The Throne of Immortality

The Penguins Delved too Greedily and Too Deep

2011-02-13T17:54:00.004-07:00

Do you know what the penguins awoke in the darkness? Shadow and flame….yes, shadow and flame. The final day of our extraordinary journey would not to be a disappointment. The sky was dark and foreboding as we entered the mouth of the cove. Neptune’s Bellows, a narrow passage lined with toothy rock walls, towered over us. The clouds hung low, obscuring the jagged, shadowy peaks. The water was glass. It was eerily silent. We passed through the maw of this formidable place into a massive, sea-filled caldera formed by an ancient volcano. Welcome to Deception Island.

Active thermal vents released boiling water into the caldera, causing steam to rise lazily over the black shores of Whaler’s Cove. No irony here. The rust-eaten remains of massive boiling tanks and dilapidated barracks line the coast, where whalers once boiled carcasses for valuable oil. Seals were clubbed. Penguins, already dressed in their tuxedo-like feathers, were presumably forced to serve cocktails. Weathered bones protruded from the ashy sand like ivory fingers from long deceased giants. A pair of small, decaying wooden boats, abandoned long ago, appeared ghostly in the mist. A handful of chinstrap penguins and crab-eater seals appeared then vanished in the rolling fog. Stephen King would love this place, if he lived to tell the tale.

All in all it seemed like a great place to go swimming. I stripped down to my skivvies, adjusted my knit cap, then dashed headlong into the icy waters. After a few long steps the ground went out from under me and I was up to my neck. At that point it took all of about five seconds for my extremities to go completely numb. I slogged back to the shore, more secure in my manhood than ever, despite the fact that my nipples could now cut through glass. Forget shrinkage, this was more like inversion. All of you wusses who think you belong to one of several purported “polar” clubs can suck it.

Our final stop, Hanna Point, could not have been better. It was like being in a zoo without the cages. Craggy rocks and grass filled slopes housed hundreds of mud-stained penguins, elephant seals and giant seabirds. Juveniles waddled around sheepishly, curiously approaching then squawking away. Last but definitely not least, we had the pleasure of watching a leopard seal dine on an extremely unhappy penguin. I was surprised to see white wine chosen for the meal.

I could not conceive of a better way to close the door on this fantastic world. Sure, we still had a few more days of crossing the Drake, then a flight to Argentina, Peru, and New York, but that part is all a blur. The final tally was something to behold. Fur seals, elephant seals, crab-eater seals, leopard seals, skuas, petrols, gulls, albatross, gentoo penguins, macaroni penguins, chinstrap penguins, minke whales, humpback whales, fin whales, old people by the dozens, and pair of extremely rare asian travels. What else can I possibly say? Wow.

Weather or Not, Here We Come!

2011-02-13T17:54:00.002-07:00

The weather in Antarctica is not what you would call “pleasant”. To some, it may not even qualify as dreadful. Barely any sun sneaks through the overcast skies, and what little does somehow seems disingenuous, often glimpsed flirting with a far-off mountain or dancing with distant horizons. The winds can become awfully disagreeable, whipping the sea into stiff peaks, and if the stories are true, occasionally hurling seabirds violently into the hull of passing ships. One can argue that it adds just the right amount of atmosphere to the expedition. It is Antarctica, after all.

Truth be told, it is not really as bad you might think. Despite mountains full of purported evidence, Antarctica rarely sees fresh snow. Though it seems hard to believe, the continent sports a desert climate with very little precipitation. Yet the snow and ice is literally hundreds of feet thick. How can this be? It turns out that snow has been accumulating at a rate of only a few hundred millimeters per year. It is just that it never melts. In other words, exactly the opposite of what happened to Michael Jackson’s face over the course of his career.

Strangely, it is not all that cold. Despite our long-johns, turtlenecks, fleece sweaters, down parkas, wool caps, ski gloves, scarves and thermal crotch warmers, the temperature was generally in the mid-thirties during the day. That’s right, you had worse weather back home.While it’s true that the center of the continent can see extremely severe weather, the shoreline is actually quite nice.

There was only one day when the weather prevented us from following our itinerary. The wind picked up, the seas became rough, lunch became tenuous, and we could not risk embarking on the small Zodiacs that ferried us from our vessel to shore. But backup plans are de rigueur on these voyages, and we instead navigated into a protective cove to explore an old British base called Port Lockroy, now a museum, which is currently manned by three attractive, young women. According to the brochure “Port Lockroy is one of Antarctica’s most historic locations and a highlight of any voyage to the frozen continent”. Presumably this is due to the fact that Antarctica is generally uninhabited, and, hey, three attractive young women living alone on an Antarctic island.

The base was originally built during WWII to spy on the Germans, but was abandoned when the British realized that even the German’s weren’t stupid enough to send their boats through the Drake Passage. The base has been fully restored and now houses a small museum, as well as a gift shop. Because, really, who can stomach an entire trip to the most remote place on earth without getting in a little shopping? The women run the shop, post mail, study the local penguin population, and, I imagine, have topless snowball fights with each other when no one else is around.

It was a great stop, and an interesting slice of history. And anyone can volunteer for the summer shift. Four months of island living, and all the penguins you can eat. It turns out that not too many men sign up. Seems like a missed opportunity to me. Maybe I'll volunteer next year.

Crappy Feet

2011-02-13T17:53:00.003-07:00

The beloved documentary March of the Penguins, a film that effortlessly argues how living life as an Emperor Penguin would completely suck, spurred a massive revival of interest in our flightless friends. The public was soon flooded with a variety of me-too movies, saccharine TV specials and kindly magazine spreads, all of which successfully tugged at our heartstrings. Yet none of these sympathetic portrayals prepared me for the fact that penguins burst guano from their ass like a power sprayer and generally smell like the inside of a Turkish prison.

To be fair, they are still fantastically cute. Sentiment ranged from the standard "Aww..." to the slightly more expressive "Awwww…GOD what is it doing to my shoes?!" For a visual, just imagine what would happen if you stomped on one end of a Twinkie. Luckily we were well equipped to deal with the absurd amount of guano we encountered. Our knee-high rubber boots were all but impervious, though they had to be scrubbed clean with a toilet brush before heading back to the boat.

During the course of our trip, we were fortunate enough to observe a variety of species in nearly every stage of development. Massive colonies of gentoo penguins waddled comically across stone and snow, ascending unbelievably steep inclines without pause. Chinstrap penguins proudly preened their brilliant white chest feathers, in sharp contrast to their dark and striking foreheads. A handful of macaroni penguins, so named for their streaks of bleached blond head feathers, posed artfully for the cameras. Heh…blondes.

“Penguin Highways”, narrow snow paths tramped down by heavy foot traffic, crisscrossed the landscape as penguins shuffled to and fro. This time of year brings adorable chicks, inquisitive juveniles and jittery first-time parents. The new parents were easy to spot, their nervous stomachs constantly regurgitating straight into the mouths of their children. Gross. And I thought going to bed without supper was bad. Juveniles flopped around in the mud, their fluffy down giving way the waterproof feathering that would allow them to survive the cold and freezing seas. Chicks stuffed themselves underfoot, gaining protection from predators and the elements. Vicious brown birds known as skuas probed for a weakness in mom's defense, hoping to snag a fly-through snack.

It was all quite amazing. Walking amongst these gentle, majestic creatures one can easily get lost their....ughhh, not again. Get the hose.

You Ain't Seen Nothin' Like the Mighty Fin

2011-02-06T17:42:00.000-07:00

Antarctica. The first order of business for any intrepid Antarctic explorer should be to get to know ones shipmates. You spend a great deal of time in close quarters with these people, and without gaining intimate knowledge of their diet and lifestyle, it can become incredibly difficult to choose exactly who to eat when the ship runs aground and food supplies start dwindling. Yes, the obese may store a wealth of calorie rich blubber, but think twice before dismissing the septuagenerian crowd. Their sad, wrinkly faces and pockets full of ribbon candy only serve to distract from the fact that they are little more than wobbly sticks of human beef jerky.

My personal menu selection was cut short as our boat came in sight of the South Shetland islands. I am not sure what I had expected, but it wasn't this. The entirety of the landmass was covered, edge to edge, with tremulous peaks. Dark volcanic daggers sheathed in thick crusts of shimmering snow seemed to erupt straight from the sea floor, slicing through the azure sky to bleed wispy clouds from thin air. Blustery winds tore across the deck of the ship where we stood, blindly searching for a weakness in my parka. My brazenly uncovered face burned with an icy sting, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes. It was a jaw-dropping sight.

Between the ship and the shore a narrow jet-spray shot vertically into the air before catching the wind and exploding into a cloudy mist that descended like a miniature rainstorm. It was followed by another, then another. Methinks there be whales here.

The arched back and distinctive dorsal fins of the ingloriously named Fin Whale soon breached the surface. As the captain navigated in for a closer look, the fountains of Bellagio had begun. Blow holes erupted both port and starboard, sending plumes 30 feet in the air. No less than eight to ten whales straddled our vessel, pursuing an unknown agenda. Massive black torsos split the surface one after another in graceful arcs, as if orbiting an unseen planet. With a final reveal of their lone shark-like fin, the whales quickly vanished beneath the waves. Our encore lasts a full 45 minutes, which I presume is the time it took for them to securely attach the tracking beacon to our vessel.

The day drew to a close, as even the best of days must. After a mere two days at sea we had finally reached the Antarctic peninsula, and our real journey had only just begun. Now how's that for a cliche' ending?

Uncharted III : Drake's Passage

2011-02-03T15:16:00.001-07:00

The Drake Passage is the only unbroken stretch of ocean in the world. With no continental obstacles in its path, the several hundred nautical miles making up the gap between Argentina and Antarctica are the roughest, swelliest, frothiest seas around. If swallowing boats were a competitive sport, the Drake would dominate the league, likely forcing a collective bargaining agreement that would end up sending our best oceans to the wealthiest continents. And trust me, nobody wants to see the Drake Passage take on the Ural Sea. Where is the sport in that?

The word "seaworthy" sounds suspiciously like a plea to Poseidon if I ever heard one but we were assured of our vessel's status as such, despite its recent misadventures. Most of you have likely heard of the Clellia II, though you might not realize it. It was only a month ago that the now infamous vessel was front page news, victim of a vicious storm that hit the Drake with little warning. Pounded by 30-foot seas, the window of the captain's bridge was smashed, knocking out their communications and forcing the crew to sit in the eye of the storm for two days. Most terrifying of all, they were disastrously flooded by a phalanx of international reporters once reaching port.

To be fair, they aren't very subtle when it comes to expectations. There were several signs that our voyage might not be a smooth one, first and foremost being the strategic placement of barf bags along most of the ship's interior railings. The second clue would be the necessity of interior railings. Third would be the directive to make our cabins "Drake Proof" prior to departure. All personal items were to be secured, valuables stowed, and it was suggested that we consider sleeping on the floor to avoid rolling out of bed during large swells. This proved unnecessary though, since the beds had convenient straps to keep you comfortably immobile throughout the duration of the trip.

It would take us a minimum of two days to cross this oft violent stretch of water, and at least another three to unclench our bowels. I generally think of myself as having a solid pair of sea legs, having spent a good deal of my youth aboard my parents boat, but I would be lying if I didn't claim a modest amount of anxiety. We departed in the early evening, as scheduled. For the first few hours we drifted peacefully through the Beagle Channel. Terns and gulls soared gracefully past the bow, swooping starboard and port, shepherding us far beyond the harbor and into the open sea. The waves began to pick up almost immediately. Fifteen foot swells rocked the boat, sending passengers, myself included, from wall to wall. After a few hours I found the rhythm almost soothing. One more day until landfall. Rock-a-bye Baby, indeed.

It's the End of the World and We Know It

2011-02-03T15:02:00.001-07:00

Ushuaia, Argentina. As much as it pains me, I would be remiss not to mention that I am part of a tour group during this adventure. It turns out that hitchhiking to Antarctica is a little more difficult then sticking out your thumb and hopping the next tug out of the harbor. Apparently not even the mighty albatross, with its enormous nine-foot wingspan and uncanny ability to remain alight in hurricane force gales, can bear the weight of a single man from Denver. Let me tell you what a disappointing experiment THAT was--though probably more so for the albatross.

I was willing to do whatever it took to reach this frozen Valhalla, this land of icy milk and solid honey. And if that meant getting on a boat with a bunch of geezers with their socks pulled up to their hearing aids, so be it. The sad part is how many of them are blissfully enjoying retirement, completely unaware that their children have paid the staff handsomely to drift them out to sea on an ice flow. Did I mention that I am here with my father? He was issued his official bifocals a few years back but he still has some spring left in his step.

