Cosmic Candid Camera

Timbuktu or Texas?

2012-02-27T08:08:00.011-06:00

I was in Mombasa, Kenya when I received word that five travelers had been kidnapped and one of them killed.

Although these were people I’d never met, and the abductions took place thousands of miles away, they happened in Timubuktu, the very place I was headed in about 6 weeks. All foreigners were being evacuated and embassies from every country were discouraging travelers from venturing into the region.

I had signed up to volunteer at a three day music festival in Mali in northwest Africa and had been looking forward to the adventure...sleeping in a tent in the desert with local Tuareg people who are nomads of the Sahara.

Immediately following the kidnappings, the volunteer coordinator sent each of us an email stating that while they would do everything to guarantee our safety, the organizers of the event wanted each of us to make a fully informed decision.

My plan was to visit Zanzibar, Madagascar, Mauritius and Mozambique before boarding the long flight to Bamako, the capital city of Mali. There, I’d take a 14 hour bus ride to Timbuktu where the festival was be held. There’s a reason why the word “Timbuktu” is synonymous with “the middle of nowhere”.

I weighed my options. Should I head to the desert for a big adventure (potentially a life-threatening one) or should I reconsider? These kinds of events tend to be exaggerated in the Western media. I had just come from Nairobi where two bombings had occurred and it wasn’t even a topic of conversation amongst the folks who live there.

The volunteers began to email each other and everyone was in high spirits…eager to attend the festival as planned and not be dissuaded by these randoms act of terrorism. The messages were inspiring…we would converge on the town of Timbuktu in a spirit of unity and solidarity. To do otherwise would be giving in to violence and hatred.

But then one of the volunteers sent an email saying that he had attended the festival a few years earlier, was still in touch with friends who lived in Timbuktu and that they were telling him not to come…that it wasn’t safe.

After Mali, my plan was to continue traveling for another year and a half. The life of a professional vagabond may seem like a permanent vacation, but I’d already been on the road for 16 months non-stop. 19 countries. 15 languages. Staying in a different place every 3 or 4 nights. Solo. I was road weary. And lonesome.

And then it occurred to me…I could still visit most of the countries I’d planned to go to prior to Mali, and make it it back to Austin, Texas in time for Christmas and surprise all my friends who weren’t planning to see me for another year and a half.

Three weeks later, I felt elated and excited to be going “home” to the place where I no longer owned my house, car, furniture, clothing or photography studio. But as I boarded the 16 hour flight from Dubai to Houston and discovered that I was seated in the centre of an equilateral triangle formed by three screaming babies, I came very close to changing my mind.

There was never more than a five minute break in the constant wailing, crying and screeching. I played every mind game I could think of to reframe my situation.

“This isn’t nearly as bad as being on a slave ship crossing the Atlantic for three months” I told myself. Or “I’ve got it easy compared to the Jews on the freezing railroad cars being shipped to the concentration camps”, or even “what if these babies grow up to be Grammy award winners and they’re just practicing until they can get in front of a microphone?” When I disembarked, I was ready to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital.

To make things worse, my right foot was infected and swollen. I had ignored a blister caused by an ill-fitting scuba fin I had worn for four days in a row and now I was paying the price. The lesion was inflamed and red and painful, and sitting for 16 hours wasn’t helping matters. I arrived in Austin with my nerves frayed and my foot throbbing.

Within a few days of my arrival, I felt much better as the result of keeping my leg elevated and taking some leftover antibiotics I had purchased over the counter in Cambodia several months earlier to get rid of a self-diagnosed intestinal parasite.

And then, out of nowhere, I received an email from a former client wanting to know when I’d be returning to Austin because he wanted to shoot some new photos for his website.

A few days later, another email arrived from the marketing manager of a company needing some executive headshots. And then a third email, this time from a motivational speaker needing some promo photos. None of these people knew I was in Austin. Serendipity-Do-Da! I even rented my former studio for one of photo shoots and had to turn down three other jobs!

The income from those gigs enabled me to pay for my trip from Africa, as well as having my camera and computer repaired, getting my teeth cleaned and a cracked filling replaced, visiting the doctor for a check up, buying some new socks and underwear and replacing an expensive pair of glasses that I had somehow managed to lose since my arrival back in Austin.

In addition, I was able to wash my clothes in a washing machine and dry them in a dryer, take as many hot showers as I wanted and eat as many calories as I could get my hands on. I’d lost about 15 pounds during my 16 months of travel and my jeans were so loose I could take them off without unbuttoning them!

I fully recharged my “friendship batteries” with loved ones whom I’d sorely missed since I’d been gone. They wined and dined me so much that in just 8 weeks I gained back all the weight I’d lost during the preceding year and a half!

There were so many friends I wanted to catch up with that many days I had to schedule breakfast, mid-morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, happy hour and dinner!

I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and affection and generosity I received, and by the number of people who thanked me for writing this blog and posting my travel photos on facebook and my website. Apparently a lot of folks like to travel vicariously.

I seem to live a charmed life. I always have. In a year and a half of traveling nothing bad has happened to me. I've never been robbed or had anything stolen from my room or felt unsafe.

Sure, I've had my share of unwanted gastro-intestinal passengers, and I've been in a few situations where I thought "I hope this episode has a happy ending!"...but that's to be expected.

And...I've gotten much better at listening to my intuition and paying attention to my internal compass. When I do, it usually points me in the right direction, even when my destination ends up being ten thousand miles from where I thought I was going.

Parlez-Vous Anglais?

2011-12-10T10:19:00.002-06:00

I’m in Madagascar, staying in a hilltop bungalow overlooking the beach called "Coucher de Soleil". The name of the place, if my long forgotten French serves me correctly, translates as “Sleep of the Sun”. I think what they mean is "Sunset".

I can think of lots of worse names for a place where you bathe with cold water from a rusty 50 gallon drum, flush the toilet with a bucket of water from the same drum and brush your teeth over the toilet because there’s no sink. There's also non-stop squawking from the resident parrots and the soul-numbing “thump-thump-thump” of the devil’s music emanating from the bar nearby until 2 each morning.

I’ve been in 18 countries in the Pacific, Asia and Africa in the last 16 months, and this is the first time I’ve felt intimidated by the language barrier. Ironically, it’s because everyone speaks French!

I sat through a LOT of French classes in high school and even in university, so I feel embarrassed that I’m not more proficient. But in my defense, and with apologies to Miss Crichton, most foreign language classes of that era focused on reading and writing and passing tests, rather than on actually speaking French.

Just two days ago I was in Zanzibar, greeting people in Swahili. After five weeks in Kenya and Tanzania, my vocabulary included the words for “please” “thank you” “how are you?” “I’m fine” “good” “I’m sorry” “I understand” “foreigner” (I heard that word a LOT, preceded by what I feel certain were colorful, if not complimentary adjectives. My favorite, if for no other reason than it sounds exactly like what it means is “hakuna matata”….”no problem."

In those countries, I was obviously an outsider and didn't encounter many other foreigners, relatively speaking. Nobody expected me to speak the language with any degree of fluency, and people seemed genuinely surprised and delighted that I was making the effort. But here, the place is crawling with French people, so even though I blend in more on the outside, I feel much more conspicuous when I open my mouth to speak, because all the foreigners here (with a few exceptions like myself) speak the language fluently. Do you follow my somewhat twisted logic?

That said, I had managed catch a taxi (which I shared with a couple from Barcelona who only spoke Spanish...but that's another story) find a place to stay and even make a feeble attempt at negotiating a lower rate.

Yesterday I found a dive shop, and entering, I confidently said "Bonjour! Comment ça va?" then sheepishly told the proprietor "Excusez-moi...je ne parle pas Français tres bien." He told me in French that my French was better than his English, which made me feel good, even if it was a bald faced lie. I've heard that the French are loathe to speak English, but at least he had the decency to appeal to my ego.

I left there not sure whether I had signed up for a scuba diving excursion or as a cabin boy for a voyage to Mozambique, but when I “retourned” this morning, I was relieved to find that in addition to two French divers, there were three guys from South Africa and a fellow from the Netherlands, all of them conversing with one another in English. I had to laugh when the dive master assigned the Dutch guy and me to each other as dive buddies and he leaned over and said “Man, I thought I was the only one in this country who doesn’t speak French!”

Not that it matters underwater, except that when diving outside the U.S. or Caribbean, your pressure gauge is calibrated in millimeters. When you’re accustomed to beginning a dive with 3200 pounds per square inch of pressure in your tank, you don’t want to look down ten minutes into your dive, 75 feet under water …(sorry, make that 22.7575 meters) and see the needle resting on the number 200.

This afternoon I rented a motorcycle and rode around the island. At one point I was stopped at a police road block. He carefully flipped through every single page of my passport, looking intently at each visa stamp, and his facial expression indicated that this was a grave situation indeed. He was speaking rapidly in French the entire time, and kept repeating a phrase I just couldn’t make out.

“Je ne parle pas Français tres bien” I said. "I don't speak French very well."

He kept repeating it.

Finally I said “Plus lentement s’il vous plait” which I hoped was something close to a very polite “Could you repeat that more slowly please?”

“Avez-vous quelque chose pour mois?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Pardonnez-moi, je ne comprends pas” I replied "I don't understand"….as the light bulb in my head begain to come on.

“Avez-vous un cadeau pour mois?” he repeated…this time a little more sheepishly.

As he said that phrase, my mind suddenly expanded to give me a bird's eye view of the entire scenario as well as total recall of every bit of French I had ever studied.

My thought process went something like this:

1. I’m in a foreign country

2. It’s one of the poorest countries in the world

3. This guy’s got my passport so he knows I’m American, which to him means I've got buckets of money

4. He’s holding in his hands a document containing page after page of visas from countries I’ve visited, which only confirms his suspicions that I am filthy rich.

5. From the dim, dark recesses of my feeble memory, I somehow managed to dredge up the cobweb covered, dim, dusty recollection that the word "cadeau" means "a present".

6. This is a shake down. A stick up. Highway robbery. Literally.

With a huge smile on my face, feigning total lack of comprehension, I said again “I’m sorry, my French is really bad” while taking my passport from his hands and once I’d safely retrieved it , I asked “Quelque chose pour vous?”...”A present for you?”

“Oui!” he said smiling, happy that I had finally understood his request.

“Au revoir!” I called over my shoulder, as I sped away, a fugitive from justice.

The Monk And The Motor Scooter

2011-11-11T06:01:00.000-06:00

I was standing in the middle of a rickety bamboo bridge, hoping it wouldn’t collapse beneath me before I could get a photo of the sunset.

I had endured a four hour nausea-inducing ride up a winding mountain road, crammed into a mini-bus with 13 other travelers. Arriving in the small town of Pai, Thailand, I managed to find a thatched hut for $6 a night.

But crossing this treacherous bridge was the only way to get there. Each time I walked across it I held my breath until I reached the other side. And at night, it was black as pitch, so without a flashlight you were in real danger of putting your foot through one of the many holes in the flimsy walkway.

It was almost dark, when out of the corner of my eye I saw an orange-robed figure approaching. We chatted about this and that, and just as the sun’s last rays were dissolving into the night sky, I asked if I could take a photograph of his hand. Chuckling, he obliged my odd request.

We continued talking as he made his way back to the local temple where he was staying. His name was Piak, a 52 year old Buddhist monk who was on vacation and traveling around Thailand for a few days. He told me about his daily routine…arising at 4 o’clock each morning to meditate and pray, and then walk the streets, carrying the traditional metal bowl which monks use to collect contributions of food for their breakfast.

When I told him I’d like to make a small donation, he invited me to come with him to the temple, explaining that it would be improper to accept such agift on the street, and that there was a ceremonial blessing that should be bestowed on the giver.

A few minutes later we arrived at the temple which was completely dark and Piak led me across a grassy expanse to the guest quarters. He unlocked the door and flipped on the light..his tiny place made mine look like the Taj Mahal.

Without any sort of preface or explanation, he went to his room and did not return. Pretty soon I heard the droning sound of his voice as he began his evening prayer ritual. The heat was stifling, so I went outside and sat on the steps and decided to meditate as well, assuming he would eventually emerge from his chambers so I could give him my donation and leave him to do whatever it is that monks do.After about half an hour, he emerged with a bunch of newspaper and a stick of of glue. I wasn't sure if this was part of the ritual he had referred to earlier, but as it turns out, these were materials he had procured to repair the holes in the screen door which were admitting mosquitoes to his already spartan accommodations.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to paste newspaper to a screen door...I hadn't...but it’s an exercise in futility. It requires the patience of Job….or a Buddhist monk…to stick with the task long enough to have any hope of success. But succeed we did, and by now I was eager to be on my way.

