.

I begin to walk back home weighing my makeshift plan to runaway even though I know the furthest I’d go would be to the beach, if only to watch the waves splash on the shore from a distance.

I’m brought back to my present location by the rustling sound of an old woman digging through the trash bags. This is the hardest part about Rio, the homeless children and elderly. But there are too many of them and the money I have is too few. That is, until today I have some money not enough to exchange back to US dollars but enough for her.

Damn, of all my Portuguese lessons the only one that dealt with the homeless was to shy away from beggars not attract their attention to give them money.

Excuse me I say, “Licencia”, sounding more like I’m questioning myself instead of asking for her attention. She shoots up quick for someone so frail, her eyes big yet sunken like someone too scared to sleep peacefully at night. “I have some money for you, I’m leaving today…I don’t need it.” Did I say that right?

Her timidness quickly becomes defensive, the trash bag is the only thing separating us on this narrow sidewalk, her back against the wall my heals hanging over the curb onto the street. People begin to stare and the saltiness from the rain leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I become nervous at the uneasiness of the situation, why do I feel this way if I’m only trying to do the right thing. I hold out the money, both arms fully extended trying to give it to her but she only shoos me away. Did I insult her? Her actions become more aggressive as her wrinkles attempt to tighten across her face. Do I just drop the money or leave with it, I’m not sure what I should do. I walk away.

I swear only a month ago she was sitting in that same spot asking for money, was it her or did I just insult a woman taking out the trash? No, I’m sure it was her or at least that she had no where to go, no place to call home, but why wouldn’t she take the money, what do I do now? Do I finish packing and go out frivolously spending my remaining Brazilian Real?

Walking too intensely focused on the rain to realize I was getting wet, I continue the day just as it has begun…

My stomach hurts.

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Lost Days of Rio is a post from: Monkey Brewster

Truth be told anyone in Lima I talked to (Which is a limited number due to my poor Spanish speaking skills) didn’t really know much about why their were cows all over, other than it had something to do with Gloria. In all actuality Gloria is just a sponsor for this specific Cow Parade, which happens all over the world. According to CowParade.com these cows are set up all around different cities for 2-4 months and then auctioned off with the proceeds going to local charities and not-for-profits. Supposedly they chose a cow because it is a beloved creature all over the world. If you ask me I just think big smelly things that make milk. I would have choose a more noble and lovable creature, such as oh I don’t know – A MONKEY! Surely there was some poor representation on the board choosing which creature to select, but I can’t blame them this whole thing started out of Connecticut. I’m not even sure what all comes from Connecticut other than Cow Parades.

You are in luck if you have ever had a weird infatuation with cows, the Lima auction has not yet begun. Have you ever wanted to cook a delicious cheeseburger on a grill that resembles the animal you are cooking? Does it actually work, who knows but it’s a cow grill what more could you ask for? I also saw a boxer cow and one that was covered in the skin from hundred of onions, so beautiful I teared up a little. I’m not sure what the average cow goes for but I know Oprah Winfrey has one, you have that kind of money right? Who doesn’t? Oprah isn’t hip enough, don’t worry Ringo Starr and Elton John have a cow too, yeah challenge that cool, I dare you.

There is a competition going on for the best picture of/with a cow and the winner gets S/. 500 ($176) of Gloria products. I’m not sure what that exactly that includes, I asked them but they wouldn’t udder a response.

Have you come across these cows in your travels? If not you may in the future they seem to be springing up all over the place, and have already been in New York and are next to spring up in Tokyo, Taipei, Tijuana and San Diego.

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Don’t Have a Cow, Peru… is a post from: Monkey Brewster

This is not the type of story you might often hear about in travel tales, because who wants to admit to going to a touristy spot where nearly everyone speaks English and it’s almost indistinguishable from some place back home, minus the collage of accents. Truth be told I didn’t mind this place when I wanted a stout beer or just didn’t want to struggle so much to communicate with whoever filled the bar stool next to me. I was never homesick during my 4 months in Rio but I was communication sick- that is sick of communicating with the same people all the time because they were the only English speakers, well fluent ones. If you have traveled along side someone, you probably have had this moment where it isn’t that you are tired of the person but need a different type of conversation, perhaps a different perspective.  So let me tell you a monkey’s tale of three very different experiences, all of which helped shaped my outlook on Rio’s Cariocas.