Before embarking on our journey we had the pleasure of spending a day in Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. Spread across the banks of the Beagle Channel, Ushuaia is also home to the world's southernmost restaurant, the southernmost lighthouse, the southernmost golf course, and the single most inanely repetitive marketing slogan on Earth. The city itself is nothing to crow about, but the scenery is epic. Ushuaia is graced with a rare natural beauty. Rugged snow-capped peaks give way to a brilliant green tree line, where a natural bowl cups the city gently in its hands, right at the edge of the brilliant blue shoreline. Insert any of your preferred adjectives here.

On the edge of the city lies Tierra del Fuego National Park, which is Spanish for "Fire Crotch", I think. We spent the better part of the day wandering the boggy shores amidst lichen coiffed trees, trying to keep our minds off the journey ahead. Cuddly bunnies ran to and fro, while sly red foxes nipped at their hairy little heels. It would be cute if it weren't for the fact that they ended up being lunch.

They day wore on and the sun began to set. We boarded our vessel, the Clellia II, and prepared our cabin for the voyage through the Drake Passage. Dramamine pills were swallowed. It was time we bid the City at the End of the World a fond adieu.

Don't Spy on Me, Argentina!

2011-01-24T20:17:00.001-07:00

Buenos Aires, Argentina. Reaching the Antarctic peninsula is not quite as simple as it might seem. First off, one needs to navigate the terrors of the Miami International Airport. If the slow, zombified and frustratingly incontinent travelers don't delay you at the check-in line, you can make your way to Buenos Aires--the most consistently overthrown capital in modern history. The good news is that if you manage to escape the political unrest it is a relatively short hop to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. Next comes the fun part. Two days travel aboard a seafaring vessel through the Drake Passage, the roughest seas on earth. The reward for this perilous journey? Ass loads of penguin tail and enough ice to keep the cocktails flowing past midnight. You can guess where I am heading.

Well, we got to Buenos Aires with no problem. Truly it is a fascinating city. The French inspired architecture is visually stunning, and there exists a level of modernity that is uncommon in most of South America. Apparently a great number of Italians immigrated to Argentina around the time of the second World War, adding their own special sauce to the mix. Improbably, pasta and pizza are found on nearly every corner. Call it Little Fritaly, if you will.

While most of the political unrest has subsided in recent years, it took all of about three hours before one of my trip mates was jumped by a pair of ruffians on motorcycles who targeted his watch. Luckily he escaped with watch, and wrist, intact. And while the city is splendid in many ways, a negative undercurrent can be felt in the voluminous graffiti striping the city's federal buildings, and in the continued growth of the shanty towns, now 30,000 citizens strong, that ring the glimmering spires of downtown. Worse still, their empanadas suck.

I actually learned a great deal about the socio-political history that I was not able to glean even from repeated viewings of Evita. I won't bore you with it, but suffice to say, there is a lot less singing at a whole lot more people spilling shit on your shirt, then pretending to wipe it off while they steal your wallet and jewelry, as nearly happened to another person in our crew on our second day here.

All in all, I have enjoyed the place but it is time to move on. Next stop: The City at the End of the World.

Wait Just a Ho Chi Minute!

2010-05-21T22:57:00.000-06:00

Ho Chi Minh Highway, Vietnam. The Ho Chi Minh Trail was an ingenious supply line that the North Vietnamese devised to safely ferry war materials from one end of the country to another. The trail covers over 1500km of vertiginous landscape, snaking up and around jagged peaks between dips into dense jungle. To think that human beings, flesh and blood human beings, carried heavy artillery over this mountainous terrain for such great distances truly boggles the mind.

Today, portions of the Ho Chi Minh Trail have become the Ho Chi Mihn Highway, an equally daunting drive across a narrow stretch of broken tarmac spiraling through this same terrain. And what spectacular terrain it is. The mountains along the west edge of Vietnam are like nothing I have ever seen. Imagine, if you will, the scope of the Rocky Mountains combined with the striking sheared rock faces that embody Yosemite National Park. Sounds nice, right? Now drop a verdant jungle on top for a little extra pizazz, and maybe a few cloudscapes for some nice framing. My brain nearly exploded trying to take in the grandeur.

The road itself resembles more of an overdeveloped sidewalk as opposed to a highway, lined with small concrete posts every few yards--an unlikely impediment when hurtling off a curve into the infinite abyss. After some serious consideration, I settled on the best possible way to experience the thrill of the ride. Trekky had served me well but she would need a major upgrade to handle this type of challenge. So I traded her 21 gears of human powered pedals for 125cc of thrust, I swapped her modest braking power for stop-on-a-dime disk brakes, and I traded her ass-chafing seat for a comfortable saddle of relaxed leather. I was fairly certain that the Honda Master motorcycle I purchased, even second-hand, would tackle the curves with aplomb.

With the face shield up the wind whipped across my face, nicely cooling the inside of my helmet. It was way too hot for cycling anyway. I relaxed my body in a slight recline as I negotiated each curve, every peak and trough, each narrow straightaway. Very few people live in this part of the country. Even less could be found zipping along this hidden road. The screeching, belching trucks of the highway were no where to be found. The road was mine and mine alone. I raced around Eden with a smile on my face, leaving nothing but a whisper of my happiness in the wind behind me.

Another Huế-Dunnit...

2010-05-16T05:00:00.001-06:00

Huế, Vietnam. Shifting back into tourist mode has been a bit jarring for me. I had gotten so used to my routine--waking up at ungodly hours to load the boat, diving until midday, lending a hand at the dive shop in the afternoon, teaching English at night, hitting the sack early, rinse and repeat--that the days now seem rather long and empty. I have to admit that I have not been overly enthused about the touristy happenings around Huế, though I will admit to childish enjoyment while pronouncing it: HOO-eh. Like a Canadian owl.

There is nothing inherently wrong with Huế. It is yet another UNESCO World Heritage Site, rife with ancient things of historical importance, and blah, blah, blah. The city is a bit of a jigsaw puzzle. Surrounded by modern buildings stands a massive walled Citadel, inside of which sits a walled Imperial City, inside of which reveals the walls of the Forbidden Purple City, so named due to its--I am making an assumption based on visual evidence--complete and total exclusion of the color purple. The city is the architectual equivilent of a Russian matryoshka doll. And since anything Russian is evil, we completly bombed the shit out of the place during the war, despite its location south of the DMZ. What a mess. And all this due to an errant conversation involving a child's Tonka toy sinking in the bathtub. (Sigh)

The Imperial City is actually quite striking, so I my interest in history may just be waning. There's just too damn much of it. Maybe I was just tired. Regardless, a great deal of restoration work was going on inside of the Citadel. Scaffolding covered many of the building, others were fully restored, as good as new, and I got to thinking. Let me pose a philosophical question here, if I may. At what point does restoration work become so extensive as to no longer be productive in its aims? Can excessive restoration work diminish the historical significance of its subject? Are we interested in a Huế that is frozen in time, a Disney-esque theme park, replete with costumed characters and musical numbers? Or would we prefer it splintered and broken, a tragic reminder of...um...not to forget the, uh....oh fuck it, lets just bomb Iraq.

Here's Cooking with You, Kid

2010-05-15T00:07:00.000-06:00

Hoi An, Vietnam. With my Divemaster certification complete, I felt the sun begin to set on my time in Nha Trang. Basic training was over, the DMZ was looming on the horizon. Though I was going to miss my new friends, my wonderful English class and the slow, systematic liquidation of my liver, the open road was calling. It was time to head Up Country.

Hoi An was such a striking change from Nha Trang that at first I had a bit of trouble adapting. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the French-influenced architecture of Hoi An, although maddeningly uniform at times, is simply stunning in its homogeny. Endless rows of crumbling, mustard-colored colonials line the narrow, crowded lanes, each housing another cheeky cloth merchant, aspiring artist, illegal DVD vendor or assertive restauranteur. Hidden in the nooks and crannies of this orgiastic market are a handful of buildings of pure historical interest or provincial importance, including, I shit you not, the Hoi An Department of Managing and Gathering Swallow's Nests. This may sound like pork-belly politics at first blush but lets see if you still think so after you've collected two tons of feathery, spit encrusted swallow's nests.

Hoi An is also home to a staggering 500 or so tailors (no exaggeration), all of whom were vying to measure every inch of my anatomy. Sure I was flattered, maybe even a little curious, but not one of them even so much as bought me a drink first. I don't know about you but I need a little alcohol in my system before I'll let a strange women pull out a ruler and start putting notes in her diary. I'll admit, it was tough to resist the allure of an inexpensive, handmade, double-breasted wool suit for relaxing in the 95 degree heat. And with the humidity pegged at 100 percent I could have easily steamed some rice in my pocket for an on-the-go lunch.

But the best part of Hoi An was the cooking class that I took. Along with a dozen older women, I sailed down Hoi An's lazy river to the Red Bridge Restaurant and Cooking School, easily identified by, you guessed it, a red pier. I have no idea where the bridge comes in. Regardless, the cooking school was fantastic. I learned how to make fresh rice noodles, rice paper, rice pancakes, rice spring rolls and an eggplant claypot, deliciously accompanied by rice. There is not a piece of rice around I don't know intimately. But I knew it was time to pack it in for the day when I started naming each individual grain. When I get back, Snap, Crackle, Pop and I will make a nice meal for you. Dinner is served.

20,000 Leagues, I Have to Pee

2010-05-09T01:50:00.001-06:00

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Far be it from me to deny the events of the previous evening, but for the record, it was a really attractive bar stool, and if you look at it with just the right level of intoxication, you could easily mistake it for a dark, bald and shiny headed woman wearing a cushiony leather hat. Behold, the Snorkel Test!

I am primed and ready. Note the look of guiltless malevolence on Martin's face as he prepares to funnel his jungle juice into my adapted snorkel

Down she goes. Mmmmm...is that rice wine, beer, vodka, soy sauce, raw egg and vinegar I taste? Why, yes it it! I start gagging a few moments later.

Jessica (another Divemaster candidate) and I successfully balance ourselves after completing our test. Our night has just begun.

No, wait, Jessica, I'm sure you need to pee but now is really not the best time.

And he is officially down for the count. I got up after this one but was TKO'd in the final round by a bottle of vodka.

Really, what better way has been devised to separate the wheat from the chaff? Though I can't really remember most of it, I have been told that I passed my snorkel test with flying colors. Congratulations to me, I am a Divemaster!

Umm....can someone call in sick for me? I don't think I am going to be able to make it to the boat tomorrow. Cheers!

Minding Nemo

2010-05-07T07:27:00.000-06:00

Nha Trang, Vietnam. We had just finished our dinner, eaten, as always, at a small folding table directly on the sidewalk. The single chunk of ice that dominated my beer mug was slowly melting into the frothy foam, further weaking the already stale and bitter taste. My giant American body was crammed into one of the miniature plastic chairs that spawn around every roadside restaurant in town, my knees to my chest. It's Thanksgiving and I am back at the kid's table, except I am surrounded by adult Vietnamese, all sitting comfortably, room to spare. This is not helping my self-esteem.