“So...I’d still like to make a donation if that’s...”

“Please…sit” said Piak, gesturing to the floor and seating himself on a cushion.

He explained that as a monk it was important that his head be slightly higher than anyone else in the room. Wrapping his hands in a piece of decorative cloth, so that they did not come in direct contact with the money, he extended them towards me. I placed my gift in the cloth, which he immediately wrapped up, and then launched into an incantation which made me feel as if I was being bound up in some sort of cosmic bubble wrap which would protect me from being run over by a motorcycle or falling through the bridge on the way home.

We chatted for quite a while, and as I got up to leave, I told Piak that I had really enjoyed meeting him, and that the following day I was planning to rent a motorcycle and tour some caves nearby.

“I want to come too” he responded.

“Do you mean you want to rent a motorcycle also?” I asked.

“No...too expensive. I ride with you!”

I was dumbstruck.

The next morning, Piak had very definite opinions about what type of motorcycle we should rent, choosing the most expensive option.

Since it was my money we were spending, and I hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in 25 years, I opted for a moderately priced scooter with automatic transmission.

The next few days were a joyful journey including hikes to waterfalls, crossing tranquil bridges which arched over quietly flowing streams, walking along peaceful paths through the forest, exploring caves and temples and chatting with other monks.

We talked extensively about Buddhism, and he expounded upon some of the more than 400 precepts that monks must follow. Among the many beliefs we shared, one which we agreed upon whole-heartedly was that the most important moment in our lives is right now.

We even made a brief stop at an elephant camp so Piak could rub noses with a creature which in Thailand is a symbol of wisdom and which Aristotle described as "the beast which passeth all others in wit and mind." We also made a couple of stops at remote hamlets so that Piak, despite the fact that he was "off duty", could distribute food and sweets to the village children.

These moments were interspersed with him shouting at me to slow down, me admonishing him to keep his helmet on, his chin strap fastened and not to ride side saddle, and at the end of the day booking separate rooms so we could spend some time alone.

Everywhere we went, we elicited stares of disbelief, and I realized about halfway through the second day that I was wearing an orange t-shirt, which kinda made us look like we were sporting jerseys from the same team.

Near the end of our journey, as dusk was approaching, we passed a mountain vista which was breath-taking. I wanted to pull off the road to take a photograph and savor the view. As I slowed down and signaled, I could hear Piak behind me saying “No! No! No!” As we eased onto the gravel shoulder, slowly coming to stop, I shifted to neutral and coasted to the spot where we’d have the best vantage point.

Without warning, the front wheel slid out from under me and the scooter went down, sending both of us tumbling into a tangle of arms and legs and handlebars and saffron robes. I frantically scanned my body to determine whether I was hurt. My next thought was “Is Piak injured, and if so, how badly? If seriously, then how will I get him to a hospital?” All of this took a fraction of a second. As I turned to him, his eyes were closed and he was completely immobile.

“Are you O.K.?”

He didn’t respond immediately, and I felt the panic rising in my chest. What if he’s dead? How will I transport the body? Who will I notify? Would it be easier to simply bury the corpse in a shallow grave and drive off?

He opened his eyes and blinked, and as we tried to untangle ourselves, a knot of yin and yang, east and west, jeans and robes, sacred and profane, and a cumulative total of 104 years of life experience, I started to laugh. We were both unharmed, except for a few minor scrapes and cuts. The only casualty was that the hot exhaust pipe had burned a hole in Paik’s robe.

We made it home without further incident and before we said our final goodbye, I asked Paik if I could take one more photograph of him. Eager to oblige, he walked with me to the bridge where we had first met. He looked beatifically into the setting sun.

I said goodbye to my saffron-robed friend, and trudged across the bridge to my hut, feeling a little melancholy that I wouldn’t see him again.

The next morning, I found a multi-colored bracelet lying on the bridge, and I still have it on my wrist as a reminder of the man with whom I shared a magical and mystical trip.

Months later, I was chatting with another traveler whom I met in Vietnam, and we were comparing notes about the various places we’d visited. She asked me if I’d heard about the severe flooding in Pai. I told her I hadn’t.

“Yeah!” she said…..”I don’t know if you know where the bamboo bridge is, but it was washed away completely.”

I thought of what a perfect metaphor that bridge was….spanning the gap between all of us...and how, despite our differences, all human beings have far more in common. Knowing that the bridge had been swept away was a reminder to live in the moment, seizing each opportunity.

You never know what a day will bring.

Noah's Ark

2011-11-09T03:20:00.000-06:00

Malindi, Kenya:

I think I may have stumbled upon Noah's Ark.

When I tried to explain the historic/religious/archeological significance of this to the three guys smoking pot inside the boat, they seemed confused.

1st World Problems

2011-11-09T03:18:00.000-06:00

The Trouble With Quotes...

2011-11-07T01:54:00.000-06:00

Courtesy of Greg Miles and www.PonderAbout.com

Move Wildly Through LIfe

2011-11-07T01:52:00.000-06:00

Bait and Switch

2011-11-06T02:35:00.000-06:00

Malindi, Kenya:

When I checked into "The Rhino Room" here at the African Pearl Guest House, I was delighted to find the walls covered in murals of Kenyan wildlife. But when I got ready to go to bed, I could not for the life of me find the light switch. I was trying to figure out how to unscrew the light bulb, which was completely out of reach, when I did one more thorough search and discovered the switch hidden in this painting next to the bed. And after 3 days of cold showers, I asked the housekeeping lady if there was a secret to getting hot water. Her response? "Yes...move to a room that has hot water."

Not Kosher

2011-10-30T01:51:00.000-05:00

5:30 a.m. My alarm goes off in Malé, Maldives. I jump in the shower and as the dark sky turns to half light I am out the door to the ferry across the harbor to the airport where I spend my few remaining rufyiaa on breakfast by the waterfront as the sun comes up.

12:00 noon I arrive in Doha, Qatar where I am met by my sister’s best friend from high school, who takes me to the Diplomatic Club for a feast fit for a sheik, followed by a tour of the city.

5:30 p.m. Sundown at the camel race track where I watch a procession of hundreds of dromedaries in the waning light.

11:30 p.m. Back to the airport with Janice and my new friend Youssef to catch my connecting flight to the Seychelles.

12:00 a.m. Going through passport control I roll my eyes at another passenger as a child at the far counter squawks over and over and over again like a manic parrot...“Mama! Mama! Mama!”

“With my luck she’ll be sitting in the row right in front of me” I joke.

12:45 a.m. I am mistaken. She is seated 3 rows in front of me. And her squawks have increased both in pitch and in tempo.

Flight departs Qatar for Seychelles.

1:30 a.m. The passenger to my left has been wracked with paroxysms of coughing since before take off. He begins to complain of leg cramps and I begin to consider euthanizing him to put him out of my misery. Mercifully, the flight attendant reseats him somewhere out of earshot. Hopefully his new seat mate is deaf and does not contract tuberculosis.

As I step into the aisle to make way for him, a flight attendant approaches me with what appears to be a pizza box. “Mr. Langford….I believe you ordered the kosher meal? If you’ll open the box for us, we’ll start preparing it for you.”

“What the…? I didn’t order the kosher meal...I promise!"

The entire cabin crew is Muslim.

"I’m not even Jewish!” I add hastily.

As I take my seat, my sleep-starved brain cannot make sense of this. Suddenly, a light bulb comes on over my head. It is not the reading light. It is the realization that for the first time in 15 months, having made all my own flight arrangements along the way, I have emailed my sister to book this series of flights for me since she's good at finding rock bottom prices on everything from airfares to housewares. Despite my hours of research, she is able to save me about $600.00 in less than 10 minutes.

A dim memory begins to take shape...the last time she made travel arrangements for me was 12 years ago when she and I were flying to our brother’s wedding together. On the return trip I was traveling solo, and when meal time came, the flight attendant approached me and, looking at her clipboard, asked “Are you Mr. Langford?

“Yes...that's me” I responded.”

“I just wanted to confirm that you ordered the Hindu meal.”

She got me then, and she got me again 12 years later.

2:30 a.m. I curl up in the fetal position on the three adjoining seats in an attempt to get some much needed shut-eye while trying to ignore the immovable object poking me in the rib cage.

5:30 a.m. I am awakened after 3 hours of fitful sleep by an announcement that our flight will be landing in about an hour. I feel like something the cat dragged in and my mouth tastes like something the cat stepped in.

6:30 a.m. I arrive at Mahe Airport, Seychelles.

Just to see if I can do it, I have arrived in this country with no guide book, no map, and having done absolutely no research. My only contact is an Italian chef named Lucio whom I have never met but with whom I’ve had several email exchanges. I found him on a website called couchsurfing.org where travelers can meet people who are willing to host them for free. I have less than 1 hour to get to the ferry pier.

I somehow manage to stumble through immigration and customs despite the fact that I am sleep-walking, my entry card is only partially filled in, and my evasive answers regarding my accommodations while in the Seychelles arouse suspicion. The truth is I’ll be staying with the chef at the resort where he works, but I can’t give the the name of the resort in case they call to confirm my reservation, which I don’t have. I also fail to satisfy the immigration official’s inquiries as to how and when I’ll be leaving the country. That information is stored on my laptop which is in my bag, and I'm using my limited brain function to remain upright. Against all odds, he lets me go.

Finally, I am questioned thoroughly by a representative of the local drug enforcement administration, and even though I am squeaky clean, by this point I'm feeling anxious and rattled and am unable to maintain eye contact. I really don’t know why they let me in the country. I wouldn’t have.

After my interrogation, I have just enough time to dash to the ATM machine and withdraw US$200.00 worth of local currency.

7:00 a.m. The clock is ticking. I sprint across the terminal to find a representative of the ferry company which will take me to the island where my host lives. I am told to wait nearby…that a shuttle bus will be along directly. But I have no way to reach him besides a phone number and an email address. I can’t wander into the resort with my backpack on and ask for the chef…that will blow his cover, because employees aren't allowed to have guests.

I search the terminal for a place to by a SIM card for my phone, and manage to find a newsstand that has just unlocked its doors. I purchase a SIM, but the girl behind the counter can’t figure out how to activate it. Plus, her fingernails are so long she can’t operate the touch screen on my iPhone. I’m really starting to panic…if I miss the bus, I’ll miss the ONLY ferry to the island of La Digue until tomorrow.

I emerge from the store frantic…has the bus already come and gone without me? No…all is well. I board the bus, get to the jetty, find the ticket office, purchase a fare. In the meantime, I've managed to get my phone working.

7:30 a.m. I board the ferry. Once again I have made it by the skin of my teeth, despite my complete and utter lack of planning.

9:30 a.m. I arrive at my destination without puking, which is more than I can say for many of the other passengers. We tie up at the jetty and disembark. I phone Lucio, realizing that I have traveled several thousand miles and 48 hours to stay with someone whom I know absolutely nothing about. He tells me to meet him at a grocery store called Gregoire’s, which he says is about 10 minutes away on foot. This is starting to feel like an international scavenger hunt.

I spot a guy with dreadlocks and a wool cap who's the spitting image of Bob Marley and ask him for directions. He tells me it’s way too far to walk with a heavy backpack...20 minutes away at least. And now it’s starting to rain. As luck would have it, he has one last bike I can rent for $10 a day. I accept his offer. Note to self: Never ask a guy who rents bicycles how far away something is. Of course he’s gonna tell you it’s too far to walk, even if it’s around the corner.

Keep in mind that the backpack containing all my earthly possessions weighs about 40 lbs. And my carry-on bag containing my computer, charger, hard drives, a jacket, my toilet kit, flashlight and raincoat and weighs another 10lbs. or so. Ever tried throwing your leg over the cross bar of a mountain bike with 50 lbs. strapped to your torso? I wish I had a video. Even funnier was my dismount...let’s just say my bike and I invented a new dance called “The Seychelle Shuffle.”

11:00 a.m. After chatting with Lucio, he goes back to work and I take a shower and fall into a deep sleep and dream that the heavens have opened, filling my backpack with rainwater.

1:00 p.m. I awake from my coma to discover that my dream was a premonition. I go outside to find that the rain is coming in at a 45 degree angle and that my shoes, which I left on the front porch, are soaking wet.

Puppy Dogs, Unicorns and The Heart Of Darkness

2011-10-27T23:29:00.000-05:00

A lot of professional photographers I know are loath to photograph sunsets…or cute kids or animals. Because it’s way too easy and it’s been done to death. Anyone can do it.