My first night visiting Shenanigans came after reading up on it online with my fellow American roommates. We decided to give it a go and see if we can truly maneuver the bus system at night. Thanks to a helpful bus driver, we arrived safely at our destination. We plopped down in a little corner and before we knew it, we were chit chatting it up with some Cariocas that we were bumping elbows with. I like to think it’s because I’m cute and cuddly, but really my two blond female roommates probably had more to do with it. We ate, drank and told stories for what seemed like hours, until finally it was time to head out. Our newfound friends helped us to locate a taxi who tried to charge us 5x the usual rate. After some arguing we went off to find a new taxi, the second driver only wanted to rip us off 3x the usual rate. These Cariocas weren’t having it and finally located two taxis so we could all ride together. They made sure we safely arrived at our home in Botafogo. After they dropped us off, they refused to let us pay our portion. Then they squeezed into one taxi and headed off to their own home. They never gave us more than a name or asked for anything but ours in return.

You ever meet that piss drunk stereotype of a tourist that makes you hope and pray he is of a different nationality so that he doesn’t ‘represent’ you. Well, my first encounter was with a drunken Englishman who after barging into the bathroom shouted to all those around, asking how to say ‘Let’s go back to my place’ or ‘How about a blow job’ in Portuguese. Yeah, my thoughts exactly. This belligerent tourist clearly was pissing off everyone around: tourist, locals and the staff. Thus, he quickly found himself getting escorted out the bar. Three carioca men who were at the bar also happened to be on their way out when this man hit the wall – literally. He then proceeded to pass out on the stone sidewalk and make that awesome drool gurgle noise of a half coherent man. These three carioca men called an ambulance and made sure some of the watchful eyes in the park across the street didn’t dare come over to pick pocket this man. A few other locals walked out of the bar and began to argue with the three men on how they should leave him be and let him learn a lesson. But they stood by until the ambulance picked him up.

It was a cool night and I ventured off by myself ending up at Shenanigans chit chatting up a few locals and an Irishman who loved to talk – but he had that cool accent so I was kind of interested too. That is until I knocked over a huge glass ashtray; which landed on the foot of a girl next to me, yeah smooth operator style! After apologizing profusely, I learned her name was Death (ok so it was really Deth but close enough I mean come on!) The crowd on the balcony came and went but we chit chatted together as I pawned over what a friend told me earlier that week. “If you don’t kiss her right away she won’t think you’re interested.” While the validity of this comment is questionable let alone a stereotype, I decided why not, I haven’t done more than hug a Brazilian woman as of yet. After a mini make-out session we were kicked out of the bar as it was closing, each going our own way. Her friend hinting that we should visit such and such hotel, I decided to leave it for another day. I never called her but then again a sober morning will get you to question dating a girl named Death or Deth or whatever exactly it was.

What did all this teach me, well for one that not all locals who hang out at touristy spots are scammers and creepers. The other thing is to not to underestimate the hospitality and openness the world can offer you even in a large city like Rio and even with a girl named Death.

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An Irish Pub in Rio – A Monkey’s Tale is a post from: Monkey Brewster

I loved living in Rio, every dirty street and the smog smell that filled the street air as soon as you stepped away from the beach. It wasn’t always pretty but it was Rio, and from someone who lived in the not so touristy glamor filled neighborhood of Botafogo I loved the aforementioned grit.

I know there is a lot of pressure on Rio de Janeiro to clean up it’s act because the Olympics and FIFA are coming and will showcase the good, bad and gritty aspects of Rio to the world – and this has some people scared. For those of us who know Rio, some changes while may seem aesthetically more appealing, take away from the real Rio. They took away the coconuts, ok I can deal with that but the cheese too – well now your pushing it. They have changed all the tents to white and removed any markings, dammit I had my favorite guy who would hook me up with a seat for R$3 and gave me specials on an ice cold Itaipava. How do I find him now?  Closing down the Disco where all the prostitutes gathered, well that one isn’t an entirely huge loss I’m sure they’ll find a new place to sucker in the gringo tourist – just make sure she doesn’t have an adams apple. Remember guys, surgery is cheap down there so before you rent your love motel room make sure you know what your getting into. Even if she is a she – if it seems too good to be true it probably is and she will hit you up for money at some point.