None of us noticed the man pull up on the bicycle, so we were all startled when the music blasted rhythmically from the precariously balanced speakers strapped to his bike frame. A younger man with shoulder length hair, rail thin yet muscular, stood next to the bike, immobile. You could tell he was waiting for it. When the beat finally hit he snapped his head to the side and exploded into dance. His long black hair flew around his face as he twisted and turned, jived and jumped, a tangle of arms and legs, hip clothing. The electronica was nearly deafening. I asked my students what in the world it was all about. Oh, he selling the peanut candy. 2,000 dong, you try. Heck yes, I tried. This man, who was putting his heart and soul into winning the next Who's Got Talent competition, was selling small peanut candies for a dime a piece. Welcome to life in Nha Trang.
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Living in Nha Trang has cracked the window of Vietnam for me, and the air is awful nice out there. In exchange for my English classes, the girls have been exposing the real Vietnam to me, every nook and cranny, every tendon, tendril, and tumor, all of which is likely in the dish I am not asking about until I am done eating it. I could write dozens of posts about daily life here, so I thought I would share a few of my favorite moments, the one's you probably won't read about in the guidebooks.
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Cycling around in the early evening is delightful. The hellish sun gave me a brief reprieve to clear my head and take in the cool air. I should have been paying more attention, but nothing could have prepared me for the massive, inconceivable paw that swiped at the top of my head. Welcome back, reality. Imagine my shock when I looked up and found two black bears leashed to the back of the pickup truck in front of me. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, the half-dozen exotic birds and three monkey's also loosely tied to the jury-rigged frame in the truck's caboose should have tipped me off. The circus was in town.
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I had just finished showering. I'm used to having a few friends with me when I wash up, mostly waterbugs and the occaisional cockaroach. They generally spend their waking hours--plotting, I gather--in the soggy mop that hang in the corner of the bathroom. Normally, I am prepared to aim the showerhead and wash them down the train. But something caught my eye. Something small, something hairlike, something....wriggling. I looked in horror at the small writhing worm splashing happily in the dirty puddle of water. I still have yet to decide whether he was looking for a way in or recently found a way out. Of where, I refuse to ponder.
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I was cycling down the street when I came upon a military-style, canvas topped truck. In the back were two men holding fiery torches. Another man was throwing handfuls of small, colored paper out of a plastic bucket. They caught in the air, fluttered and danced. Time was stopping. The mopeds all slowed around me. The torchbearers were somber, stonefaced and cold. I followed along for a while before noticing another vehicle filled with women in simple white gowns, strips of white cloth tied around their heads, bundles of fabric around their arms and chests. The lead car, which now came into view, was adorned with religious symbols, flowers and bells. In the darkness of the open cavity, I spotted the coffin. I fell back behind the torchbearers, let the fluttering paper float like a dream past my head. My God, it was beautiful. We rode on in silence.
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One of the most curious cultural aspects of Vietnam is a concept called washing. This has little to do with cleanliness, at least in a practical sense. No, this is far more devilish. Whenever you buy something new for yourself, you need to wash the item with your loved ones, spreading your good fortue by spending money on those (i.e. your friends and family) who are less fortunate. To make it more interesting, washing is a percentage of the value of the item. Recently buy a new pair of shoes? Not too bad, buy a round of smoothies. Thinking of buying a new motorcycle? You best be prepared to double the cost, because you are going to be taking your friends to dinner at Spago's. A few weeks ago I bought a basic Vietnamese phone to keep in touch with the dive staff and my students. I had to wash this $20 phone with dinner and a round of drinks. I don't know, I think I've been had.

English Crass

2010-04-29T20:06:00.000-06:00

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Teaching English is a far more rewarding experience than I would have imagined. The difference between compulsory attendance and personal volition in a classroom setting is astounding. My students are eager, engaged, determined and genuinely excited to learn. This is in marked contrast to my own school years, from which I recall tedium, sleepiness, scribbling lyrics in the margins of my notebook and surreptitiously ogling my female classmates. Somewhere along that oblivious path I managed to graduate with a degree in something or other. I am clearly prepared for this.

There are some interesting challenges in teaching a language that has both sounds and letters that are unfamiliar to non-native speakers. I often find myself pursing my lips, contorting my face and drooling down my chin in a futile attempt to encourage emulation. We once spent an entire class lesson simply trying to pronounce the letter X. We finally cracked that particular nut by remembering that there are piles of chicken "necks" in the market, and by removing the "N" you get the correct pronunciation for "X". I can't deny that my methods veer (or careen) from standard teaching orthodoxy but then again, I slept through most of my English classes. I scarcely want to mention what demons I had to pacify in order to get them to correctly say "next".

We have an incredible amount of fun though. Once they understood "X", it was only a short jump to the subtleties between "six and sex". Little in this world is more amusing than watching four grown women giggling uncontrollably about sex in an English class. It is a widely held belief in Vietnam that the only reason Vietnamese women attend English class is to find a husband, and the only reason foreigners teach English is to bed a potential bride. One of my students obligingly offered a quip from her friend: "I don't think you learn English, your teacher show you how to love!" This set off a fresh round of giggles and a teasing question about the methods I would employ. Then the real laughter starts.

Even a class as industrious as mine likes to cut loose every now and again. Most nights we end class with dinner at a local restaurant or sip smoothies at a juice bar. But last week class ended before it started when a bottle of wine and a suspicious bottle of brandy magically appeared with the notebooks. Nothing claims authenticity in brandy like a giant label across the front that reads "AUTHENTIC". Still, it didn't take long for the bottles to drain or for the singing to start. I nearly split in two when the girls belted out the 60s hit, Sealed With a Kiss. Brian Hyland must be rolling in his grave. And I quote:

"Doh we gotta sah goo-bye forda summa,
Darlin I promise you diss...
I sen you aw my love, evry day inna letta
Seal wit a kiz!"

My God, I love Vietnam.

Rescue, Rescue, Read All About It!

2010-04-26T05:21:00.002-06:00

Nha Trang, Vietnam. The path to divemaster has been fraught with perilous obstacles, most of them wet. To succeed I needed to master a variety of practical dive skills, exhibit expertise in theoretical dive knowledge, prepare myself to react to a host of rescue scenarios, build up my stamina for an endurance test, and, if it all goes well to that point, ready myself for the infamous snorkel test.

For lack of a better pun, my training has gone swimmingly. To kick things off I received training as an Emergency First Responder, allowing me to legally start poking bodies at the scene of an accident. I'm an Emergency First Responder, can I help you? Those ten magic words unlock a treasure trove of litigious defense mechanisms know as Good Samaritan Laws. So if I happen to snap a few ribs while over-enthusiastically performing CPR--and believe me, I am very enthusiastic about it--no problem, I'm covered. No matter, I was prepped for the challenging road ahead.

As the boat slid languidly from swell to trough, I anxiously awaited the next test. My eyes darted rapidly across the deck, muscles tense, adrenal glands primed. The customers were blissfully unaware of the pressure cooker around them. And then a shout...Rescue! Rescue! Game on. I grabbed my fins and a flotation device and dove in, pointing straight towards the flailing instructor. Arms thrashed wildly, water splashing all around me. As soon as I got within striking distance he lunged, climbed on top me, held me down as my breath ran low, tried to drown me. I broke free and swam to the surface, gasping for breath. Welcome to the Rescue Diver course.

For the next four days I was on constant alert, waiting for the next tragedy to strike. And strike it would, both on the surface and deep below. People ran out of air, collapsed unconscious at twenty meters, convulsed wildly, pulled off my mask, grappled my tank, yanked the regulator out of my mouth, and generally exhibited a level of gleeful malevolence whenever I or my training partners were nearby. For the coup de grâce, without warning, not one, but two divers simultaneously ran out of air at depth. While one grabbed my backup regs, I had to pass my air source back and forth to the other diver while the three of us ascended to the surface. It wouldn't have been so bad if one of them hadn't lost consciousness and stopped breathing at the surface, requiring me to drag him back to the boat while simultaneously stripping off his scuba gear (making it easier to perform CPR once back on the boat). Throw it at me, I'm ready.

Over the course of the next few weeks I rounded out my training with a variety of specialty courses. Navigation required me to complete an underwater scavenger hunt, finding compass bearings and collecting words at each stop. Deep diving taught me how to sink to new depths, both literally and figuratively. For my Nitrox specification, we went deep to feel the effects of narcosis. For those unfamiliar, narcosis is toxification of the body tissues with nitrogen. It can cause the sufferer to feel a wee bit drunk--and make them increasingly likely to pull out their regulator and try to kiss one of the fish.

Next up, exams. Time to crack the books. Physics, physiology, equipment, oh my. I think I'll phone a friend.

Me Card Read Good

2010-04-24T05:35:00.000-06:00

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Since I was going to be staying in Nha Trang for a while, it seemed prudent to put my hotel hopping heroics behind me and lease an apartment. Sure it was a touch less convenient--no more fresh towels, tucked in bed sheets, or housekeepers forced to hose down my general flotsam and jetsam--but it would give me the opportunity to get a better feel for daily life in Vietnam. With a little help from a diving colleague, I managed to luck into a cozy little place just two blocks from the dive shop. While not quite as robust as my African digs, it does have the benefit of being fitfully furnished. Standard features include a spacious living room with a pleather couch (guaranteed to bond to bare skin instantly), a bed with a fitted sheet, a mini-fridge, a countertop dual-burner butane stove, a shower/toilet area, and a healthy assortment of water bugs, cockroaches, winged insects and, god knows how it gets there, but a few nights a week an orange tabby mysteriously appears in my hallway.

Probably the most enjoyable part of having my own place is the ability to cook. I love trolling around the lively markets, where, with enough patience, I can find everything from tomatoes to televisions to tuberculosis--all in one convenient location. Women gleefully cleave through pig bones, hack slabs of tuna, hawk fruits and vegetables, and delightedly chortle at the American who abashedly picks up a basket of dried chicken necks thinking they are mushrooms. I particularly enjoy splashing through the water-logged pathways of the fish mongers, where women excitedly shake handfuls of shrimp in my face, entice me with mounds of freshly caught squid and carefully knot up live crabs with short lengths of twine. Sometimes I have to remind myself that despite the intense smells, the murky puddles beneath my shoes and the fish scales stuck to my legs, that this is probably the freshest seafood I will ever get my hands on.

Now that I had settled in I needed something to keep myself occupied. Sure, I go diving nearly every day, but that particular train starts at 5:30 in the morning and we are usually back by around 1:00pm. I generally take care of a little office work (e.g. drinking beer with the customers) and then I have the evening free for the finer pursuits (e.g. drinking beer with the staff). I felt that something was wanting. Then it dawned on me. Every single day of my life I have been speaking English. Most days of the week I read English too. And every now and again, as you are undoubtedly aware, I find myself writing in English. The signs were so obvious. If I can speak English, read English, and write English, it stands to reason that I would have no problem teaching English, right?

And so it is that I find myself spending three nights a week teaching a quartet of Vietnamese women the elementary principles of spelling, grammar and pronunciation. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, the ladies gather in my living room for two hours of rigorous English lessons, aided greatly by a dry-erase board propped awkwardly on a chair and the complete fearlessness I display in the face of my own ignorance. So far we have covered most of the ABCs and almost the entire itsy-bitsy spider refrain. Next week I think I am going to teach them how to subjugate verbs and the importance of avoiding the dastardly dangling partynipple.

Only time will tell, but I think I have had a positive impact on their progression so far. In fact, at the end of each evening they seem loathe to leave--though I have to admit, it's possible they are just stuck to the couch.

Will Work for Scuba

2010-04-17T08:00:00.000-06:00

Nha Trang, Vietnam. There is something philosophically circuitous about deciding to settle down for a while in the town my father was stationed in when he served back in '67. So much has changed that I doubt he would recognize it at this point, but there is at least one remaining element that may strike a nostalgic chord--out here, everyone smokes. Men smoke, women smoke, little babies light up in their strollers. They smoke while driving, they smoke while walking, they smoke while eating, and I'm fairly certain that plume of smoke I observed emanating from the bathroom was not the outcome of a fiery bowl of noodle soup. Frankly, I'm thinking of taking up smoking full time if only for the benefit of adding a filter.

Still, that hasn't stopped me from deciding to stay. The diving has a way of getting under your skin out here--and I'm not referring to the nitrogen bubbles that cause decompression illness. Rainbow Divers made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Build a computer, install some software and mess around with their Web site, all in exchange for a free ride all the way up to Dive Master, with an Underwater Digital Photography Specialty.

This is exactly as confusing as it looks

Long story short, after a month or two of training I will learn all of the skills I need to be able to lead my own dives. All of which will take me that much closer to my life-long dream of being too lazy to ever consider opening a dive shop.

In the mean time, I work with the dive crew and get to go diving almost every day. We get up with the sun, head down to the storage facility, load the truck with air tanks and scuba gear, drive to the harbor, set up all the gear, then relax over a hot steaming bowl of spicy noodle soup (a few extra cents for a couple of hard-boiled quail eggs on top) until the customers arrive. We smile and chat while the boat pulls away from the harbor, then head to the front of the boat (the pointy bit, as they say) to be introduced properly, as the rest of the instructors cheer and clap and laugh where they are supposed to. It's a hoot.

The dive is done and I'm on the sun deck for the ride back to port. The wind is blowing through my hair. The sun makes short work of my soggy bones. The sea air is sharp and clear. All I need is my bottle of rum. Yo-ho, a diver's life for me.

Pork Lips Now!

2010-04-15T19:37:00.003-06:00

He was close. He was real close. I couldn't see him yet but I could feel him, as if the boat was being sucked up river and the water was flowing back to the jungle. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn't going to be the way they called it back in Nha Trang...

Everything I saw told me that Kurtz had gone insane.