So every time I photograph one of those subjects, I feel a little bit sheepish. Like I’m slam-dunking a basketball on a children’s playground. But I do it anyway…for the same reason I listen to Karen Carpenter singing “Close to You” whenever it’s playing in the elevator. It’s a guilty pleasure.

I always wince a little when someone says “Wow! That looks just like a postcard!” I know they mean this as the highest form of praise, but what I hear instead is “That's trite. Boring. Predictable. It's the same photo any grandmother with a point-and-shoot camera could have taken if she'd been there.” We've all seen those postcards in every gift shop between here and the Point of No Return.

Even worse than the “postcard” compliment is the one word response…"Nice”.

This one is usually uttered by self-important, self-absorbed, self-indulgent, self-centered, self-involved, self-seeking, self-conscious, self-loathing, selfish advertising agency art directors with a heart of darkness who subscribe to "Self" magazine.

These are the same guys who dress in all black and wear über-hip sunglasses from Germany and wouldn’t be caught dead in shorts and a t-shirt or shopping at Target or getting a haircut that costs less than $75.00. They’ve had a complete sense-of-humor-ectomy, so the closest they come to laughing is when they affect a completely deadpan expression as they monotone the words “That’s funny.”

Some of my dearest friends are art directors. And some aren’t.

In my over-active imagination there’s this scenario where some art director who once owed me $15,000.00 and strung me along for 90 days sees my sunset photo (yes, I’m thinking of someone in particular...even in my fantasy I can hold a grudge!) and, brandishing his pitchfork, beckons one of his minions. “That’s it!” he says, stroking his goatee. “That’s the one! That is the quintessential sunset and I must have it! Money is no object! Bring that sunset to me now!”

I can’t be bothered to respond to his emails, so he phones me personally and says “Mr. Langford, we’d like to purchase exclusive rights to use your sunset photo from now until eternity for worldwide print ads, brochures, leaflets, annual reports, textbooks, bus stops, point of purchase displays, packaging, airport kiosks, baseball caps, t-shirts, movie posters, coffee mugs, key rings, trading cards, refrigerator magnets, school lunch boxes and banner ads on every website on the internet. And billboards in every major metropolitan city in the world, including La Paz, Bolivia. And on the big screen in Times Square. Our client is MegaCorp., a conglomerate of Sony, Time Warner, Microsoft, CocaCola and Nike. Name your price.”

I’ll let you know how that works out.

Nothing To Write Home About

2011-10-10T06:38:00.000-05:00

We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit. :: Aristotle

I want it to be funny.

And soulful. With just the right amount of insight and poignancy without being sappy or tying everything up in a neat little bow. I want it to be honest and provocative and to raise questions. And I want to retain a vulnerability and a child-like curiosity about the cosmos.

In other words, I want my writing to be a blockbuster, laugh 'til you cry, lump-in-your-throat, chart-topping, best-selling epiphany every single time.

I suffer from the delusion that if I just chisel it, whittle it and sandpaper it long enough…that if I rearrange the words and sentences and paragraphs in every possible permutation, I’ll get it right. And that is the death of creativity.

That approach will whip the very life out of any artistic pursuit, and turn it into a scientific endeavor. Instead of dancing like nobody’s watching, I often feel paralyzed by the criticism of the imaginary reader in my head who’s thinking “This is crap!” That voice, of course, is mine. Someone once told me "Fill the balcony in your mind with a standing-room-only crowd of your biggest fans." Why is it that I listen to the handful of jeering hecklers in the cheap seats?

It’s not like I have any shortage of material. Even when I’m not traveling to exotic destinations, I have something to write about every single day. I live in a world that is filled with humor and poignant, mystical moments and lots of joy and plenty of sadness. I am perennially curious, and frequently filled with wonder by things I can’t explain, and skeptical of those who think they can.

When I have an experience I want to recount, a story I want to tell, a feeling I want to convey, I often think in grandiose cinematic terms: a screenplay, complete with storyboard illustrations, lighting diagrams, camera angles and an orchestral soundtrack.

And so I begin to write. Except that I’m not tapping on my computer keys, or putting pen to paper. It’s in my head. And that kind of writing goes nowhere. It's too much trouble for me to actually do it. Or I'm too tired. Or there's not enough time. What!? I've got nothing if not TONS of time right now.

But I want it to be polished…primo…perfect. With just the right amount of alliteration. I’m not talking about grammar or run-on sentences or dangling participles. I want it DO something to the person reading it…whether it’s a eliciting a chuckle, or a sigh, or a memory, or sharing my skewed perspective on things.

And so what it comes down to is what I know already. It’s the dilemma of every artist. If I sit and wait for the muse to grace me with her presence, I might miss dinner. It’s not like Mozart banged out a greatest hit every time he sat down at the piano. And I feel certain that Mr. Van Gogh used up a lot of yellow paint before he before he got those sunflowers just right. In fact, he didn’t sell a single painting while he was alive.

And yet I let my fear of putting anything mundane out there keep me from writing. And perfection can stand in the way of a lot of great art. Someone once said "Art is never completed, just abandoned."

I feel certain that Sir Isaac Newton, the inventor of gravity, would tell you that it’s not every day an apple falls on your head. There’s a lot of hard work and tree shaking and days with no apples.

So even when there’s no tangible payoff, any kind of artistic pursuit has to be a regular discipline. Sitting down at the keyboard...whether it's a computer or a piano, picking up the brush or the camera or the pen. Stepping out on the tight rope and realizing that falling or failing aren't even remote possibilities. I mean...how bad can it really be? If anything, it’s one more lesson in how NOT to do it next time.

And by the way, I've been working on this for about 6 hours and I’m still not happy with it. But I'm gonna walk away. And come back and fiddle with it some more later.

Even when I do not feel like work, I sit down to it just the same. I cannot wait for inspiration, and inspiration at best is a force brought into action by effort.

Igor Stravinsky

Losing Face: Part 2

2011-09-14T11:29:00.000-05:00

Today I behaved like a complete and utter jackass.

Those of you who know me are probably thinking “What else is new?” But in today’s episode I took jackassnosity to a whole new level. If there were Academy Awards for being a jackass, my performance would have garnered me an Oscar in every category.

Because it’s the rainy season here in southeast Asia and I’m tired of getting soaked to the skin, I’ve been searching everywhere for a rain poncho. I've tried on several, and I even purchased one in Thailand, but it never lost that inflatable swimming pool smell, and besides, it was traffic cone orange. Whenever I wore it, I felt like a complete dork...not to mention the fact that I could be seen from weather satellites orbiting the earth. Like Christopher Columbus searching for the New World, finding “El Poncho Perfecto” had become my quest.

About five days ago, I went to a huge market here in Yangon, Burma. There must be at least 500 stalls selling everything from knock-off handbags to fake designer clothes to copies of famous painting to pirated DVD’s of Lady Gaga videos with Burmese subtitles. It is maze-like in its complexity. Even with an iPhone and the Google Earth app, Magellan couldn’t navigate his way through this place.

And then...I found it.

It was a thing of beauty...blue nylon with a sheen like a mallard’s feathers. Reinforced loops at all four corners so that it could be used as a ground cloth. A hood with a drawstring. Heavy duty snaps. And it rolled up easily into a small light-weight pouch. Everything you could want in a poncho and more.

As the angels sang and rainbows filled the skies, I tried to bargain with the shop-keeper. But like an expert poker player who knows he has already won the game, he stuck to his guns and I ended up paying way too much. As much as it rains here, I figured it was a good investment.

The very next day, the heavens opened and a torrential downpour began. Rain was pelting down like buckets of BB’s and the wind was blowing so hard that the deluge was coming down at 45 degrees. I whipped out my handy-dandy poncho, and, like Clark Kent transforming into Superman, felt invincible...and as water-tight as a duck’s you-know-what.

Later that afternoon, when I returned to my guest house and removed my Wonder Poncho, I noticed a strange smell. I sniffed and noticed that the smell was stronger. Turning my waterproof garment inside out, I discovered to my dismay that the entire surface was covered with mildew, which, when activated by my sweat and body heat, smelled like a basement where camping gear has been stored all summer.

I immediately turned on the shower, spread the poncho on the tile floor and began scrubbing it with soap and hot water, but to no avail. It was then I discovered that not only was my poncho a petri dish, but it also had multiple small holes in it.

“Sexual intercourse!” I exclaimed as I scrubbed harder, but the only thing going down the drain was the pride I had felt in my Perfect Poncho. And worse still, I knew it was the only one the store had in stock.

Returning to Yangon a week later, I decided to return the poncho and try to get my money back. I knew from the outset that this was a fool’s errand, but having spent a good sum of money, I decided it couldn’t hurt to ask.

I was mistaken.

Unlike the States, where you can purchase a surround sound home entertainment system and then fill all the empty boxes with rocks and return them for a full refund as long as you have your receipt, such is not the policy here in Asia. “Caveat emptor” is the Lating phrase for “once you’ve bought it, whether you like it or not, you own it.” Buyer beware.

I returned to the market place, feeling like Theseus entering the Labyrinth. But unlike the hero from Greek mythology, I had no beautiful Ariadne waiting for me, and no thread spun from gold to help me retrace my steps.

For about an hour I searched in vain, walking up and down the cramped aisles until my head was spinning. At long last, I passed a stall where I had inquired about raincoats on my previous visit to the market. As I described the shop and the salesman I was looking for, a passerby overheard me and led me straight there.

En route, the wind picked up, blowing over an umbrella covering a food stall. I grabbed a nearby bucket of water and hung it from the bottom of the stand supporting the umbrella. Problem solved. A stranger was doing me a favor, and here was the opportunity to pay it forward.

Putting on my biggest smile, I entered the shop and approached the salesman.

“Hi, I was here the other day and you helped me...I bought a poncho. Do you remember me?”

“Of course!” he said, returning my smile.

“Well, I have a small problem...I wonder if you can help me. The poncho is...”

“...dirty inside?” he responded, finishing my sentence for me.

“Son of a b***h !!” I shouted (inside my head) as my blood pressure went through the roof. I couldn’t believe this joker had ripped me off and then so blatantly tipped his hand!

My head was about to explode, but I kept an even tone of voice. “Yeah...and it’s got a lot of holes in it too.”

“I exchange for you...no problem.”

But it was too late. I knew I’d been had, and he knew it too. Furthermore, he didn’t have another poncho like the one I’d already paid too much for, so I knew he’d offer me one of lesser quality since mine was top of the line and not agree to make up the difference in price. Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.

Blinded by pride and principle, I refused what could have been a quick and simple solution. Discovering that the poncho was defective was one thing, but finding out that this knucklehead had taken me for a ride was another matter entirely. My blood was boiling.

“I have a suggestion” I said, struggling to maintain my composure. “How about I give you your poncho back, and you give me my money back?”

Jerry Seinfeld in his heyday didn’t get the kind of side-splitting guffaws and gales of uncontrollable laughter this elicited from all the salesmen in the shop, several of whom had gathered to eavesdrop on our conversation.

“I’m not leaving here without a refund...or a poncho exactly like this one, but without the mildew and the holes!

The salesman turned and walked away, still chuckling.

“I’m your worst nightmare” I heard myself say, the volume and pitch of my voice rising. “I’m not leaving Yangon for another three days, and I’m gonna camp out here and tell every customer who comes in here what you’ve done”.

“No problem” he retorted. “You stay here three days...three months...three years. No refund.”

I’m not one to make idle threats. In my foolish haste I had brashly announced my ill-conceived plan, and now I had to show I meant business. I sat down on a nearby stool, rolled up the poncho in my lap, and tried unsuccessfully to adopt an attitude of cool detachment.

A few minutes later, a customer walked in. I stood up and approached him.

“Do you speak English?” I inquired.

“Yes.”

“I bought this poncho here, and they sold it to me knowing that it was dirty inside. It’s also full of holes and now they won’t give me my money back. I thought you should know. Be very careful before you buy anything here.”

I smugly returned to my perch, certain that my boldness would do the trick.

“You should check inside of poncho before you buy. No refund.” the salesman admonished, a smirk on his face.

A few minutes later, a group of potential buyers entered the store. Again I approached them, and like the Ancient Mariner, told them my tale of woe. They left the store without purchasing anything, and I was certain this would induce the salesman to rethink his position. Instead, in an angry voice he shouted “You very unlucky man!

Having spent the past several days touring the country with a guide who is a devout Buddhist and who repeatedly spoke about karma and “non-attachment”, I felt my face growing red with embarrassment and shame. But I’d gone to all this trouble and climbed way up here on the skinny branches and now was no time to lose my nerve. Like Davy Crockett at the Alamo, I decided to make a stand.

We all know how that story ended.