I digress, but that is Rio. I danced the Samaba in the streets, was robbed on the stairway of Selaron and ate the most delicious grilled bananas in the lagoa surrounded by Sugar Loaf and the Christ Redeemer. I had to wash my fur daily to get the smog smell out and my havaianas probably had some sewage disease on them from walking in the rain. Rio is the most wonderful, amazing, dirty and grity place I have ever been to and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m afraid when I go back it is going to look like some beach resort type place.

Lastly, I’m worried what they are going to do with the people. Those who can’t even afford to live in the favelas and end up living on the streets. What happens to those people? Are they really going to just let them be throughout the media circus of the Olympics or take the other extreme and outlaw living on the streets reflecting Nazi Germany? I doubt anyone would take it that far but I wonder what changes they have planned and what limitations if any, there are.

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The Real Rio is a post from: Monkey Brewster

Sure it seems like a novel concept but it makes sense and works, besides that it’s kind of catchy and pretty accurate. This self identifying term also flies if you are of Chinese or any other Asian background living in Peru just in case you couldn’t figure that out on yourself.

Why does this have any significance? Well many people in the USA seem to be surprised about the large Japanese populations in South America, yet we are the ones who sent them there. Through either anti-Japanese immigration laws or a slightly bad USA experience in, oh I don’t know, Japanese Internment Camps many found their way in South America. What followed was an amazing blending of cultures. I mean the previous president of Peru was Alberto Fujimori, his name alone is pretty friggin sweet if I may say let alone he was their president. If you never had some Perusian food then you really know what I’m talking about and if by chance you don’t know what I’m talking about then check out Uncornered Market’s post on Peruvian food for some visual stimulation.

All in all I rather enjoy the food and self-identifying terms used by these Perusians, which I must admit consisted of most of my interactions in Peru. Who knows maybe I picked up something that will aid me when I go to Tokyo – or maybe not. Time will tell, but until then could you pass the taradito?

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In a tacky sense I just heard a Perusian joke that I felt must be added:

So there was a Japanese girl and a Peruvian boy who were getting frisky, as things were starting to heat up she yelled “Yamete!”, he being Peruvian heard “Ya mete”.

…and for those who don’t speak Japanese and Spanish to get the Joke. Yamete meants ‘stop it’ in Japanese while Ya mete means ‘put it in already’ in Spanish- you may now laugh.

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Perusian is a post from: Monkey Brewster

Photo is the property of Matador Change

If there ever was a clear distinction between a traveler and a tourist I think the movement started by the Metador Network is a perfect example. Less than 24 hours ago (2/12/10 – 9:45 PM EST), an earthquake that registered a 7.0 hit Haiti, to put this into perspective the Great San Francisco earthquake of 1906 was an 8 and the West Java earthquake was also a 7 on the Richter scale. The latter “killed at least 79 people, injured over 1,250, and displaced over 210,000,” according to Wikipedia.

OK, so maybe Wikipedia isn’t the best authority on all the facts but this isn’t about dolling out numbers and hard pressed facts it’s about people and the connection citizens of the world have with one another. This is about the power of social media being put to the test to see if when it matters Twitter and Facebook can be used for good. This isn’t some feed the children charity plea to help support the wallet of the “charity’s” figure heads, no this is merely a re-tweet request. That’s right the people of Metador Network want you to send a message to Jet Blue that help is needed and people are willing if a means to get there are provided. That’s it, I mean how many people re-tweeted that Parez Hilton needed help because he was punched in the face? Now when it counts will the support be there?

Did I pull at your conscious enough to get you willing to figure out how you can help? I hope so, because the next step is pretty easy.

Retweet this message by simply clicking it (I made it that easy for you):

@JetBlue: If @MatadorNetwork could fill a plane with volunteers, would you fly them to Santo Domingo to help #quake vics in #Haiti?

or

Go to the Metador Change article that inspired this post or see how else you can contribute to this social movement.

There is no time like the present, so help make a difference with a click and maybe I won’t fling things at you.

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Tweet for Haiti is a post from: Monkey Brewster