Hmmm....maybe it was a mistake to have watched Apocalypse Now last night. The only thing I could presage heading into Nha Trang was that the ComSec colonel in charge wanted Willard to hunt me down and kill me. This did not bode well. It seemed my only chance was to roll in fast, guns blazing from the back of the Humvee. I'm not much for guns though, and the army stopped requisitioning Hummers back in '71, so I settled for screeching like a woman whilst riding in an air conditioned tourist bus. Nobody messed with me, that's for sure.

Back in real life, the United States used Nha Trang as a major base during the Vietnam War, stationing Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marine units there. In a bit of a strange twist, my father was actually stationed here back in '67. On odd Halloweens I would don his old gear harness and helmet. I remember the canteen water tasting bitter and metallic. Perhaps I should have rinsed it first.

Far from looking to billow the ghosts of the past, I came to Nha Trang for a far more hedonistic reason--world class scuba diving. Having been enticed by a few days of diving on Phu Quoc island, I was beginning to itch for another adventure deep water adventure. Nha Trang was clearly going to be the antidote, it being the premier diving spot along the whole of the Vietnamese coast.

I decided that it was time to advance my diving skills, so I signed up for my PADI Advanced Open Water Course with the leading dive outfit in the region, Rainbow Divers. The course was grand, the diving was superb, and the scenary--tourquise waters broken up by brilliant green islands--was stunning. I could see how a few days here could could easily stretch into a few months. Perhaps I'll stay for a while...

(Sigh) Gone in 60 Seconds

2010-04-04T02:51:00.001-06:00

Ho Chi Min City, Vietnam. At the conclusion of the Vietnam War, on April 30, 1975, the city of Saigon came under the direct control of the Vietnamese People's Army. Communism had won the day, plunging the American public into a troubling introspective period, dominated by heated debates over the implications of wielding overwhelming force against an enemy that, at best, could put a serious crimp on our import of fresh spring rolls. Many Americans, reeling from the emotional trauma wreaked by this unprecedented event, purportedly made the risky decision to look up "communism" in the dictionary. They were then left to ponder how a simple political theory and ideology that advocates holding the production of resources collectively compelled our government to sacrifice 58,000 of our fellow countrymen. On the plus side, we certainly got a few good movies out of it.

No matter. With the American War of Aggression (as it is referred to out here) at a close, Saigon was immediately re-dubbed Ho Chi Minh City and completely remastered in THX 5.1 Surround Sound. I spent a couple of days trolling down the crowded sidewalks and racing around the busy streets. I hate to admit it, but I really love weaving in and out of traffic at full tilt. Since there is so much congestion in the streets it's easy to squeeze between slow-rolling cars and keep pace with the mopeds. The locals seem to get a real kick out seeing me speed past. I get a lot of waves and smiles, though it's definitely possible they are just poking fun at the pale, sweat-soaked foreigner who thought it was a good idea to bike across a country whose humidity is so high that you could easily steam a lobster on the pavement.

Ho Chi Minh is a fairly standard Asian city otherwise, replete with skyscrapers, museums and landscaped parks--and it is completely overrun with coffee shops. If the idea of the local version of a Starbucks every thirty feet turns you off, don't visit Ho Chi Minh. In fact, stay out of Vietnam altogether. They have a cafe culture here, where dozens of joints vie for the opportunity to serve up the best ice-cold cup of black and bitter brew. Throw a little extra sugar into these small caffeine bombs and you start to get an idea why the streets run a bit like the Grand Prix. Unfortunately, coffee tends to knot my digestive system into a sheepshank, so I was more of a bench-warmer than an active participant.

The city was certainly pleasant. I enjoyed strolling the parks and visiting the various pagodas scattered amongst the multitude of shops. In many ways it is reminiscent of New York's Lower East Side, though with a whole lot less Jewish grandmothers. Reunification Palace, the site of the hand-over of power during the Fall of Saigon in 1975, is laden with historical significance yet burdened by unimpressive architecture. By far the most intriguing experience in Ho Chi Minh was a visit to the War Remnants Museum, which primarily contains relics of the American phase of the Vietnam War. In addition to devastating documentation on the deleterious effects of Agent Orange on the local foliage and population (it is still effecting births today), the museum contains a wealth of photos from hundreds of foreign journalists that most of us have likely never seen. If you were one of the people abhorred by the images of dead American soldiers being dragged through the streets of Mogadishu back in 1992, wondering what type of people would revel in such a horrific act, you may be disappointed to learn that we are those type of people. The stomach churning photos I witnessed of smiling American soldiers dragging mangled bodies behind tanks and Humvees were as disturbing as any war photos I have ever seen. The coup d'état was a grisly image of a smug and satisfied Marine proudly displaying the twisted, sinuous arm and lower trunk of a body obliterated by a rocket attack.

I am not at all trying to suggest that we did not suffer similar indignities, horror and personal devastation. War is a terrible thing. But the next time we think of sitting on our high moral horse, we may want to consider that we are far from the White Knights of justice we may like to think we are. In truth, the War Remnants museum is one of the best organized, referenced and compelling museums I have ever visited, and is definitely a must-see if visiting the region. Having spent a bit of time around the Vietnamese at this point, I cannot for the life of me fathom what compelled Curtis Emerson LeMay (General of the US Air Force and the vice presidential running mate of George Wallace in 1968), to emphatically state: "...we’re going to bomb them back into the Stone Age". I am eager to report that not only have the Vietnamese people weathered the storm of French imperialism followed by American intervention, but I have been completely charmed by this misunderstood and resilient country.

Come all Without, Come all Within / You'll Not See Nothing like the Mighty Mekong

2010-03-20T07:27:00.001-06:00

Mekong Delta, Vietnam. The labyrinthine arms of the mighty Mekong snake and course across a palm fringed landscape, creating the extensive network of small islands, fishing villages, cobbled bridges and ferries that constitute life on the river. My mental image of the Mekong Delta has been always been a bit fanciful, mostly comprised of scenes from random movies that are occasionally pierced by a Martin Sheen voice-over. So I was a bit discouraged when at first blush the Mekong Delta was so disappointing.

I am not sure if it was the massive shipping containers, the heavy industry dotting the shoreline or the profusion of irritable motorboats that first got my goat, but I am quite certain that watching people spill barrels of refuse directly into the river contributed to the foul taste in my mouth--well, that and the ashtray I mistook for my coffee mug during breakfast. I really have to stop getting up so early.

Something had to change. With my brother's trusty compass in hand, I oriented myself in the direction I desired to go, and went straight off the map. The good news is that the father I moved off the beaten trail, the more my mental image of the Mekong converged with reality. It turns out the Mekong was right there all along, and it has been wisely hidden from the greedy eyes of tourists and tour buses.

Trekky and I took to the back roads, the dirt and dust of uneven hard-pack filling our nostrils. With an eye out for Charlie (though everyone is named Nguyen) we pedaled through rural villages, past frustratingly green rice paddies, over wooden bridges, and straight into the heart of darkness--which, as it turns out, is quite sublime.

What experiences I had! No less than three people pulled up beside me and invited me to stop for a cup of coffee, a local black brew laced with sugar then dumped over ice. I chartered a wonderful trip on a skiff, wandering through narrow canals and backwater burgs to floating markets on the main arteries. In the town of Can Tho I watched a hundred kites take to the sky just before sunset--men, women, and children alike jockeying for position along a long riverfront roost.

But I am not one to just watch the action sail by. Which is why in Tra Vinh, when I spotted several youths hurtling themselves off a bridge into the river, I was easily enticed to join in. The assembled crowd cheered heartily as I stripped to my skivvies, stood precariously on the rail, and plunged without a moments hesitation. What fun. For an encore I raced a few teens across the river in a swim match, likely swallowed a few drops of river water that will burst from my stomach as a writhing alien three months hence, and jumped three more times into the fetid waters below. Not surprisingly, in all the excitement and hullabaloo none of my newfound friends remember to tell me that our actions--that of plunging off a narrow bridge thirty feet down into a busy shipping lane--were decidedly illegal. But I figured it out real quick when a quick shout of P'leet! Ph'leash! sent everyone scattering like cockroaches.

The two motorcycle cops thankfully ignored me as they chased away my pals, and I couldn't help but laugh as I buttoned up my shirt, still soaking wet, and pedaled off into the sunset towards my guesthouse. There was no doubt about it, I had fallen in love with the Mekong Delta.

They So Horny

2010-03-15T02:19:00.004-06:00

Mekong Delta, Vietnam. There is no doubt about it, the Vietnamese are an incredibly horny bunch. I never thought I would say this, but enough is enough. I can certainly understand being horny from time to time. I'm human. We all get worked up every now and again. But when a man is simply standing on the side of the road, minding his own business, and suddenly--Blaaaaaaaaaatttttttt!!!!

Generally speaking I keep to the shoulder when riding if it's a major road. It's the safest place to be, but--honnnnnnkkkkkkkkk!!!! Seriously? There has to be twenty feet between us and no one is coming the other way. So, like I was saying, there comes a time when--blahalbhalhattt!!!! Dear Christ, Buddha, Vishnu and Zeus! Some of the vehicles out here have special horns, like getting a custom ring for your cell phone.

In Vietnam the horn is not a warning device so much as an announcement that you are the owner of vehicle. As such, it is of the utmost importance that you let everyone in the world know when you are driving one. It does not matter if everyone can clearly see and hear your vehicle coming. It does not matter if there are three lanes and two of them are empty. You must get horny on everyone's ass. Honk when you see children, honk at curves in the road, honk going over bridges, honk at people having coffee at cafes near the side of the side of the road, and definitely, if you at all value your license--what do you mean they don't have licenses in Vietnam?--honk at every last strand of rice you see growing in the fields. It helps them grow, like playing Vivaldi to your rose bushes.

Admittedly, traffic in these small towns is almost perverse in its intensity, so warning people of certain approach trajectories has some validity. It's still safer than walking around here. It is oddly preferable to be cycling down the street in this morass than crossing it on foot. In fact the only way to cross the streets out here is to summon enough courage to literally step into oncoming traffic, then quickly judge the momentary gaps in the onslaught of mopeds. The slightest crack between them can mean another step forward. I often find myself standing right in the middle of the lane, mopeds zipping past me on both sides, waiting until another gap opens up. It's kind of fun, actually. A bit like a real-life game of Frogger, only as far as I understand it, you only have one life. Here's to all you children of the 80s:

Froggy takes one step at a time, the way that he moves has no reason or rhyme. There's snakes and insects, otters and things, sometimes I wish froggy had wings. Go.........Go Froggy Go.

Pluck that Magic Twanger, Froggy

The Island of Expat Moreau

2010-03-13T04:26:00.000-07:00

Rabbit Island, Cambodia. I may have mentioned in a previous post that some expats have a peculiar way of detaching themselves from their country of origin. Some adopt local custom and dress, others crack wise at the expense of their own countrymen, many spend their lives at the bar, wistfully plowing their way through luke-warm local draft, drunkenly reminiscing about the time they met Jack Dempsey, or at least they think it was Jack Dempsey (they were drunk). Stretching the bounds of reality lies a lessor known breed of expat, as rare and evasive as an objective Fox News report--the Island Castaway Expat.

A few miles off the Cambodian coast lies a tropical stretch of sand and swaying palms known as Koh Tonsay. Rabbit Island, as us white folks call it, is not named not for its indigenous wildlife, but rather for its shape, which, when viewed overhead, looks exactly like someone stuffed a rabbit into a tortoise shell and then smashed it with a mallet. Cambodian's have an imagination rivaled only by the Greeks. Sagittarius "The Archer", my ass. Good luck connecting those dots.

When people yearn for a real-life tropical escape, this is it. Completely uninhabited, save a small population of local fisherman, Rabbit Island consists of a 2km sandy white beach, warm turquoise waters, and perhaps four dozen rustic bamboo bungalows. That's it. No dock, no cruise ships, no tourist buses, no travelers, no showers. Nothing but hammocks, coconuts, and the shopping bags full of alcohol we brought. "We" being the group of blokes I met back at Bodhi Villa in our last installment.

This was paradise, if one keeps in perspective that the biblical description of Eden makes no mention of flushable toilets. Upon our arrival we hopped off the boat into the knee-deep waters and trundled up the shore to our new home. The bungalows were completely homogenous, save one, a peculiar outpost that at first glance looked like a small shop. In place of the beige bamboo, there was colorful splash of red and blue. Instead of the customary knitted hammock, there was a mattress swinging between two trees. In lieue of a front wall, there was an array of buffed and painted seashells suspended between a few cross beams. And instead of a young traveler, there was Peter, a sixty-something, chrome domed, bespectacled Brit with a small chest and a large gut, playing a flute recorder next to his friend Yvan, a thin, wiry Slovakian with a shock of wild grey hair, who was busy rolling a joint the size of a Cuban cigar.