Despite having had my epiphany about non-attachment, my hubris fueled my audacity as I began to explain the concept of karma...in a country which is 98% Buddhist! He stared at me blankly as I told him “what goes around comes around.”

“I’m Muslim.”

“Have you noticed that none of your customers are buying anything? So...do you want to give me my money back, or shall I just sit here?

“You have bad mind! You only think one way!” my adversary rejoindered.

Ouch! That hurt. I knew he was right.

To make what should have been a short story even longer, I realized that I was going to spend the rest of my natural born days banging my musty-smelling, poncho-shrouded head against a brick wall, and given the fact that my visa expires in two days, my extended stay would result in ever-mounting fines from the government, followed by imprisonment.

My resolve began to soften.

I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details except to say that at some point I wised up to the fact that I was self-righteously trying to impose my beliefs about what’s right and fair on a guy who fundamentally and categorically wasn’t gonna budge and who had clearly and emphatically told me so from the outset. I left with my tail between my legs and my self-control and dignity smeared all over the floor.

I caught a cab which took me to the wrong address, hiked to a repair shop to be told that it would take 6 weeks and $170.oo to fix my camera and was given incorrect directions to a bookstore only to discover that a guide book for Sri Lanka (my next destination) is not to be had at any price in the city of Yangon. And then I stepped in some chewing gum.

Besides being a complete ass, I had set foreign relations back further than the Bush administration, and to top it all off had wasted quite a bit of what little time I have left in this beautiful country filled with people who have been nothing but friendly, helpful, generous and kind to me.

Except one guy, who taught me a valuable lesson: Look both ways before my karma runs over my dogma.

Footnote: I neglected to mention that I did eventually exchange the Almighty Mildew Holey Poncho for a cheaper one. I wore it for the first time yesterday and apparently it's made of some kind of ultra-suede which not only doesn't repel water, but absorbs it. You get wet slower, but when it's completely soaked it weighs about 5 pounds and I'm guessing will take about a week to dry in this humid climate, by which time it should have a nice coating of mildew.

A Case of Mistaken Identity: Part 3

2011-07-30T04:47:00.000-05:00

Click image to enlarge

I was sifting through some old documents on my computer and ran across this letter. At first I thought that I was the butt of a joke...that one of my friends was trying to "get my goat", but my curiosity was piqued, so I decided to reply and see what happened. Several weeks later I received a very apologetic letter with 2 free passes to the Jack Daniel's distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee.

So...if I ever completely run out of things to do, I'll always have the whiskey and the fainting goats of Tennessee to fall back on.

To read my blogs about other cases of mistaken identity, click the following links:

Part 1

Part 2

Audio Assault

2011-07-26T09:54:00.000-05:00

Seam Reap, Cambodia:  

I was awakened at 6 o'clock this morning by the most god-awful wailing, banging, clanging, screeching, blaring cacophony emanating from the loud-speakers at a nearby temple, and it continued unabated until I left the guest house at 9:30 a.m. When I returned at 3 p.m. it was still going, as was the case when I came back at 7 p.m.

Audio Assault (mp3)

Apparently someone who lives in the neighborhood died last night, and the Buddhist priests have determined that the most auspicious date for his burial is about 4 days from now, so I'll get to enjoy this audio mayhem for another 72 hours.

  Imagine an interminable, ear-splitting, mind-numbing, nausea-inducing extended soundtrack straight from the studios of hell. Or a fight between a tom cat and a bag pipe, combined with the sound a two year old in the throes of a temper tantrum maniacally banging a cowbell while a tone deaf woman screeches at the top of her lungs.   Now turn the volume up to 11 and you'll have some idea of what I have to look forward to. I figure it's a good reason to get up early and get out and get on with my day. Otherwise I'd have to move across town to escape the noise...it's that pervasive.

Apparently there's a cease-fire between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. How it is that the local folks don't seem to mind is beyond my comprehension. Seriously...I’d sign up for water-boarding before this particular type of torture. At least with water-boarding there would be the possibility that it would put me out of my misery.

Why this hasn't been used as a method of torture is curious to me. I would surrender and tell the enemy all my passwords if subjected to this. But instead I'm paying by the day to listen to it...complimentary breakfast included.

Footnote: For additional funereal fun, read my post entitled "A Grave Situation"

Kickin' It Cambodian Style

2011-07-24T21:41:00.000-05:00

I saw these guys on the way back to my guest house the other evening...

Riding Through Cambodia

2011-07-17T02:59:00.000-05:00

rural roads

rising sun

buddhist temple

clanging gong

a nun with shaven head

clad in white

wearing the expression of the sphinx

brown-skinned school children

sleepy-eyed

big smiles

bare feet

bicycles too big

what do they dream of

besides enough to eat?

radios blaring

people call "hello" from their doorstep

or stand and stare

as water buffalo graze

geese honk

roosters crow

and scooters growl

women on their way

to market

faces swathed in scarves

mask them from

the ever present dust and sun

look over their shoulders

smiling shyly with their eyes

muddy puddles

from last night's rain

motorcycles bearing impossible loads

children with no clothes

grandmothers with no teeth

whose eyes have seen

unspeakable tragedy

Blown Away

2011-07-14T01:04:00.000-05:00

I just renewed my visa to stay in Cambodia for another month.

Why? Because I've just been given the most amazing opportunity. After volunteering for a couple of weeks at Anjali House, an organization that works with street kids, I've been asked to mentor two up-and-coming photographers who are part of their young adult program.

Why me? I keep asking myself the same question.

Here's the story: These two talented photographers have been invited to photo-document the work being done by Halo Trust, an organization which has been removing land mines and unexploded bombs here in Cambodia for 20 years. Specifically, they've been asked to capture images of life in the villages where land mines have been cleared.

I keep pinching myself to make sure I'm awake, because the gig is perfect on so many levels:

1. It supports at least three causes I'm passionate about: photography, education and clearing land mines. I can't imagine what a relief it must be for folks who have lived in daily terror for years to feel safe for the first time about cultivating their land and letting their kids go outside to play without having to worry about whether they'll come home in pieces.

2. I'll get to share some of my experience with other photographers who are eager and enthusiastic. And I'll learn a lot more about the "real' Cambodia and hopefully enlarge my 8 word Khmer vocabulary.

3. I'll have the opportunity to see parts of the country I wouldn't get to to otherwise. We'll have several overnight stays, so I'll see life in villages that are unadulterated by tourism, taste local food that hasn't been "westernized", and immerse myself in truly authentic local culture.

The photos will be shown in a big exhibition which will take place in November, and will also hang on the walls in the offices of Halo Trust and be used in their development efforts.

Beyond my wildest dreams, the director of Anjali House has managed to procure to a couple of Macbook Pro laptop computers with Photoshop installed, as well as a couple of zoom lenses, so we ought to be pretty well-equipped for our expedition.

Oh...I forgot to mention...it's the rainy season.

The School of Hard Knocks

2011-07-02T11:20:00.000-05:00

Siem Reap, Cambodia:

My growling stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten dinner. I walked about 10 minutes from my guest house to a sidewalk restaurant that stays open late and ordered a plate of fried rice with pork, a bottle of water and an Angkor beer. A healthy meal that includes all your major food groups for $2.50.

Music was blaring from the bar across the street, and vendors from the various food stalls called out to passersby as tuk-tuk drivers solicited tourists with offers of transportation or drugs or sex...or all three. And there were dozens of street kids, many of them carrying sleeping babies on their hips, approaching travelers like me and asking for money.

Right about then I felt a thud underneath my table, and as I looked down I came face to filthy face with a kid who was foraging for bottle caps. His clothes looked like he'd been working in a coal mine. He consolidated his collection of caps into one fist, put on a pitiful face worthy of an Academy Award, and held out his empty, grubby palm.

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't turn him away like I've done with dozens of other kids in 8 different countries over the past several months. I told him to pull up a chair. He ordered the largest item on the menu, which would have fed a ravenous lumberjack...but the waitress told him he could have a chicken thigh and drumstick. When it arrived, he attacked his plate with the fervor of someone who's just been rescued from a desert island.

His name is Nam Chan and he's six years old. It was close to midnight.

Nam Chan's meal was bigger than his head. He ate what he could, and got a take-out box for the rest, and went on his way. As I walked back to my guesthouse to the accompaniment of "You want tuk tuk? You want motorcycle? You want marijuana? You want massage? You want lady?", I saw Nam Chan in front of a convenience store. He came running up to me, jumped into my arms and said "You buy me milk!?"

The needs of the children in this country would fill a bottomless pit.

I've seen just a glimpse of the "before" and "after" version of these kids. I've spent the last couple of weeks volunteering at Anjali House, an organization which provides education, meals and a healthy environment to kids who would otherwise be roaming the city streets 'til the wee hours, going from bar to restaurant to bar selling souvenirs and flowers to drunk tourists.

Some of the kids ride to and from Anjali House in a tuk tuk, which is not exactly like the bus you rode as a kid. To find out more about the work being done here, and what you can do to help keep these kids off the street, visit www.anjali-house.com

Lucky

2011-06-28T07:56:00.000-05:00

When I arrived here in Siem Reap, Cambodia a couple of weeks ago, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. After ten months of non-stop travel, I felt road-weary and lonesome as hell.

And then I met a guy named Lucky.

He sits on the curb in front of the ice cream shop where I stop each evening, selling books to passersby. Lucky was born with no arms and no legs. He’s a torso with a head. About as minimalist as a human being can be. And one of the most cheerful and upbeat people I’ve ever met.

"What did you say your name was again? Lucky?"

Seriously?

The other night after he finished work, Lucky and I went down the street to have a frosty adult beverage. He didn’t want to sit in his wheelchair, so I lifted him like a 50 lb. sack of cement and placed him on the lawn chair next to me, holding my breath that it wouldn't fold up and swallow him.

He ordered a beer and some food and when the waitress returned she opened a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it. “This should be interesting” I thought. He smoked by taking a puff and then balancing the cigarette on his shoulder. I’m a die-hard non-smoker, but I’ll light cigarettes all night long for a guy like Lucky.

When the food arrived, he asked me to hand him a pair of chopsticks. I thought he was pulling my leg. He gripped them between his chin and shoulder, gestured for me to hand him the plate, then scooped up a big bite and offered it to me. My jaw dropped. This guy can’t feed himself and here he is offering me the first serving. I leaned over, nose-to-nose with my new friend, and gobbled up the heaping helping. Then I took the chopsticks and fed him in between cigarettes.

A couple of pitchers later, we decided to call it a night. Lucky didn’t even pretend to reach for his wallet, so I ended up getting stuck with the tab. As I wheeled him down the bumpy dirt road to the spot outside the now abandoned night market where his brother was going to pick him up, I asked him if he wanted me to wait with him. It was 1 a.m. He was insistent that he’d be fine, and as I turned to walk away it was all I could do not to take him back to my guest house and get him a room. When I saw him the next day, he was as cheerful and chipper as ever, and even used the pointed nub of his left arm to give me an impromptu back massage.

A few days later, I stopped by the ice cream place to get a couple of scoops of rum raisin, and the woman behind the counter asked me how long I was planning to stay. When I told her I’m volunteering at a school for at-risk kids for the next couple of weeks, she got all teary-eyed and said “Thank you for your helping.”

I felt like I had a golf ball stuck in my throat, but I managed to say “You’re welcome” before I turned to ride the bike that’s provided for free by the guest house where I’m staying in air-conditioned comfort in a private room with hot water, a flush toilet, free internet, cable T.V, a double bed with clean sheets every day...and breakfast is included. $15.00 a night, which is more than a guy who sells paperbacks on the sidewalk makes in a week.

I feel pretty lucky.

The Temples of Siem Reap, Cambodia

2011-06-19T11:04:00.000-05:00

Out and About in Ho Chi Minh City

2011-06-05T08:46:00.000-05:00

M.C. Escher Would Be Proud

2011-06-03T21:59:00.000-05:00

I'm a huge fan of M.C. Escher, the Dutch artist whose mind-bending illustrations twist your imagination and turn your perceptions of reality inside out.

I've just arrived in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam and checked into my hotel room on the 4th floor. Climbing 84 stairs is a great cardio workout, and it's the only option, since there's no elevator.

And looking down the narrow stairwell is a vertigo-inducing experience, especially when the bag containing all my earthly possessions is spinning on the end of a cable.

Footnote: This is without a doubt the noisiest place I've stayed in the last 10 months, including Fiji where there was always a rooster and a dog and a crying baby. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night because of the blaring music and traffic noise so I asked to be moved to the back of the hotel away from the street. My punishment...I'm now on the 6th floor. By the time I leave here I'll be ready to summit Mt. Everest.