A half dozen coconut husks, painted silver and gold, dangled from a horizontal pole in front of the mysterious bungalow. After settling in I went and had a chat with our new neighbor. Peter explained that after toiling away in England's public works for the better part of a century he wanted to spend his retirement "away from the riff-raff". He hired a local women to cook in his little hut, then went about decorating the place. He had been there for six months, and lamented that he needed to fly back to England "for my grandkid's birthday or something. You know, family and things like that". Yvan, his friend, was "ex-KGB, aren't you Yvan? Ha! HA!". Every now and again Peter would abrubtly stand up, race down his coconut line, and spin each husk wildly, the small planets hurling off their insectezoid denizens in every direction. At night, when combined with the flashing lights he had installed both in his open-front bungalow and in the trees behind it, he had the islands sole tropical disco. With his big gut and perfectly bald head, he was Marlon Brando, larger than life.

As for me, I splashed in the bathtub temperature waters, circumnavigated the island on foot, drank too much liquor, played a few card games and lounged in a hammock for the better part of two days. A guy could get used to a life like this. But there was still so much more to see. Vietnam beckoned on the horizon. The Mekong Delta was calling. I'm just about ready to answer.

Children of the Random Contraption

2010-03-11T04:11:00.000-07:00

Kampot, Cambodia. There was still nothing to do in Kampot, so I switched to a new guesthouse to spice things up. I'm glad I did. The prior evening I had met an interesting (i.e. few sandwiches short of a picnic), expat who claimed he would be harmonizing at Bodhi Villa the next night, along with a few other local musicians. As an expat, he immediately lay claim to intellectual superiority through such supposedly biting comments as "Hah, you are such an American" and "Here in Cambodia..." refrains. How droll.

He continued to get to know me by condescendingly injecting purportedly "important" book titles into the conversation, starting with Guns, Germs, and Steel. Imagine his surprise when I asked if he had read Jared Diamond's follow up, Collapse. All of a sudden I was interesting. We spent the next hour talking about Howard Zinn, Naomi Klein and Noam Chomsky, all of which made him no less of a douchebag. Though I have to admit, he was certainly a well-read douchebag. Still, this did not dissuade me from moving to Bodhi Villa come morning.

I wished I had found Bodhi Villa earlier. Located 2km out of town, it was in another universe. Set in a lush garden abutting the river, several open front bungalows sat just behind the main reception area (i.e. fully-stocked bar) which opened up to a beautiful veradana and dock. For an extra touch of excitement they had constructed a 15 ft high diving platform which consisted of two x-beams supporting a long, wobbly wooden board that extended twenty feet over the river. If you managed not to lose your balance while trundling to the edge, you could throw yourself headlong into the river with wild abandon, like a salmon.

I met a ton of people at the party that night. My expat "friend" turned out to be a violin player, of all things. He was joined by two acoustic guitarists and another expat with an accordian. I immediately began to suspect that they were intentionally deported. As it turned out, the music was quite good and I met a few English blokes, a trio of Irishman, and a few Americans, all of whom, amazingly, despite their various cultures, professions and unintelligible accents, enjoy drinking heavily. I know, I was shocked too.

I enjoyed the company of my new mates, so I asked if they might consider a minor adventure the following afternoon. Despite the hooks of a late day hangover I managed to convine a handful of them to join me in a 6km ride to some caves located on the edge of town. Having misunderestimated the amount of time it would take to wrangle such a group, we didn't leave the parking lot until around 4:30pm. The sun sets fairly promptly around six so I didn't think it was going to be a problem.
The timing of the ride was perfect. School was just letting out. We were soon surround my dozens of giggling children, all shouting a cacophonous Hello! in a non-stop chorus. They chatted with us, they slowed and took pictures, and at one point I raced a kid who had another kid sitting on his bike rack. I would like to say that I let him win, so I will just say, "I let him win".

A small brigade of children led us right to the entrance of the cave, located in the center of a small village along a dusty, pot-holed dirt road. The brigade soon became an army led by a general, as an older gentlemen took the reigns and led us inside. We entered an absolutely stunning antichamber, where sheer rock faces climbed 100 ft overhead and opened partially to the sky, save a massive boulder that had collapsed across the opening. It was brilliant, so we headed father in.

Flashlights were lit all around us and the children became fireflies in the dark. Mind your head! Mind your head! they repeated ad naseum. They pointed the lights at the floor behind them, so we, the tourists, could find our way. These kids, barefoot, and most no older than ten, were as sure-footed as mountain goats in the dim passageways. I love caves, so I soon found myself scrambling where my new mates dared not follow. My guideling, however, was right there by my side. I scrunched, squatted, crawled and wedged myself in a nice crevasse that opened up into the main chamber, my head dangling out of a hole 30 ft up the wall, an unmounted hunting trophy.

We spent another 40 minutes racing around the cave before indicating we needed to get going before the sun set. Instead of leading us back out, they led deeper into the cave until we hit a dead end. A large shaft of light cracked through the ceiling about 60 ft off the deck. There was only one way out--up. The kids started the train. Mind your head! Mind your head! they continued as they pointed out each and every handhold, assisted to by nicely placed vine that crawled up the wall towards the light, towards air. It was exhilirating. We finished our jaunt back down to the bikes, crossing a ridge that looked down over the entire village as the sun was setting. It was a stunning sight.

The sun was nearly snuffed so we thanked our army of guides, passed them a few dollars each, then sped off towards home. We were filthy, exhausted and happy. As we pedaled back, discussing our good fortune, we spied three children dangling from a large, intricate see-saw style metal contraption that rose twenty feet in the air. Helllloooo!!!! they all chanted in unison. I cannot yet say what prompted my oddly phrased response: "Hello, my Children of the Random Contraption!". We all had a good laugh, and as we continued to pedal, I promised I would make that the title of my next blog. I am a man of my word.

The House on Bokor Hill

2010-03-10T04:06:00.003-07:00

Kampot, Cambodia. The riverside town of Kampot is nothing to write home about. Decrepit French colonial homes rust and crumble along the crowded lanes, several parts of town are under heavy construction, and the main tourist attraction is a river bridge that is unnervingly composed of several various bridge segments from around Cambodia. Imagine, if you would, a man who decides to defend his doctoral dissertation in civil engineering by arguing that the ultimate suspension design would be attained by first razing, then haphazardly gluing together whatever twisted steel and concrete could be salvaged from the remains of the Brooklyn, Golden Gate, and Tower Bridges. Yet despite all of this, in a plot twist that would never pass even the most lenient of Writer's Guild critiques, deep in the heart of southern Cambodia, along this lazy
river, lies a small, ramshackle eatery known as the Keyhole that can lay claim to the best BBQ ribs this side of Texas. No foolin'

The real reason to stop in Kampot, besides the succulent pork, is its proximity to Bokor National Park, a 1500 sq km stretch of primary forest at the edge of town. Bokor is home to a wide array of elusive wildlife, including tigers, black bears and the warbling yellow-bellied sapsucker. Unicorns, too. That's all well and good, but the real reason to visit is to explore the creepy, abandoned town known as Bokor Hill Station. Built by the French in 1921, and located 3540 feet from sea-level at the apex of a treacherous 32km rock road, some 900 lives were lost during its initial nine-month construction--proving once and for all that the French are ingeniously stupid people. Abandoned in the 1940s during the First Indochina War and then
for good in 1972 when the Khmer Rouge chose the church roof as the ideal location for their anti-aircraft missile defense (Pslams 5:27-28 And the Lord did launcheth his magic missiles across the skies, and his enemies did explodeth like party favors) , the Bokor Hill Station is now home to a dozen bullet-riddled structures in various states of collapse. Fun.

I had intended to rent a moto and take myself to the top, but the road had recently been leased by the government to the Sokimex oil company for the next 99 years, who are in midst of rebuilding it. That left one option, a tour and a hike. Normally I am not particularly fond of tours but I lucked out with a great group of travelers. We started our ascent at 8:30 in the morning, with an unconventional if interesting briefing from our tour guide, a 55 year old Khmer who informed us, rather nonchalantly, that his entire family was killed by the Khmer Rouge, that he lived in the hills alone for three years, that he was then captured and conscripted into the Vietnamese army to fight the Khmer Rouge, planted thousands of land mines, killed dozens of his own countrymen, fought the Khmer Rouge at the Hill Station, felt stupid for betraying his countrymen, escaped back to Cambodia, then spent the next five years digging up the landmines he buried. Now he's a tour guide. At one point we stopped at a relatively dry waterfall, but that didn't stop him from stripping to his skivvies and splashing around in a pool of fetid water, giggling as if he had just met Santa Claus. I found him rather delightful.

Nothing could have prepared me for the vertical climb we encountered. Over the course of the next three hours we walked straight up hill in 93 degree heat, often clambering over rocks and through sandy dry washes. We had our first official dropout about 45 minutes in, followed by our first vomiting from overexertion about 20 minutes later. Thank god I have been biking so much over the last month. Mercifully, we ascended to a stretch of road where a beat up lorry was waiting to take us the last 10km up the hill. As we rounded the final curves over the ass-bumping road we caught sight of the Hill Station.

As if on cue, the clear sky began to cloud over. Waves of mist raced up the steep canyon walls and curled over the ridge around the shattered facades. It was fast becoming a horror movie set. I split from the group to explore the expanse privately. The main attraction, The Bokor Palace, was once an old hotel and casino. Green moss and orange lichen gripped the walls amidst blocks of crumbled stone and collapsed doorways. Broken glass littered the window sills, where a few small panes of thick glass still managed to survive. Tiled
bathrooms were ripped up and rotten. Stains of various degrees and colors bled down every wall.The temperature was at least 20 degrees cooler up here and a light wind howled through the bullet holes in the
walls. At one point the clouds literally began pouring through the windows. Calling it atmospheric would be a bit like calling War and Peace a childhood bedtime story.

I flicked on my headlamp and managed to find an intact staircase. Four floors later I was on the roof. The world had disappeared beneath the clouds. Visibility had dropped to less than ten feet. I could not see another building, another person. I was alone on the roof of the world and it was disintegrating beneath my feet. The day was perfect. I was so elated that on the hike back down, another three hour jaunt, I took to jumping and running part of the way. Several of us sped down as if possessed. Perhaps we were. If anyone
knows of a good knee surgeon, I may need a bit of fine tuning when I get back home.Cheers.

I Pedal On...

2010-03-08T07:54:00.000-07:00

The Road, Cambodia. My alarm goes off at 5:45 in the morning but the roosters beat it to the punch again. A sliver of sun has lazily peeked over the horizon, billowing pastel sheets across the dusky fields. The air desperately clings to the last brittle coolness of midnight, held tight in cottony layers of humidity. Within a few hours the sun will squeeze the mercury to a towering 96 degrees. I mindlessly throw on shorts, button a shirt, zip a security pocket. Within 15 minutes my bags are secured to my bike, and a thin layer of sweat is threatening to break over my brow. As I begin to pedal, the still crisp air breathes relief across my entire body. I'm on the road.

Life starts early in Cambodia. Women busy themselves setting up shop for the day, men zip by on mopeds, mobs of children bicycle to school. We all busy ourselves at first light, trying to outrun the zenith that will knock us flat on our backs, victims of the sun's fiery madness. I am leaving the beach-side town of Sihanoukville, pedaling up massive hills shaded by coconut palms, racing down the spines at 45km/hr. The wind in my face is a glorious reward. It is 6:30am. I pedal on.

Saffron-robed monks, a pair of them, walk slowly down the lane of a peaceful village, an alms bowl tucked carefully under the crook of one arm. The younger, the student, holds an umbrella over his master's head. A women hands the apprentice some food, then kneels and genuflects in the dirt for a benediction. It is 7:00am. I pedal on.

Mopeds and motorcycles zip around me, carefully cradling the days wares for the markets. I dodge around a clucking moto, dozens of live chickens dangling by their feet, secured by two perpendicular crossbeams that mimic a hanging glass rack. An oinking pig-moto cuts around my feet, the massive five-foot hog tied across the rack like a piece of luggage. A goose-cycle zips by, pulling wide to stop the barrel-shaped wicker tube from hooking my clothing, dozens of quacking duck heads poking through the slats.  It is 7:30am. I pedal on.

After two hours I need a break. Every small town has a few places sporting plastic tables and chairs set under a sun shade, a sure sign of food. Some mornings I have to big through a few villages before I find what I am looking for. Ah, there it is. A large pot and a half dozen men. I pull up on my bike amidst disbelieving stares and curious smiles. Chatter and laughter erupt without fail. I bumble my way through ordering some breakfast--samlor, rice noodle soup. Now start the questions. Where from? What your name? Where go? More disbelief, more laughter. My food arrives. Six men quickly push a dozen different condiments towards me. I better put them in. Lime, sugar, fermented fish sauce, hot peppers, salt, and cardamom, I think. The flavors mercifully fuse. It is delicious. More laughter. More questions. We smile and nod a lot. I am stuffed. A man takes my picture with his cell phone. We all laugh at the silly white man. It's 9:00am. I pedal on.

Little children, naked and filthy, splash down together in muddy ponds and streams. They giggle and scream until they notice me. Then it starts. Hello!!! The dam has broken, and they all come pouring out of the woodwork. Hello! HELLO!!!! HeLoHELLOHelo! Good BYe! They never ask for the anything. They never chase. They are proper. They sound desperate and pleading. I have to respond. I must. I do. Hello! HELLO!!!! HeLoHELLOHelo! Good BYe! they immediately reply, waving madly. I pull away but it is no avail. It carries over the wind, it bends around trees, it makes its way to your ears. 'ellllllllllllllloooooooo!
It's 9:30am. I pedal on.

The road is a river, its asphalt stream carrying me past thatch homes, wooden vending shacks, wild dogs, brilliant palm trees, verdant rice paddies, muddy oxen, snickering women, toothless old men, rotten-sweet-sour-spicy-fetid-sweaty smells, garbage, dust, filth, decay, delighted children, and smiling, bemused adults.
I see them all. They see me too. Sometimes the river is rough, sometimes the river is smooth, and sometimes the river dries up completely. But through it all, I pedal on.

Lipstick, Eyeliner and a Hint of Khmer Rouge

2010-03-01T07:31:00.007-07:00

Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Once known as the "Pearl of Asia", Phnom Penh was considered one of the loveliest of French-built cities in Indochina. That was back in the 1920s though, when women were "dames" and men still spouted misogynistic anachronisms, like "dames". It may be time for a new moniker, one that is more reflective of the times. Nowadays, perhaps something along the lines of "Zirconium of Middlingville" might be more apropos.

It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with Phnom Pehn, its just that it doesn't really have that much going for it either. I trekked around most of the city and can say with absolute certainty that the addition of one more shop selling mobile phone cards, various auto parts, rows of soap and imported Chinese candy--the very same thing available at 763 shops across the city--may very well tip the tide in favor of supply over demand. Much more Friedman than Keynes if you ask me, but sans the strong-arm dictator to keep people in line. But I'm no economic theorist, so perhaps there is some grand design that eludes me. I bought some soap.

At one point I crossed an imaginary boundary and was in a different city. It was still Phnom Pehn but the zirconium had been spit-polished to a sparkly shine. A narrow corridor in the northern section of town is home to upscale hotels, posh restaurants and the grounds of the Royal Palace, containing a few really nice temples and some beautiful gardens. Walk a block out of the corridor and you're right back in the ring, paying city prices for a mirthless open-air garage sale.

Lets move onto something a bit more cheery, shall we? Genocide. It was all the rage back in Cambodia in the late 70s. Most of you have probably heard of Pol Pot, a dastardly fellow with big teeth and a fat bottom lip who executed approximately 1.6 million of his own countrymen. Pol Pot was the leader of the Cambodian Communist movement known colloquially as the Khmer Rouge, which, despite the evincing name, had nothing to do with powdering one's face. Mr. Pot and friends thought it would be a real hoot to revert to an agrarian society post-haste, so they evacuated the city centers, abolished money, religion, foreign languages and good cheer, and sent everyone to the countryside to farm rice. Lots of rice.

Phnom Pehn is home to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, a one-time High School that was converted into a prison and torture facility, temporarily housing thousands of unfortunate souls until they were sent to Choeung Ek, the infamous Killing Fields. I visited both Tuol Sleng and Choeung Ek to get a deeper understanding of the conflict and its aftermath. Though important memorials both, they seemed to be lacking in both real gravitas or enlightening information. One sign in Choeung Ek declared the Pol Pot regime to "be the most worst even than the atrocities of Hitler" in their depravity. Having previously visited the concentration camps in Poland, all I can state is that the death toll during the Cambodian atrocity was not nearly as high nor was as coldly "production-oriented" in its methods. Tough call, comparing genocides. I'll leave that one for the historians. Undoubtedly some people reading this will find my glib attitude towards genocide rather distasteful, which is why I propose we round all of those people up and bludgeon them to death with this.

Angkor Hot

2010-02-28T06:01:00.007-07:00

Temples of Angkor, Cambodia. I got up before dawn and cycled the 7km to the gate entrance, hoping to beat the crowds when I arrived, a smidgen past six. Despite the early hour, it was already hot and muggy. Sweat dripped down my face in streams, pooling together at my collarbone to form a river down my chest. Ugh. Damn, it's hot out here.

Still, I was excited to catch a silent sunrise at Angkor Wat. It would not be an exaggeration to state that I was stunned from the moment I walked through the main gate. Not by the temple, no, it was still rather dusky out---it was the hundreds of people already spread out across the expansive courtyard waiting for the sun to crest the temple's grand triple stupas. I was speechless, which may have been moot given the fact that I am traveling solo, but still. Angkor Wat had become a zoo, the lion pen at the center of the park, replete with food and drink vendors lining the entire northern wall. And, to add insult to injury, part of the main structure was obscured by scaffolding, part of a restoration project meant to keep the temples from collapsing on all of the tourists. Pish-posh, I say.

The only saving grace to this unexpected first impression was that people seemed somewhat unfamiliar with how the sun works. Let me explain. Like many, I have observed that the sun typically rises in the east and sets in the west. Pretty simple, right? Now, on this fine morning, east happened to be behind the stupas, leaving hundreds of people waiting to take a back-lit photograph of three lumpy, dark shadows. Hmmm.

Using all the powers of deductive reasoning I've honed selling deep fryers and potato ricers online, I went around the main entryway to see if anyone had mowed the backyard. Nope, just me and three other people. Amazing. The sun rose in its typical brilliant fashion, painting deep orange hues across the backside of the temple. I sat quietly on the lip of a boundary wall for 30 minutes and got some great shots.

The interior of the temple, though a bit crowded, was still worth it. Detailed bas reliefs lined dozens of walls, intricate carvings grace the inside of nearly every doorway and column, stone buddas, goddesses, and naga encircle dozens of massive stupas.

The most famous of the bas reliefs, covering three-quarters of the outer wall around the central courtyard, is known as the Ocean of Milk, but tastes a lot more like eight centuries worth of dust, lichen and bat guano when you lick it. Even licking it and then biting into a chocolate chip cookie didn't help. Blecch.

One could spend days lost in this wonderland. I got tired after a few hours and went home to take a nap. Angkor Wat takes a lot out of you. Next, it's on to the capitol, Phnom Penh.

The Shilling Fields

2010-02-26T06:16:00.001-07:00

Siem Reap, Cambodia. After three days of slogging through the heat across Route 4, I elatedly, if not belatedly, arrived at my new base camp. Sitting at the foot of one of the world's greatest treasures--the wallets of foreign tourists--Siem Reap is also home to a slightly less well known archaelogical wonder: The Temples of Ankor. Welcome to the The Shilling Fields.

What a difference a day makes. After casually pedaling past laid-back villages, rice paddies and a wide assortment of extras from The Road Warrior, I was a bit taken aback by Siem Reap, a town with enough louts, touts and bumbling tourists to start its own traveling circus. Apparently realizing the draw that crumbly bits of rock has on foreigners, massive hotels have sprung up like proverbial weeds from every nook at cranny. You can't walk five feet without running into a new spa, gourmet bistro or the army of tuk-tuk drivers ready to carry the populace of Siem Reap to Vietnam for a bargain price. It felt a bit as if an exterminator had helped rid a house of an infestation by lovingly carrying the invader's insidious brood to several new areas of the home, then ladled a heaping dollop of jelly next to each clutch.

No matter, I was going to make the most of it. I purchased a three day pass to the temple complex so that I could explore at leisure. I was excited. Angkor Wat. The very name itself seemed laden with historical significance or at least dangerous electrical currents--either way, I was set. Like many, I had not realized that the temple complex was so massive, housing dozens of lesser known temples. I decided to spend my first day circling what is known as the Grand Tour, a road that carried me a full 21 kilometers around the outer temple ring. Starting out at Banteay Kdei, I was immediately set upon by an unexpectedly formidable foe--little girls who learned English from tourists.

They looked like normal little girls, with their bright smiling faces, joyful giggling and souls forged in the fiery flames of hell. As I said, normal little girls. They approached me like jackals. Jackals who learned English by watching Titanic and Terminator 2. Buy a scarf for your girlfriend? No, thanks. Then buy scarf for your mother, she loves you. No, really. I'm on a bicycle and can't carry anything. Oh, my gawd! Look see, the scarf, it's very light. No problem to carry (she drapes it over my arm). It's a good color. I really don't need a scarf, thanks (I drape it back over her shoulder). It looks better on you, matches your eyes. (Big pout now on face) Oh, MY gawd! Nooo, not my color. Pink is my color. See? (She points out the pink in her outfit). You buy painting instead? No, no paintings. Like I said, I'm on a bike. Ohh, my gawwd! I know you are on bicycle. You are very strong (grabs my bicep). We can roll up paintings, very small. You can carry. Did you paint them? If you painted them then maybe I buy one (I say sarcastically). OhMYgawd, of course I paint them! What, you don't believe? You paint me one right now and I'll buy it. (Smirk on face) Ok, I did not paint (laughs). OhMyGawwd! (At this point I'm laughing out loud) You will come and look again on your way back out, yes? Maybe (I laughed, entering the gateway). Hasta la vista, Bay-Bee! (she giggled and waved)......Did I mention this girl was only seven years old?

The Temple was spectacular, as were Ta Sahm, Neak Pean, and my favorite, Preah Kahn, a tumbled wreck of partially collapsed structures that created a fun maze of broken passageways, fluttering bats, and trees growing right through the cracks of the walls, slowly destroying everything in their stretch towards the sun. I decided to save the heavy hitters--Ta Prom, Ankor Thom, and the mother of all temples, Ankor Wat--for the next day. As for that little girl, she was waiting for me as soon as I came back out. You said maybe!

We sparred for another ten minutes but in the end I prevailed. At least I think. I didn't walk away with any painting or scarves but she was so entertaining that I gave her a few bucks for effort. Oh....My.....Gawd.

Baby (Nearly) on Board

2010-02-23T06:44:00.001-07:00

Sisophon, Cambodia. Border crossings are never a fun experience. You wait in long lines, act like you know what you are doing, then carefully observe the people in front of you to see what they do. When they wind up buck-naked with their body cavity's being search without lubricant, you make certain to not do whatever they did.

The Cambodian border crossing was relatively uneventful, if a bit dull. Now the border town you end up in, that that is a whole other story--just not one for this blog. But suffice to say, it is a series of Cambodian gambling saloons.

Cambodia is a bit more rough and rugged than Thailand, so it was a more interesting experience biking down the only fully paved highway in the country. Massive stone entryways beheld long dirt roads that run deep into the countryside. Thatch houses line the corridors, many built on stilts--a holdover from days when homes were bit directly on flood planes. Chicken run wild through the dust and across the road, occasionally taking care of that whole pesky slaughtering problem in the process.

The vehicles are bit more rugged as well. My favorite are the family motos, small scooters that often have an entire family sitting on them. The positioning of children is where the action is at. If the child is still an infant, Mommy usually just slings her under an armpit off the side; if the child is, say, old enough to sit upright, then perhaps they are lucky enough be sitting on a sack where the drivers legs normally go, and using their new sitting-upright powers to lean against the front of the moto with small, stick hands; from three and up, kids usually get wedged like slices of pepperoni between their parents. It would appear that Brittany Spears is not quite the villain we have made her out to be.

Cambodians are some of the friendliest people I have ever met, and Trekky has already afforded me some completely unique experiences. As I was biking to Siem Reap, a young man on a moto slowed down to talk to me. He implored me to come with him to his village, just a bit off the road. We chatted a bit, and he didn't seem like the murder-and-eat-you type, so I went with my gut and agreed. While still driving, he took my hand and accelerated up to 35km/hr. Fun, but not recommended for those with worrisome mothers. After a few minutes we veered through one of the gates, and I resumed pedaling on the soft dirt until we arrived at his village.