Born To Be Wild

2011-06-02T18:37:00.000-05:00

Dalat, Vietnam:

Yesterday I rode around on the back of a 125cc, made-in-Taiwan motorcycle with a member of the notorious Easy Rider motorcycle club, a group of guides who provide tours for travelers here in the central highlands of Vietnam. It's a great alternative to being herded around on a tour bus, and I got to see parts of the countryside I'd never have found on my own.

He goes by the name "Mr. Bean", which is so much easier for we foreigners to pronounce than "Nguyen Thanh Binh", his real name, and it sounds close enough. He kept our mighty, gasoline-powered steed out of the pot holes and ditches, and was equal parts historian, sociologist, anthropologist and sit-down comedian.

We'd been riding around all day, enjoying the lush countryside, the sight of farmers watering their fields and people waving hello as we galloped past. My stomach was growling louder than the engine and I was starting to get a little bit saddle-sore by the time we stopped for lunch. Mr. Bean ordered enough food for 6 people. I ate so much I hurt myself.

It had been threatening to rain for a couple of hours, so when the bottom finally fell out of the clouds and the deluge began, we rode in silence as we got wetter and wetter. And then my 51 year old Vietnamese tour guide did the only thing you can do when you're caught in a downpour and you're soaked to the skin and it's a long way home...he started singing at the top of his lungs:

"Get your motor running
Head out on the highway
Looking for adventure
In whatever comes our way

Yeah, darling
Gonna make it happen
Take the world in a love embrace
Fire all of your guns at once and
Explode into space

I like smoke and lightning
Heavy metal thunder
Racing in the wind
And the feeling that I'm under

Yeah, darling
Gonna make it happen
Take the world in a love embrace
Fire all of your guns at once and
Explode into space

Like a true nature child
We were born
Born to be wild
We have climbed so high
Never want to die
Born to be wild"

Click here to listen to the theme song from the 1969 cult classic Easy Rider, starring Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper.

Security

2011-06-02T07:28:00.000-05:00

Click on image to enlarge

Caught in the Act

2011-06-02T07:13:00.000-05:00

Click on image to enlarge

Smile

2011-06-02T06:11:00.000-05:00

Click on image to enlarge

Ancient History

2011-05-31T22:22:00.000-05:00

In ancient times, The Citadel in Hué, Vietnam was a forbidden city where only the emperors, concubines, and those close enough to them were granted access; the punishment for trespassing was death.

I got in for $2 and lived to tell about it.

Become Ninjas

2011-05-29T17:18:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, my brother e-mailed me a document composed by his brother and sister-in-law's daughter, Sydney, who's 11 years old.

Her eclectic and all-encompassing list of "Things to do This Summer" reads as follows:

1.) Lemonade stand

2.) Plays

3.) Visit Zoo = Brookfield Zoo

4.) Have a picnic

5.) Camp in backyard

6.) Make homemade Ice-cream

7.) Funway

8.) BlackBerry farm/Peckfarm

9.) Make up a dance

10.) go to the pool

11.) Have a pillow fight

12.) go to park

13.) go to Luems

14.) sleepover

15.) movie theater

16.) make pizzas

17.) become ninjas

18.) sprinkler

19.) watergun fight

20.) Bake a cake/throw a party

21.)

Sydney is destined for greatness. The city of Sydney, Australia doesn't have a "To Do" list this ambitious.

I gotta go...I need some loftier goals.

You Say You Want a Revolution?

2011-05-14T10:07:00.000-05:00

You just don't see that many statues of Lenin any more. I photographed this one here in Hanoi, Vietnam.

According to Wikipedia, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin (22 April 1870 – 21 January 1924), was a Russian revolutionary, author, lawyer, economic theorist, political philosopher, creator of the Soviet Communist Party, leader of the 1917 October Revolution, and founder of the USSR.

As head of the Bolsheviks, he led the Red Army to victory in the Russian Civil War, before establishing the world's first officially socialist state. As a theorist, his extensive theoretical and philosophical contributions to Marxism produced Leninism. He survived two assassination attempts, worked 14 to 16 hours a day, and his collected writings fill 45 volumes of approximately 650 pages each.

Wikipedia did not mention that Lenin was such a huge fan of skateboarding.

It's Nothing Personal

2011-04-13T11:37:00.000-05:00

%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%3Ca+href%3D%22http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-uyPDAnma9p8%2FTahvKH-4nUI%2FAAAAAAAABDc%2FYXe56CME7tY%2Fs1600%2Fsongkran%252Bpai_9138.jpg%22+onblur%3D%22try+%7Bparent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully%28%29%3B%7D+catch%28e%29+%7B%7D%22%3E%3Cimg+style%3D%22cursor%3Apointer%3B+cursor%3Ahand%3Bwidth%3A+400px%3B+height%3A+335px%3B%22+src%3D%22http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-uyPDAnma9p8%2FTahvKH-4nUI%2FAAAAAAAABDc%2FYXe56CME7tY%2Fs400%2Fsongkran%252Bpai_9138.jpg%22+border%3D%220%22+alt%3D%22%22+id%3D%22BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595844756740021570%22+%2F%3E%3C%2Fa%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3EI+was+just+polishing+off+a+hearty+breakfast+of+two+fried+eggs%2C+hash+browns%2C+bacon%2C+tomatoes%2C+mushrooms%2C+extra+bacon%2C+a+croissant+slathered+in+butter+and+strawberry+jam%2C+a+banana+smoothie+and+a+large+cup+of+strong+coffee+with+milk+and+sugar.++At+night%2C+this+restaurant+morphs+into+a+pool+hall%2Fgay+bar+called+%22Thai+1+On%22.++I+don%27t+think+playing+fast+and+loose+with+one%27s+cholesterol+is+what+the+owners+had+in+mind+when+they+chose+that+name.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3EFrom+my+perch+near+the+sidewalk%2C+I+had+a+panoramic+view+of+this+busy+little+intersection+in+Chiang+Mai%2C+Thailand%2C+which+was+just+beginning+to+rub+the+sleep+out+of+its+eyes+and+come+to+life.++%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EJust+then%2C+a+tourist+rode+by+on+his+bicycle+and+got+completely+soaked+by+a+bucket+of+water+dumped+by+some+kids+on+a+balcony+above+the+restaurant.+%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3EHe+was+irate%21+Pulling+over+to+the+side+of+the+road%2C+he+parked+his+bike%2C+stormed+into+the+restaurant+and+began+berating+the+poor+girl+behind+the+counter%2C+who+clearly+had+nothing+to+do+with+the+saturation.++He+was+really+making+a+scene%E2%80%A6spewing+venom+and+vitriol.++Hell+hath+no+fury+like+a+drenched+Frenchman%21%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3EAfter+finishing+his+diatribe%2C+he+rode+off+in+a+huff%2C+leaving+everyone+in+the+restaurant+looking+at+each+other+in+disbelief.++Because+you%E2%80%99d+have+to+have+to+have+landed+in+Chiang+Mai+via+spaceship+with+duct+tape+over+your+eyes+and+ears+not+to+know+that+tomorrow+is+official+the+kick+off+to+%3Ca+href%3D%22http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FSongkran%22%3ESongkran%3C%2Fa%3E%2C+the+New+Year+celebration+here+in+Thailand.+%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3ESongkran+is+a+water+festival.++And+by+water+festival+I+mean+an+all-out+aquatic+apocalypse.+%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EAnd+Chiang+Mai+is+the+epicenter.%3C%2Fspan%3E+Three+full+days+of+people+soaking+each+other+silly+with+water+pistols%2C+water+guns%2C+water+hoses%2C+buckets+of+water+and+drive-by+drenchings+with+50+gallon+drums+of+ice+water.+Neptune+himself+couldn%27t+have+come+up+with+a+better+way+to+get+people+enthusiastic+about+H2O.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3ELeave+the+dry+sanctuary+of+your+home+at+your+own+risk%2C+because+%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Eyou+are+100%25+guaranteed+to+get+soaked+to+the+skin+within+10+minutes.+It%E2%80%99s+inevitable.+You+can+resist+it.++Try+to+avoid+it.++%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EYou+can+run%2C+but+you+can%27t+hide.+I%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Et%E2%80%99s+gonna+happen.+And+it%E2%80%99s+gonna+happen+to+you.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%3Cdiv%3EAnd+here+in+Chiang+Mai%2C+people+tend+to+get+enthusiastic+and+start+the+festivities+a+day+or+two+early.+Why+not+wear+wet+clothes+for+five+days+instead+of+just+three+since+you%27ve+already+bought+the+equipment%3F+%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3ESongkran+completely+levels+the+playing+field...%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EI%3C%2Fspan%3Et%27s+every+man%2C+woman+and+child+for+themselves.+It%E2%80%99s+all+in+good+fun+and+nobody+gets+upset...except+for+one+poor+guy+who+thought+he+was+the+target+of+a+conspiracy.%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3E%3Cdiv+face%3D%22Georgia%2C+serif%22%3E%3Cspan%3E%3Cspan%3EIt%E2%80%99s+one+thing+to+grasp+the+concept+%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fspan%3Eintellectually+%3Cspan%3E%3Cspan%3Ethat+very+few+people+are+getting+out+of+bed+in+the+morning+plotting+to+screw+up+your+day.+%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fspan%3EBut+it%E2%80%99s+another+thing+entirely+when+you%27re+standing+there+in+a+puddle%2C+dripping+with+indignation+and+embarrassment.%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EDon%E2%80%99t+take+%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Ethings+so+p%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Ee%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Ers%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Eonally%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3E.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%3Cimg+style%3D%22cursor%3Apointer%3B+cursor%3Ahand%3Bwidth%3A+400px%3B+height%3A+300px%3B%22+src%3D%22http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-MLVY8D4HPK0%2FTaWvE9_ooTI%2FAAAAAAAABCs%2F9FoGVfZq1FM%2Fs400%2Fbuckets_9052.jpg%22+border%3D%220%22+alt%3D%22%22+id%3D%22BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595070611973513522%22+%2F%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3ESpeaking+of+which%2C+when+I+arrived+here+two+%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Eweeks+ago%2C+I+naively+thought+I+could+stay+as+long+as+I+liked.++It+didn%E2%80%99t+occur+to+me+that+people+book+hotel+rooms+for+Songkran+a+year+in+advance.++So+yesterday+the+desk+clerk+informed+me+I%E2%80%99d+need+to+make+other+arrangements.++I+wandered+over+to+the+guest+house+next+door+to+see+if+they+had+rooms+available+for+the+next+three+days%2C+and+to+my+pleasan%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Et+surprise%2C+they+did.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3ESo+when+I+checked+out+this+morning+and+trundled+my+gear+the+few+yards+across+the+parking+lot+to+the+reception+desk+next+door%2C+I+was+dismayed+to+find+that+they+had+no+rooms+available.++I+hadn%27t+made+a+reservation.+How+many+ways+can+you+spell+%22stoopid%22%3F%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%0D%0A%3k6# o uk" z +~! Le 1,? ^z W.('ont-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EI+hadn%27t+had+a+wink+of+sleep+the+night+before.++The+rowdies+downstairs%2C+who+were+drinking+something+besides+water%2C+decided+to+continue+the+festivities+into+the+wee+hours.+Tired%2C+irritable+and+annoyed+with+myself%2C+I+hoisted+my+backpack+onto+my+shoulders+and+began+trudging+down+the+narrow+lane+lined+with+guest+houses.+All+of+them+fully+booked.++%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3ETo+my+growing+dismay+it+occurred+to+me+that+I+was+essenti%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3Eally+looking+for+a+hotel+room+in+New+Orleans+during+Mardi+Gras.+%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3EIt+started+to+rain.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EJust+then%2C+a+kid+shot+me+in+the+chest+with+a+water+pistol.++Followed+immediately+by+his+little+sister+who+drenched+me+with+a+tub+of+water.++Just+as+I+rounded+the+corner%2C+a+tourist+blasted+me+with+a+Super+Soaker%C2%AE+and+after+a+couple+more+steps+somebody+doused+me+with+ice+cold+water+from+an+upstairs+window.++I+was+drenched.+%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EWelcome+to+Songkran.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3EI+did+eventually+manage+to+find+a+room.+No+AC%2C+no+toilet+paper%2C+and+a+mattress+as+thick+and+cushiony+as+the+sheet+of+plywood+it%27s+resting+on.++But+it+beats+the+hell+out+of+sleeping+on+a+park+bench+in+the+rain+as+cackling+passersby+throw+buckets+of+water+on+you.++It%E2%80%99s+nice+and+quiet+and+the+hum+of+the+fan+combined+with+the+sound+of+the+rain+outside+is++quite+soothing.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3EI+think+I%E2%80%99ll+lie+down+and+collect+my+thoughts+and+remind+myself+not+to+take+all+this+personally.+A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3End+maybe+take+a+nap.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3ENope...a+baby+just+started+screaming.%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3Bfont-family%3Aarial%3B%22+%3E%0D%0A%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22++style%3D%22font-family%3Aarial%3B%22%3E%3Cspan+class%3D%22Apple-style-span%22+style%3D%22+%3B%22%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3Cimg+style%3D%22cursor%3Apointer%3B+cursor%3Ahand%3Bwidth%3A+400px%3B+height%3A+300px%3B%22+src%3D%22http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-ZJ0GHmmz_Bs%2FTaWvEljDHcI%2FAAAAAAAABCk%2F1lx72UZHGcs%2Fs400%2Fbucket%252Bof%252Bwater_9072.jpg%22+border%3D%220%22+alt%3D%22%22+id%3D%22BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595070605411163586%22+%2F%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3Cdiv%3E%3Cp+class%3D%22MsoNormal%22%3E%3C%2Fp%3E++%3C%21--EndFragment--%3E+++%3C%2Fdiv%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E

The Bodhisattva

2011-03-30T03:13:00.000-05:00

A bodhisattva is anyone who is motivated by compassion and seeks enlightenment not only for themselves but also for others.

The bodhisattva I met today was a 28 year old Indonesian guy named Made (pronounced MAH-day). Skinny as a piece of bamboo and good-looking in that wiry, St. Francis of Assisi, "I sure could use a cheeseburger" sort of way that's so en vogue amongst the spiritually enlightened, he was sitting under a tree reading a book.

I immediately thought of the story of Buddha, who achieved enlightenment while fasting and meditating for 49 days beneath a bodhi tree. But judging from the statues I’ve seen, Buddha, like Elvis, must have eaten more than a few peanut butter and banana sammiches in his later years.

I stopped to ask him directions to a scuba dive shop I was looking for, and we struck up a conversation. After asking my name, he inquired where I was from, and when I told him America, his expression grew serious and he stroked the six wispy hairs on his chin.

“May I ask you one question?”

“Of course!” I said as I sat down next to him and crossed my legs, wondering what this grave matter might be.

“Is Canada in America?”

I tried to explain as concisely as possible that both the United States and Canada share a continent called North America, but that when people say “America” they’re usually referring to the country and not the continent…and that Canada is a separate country altogether. I didn’t mention that Canadians are much less likely to be loud and obnoxious or involved in a conflict than Americans. Unless you're playing ice hockey. Think about it…how many Canadians have you met that you didn’t like?

I asked why he was curious about America’s neighbor to the north. He told me he was moving to Canada to work.

“What kind of work?” I inquired.

“Hard work.”

As it turns out, Made, who doesn’t weigh as much as an axe handle, is moving to the Great White North to work in the timber industry. I just couldn’t picture him exchanging his T-shirt, flip flops and tropical surroundings for a flannel shirt, wool cap and goose bumps. Not to mention wielding a chainsaw.

I asked him the name of the book he was reading. The English translation was “Sadness, Happiness and Silence.” The passage he was reading explained the notion that sadness is like taking vitamins. Encountering situations which upset us can actually strengthen our spiritual “immune system.”

I confided in Made I was having some really big challenges with the person I was traveling with at the moment. We’d only been together about a week and had already had several clashes and conflicts.

He asked me if my goal or intention for the relationship was clear before she joined me here in Bali. I admitted that I hadn’t given it a lot of thought.

“Your mistake” was Made’s succinct response.

“But she's pushing ALL my buttons!”

“Those are your attachments” said Made, the truth of his observation whacking me in the forehead with the force of a wooden kitchen spoon. “If you feel happy or sad because of another person,” Made went on to explain, “then your happiness resides outside yourself, and you are dependent upon that person for your sense of well-being.”

Amen, brother.

Just then, another guy came walking down the sidewalk. He was muscular, covered in tribal tattoos and sporting a gold necklace and bracelets, a New York Yankees baseball cap and pink tinted Ray Ban aviator sunglasses. A hipster.

He spoke a few words to Made in Balinese, then sat down next to us.

“Are you guys friends?” I asked.

“All Balinese are friends!” he grinned.

I appreciated the sentiment, and it fit in nicely with the conversation Made and I were having. But I could feel the peace and quiet connection I felt slipping away as this uninvited third wheel barged in on our conversation.

“My name’s John” I said, extending my hand. “What’s yours?”

“Made” he replied as he crushed my hand with his vise-like grip. “I work at dive shop. You like scuba dive? I make you special price.” Made #2 insisted I come with him to the dive shop immediately. Eager for him to leave, I politely declined, telling him that I was enjoying my conversation with Made #1 and that I’d meet him at the dive shop shortly.

He stayed.

And he pulled out a brochure and began describing the various dive packages. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Here was a guy who was the complete opposite of Made #1 in his appearance and demeanor. A mirror image. With all the subtlety of a railroad spike, reality burst my little bubble of contentment.

Made #1 told me about a meditation class he’d been attending at a Buddhist monastery and invited me to accompany him. I took down his number, told him I’d call him and walked the rest of the way down the beach with Made #2.

When I returned a few minutes later, the bodhisattva was gone. I wondered if I'd dreamt the entire thing. As soon as I got back to my hotel I told my travel companion about my encounter with this mystical being.

“We should totally go to the meditation thing tonight!” she exclaimed. Gritting my teeth at the prospect of having to share my new found friend, I called Made and arranged a time for the three of us to meet.

As 6:30 rolled around, my pesky expectations and attachments came bubbling up again. I heard myself asking my friend if she would mind dressing more modestly since we were going to a monastery. I feared that people would be offended by her sexy short shorts and tank top, and that I would be guilty by association. And as I offered my unsolicited advice about her wardrobe, she informed me that she had already planned to change clothes. Busted.

We went down to the street and waited. And waited. After half an hour, I left a note at the front desk in case he showed up, and we went to dinner. No meditation. No monastery. Just me and my maddening thoughts. And my friend, who, despite my resistance, was proving to be every bit as much a teacher as the bodhisattva. It dawned on me that her perennial enthusiasm, joyfulness, open-mindedness, sense of humor and free spirit were exactly the traits I aspire to.

Made told me some other things during our brief encounter that afternoon....that his girlfriend was pregnant and had left her family so they wouldn’t find out. That he didn’t love her and didn’t want to marry her. That he was going half way around the world and wasn’t sure he could support her and the baby because he wanted to send money to his own family who were very poor.

And after agreeing to meet me, he stood me up.

Turns out bodhisattvas are humans too...just like the rest of us.

Soggy Footprints

2011-03-11T01:51:00.000-06:00

Try finding a new pair of shoes in S.E. Asia, where even circus clowns wear nothing larger than a size 9.

I wear a size 12, so unless I’m willing to curl my toes under my feet and walk with crutches, finding a new pair of shoes is like the quest for the Holy Grail. I went to 15 stores and finally found a pair that fit. Four days later I got caught in a rainstorm and they were completely soaked.

Stepping in a puddle and getting your shoes and socks wet is no big deal. You simply leave them in the sun until they dry out. Problem solved.

But traveling with wet shoes is an entirely different matter. Particularly if you’re in a climate where the humidity is 150% and your only other choice of footwear is a pair of flip flops with all the tread worn off.

All the option are pretty undesirable:

1. Sliding and stumbling around in your flip flops and (embarrassing and dangerous)

2. Wearing your wet shoes and contracting trench foot (painful and hard to cure if you're always wearing wet shoes)

3. Keeping your shoes in a plastic bag where they quickly mildew and/or begin to stink to high heaven. The inside of your backpack becomes a petri dish, teeming with primordial life and pterodactyl eggs.

I couldn’t leave my brand new, soaking wet shoes outside to dry, because here in Indonesia, there’s likely to be a torrential downpour at any minute. Plus, hotel managers tend not to like it when you leave a pair of soaking wet size 12 Nikes outside your door for all the other hotel guests to trip over. And I was leaving the next day

I managed to get my shoes to dry to a semi-soggy state, and at each of my subsequent destinations, would immediately unpack them so they could dry further. In the meantime I skated and slid around in my flip flops, providing lots of entertainment to passersby and collecting a number of self-inflicted injuries in the process. Finally, after 10 days, my shoes were dry again.

Just in the nick of time, because the next day's itinerary included a hike up a treacherous rocky path up to the rim of a sulphur spewing volcanic crater. Slippery flip flops were not an option. The alarm clock went off a 3:30 a.m., and I donned my now dry Nikes for our 4 a.m. departure. The hike went smoothly and I was thankful to have reliable, comfortable footwear when ascending a trail that would have given a mountain goat second thoughts.

No shower, no sleep and 36 hours on a bus later, I disembarked late at night in heavy traffic in a semi-catatonic state. I hailed a cab and made it to a hotel without further incident. I was delighted to find that they had a clean room with a queen size bed and a hot shower available. As I left the brightly lit reception area to cross the pitch dark expanse to my room, I stepped into ankle deep water, completely drenching my shoes.

I sloshed my way to higher ground, and in the dark took one step up onto a moss covered, rain-soaked concrete surface. Had there been a security camera, it would have shown me in mid-air, parallel with the ground, wide-eyed, flailing like a penguin attempting to fly.

Immediately following this would be a scene of me lying face down in the mud, all of the meat from both shins shaved off like thinly sliced sashimi, my backpack crushing my spine, and my glasses lying just out of arm’s reach, accompanied by the sound of me groaning in agony. And then the sound of maniacal laughter as I replayed in my mind what had just happened.

It is inconceivable to me that no one heard the unmistakable sound of a human body sustaining a bone-crushing fall onto a concrete surface, nor the agonized sounds emanating from a mortally wounded, beaten and battered, sleep-deprived, delirious traveler...but nobody came to see what all the commotion was about.

Alone in the dark I crawled around on all fours until I found my glasses, stood up and staggered the rest of the way to my room where I showered, liberally applied anti-biotic ointment to my shins, and left my shoes out to dry. Again.

Six Month Milestone

2011-02-21T05:33:00.000-06:00

I've been traveling full time for six months now. Here are a few of my thoughts so far:

• I believe that happy “accidents” occur by putting yourself out there, by taking risks, by not having expectations about how things will turn out. I've experienced this principle way too many times to think of these incidents as accidents. I expect them.

• There are few things as delicious as a good cup of coffee. Or worse than a bad a cup of coffee.

• I don't need much to get by. All of my earthly possessions fit into two bags. And I'm still getting rid of stuff.

• It's fun to wake up not knowing what city I’ll be in that night.

• The public restrooms in New Zealand are clean. I mean clean enough to invite someone over for dinner.

• Cold drinks are over-rated. Except when it comes to beer.

• I have a new appreciation for good water pressure.

• It actually is a small world after all...I met a guy on a remote island in Fiji and subsequently bumped into him more than 100o miles away at a museum in Wellington, New Zealand.

• I can't believe I've driven 10,000 miles on the other side of the road without being involved in an accident or getting a speeding ticket.

• I can eat just about anything. And enjoy it. Except beets. But I already knew that.

• I have a REALLY bad sense of direction. But I've had lots of unexpected adventures by getting lost.

• Humor transcends all barriers of language, culture or ideology.

• Not everyone is a fan of The United States of America. In fact, a lot of people aren’t.

• It is truly humbling and sometimes downright embarrassing to witness my fellow travelers' proficiency in multiple languages.

• I thoroughly enjoy having my ideas and beliefs expanded by someone who holds a different point of view.

• A bunch of expensive, heavy camera gear doesn't make me a better photographer. I've gotten rid of all the equipment I brought with me and I'm using only a pocket-sized point-and-shoot.

• I'm surprised and inspired by how concerned many of my fellow travelers are about the environment and conserving resources. There’s an entire section of the Lonely Planet Guide devoted to “green” travel.

• I want to maintain a child’s eye view. Playful, inventive, creative, open to all possibilities. In the past 6 months I’ve seen more physical beauty than one person can absorb in a lifetime. But I hope I’ll always be awestruck by a spectacular sunset, a thundering waterfall, or a night sky in the middle of nowhere filled with constellations I’ll never be able to identify.

• I've met very few people my age who are insane enough to sell everything they own and travel the world and who have no Plan B. Or Plan A.

• With all due respect to my travel companions and room-mates along the way, I REALLY like having my own room. Paying more per night beats the hell out of participating in a snore-fest/body odor buffet/sleep-deprivation experiment.