What happened next was simply remarkable. He invited me into his thatch hut, which was soon surrounded by villagers, both young and old alike. He wanted to read me passages in English from a Khmer-to-English study book he had received, and have me correct his pronunciation in front of his friends and family. The pride on his face was astonishing. Ta cat climmed up da tee. Children laughed and giggled, old women cackled and asked if I had a good women (which I do), and I pulled out my maps to show them where we were. Those who question why I go on these trips, this here is the reason. It was a once in a lifetime experience and I am lucky to have had it. Having firmly bonded, we bowed our heads in acknowledgment, then assaulted and ate a different cyclist instead. Welcome to Cambodia.

Horton Nears a Jew

2010-02-17T04:11:00.003-07:00

Pak Chong, Thailand. The road to Pak Chong is surprisingly steep. I had been led to believe that most of southern and central Thailand, much like Twiggy Lawson, was completely flat. Trekky and I weren't quite prepared for that sort of climb so early in our relationship. Oh right, Trekky. I almost forgot. I did mention that I bought a Trek 4300 mountain bike and a couple of panniers so I could bike out of Bangkok, right? Good, I wanted to make sure we were up to speed.

As I was saying, I was quite exhausted by the time we made it to Pak Chong. Saddle sore doesn't even begin to describe the volcanic welt that has formed round my bottom. But the destination was worth it. Pak Chong is only a stone's thow away from Kho Yai National Park, a largely unexplored patch of virgin rainforest. There were several areas of deflowered rainforest but I don't go for those types of shenanegins.

Kho Yai only has a handful of trails, three to be exact, and to be frank, I am not sure I could have found my way around without a guide. Trailbuilding must be a bit down on the priority list in Thailand. So, we a small group from my guesthouse we set out with an eagle-eyed guide and a 60X magnification monocular scope. Right from the start we were rewarded with a wonderful sight, a trio of rare gibbons, a species of ape that almost never touches the forest floor. According to Wikipedia:

Gibbons are masters of their primary mode of locomotion, brachiation, swinging from branch to branch for distances of up to 15 m (50 ft), at speeds as high as 56 km/h (35 mph). They can also make leaps of up to 8 m (26 ft), and walk bipedally with their arms raised for balance. They are the fastest and most agile of all tree-dwelling, non-flying mammals.

And you should see them fling poo. Halfway through our walk we encountered a massive, twisting, 50-meter strangler fig. Strangler figs are unique in that their roots grow downwards from atop a host-tree, sometimes strangling them to death and leaving a hollow core, as was the case with this specimen. A series of thick, wooden tendrils climbed up into the sky, and since I was dared, and no one care ever say no to a dare, I climbed about fifty feet off the forest floor into the tangled canopy. What a rush.

There was so much to take in. The roads were literally crawling with troops of macaque monkeys. Cars would zip around them as if they were simple pests. Very odd. Our pièce de résistance was yet to come.

Hey, uh....could we get a ride to the market?

Just as we were getting to leave, luck grabbed us by the trunk--a long elephantine trunk. Two wild elephants came rumbling out of the forest, seemingly from now where, and began to forage around the edge of the right. Our guide dropped the back door of the flat-bed, and I joined him with our legs hanging over the edge, cameras at the ready. We we no more than 15 feet from 1500 tons of elephants. It wasn't until one turned towards us and made to charge that our hearts leapt in our throats. Our guide yelled at the driver, who floored it. Luckily the elephant backed off. We spent another half hour watching them, majestic yet massive beasts. As we began the long ride home, I asked if the guide if he had ever been charged by an elephant before. Yes, he said. "This new car. Old car..", he paused and slapped his hands together, "like pancake!". His laughter took us the rest of the way home.

Oh, an eleph....I mean, AHHHHHH!!!!

It's the...Year of the Tiger, It's the Thrill of the Fight

2010-02-14T03:22:00.004-07:00

Khorat, Thailand. In America, February 14th might be celebrated with candy hearts, cupid's arrows and legal reminders to remain at least 150 yards away at all times, but here in Thailand this Hallmark holiday kicked off an event of significantly more epic proportions. That's right, Chinese New Year.

Chinese New Year differs from American New Year in at least one key way: our New Year, with its champagne flutes, midnight kiss and firecrackers, is about as lame and doddering as Dick Clark on barbitu....actually, just Dick Clark. CNY on the other hand, is a bit like watching Cirque Du Soleil orgasm in the middle of a town square with thousands of people cheering it on.

Let me back up a bit. Trekky and I arrived in town late on the 14th. Honestly, I didn't even realize it was it was a holiday until I inadvertantly walked into the center of town looking for some dinner. What awaited me was a spectacle the like of which I had never seen. At the far end of the long promenade, a movie screen was erected to play showings of classic kung fu movies. Next came the food vendors. Row upon row of foods that cannot possibly be pronounced using the English language. I ate several things that crunched, squished and squirted, all to my delight. In the center of the promenade was where the real action took place. The Story of the Dragons.

Ï'm sorry...are you a dragon? No? Then shut the eff up".

From what little I could gleen, two great dragons--each brought to life by a dozen able young men, lit with a thousand glowing bulbs--got pissed at some jackholes who threatened a young girl.

I am so pissed at those jackholes right now"

The dragons got all vengeful and stuff, and began a rampage that could not be stopped--that is, until five men dressed like they leapt from World-of-Warcraft came flying out of the sky with giant swords and plunged them into the dragon. This should have worked, except that real fireworks were shooting from the dragons mouth right at the men, and they soon retreated.

Nothing can be said to improve this picture

A hero needed to be called. The men puppeteering this lengthy serpent next ascended and spiraled the dragon around a sinewy pole, so it could achieve its aim of becoming a 30-foot tall helix of glowing, fire-works spewing death. Oh yeah, and some guy dressed like a hero swung up on another pole, bashing the dragon on the head until it died (that little dude on the stick). Maybe. I think. It was all very confusing.

Finally, the stage erupted in a show of massive fireworks, dancing dragons, beautiful women, a level 70 Tauren Druid and, of course, Dick Clark. It was awe-inspiring. There was a whole lot more but a picture is worth at least 280 more words in this case. Wait until you see the video.

Chinese New Year: 1 American New Year: 0

Shampoo is for Sissies

2010-02-10T02:03:00.003-07:00

Ayuthaya, Thailand. At first glance, one may not realize that I have thick, luscious locks of curly hair. If it weren't for a relatively tight crop and the wonder of modern-day hair jellies, what with their industrial holding powers, smooth finish and delightful aromas, I would not be the dashing, slick-backed young man I am today.

Wait a minute? Why would I do this to my hand? Hmmm.

Unfortunately, getting a decent hair-care product in rural Thailand was proving to be difficult, at least one that didn't make me smell like a salted cod. The hot and heavy humidity out here had curled my hair fierce and angry, like a persian cat in heat. So I did what any self-respecting traveler who has been hanging around monks for a while would do--I lopped it off. It's amazing how something that takes months and months to grow can be removed in less than six seconds.

Better question: why would I do this to my head?

It's about 20 degrees cooler now, and I have a big enough pile of hair to send to one lucky, old-school German grandmother. My new, sleek design was going to come in handy though. I could tell. It must be time to roll. I can feel it in the air, over the globe of my hull-free coconut.

Oh my. What have I done?

Tuk, Tuk, Goosed!

2010-02-07T07:40:00.006-07:00

There is a scene in Ong Bak:The Thai Warrior, that fitfully demonstrates the superior handling, tight cornering and overall maneuverability that defines the TukTuk experience. Despite the seemingly contradictory nature of this statement, I can personally attest that TukTuks are much, much, less safer than that video shows.

Fortunately, they are the predominant form of transportation here in Bangkok. But don't worry Mom, I wouldn't take such a serious travel risk when there is a much better option available.

Pictured: A much better option.

They typically have an extra helmet stashed away, though I am not even going to try and guess where. They sometimes fit, too.

Not only is it a blast traveling by motorbike through a smokey, humid, gridlocked city where buses, cars, trailer trucks, motorcycles and pedestrians all jockey for position, but it's also dirt cheap. Plus, they have the added bonus of being able to narrowly squeeze between all of the other traffic. You need only only make sure to keep your arms by you side when they suddenly goose the engine for a gap, iffin' you prefer to literally keep your arms by your side. Walking is sometimes preferable.

Chinatown was a great place to start. I figured I knew what I was getting into, having visited similar cultural regions in New York, San Francisco, Auckland and the like. Well, I was in for a surprise. You know that awesome greasy-spoon Chinese dive that's right near your house? The one with the open kitchen, guys yelling in Mandarin, flames shooting from the sides of their woks as they drip sweat into your lo mein? Good. Now imagine if that scene exploded across six square city blocks. Winding pedestrian markets no wider than a yard are lined with every asian specialty you can imagine: dim sum, mochi, roast duck, fermented things, raw things, scary looking things and things that there are not yet words in the English language to describe. It is fascinating. You've heard of ugly fruit, right? Well they have downright dangerous fruit, laden with thorns so sharp and rigid that with a small length of chain and a wooden handle you could easily fashion some manner of medieval mace.

"Halt! Or thou shalt taste a nutrient rich death!"

And far be it from me to reinforce a racial stereotype but I think I finally figured out why Asians are so damn small. You could easily fit three of them abreast in lanes that could not host the carriage of a single Houston housewife.

Further afield, I found myself on the infamous Kho Sahn road, known chiefly for the throngs of foreign backpackers that flock there. In Alex Garland's brilliant novel, The Beach, (a fantastic read for any serious traveler) he accurately describes Kho Sahn as a hollow portal through which every young traveler will pass. It is a ghastly site. A mesh of cables and telephone wires criss-cross above a solid block of touts and louts, hawking everything from "designer" suits to "authentic" pad thai, as American music spills out of the bars into the crowded lane, washing over clueless foreigners who seem to think they are in Bangkok but are at least eight blocks away from it. Besides, I didn't have the requisite assortment of tattoos, piercings, dreadlocks, or hemp clothing that is the apparent hallmark of young "adventure" travelers. In my humble opinion, if the only locals you see are on the other side of the stalls trying to sell you a discount tour package that eventually lands you a cousin's amulet market, you probably are in the wrong part of town.

"Any last requests Jimminy? Didn't think so."

So far, so good. Bangkok is a great time and new adventures are always just around the corner. Try the cricket. A bit crunchy, a bit salty, but surprisingly edible. Cheers.

Several Enjoyable Evenings in Bangkok

2010-02-05T21:38:00.008-07:00

Bangkok, Thailand. At least a dozen people quipped about spending "One Night in Bangkok" upon learning my intended destination. Besides confirming how spectacularly unoriginal we can be as a species, it belied the subtle impact this simple song has had on our collective consciousness. Given the clear importance of this song to the national psyche, I though it prudent to examine the lyrics for a moment. Here is a standard refrain:

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble
Not much between despair and ecstasy
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble
Can't be too careful with your company
I can feel the devil walking next to me

Having now experienced Bangkok up close and personal, I feel singularly qualified to examine these fateful words for accuracy and authenticity. Lets examine what the research has exposed:

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble

TRUE: I could not scientifically assess the accuracy of this statement off-hand, as I am relatively soft and pudgy. However, detailed analysis has revealed that a simple word-swap can make a likely falsehood into an unassailable truth. As such, one night in Bangkok can definitely make a humble man hard, especially after consuming a truly orgasmic bowl of authentic Pad Thai.

Not much between despair and ecstasy

FALSE: Various studies have confirmed that there is a significant gap between despair and ecstasy. Between these bookends exist such emotional subtleties as anxiety, concern and wrenching constipation, amongst others. Having experienced several of these mild emotions first hand, I have determined this statement to be false.

One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble

FALSE: If the tough were to tumble so easily, one would have to question exactly how tough they were in the first place. Ring-side attendance at a Muay Thai bout has exposed that not only do vicious elbows to the head, knees to the kidneys, and kicks to the face leave lasting smiles on the faces of exuberant fans, but it has also shown the the tough guys invariably wins, and the pansy-assed loser ends up curled in a fetal position clutching his groin. This is indisputable fact.

Can't be too careful with your company

TRUE: Without even visiting Bangkok this statement can easily be proven true. For example, by carefully managing growth and cutting unnecessary spend, Lee Iacocca did wonders with Chrysler. Conversely, rampant speculation and foolish shenanigans in the energy markets sank Enron quicker than the Titanic.

I can feel the devil walking next to me

TRUE: Though this has little to do with Bangkok and, if my doctors are correct, has everything to do with my schizophrenia. It turns out that having a little devil walk beside you, pointing out everything your Mom told you not to do in Bangkok, is exciting.