• My goal is to live in the moment, to suck the juice out of every experience, to live courageously and compassionately...and to embrace randomness and all its surprises.

• No matter how early you get up or how remote your destination, the Germans are already there.

• I’m not on a quest. I’m not trying to “find myself”...or "enlightenment". I’m not looking for anything. OK, maybe I’m looking for the perfect, pristine beach with turquoise water and a single, solitary hut with nothing else around except for another hut where delicious meals and cold beer are served. By an exotic woman wearing a sarong. Is that too much to ask?

A Case of Mistaken Identity: Part Two

2011-02-16T08:34:00.000-06:00

A couple of years ago, I went on a date with a lovely woman named Heather. She was bright, charming, funny and attractive…and most importantly she had a kind heart. I met Heather through a mutual friend, and when I bumped into her a few days later, quite by accident, I asked her out.

We went to dinner at one of my favorite Thai restaurants. The conversation flowed easily and she seemed comfortable in her own skin. We had a similar point of view on lots of things and she made me laugh. I had a great time, and as the evening drew to a close, I knew I wanted to see Heather again.

When I got home from work the following night, there was a letter in my mailbox. The envelope was green, and the handwriting unmistakably feminine…but there was no return address, so I couldn’t guess who the sender was. I opened it to find a card with an illustration of a kitty cat in a bathtub and lots of pink flowers and seahorses and bottles of perfume on the shelf above the sink. The kind of card that a seven year old girl might send out as a birthday party invitation. I was intrigued to say the least.

I opened the card and read the inscription:

“Dear John:

Thanks for a lovely and delicious evening. Hope your shoot went well.”

Followed by a hurriedly written signature which contained a capital “H”, and a “t”, and possibly and “e” and an “r”.

My first thought was...“Heather”.

My next thoughts went something like this:

1. She used the words “delicious” and “wonderful”. Sounds like she had a good time!

2. A thank you note? That seems kinda formal and uptight. I don’t know her well, but that doesn’t seem like the Heather I went out with the previous night. What was that joke that made the rounds when I was in college? Oh yeah…”Why don’t sorority girls go to orgies? Too many thank you notes afterwards.”

3. This card doesn’t look like one that a 40 something year old woman would pick out. Unless she’s using her 12 year old daughter’s stationery. Not possible…even a 12 year old girl would be embarrassed to use this stationery.

4. Whether she purchased the card or borrowed it from her daughter, she probably has a house full of wicker wreaths, sickly-sweet smelling potpourri, floral scented candles, “Precious Memories” dolls, stuffed animals and figurines of unicorns and more than one cat. Yikes!

5. Wait a second…How could she mail a letter after 11 p.m last night and have it arrive on my doorstep the following day? Even if a member of her immediate family is a postal worker that would be tough to pull off.

6. What other woman named Heather would have sent me a thank you card for a wonderful and delicious evening? I’d been out of the country for a month and had just returned a few days earlier. Whoever it was was very tardy in sending me a thank you note. How rude!

7. Who else have I been to dinner with in the last few days?

8. Who do I know that would use such girly stationery?

9. Bingo! My next door neighbor…whose name is Hunter!

Hunter had very kindly agreed to keep an eye on my place and water my plants while I was gone, so when I returned I took him out to dinner to thank him and to catch up. As soon as I figured out that the card was from him, and not Heather, I e-mailed him immediately, and within minutes I could hear him next door howling with laughter.

Heather got a kick out of the story as well, and we did have several more dates, despite the fact that she has multiple cats.

Footnote: To read about another case of mistaken identity, click here

A Case of Mistaken Identity

2011-02-09T05:15:00.000-06:00

As I stepped off the plane onto the tarmac in Alice Springs, an insignificant dot on the map in the middle of the desert in the middle of the outback in the middle of Australia, the first thing I noticed was the heat. Blinding, knee-buckling, stifling heat. After the cool breezes in Melbourne, the weather in this tiny outpost in the middle of nowhere hit me like a punch in the face.

Before leaving on my round-the-world odyssey, I had carefully researched an infinite number of luggage options. I envisioned a magical mystery bag of unlimited capacity, with wheels and a handle, light-weight and ruggedly constructed and which, in the blink of an eye, could morph into a backpack.

A tall order for sure…like something on Edmund Hillary's wish list...but I found exactly what I was looking for in the Osprey Sojourn. Futuristic, sleek, water resistant, with a capacity of 80 liters and equipped with all-terrain in-line skate wheels…it is truly a design marvel and a thing of beauty. AND, it comes with an almighty, lifetime guarantee. Intellectually, I know it’s just an inanimate object, but my feelings for the Osprey Sojourn approach the love I feel for my iPhone.

In all my travels, I’ve never seen another one like it. In the movie in my head, as Journey plays "Highway run..into the midnight sun...wheels go round and round...you're on my mind...restless hearts sleep alone tonight", I am certain that I am the envy of every other traveler.

I hurried to the baggage carousel just in time to hear the angel chorus singing as my Osprey emerged from behind the clear plastic curtain, and before a mob of adoring admirers could rush forward to touch it, I proudly grabbed my one-of-a-kind, badass backpack and feigned nonchalance as I walked towards the airport shuttle bus.

A few minutes later, a German woman who was as steamed as an over-heated Volkswagen boarded the bus and wanted to know who had taken her bag. Knowing that mine was the only one in existence, I paid little attention as she grew more and more irate.

Suddenly it occurred to me that in order to remain profitable, the Osprey company would probably have to manufacture more than just one bag, and as the realization penetrated the mind-numbing heat inside the bus, I asked her what her bag looked like.

Turns out it was identical to mine...well, black instead of brown. And with a bright red luggage tag. Unmistakably hers. I apologized profusely and jumped from my seat, leaving my carry-on bag behind, and ran inside the terminal to find the baggage carousel completely empty. My heart sank. Not only had all of my earthly possessions disappeared, but more importantly, I had lost my Osprey.

Like Kwai Chang Caine, I was doomed to wander the earth with nothing but a cloth satchel and a wooden flute. And I don't play the flute.

All the airport employees had vanished as if squirted out of the universe like watermelon seeds. I sprinted down to the far end of the terminal to the airline counter. Nobody home. By now I was really beginning to panic, because I thought my bag had either been stolen, or locked away in the lost luggage room by someone who was nowhere to be found, and I had left my other bag on the bus without telling the driver, and any minute it would leave without me.

Just then I turned to see my bag on the carousel, disappearing through the rubber flaps back out to the loading area. I sprinted down the length of the terminal again, and like an Olmypic hurdler, leapt onto the center of the carousel, barely catching the tip of my shoe, but regaining my balance in time to narrowly avert a face plant when I landed on on the other side. My Sojourn had returned.

When I finally made it back to the bus, breathless and sweaty, my other bag was still in the aisle, and I plopped down next to a guy who was reading a book entitled Theological Aesthetics After Von Balthasar. And I thought the Osprey Sojourn was one of a kind!

As luck would have it, the still infuriated German girl was also on the bus, and gave me the stink-eye through her über-hip, expensive glasses. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and give her a hang-dog look, certain that I had set back relations between our respective countries to about 1944. I made it to my hostel without further incident, where I was met by Rosco, an ebullient fellow who loaned me a rusty bike from the era when Australia was still a penal colony.

As I rode around, I heard the strains of “Sweet Baby James” coming from a cobble stone street, and being die hard James Taylor fan, I followed the sound to a hole in the wall restaurant...where a blind guy was sitting in a chair on the sidewalk playing the guitar. I knew this was the place for me. While I waited for my lunch order to arrive, I went over and introduced myself and we had a nice chat. It wasn't until I got back to my room that I realized I had asked him if anyone had ever told him he sounded like José Feliciano...which he did! But that's like telling a really smart person in a motorized wheelchair that they remind you of Stephen Hawking.

Note to self: Open your eyes. And think before speaking, genius!

Top 20 Favorite Aussie Colloquialisms

2011-02-08T04:30:00.000-06:00

1. G’day: hello; howdy; greetings

2. How ya goin'?: how are you?

3. Bob’s your uncle: there you have it; that’s that.

4. Off like a bucket of prawns in the Alice: used to describe food that is spoiled, as if it has been sitting out in the hot sun in Alice Springs, a town in the middle of the desert

5. Slow as a wet week/wick: interminable; boring

6. Done like a dog’s dinner: finished; completed

7. Skull: to drink a beer really fast

8. Long drop dunny: outhouse

9. Esky: cooler; ice chest

10. Arvo: afternoon

11. Tinny: can of beer or an aluminum boat (depending on the context)

12. Wingeing Poms (pronounced WIN-jing): the English, who are universally regarded by Australians as whiners and complainers

13. Flash: upscale; top notch; fancy

14. Wheelie bin: large outdoor trash can which can be rolled to the curb.

15. Schooner: A glass containing 500 milliliters of beer

16. Tucker: food

17. Togs: swimsuit

18. Bugger off: an expression of annoyance e.g. get lost; take a hike

19. Pash: kiss

20. Any word abbreviated by adding “y” or “ie”: brekky (breakfast), Chrissie prezzies (Christmas presents), sunnies (sunglasses) mozzies (mosquitos)

An example (with sincere apologies to my Australian friends):

G’day Johno. How you goin? I’ve just bought a flash new tinny, mate and I’m gonna take it out on the lake this arvo. Be sure to bring your sunnies, your togs and an esky, mate. But leave that potato salad from last week behind, it’s off like a bucket of prawns in the Alice, so chuck it in the wheelie bin. It’ll be slow as a wet week if we don’t catch any fish, but we can always skull a few tinnies, mate. Be sure to use the toilet before you show up, because the long drop dunnies are smelly and I don't want to listen to you wingeing like a Pom. And the mozzies are brutal...bring some insect repellant so they’ll bugger off. Afterwards, we’ll head to the pub for some tucker and a few schooners…there’s a waitress there I’d like to pash.

This explanation of Aussie slang is done like a dog’s dinner. Bob’s your uncle.

Speaking of colloquialisms, here's a video I shot of the 2 bus drivers who took us on a tour of Uluru a.k.a. Ayers Rock, then cooked dinner for the entire group afterwards:

Lost and Found

2010-11-27T08:08:00.000-06:00

Baseball player Yogi Berra, the maestro of misquotes and muddled thinking once said “If you don’t know where you’re going, you might not get there.”

I have a terrible sense of direction. It’s embarrassing. I’ve been lost in parking lots, department stores and hotels. I can get lost in a crowd of two. I’m an avid scuba diver with more than 100 dives under my belt, but I’m always completely astounded when the dive master guides us effortlessly back to the boat. Left to my own devices, I wouldn’t be able to navigate my way around a city block in Atlantis. Kind of ironic for a guy who’s traveling the world, don’tcha think?

I was in downtown Christchurch, New Zealand, and because of all the street closings as a result of September’s big earthquake, I had to park some distance from my destination. Because I’ve had so many experiences getting helplessly, hopelessly lost, I had recently downloaded a really cool app to my iPhone made by TomTom which includes every street and alley in the entire country of New Zealand, as well as a GPS device.

I typed in “Christchurch Art Center”, and magically the directions popped up on the screen, including a little blue arrow indicating where I was. I’m a guy who is still amazed by a fax machine, so this technology is nothing sort of magic to me. In my excitement, I failed to take note of any of my surroundings, including the fact that I was parked next to a meter with a maximum time of one hour.

I dutifully followed the directions on my screen, and was so immersed in doing so, that by the time I arrived at the museum, I realized that while en route I had not been watching for any recognizable landmarks or committing any of the street names to memory. Not only that, but I had failed to mark the position of my car on the screen, so I had no way to retrace my steps. And I was absolutely clueless as to where I had parked my car.

This fact was in the forefront of my mind as I toured the exhibit, and kept nagging at me as I wondered how I’d find my way back to my car through the busy downtown city center. One of the sculptures in the exhibit was a self-portrait of the artist, about 20 times life size, and as I walked around behind the face, the head was completely empty. How fitting.

When I left the museum, I feebly retraced my steps as far as I was able. By the time I got to the general vicinity where I had parked (and by “vicinity”, I mean an area measuring approximately 1 square mile) I had absolutely no effing clue as to where my vehicle might be. I imagined myself calling the car rental company and saying “I’ve lost your car somewhere in downtown Christchurch, and I have absolutely no idea where it is. How much does it cost to rent the car for the rest of my life?”

Whenever I feel that level of panic start to rise, I take a deep breath and try to convince myself that I have no evidence to support the premise that things don’t work out. One way or another, they always do. And there’s usually a lesson to be learned and/or a funny story to tell afterwards. So I pictured myself finding my car…or not, and laughing about it later.

Suddenly it dawned on me that on my way to the Art Center, I had momentarily stopped into a store in search of a watch band. What was the name of that store? Something exotic and far away. Kinda like my car.

Kathmandu! Yeah, that was the name of the store…Kathmandu! And I had about as much chance of finding it as Timbuktu. I stopped a passerby and asked him if he knew where the store was located, and he pointed me in the right direction (which I had passed a few blocks back), but when I got there, nothing looked familiar. I wasn’t even sure it was the right Kathmandu.

So I decided to try Zen navigation, which I invented on the spot. I also invented Zen Portuguese, Zen Caricature Drawing and Zen Limbo. In each case, you simply pretend you know how to do the task at hand, and as if by magic, you can! This method is unreliable at best, and works much better when you’re relaxed and in a party atmosphere, instead of standing on a street corner in an unfamiliar city, hyper-ventilating and wondering how many hours of daylight you have left.

I walked straight to my car, which had been parked in a metered spot for 3 hours and had not been ticketed. On the up side, getting lost is a great way to get plenty of exercise, fill your bloodstream with adrenaline, meet new people and explore the unexpected!

Footnote: A couple of days later I was hiking in a fairly remote area with a guy I had met at the guest house where I was staying. We were in an overgrown creek bed, the daylight was beginning to fade, and neither of us had any idea where the trail was. Thankfully he was the German equivalent of an Eagle Scout, and managed to get us back on track. But not before he said to me “You don’t have a very good sense of direction do you?”

Nope...I don’t. But I’m good at other stuff.

Top 10 Unusual Amenities

2010-11-26T06:42:00.000-06:00

The following is a partial list of unusual amenities I've run across in the various places I've stayed during the last 3 months:

1. A coin-operated air conditioner. $1 bought you 3 hours of cold air. Which was about the length of time it took to get the room below oven temperature. At midnight I put in $2 and used my sweat as an alarm clock.

2. A room that had the fragrance of pine-scented disinfectant and cat urine. Try as I might, I never did get used to it.

3. Air conditioners that make as much noise as an idling tractor.

4. Rooms with no windows. And rooms with windows but no glass or screens.

5. Rooms which, during a rain storm, sound like a fire-cracker factory because of all the debris falling on the tin roof.

6. Towels that smelled like they’d been used to wrap a corpse. When I requested clean towels, the new ones smelled like they’d been used to wrap a corpse that had been buried for 3 years and then exhumed.

7. Pillow cases with fresh blood stains on them.

8. A room with a nest of highly venomous sea snakes under it. I almost stepped on one about 3 feet long one night.

9. The room with sea snakes under it had a door that wouldn’t close. Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep.

10. Showers that worked only occasionally, with no predictable pattern or schedule. Showers that produced only a trickle of cold, rusty water. Showers with so much mildew growing in them that they looked like a biology experiment gone waaaay wrong. Showers where you had to bathe in the dark while standing ankle deep in stagnant water. No shower at all…so I bathed where everyone else did...in the river where the drinking water came from.

The Village People

2010-09-24T07:08:00.000-05:00

Panting and perspiring, I entered the hamlet of Navunimono (try saying that 3 times fast!) where I was immediately ushered into a large hut, and after hasty introductions to my friend Kelera’s family, her father showed me into the main room. In the dim light, six or seven silhouetted figures were sitting cross-legged on the floor.

I was introduced to the village Chief and the other men, most of whom had Biblical names. The only problem was that by the end of the night, as more and more of the men from the village joined us, there were several Johns, Josephs, Joshuas, Isaiahs, Isaacs, and a couple of Matthews thrown in for maximum confusion.

Everyone was gathered around a large shallow bowl with four legs which contained a murky yellowish brown liquid. It became immediately apparent that I had unwittingly interrupted happy hour, except that the beverage being consumed was kava, which looks like something you wouldn't wanna step in and tastes worse.

Kava, (or "grog" as it is often referred to for reasons that will soon become apparent) is a mild sedative made from the powdered root of the yaqona plant mixed with water. I naively thought we were just a bunch of guys hanging out on a Saturday night, so I was surprised at how many rules, regulations and rituals had to be strictly observed and adhered to. It was more complicated than quantum physics.

The drill consists of one of the younger men (in this case a guy named Sela who had a permanent grin on his face and kept repeating my name at five minute intervals) pouring the liquid from the bowl into half a coconut shell which is passed in a specific order to one of the men in the circle who then gulps it down. Or in my case, holds his breath and tries to suppress his gag reflex so as not to spoil the fun by puking. It’s so hard to clean vomit out of those floor mats woven from palm leaves.

Seriously, there is nothing to recommend drinking kava, unless your idea of fun is sitting cross-legged on a hard floor for eight hours straight with no food, ingesting a foul tasting liquid that makes your tongue and fingertips go numb while trying to remember the names of all the apostles gathered around you, much less your own name. These guys could make Gandhi beg for mercy if there were a “Sitting in Lotus Position” contest. Two weeks later I still have scabs on the outsides of my feet because every time I tried to straighten my legs for some relief I received a stern reprimand from the guy sitting next to me.

My other gaffes included forgetting the Chief’s name, touching the Chief on the arm, turning my back to the Chief, forgetting the name of the village, not stooping and saying the Fijian word for “excuse me” when getting up to go to the bathroom, forgetting to say the word "Bula!"every time it was my turn to choke down a bowl of kava, and forgetting to clap three times after each drink...and reaching for the coconut shell out of turn.

Around midnight, when I could hardly stay awake and we were just about out of goofy juice, I made a desperate attempt to make up for my faux pas by pulling out the 2 lb. bag of kava I had brought with me. It was like Christmas morning. After 7 hours of strictly enforced good times and manly bonding, the musical instruments came out, and the REALLY good times began. I felt like I was being help captive in a Woody Allen movie with Fijian subtitles.

I must say, given the amount of grog these guys consumed (I threw in the towel after about 10 bowls) they could still carry a tune, sing harmony and play some mean ukelele. Finally, my host made an announcement in Fijian that I’m pretty sure amounted to “You guys don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here, ‘cause if the gringo doesn’t die from amoebic dysentery from the kava, we’ll have to use the Jaws of Life to get his legs unfolded. Besides, you guys do this every night anyway.” I finally went to bed about 2:30 a.m. despite my protests that the grandmother should not have to sleep curled up in the fetal position on the couch.

The rooster alarm started going off about 5:30 a.m., and after helping my host feed the pigs and then bathing in the river with the other guys, since it was Sunday, I donned my spiffy new sulu and bula (picture Pee Wee Herman in a black skirt and Hawaiian shirt) and headed down the path to the Methodist church.

The drums announcing the beginning of the service started pounding at 10 a.m., but folks drifted in ‘til about 10:30, by which point the inside of the church was hot enough to cook a chicken, and the sweat was dripping off the end of my nose.

The congregation was segregated….men on the left, women on the right, and children in the front. They should have just put the kids across the aisle from me so they wouldn’t have to rotate their heads 180 degrees like a bunch of owls to stare at me. Thankfully, I’ve had plenty of practice being gawked at, so I just smiled pleasantly as the sweat ran down the back of my shirt and into my sulu.

Each time I wiped my eyes I hoped I was giving the impression that I was moved to tears, but in fact I was barely clinging to consciousness by my fingernails. After two and a half hours, and what seemed like an in-depth survey of the entire Old Testament, things finally ground to a halt. And I thought the Southern Baptists could drag out a church service.

By the way, always bring underwear when visiting a Fijian village. I didn't, and while sitting cross-legged on the floor across from him at lunch, it occurred to me that flashing the Chief was probably somewhere near the top of the list of “Dont’s”. After lunch we all fell into a coma on the floor, the Chief snoring in my ear, and when I awoke, still wearing my 137% polyester sulu, soaked to the skin with sweat, it was time to go to church again.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph!! Why couldn’t the early missionaries have left these fine folks to pursue their own interests like canoe building, spear fishing, tribal warfare, kava drinking and cannibalism. Not only do these activities include a lot more exercise and spending time in the great outdoors, but eating human flesh is high in protein as well.

That said, a 20 x 40 foot cinder block building with an interior temperature approaching that of the planet Mercury creates the perfect combination of acoustics and delirium for a 60 voice Fijian congregation singing hymns in four part harmony to make a believer out of you.

After church, more food and a cup of scalding hot tea to take the edge off the heat and humidity, followed by…wait for it...another 8 hour session of kava consumption. If sleep deprivation, dehydration, a wicked kava hangover and the onset of heat stroke doesn’t make you believe in hell, nothing will.

The next morning, as I headed up the hill with the school children from the village to catch the bus, everyone came out of their huts to shake my hand, calling me by name and asking when I'd be back. As they waved goodbye and called out "MO-day", the Fijian word for goodbye, I don't think I've ever felt such a sense of inadequacy to express my gratitude for their generosity, hospitality and acceptance of me as an outsider.

So I used half of my Fijian vocabulary to say "Vinaka vakalevu!" Thank you very much!

Epilogue: I didn't get even a hiccup from the food and water I consumed while in Navunimono. I did however get a nasty case of food poisoning from an expensive Japanese restaurant where I ate a week later.

The Bus Ride

2010-09-11T07:12:00.000-05:00

In preparation for my trip to the village, I bought some toothpaste, razors, deodorant and a small package of laundry detergent (which also functions as an hourglass as the granules leak slowly into my backpack). In typical fashion, I had neglected to pack any underwear, so after trying in vain to find some boxer shorts, I finally broke down and purchased the only other available option...some über gay briefs (not that there's anything wrong with that) which the salesman assured me were large.

Please note that these are NOT photos of the actual underwear I purchased, but they're not too far off.
If you want a good laugh, go to kittyhell.com....one man's battle against "cuteness".

Keep in mind that a SMALL Fijian man is about 6'5'' and 250 lbs., so I was a little surprised at the salesman's assessment of my underwear needs (but also very proud). After returning to the guest house, I put them on and in about 10 minutes my legs had gone completely numb from lack of circulation, so apparently he had mistaken me for an large adolescent girl.

Off we went on our journey, about 2 hours awa
y on a cro
wded bus with our bags on our laps. About halfway there, we stopped at a bus depot, where I ran in search of a bathroom, which to my delight was only one notch below what you might expect at the Four Seasons Hotel.

Please note: This IS an actual photo of the bathroom at the bus depot in Nausori.

When I emerged from the bathroom, feeling greatly relieved, I realized that there were about 20 identical buses at the depot, and that I had failed to take note of any identifying characteristics which would enable me to find the one I arrived on. I began to walk amongst the crowded vehicles, searching for a familiar face, or a sign of my new friend. After making several frantic passes through the busy parking lot, and almost getting crushed between two moving buses, I began to panic.
Suddenly I remembered that I had left my bag on the dashboard of the bus, which would make it easy to spot. So I dashed between the buses again, half of which had left since I began my search and had been replaced by incoming buses. No luck.
I didn’t have a clue what to do next, but I took a deep breath and decided that whatever happened, including losing my stuff and my friend and having to somehow make it back to the city, it was gonna be alright, and that at the very least, I’d have a story to tell. I had already started to chuckle to myself at the ridiculousnosity of my situation, when she came dashing up and told me that the bus had moved about three blocks down the street. If nothing else, I was able to confirm that my adrenal glands are still working.
As we ran down the street towards the waiting bus, Kelera decided that this would be a good time to buy some bread. We ducked into a shop, where she hemmed and hawed over what to get, and by the time we made our purchase and got to the bus, I got the feeling from the driver’s facial expression that I hadn’t done much to cement foreign relations.
The rest of our trip was uneventful, and when we stepped off the bus onto the deserted highway, there was not a village in sight..only a red dirt road, and a lush green landscape of trees, vines and palms with leaves that looked like giant ferns, drenched in the amber light of late afternoon.
I neglected to mention that before we left Suva we went grocery shopping, so in addition to the pack containing my personal belongings (approximate weight 13 pounds), I was lugging 4 liters of water (approximate weight 10 pounds), 2 pounds of powdered kava (more on that later) and miscellaneous other provisions.
Not knowing whether we had a hundred yards or 10 miles to hike, I decided not to ask, and just embrace the moment. Within the first 30 seconds, the plastic bag containing the bottles of water began to slowly and painfully amputate the fingers of my right hand, and I started to wonder whether we really needed the mostly thawed frozen chicken I was toting.
Just as the sun dropped behind a hill and the light began to fade, the the village came into sight, and I was greeted with mute stares and a few shy waves from children who had never seen an albino before.