No Thai Like the Present

2010-02-03T00:46:00.003-07:00

Hey folks. Welcome to my new and improved travel blog. After carefully calculating the potential wrath (and existence) of a fire and brimstone first-testament Yaweh, I have decided to retire the Tales of the Wandering Jew. In its place has arisen The Throne of Immortality, a play on a favorite quote from the immortal Don Quixote. I have transferred all of my original posts over so as not to deprive any new or future readers of the pleasure of my history of madness.

Yes, I have once again flown the proverbial coop--a strange saying if there ever was one, given the poor aerodynamic properties of even the most advanced modern-day chicken coops. After about a fortnight of non-stop flying I have found myself in the not so unpleasant berg of Bangkok, of which I have absolutely nothing to say about at this point. For those keeping score at home, I have bested the initial odds, with both my rucksack and vital appendages intact.

I have been waiting a decade for the opportunity to use rucksack in a sentence and not have it be a veiled reference to a vicious blow to the genitalia. It's really the only reason for this post. Well, that and the photos I have just added. Cheers.

Insect-Inside

2007-06-06T06:08:00.001-06:00

Despite the fact that they are the dominant life form on this planet, most of us are not particularly fond of insects. They have too many eyes, too many legs and are generally unpleasant to look at. Buzzing bugs zipping past our ears tend to elicit a duck-and-cover response. An unhealthy fear of insects, known as entomophobia, is an extremely common trait. "Entomophobia" is derived from the Greek entomos, meaning "insect", and phobos, meaning, "Get it the hell off of me!" Many of us have experienced this sort of instinctive response at least once in our lives. For others, it is a lifelong obsession. My sister, for example, has an arachnophobia so intense that she is completely unable to enter a room with a spider in it until someone has smashed it into a bloody pulp with a full 32 volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica. This happens to be somewhat endearing, though difficult to clean up. If the thought of creepy crawlies underfoot, overhead or in your bed is of general concern, I don't know that I can recommend Costa Rica as a travel destination. Of the estimated 505,000 species of insect that call this country home, I think I found about 493,000 of them in my bedroom.

I spent the remainder of my time in-county hiking solo around the rainforest that surrounded Luna Lodge. The howler monkeys would wake me around 5:00AM, whereupon I would lay reading in a hammock until breakfast, then lace up my boots and trudge off into the wild. I encountered many fascinating sights. At one point I stood dumbfounded and watched a group of leaves, wobbling and waving, walk vertically down the side of a tree. This seemed impossible, but then again, I have seen the Magical Goat Trees of Morocco, so all bets were off. I rubbed my eyes until I saw twice as many leaves doing the Fantasia Dance down the side of the tree, but they weren't imaginary. I have seen many leaves in my time, but never one with the safety-conscious motivation to carefully see itself down to the forest floor. On closer inspection the mystery was solved. Columns of barbarous leaf-cutter ants were victoriously hauling their plunder back to their nest.

Ants have always fascinated me. As a child I would lovingly torch the little buggers to death with a lighter and a can of hairspray. After dropping the pyromania in my early teens, I began to appreciate their more subtle qualities. The organizational skills they instinctively possess are admirable, and their colony structure reveals an impressive social hierarchy. More advanced species are often found performing incredible feats, such as building bridges and ladders from their own bodies, or eliciting real emotion from the audience during a midsummer production of Mac Beth. I was lucky enough to encounter several battalions of army ants during my visit. Army ants are vicious. In addition to raiding other ant colonies for slaves, they are carnivorous. Up to four hundred thousand at a time raid en masse, an inky river of death that devours everything in its path. I managed to avoid the carnage by pulling my socks up over the cuff of my pants, though I still got bit a few times. In retrospect maybe I shouldn't have tried swimming in that particular river.

On my final night at Luna Lodge, I was enjoying dinner with a few of the other guests when one of the women let out a little shriek and jumped back from the table. Our attention was quickly diverted to a most unexpected guest. At the far end of the table slithered a young boa constrictor. Since boas are not particularly dangerous snakes to begin with, and this one was rather small, we left him there while we finished our meal. He eventually constricted, then ate, a delicious baked potato before slithering off into the night. Fare thee well Costa Rica, I shall return.

Here (and there, and there!) There Be Monsters

2007-06-04T06:05:00.001-06:00

National Geographic once called Corcovado National Park "the most biologically intense place on Earth". When assessing the competition, its marvelous array of flora and fauna managed to edge out the Galapagos, the Amazon basin and a particularly seedy Detroit health clinic. Corcovado is home to over 500 different species of trees, 140 species of mammals, 400 species of birds, 116 reptile and amphibian species, 40 species of fish, and, for a little while, at least one Wandering Jew. This high level of biological diversity can easily be attributed to the thirteen major ecosystems that exist within the park, including montane forest, cloud forest, jolillo forest, prairie forest, alluvial plains forest, swamp forest and Forest Whitaker. Not surprisingly, Corcovado is widely considered the crown jewel in Costa Rica's extensive national park system.

Though tourism has ramped up over the last few years, the remoteness of the park still keeps day-trekkers at bay. I had already survived a puddle-jumper flight and braved remote roads, but I still had not made it to the park entrance. The most dangerous challenge was yet to come. Walking down a hot and humid beach. Scary, I know. It gives me sunburn just thinking about it. No roads lead into this particular park and no buses crammed with sunburnt tourists ply its shores. In fact, Corcovado is only accessible by hiking a few kilometers down the shore at low tide. Misjudge the timing and you will end up swimming there. Since I was unfamiliar with the tide schedule, I thought it best to allow a guide to show me the way. This was bit of an ego deflator since I prefer to do these things by myself, but the lodge had someone available. Thankfully it ended up being a very small group, just me and two other people. Unfortunately they were honeymooners, so I landed the plum role of the third wheel.

Hiking through the park was beyond spectacular. I saw more wildlife in a single hike then I have seen in the previous five years of hiking combined. It was like hiking through a zoo, only the animals were not in cages and you had a much higher chance of getting mauled by a hungry cougar. There was still cotton candy though. It turned out that hiking with a guide was incredibly informative. For example, I learned that there is not one, not two, but three different species of monkey that will throw poo at you. The variety and abundance of wildlife was shocking. Every time I took a step, the ground literally jumped to life. Lizards dashed, frogs hopped, insects took flight. We spotted anteaters, coatis, hermit crabs, land crabs, tiny frogs, giant spiders, hawks, macaws, pelicans, toucans, howler monkeys, spider monkeys, capuchin monkeys, bats, iguanas, salamanders, skinks, and lots and lots of coconuts. My favorite was the Jesus Lizard, which can literally walk on water and presumably tastes better than a communion wafer.

There are several trails that wind their way through the park, mostly through dense jungle. We took a coastal track where several rivers needed to be forded. We eventually stopped at the Rio Sirena, the largest and most dangerous of the river crossings. At high tide it is not only full of crocodiles, but sharks and stingrays swim upstream through the estuary. The full hike, which I am sorry to say I did not do, takes four full days and covers about 60 kilometers. I would love to head back and give it a go, so if anyone would like to join me for that particular adventure, please let me know. Despite all the threats--sharks, crocks, poisonous snakes, jaguars, peccaries, ocelots, and poo-flinging monkeys--the most dangerous of all is an unexpectedly stealthy killer, the dastardly coconut. As it turns out, falling coconuts kill more people in the park every year than wildlife does. They drop silently from the trees, splitting heads and spilling innocent blood. Damn you coconuts, damn you.

Say Hello to My Little Fiend

2007-06-01T08:22:00.000-06:00

I hesitate to use the word airport to describe a lone gravel runway with a windsock for a control tower and a cemetery for a terminal, but there I was, at the Puerto Jimenez Airport. Despite my displeasure with this obvious non-de plume, I had little chance of arguing the point given my limited Spanish vocabulary and the fact that the security guard was a howler monkey. Sorry...I know I should avoid meaningless hyperbole like that. There were no security guards. Besides, given the proximity of the cemetery, I had a feeling I knew how they might deal with complaints. Satisfied with having survived the flight intact, I left the airfield by vaulting over a chain link fence and caught the first cab out of town.

Ominous clouds gathered on the horizon as we began the two-hour journey to Luna Lodge, my base camp while I explored the surrounding jungle. Late May is the start of the rainy season in Costa Rica and it looked like Nature was not about to disappoint. After an hour of quiet introspection I grew tired of my own oppressive thoughts and decided to strike up a conversation with the driver:

Me: "¿Que es su nombre?" Translation

Guy: "¿Usted habla español?" Translation

Me: "Una poco, sí" Translation

Guy: "Excelente. Mi nombre es José. ¿De dónde es usted?" Translation

Me: "Colorado" Translation

Guy: "Ah, Colorado! Eso es una coincidencia. El dueño de la casa de campo es de Colorado. Ahora he estado ayudando a clientes de la impulsión a la casa de campo por varios años. Consigo satisfacer a muchos de gente interesante. ¿Usted ha estado a Costa Rica antes?" Translation

Me: "Uhhhh..." Translation

Guy: "¿Usted no tiene absolutamente ninguna idea qué estoy diciendo, usted?" Translation

Me: "Ummm...¿Desee sentir mi burrito?" What I Thought I Said
What I Actually Said

Guy: "Pare el hablar con mí, por favor." Translation

We continued the drive in silence, pausing on occasion to observe a number of interesting birds. About halfway through our ride the sad sky split open and let loose a torrent of tears. Costa Rican rain is a completely different breed. It does not leisurely fall in drops, as one might expect. Instead it hurtles, speeding through the air like liquid bullets. Sheets of it rush towards the ground as if shot from a cannon. Tilt your head towards the sky with an open mouth during a daily storm and you are liable to drown in it. I would have issued a sarcastic quip to the driver along these lines but it appeared we were no longer on speaking terms.

The tires of the old Land Rover sprayed mud across the rutted dirt road as we trundled through axel swallowing potholes and deepening streams. Water coursed down the windshield, only to be smeared by torn and battered wipers. The foliage got progressively dense and began to encroach on the road. The rainforest was certainly living up to its namesake. Despite the downpour the verdant jungle was all around us, vibrant with life. I smiled inwardly. Outwardly I belched, just for good measure. As we got closer to our destination the rain began to ease, then stopped completely.

Luna Lodge was a lot nicer than my typical choice of accommodation but it was the last stop on the road before Corcovado. In fact, it was the last stop on the road altogether. There were no towns nearby, nor shops or fruit stands. Just long stretches of empty beach bordering a dense and bewildering jungle. We were on the edge of nowhere. The lodge was truly spectacular though, and nestled perfectly into its surroundings. A massive wooden deck rested high up in the canopy, where simple but elegant meals were served. My room was spacious and comfortable, with large screened windows to keep the bugs in. There was even a flushable toilet, though you were asked to place your soiled paper in a wastebasket so as not to plug up the pipes. To be safe, I just balled it all up and put it under my pillow, confident that the Fecal Fairy would do her thing. I cannot even begin to express the utter disappointment and loss of innocence I experienced when I learned it was the cleaning staff that picked up after me.

As I settled in for my first night, I spied some movement out of the corner of my eye. Sitting there, precariously balanced on the edge of a Bird of Paradise in a vase next to my bed, was a tiny lizard. Curious about my discovery, I plucked a winged termite off an opposing wall and placed it on the wall closest the vase. In a blur of movement the lizard leaped from the plant, dashed forward and nabbed the termite from behind. A few bites later the satisfied lizard hopped back onto his perch. It was an amazing sight.

In the middle of the night I awoke with a start, feeling the pressure in my bladder. Blindly reaching for the headlamp I had left on the nightstand, I accidentally knocked over a glass of water. The glass tumbled into the nearby vase, knocking it over and startling me with a splash. I grumbled at my misfortune, groped for my headlamp and flipped the switch. There was water everywhere but luckily nothing had broken. I took a step and then froze. The lizard, which I had completely forgotten about at this point, was right next to my foot, frozen in the beam of my headlamp. Careful not to step on him, I picked up the vase and fixed the flowers. Since I have lost a bit of my sanity over the preceding year, I carefully described what I was doing so the lizard wouldn't be frightened. While comforting a tiny lizard in the middle of the night may sound strange to some of you, this sort of random occurrence has become commonplace in my world. "Okay buddy, time to get back on your plant," I said, and lowered a palm to the floor. Now most of you will begin to doubt the veracity of the story at this point, but I promise it is true.

I swear to Christ, Buddha, Vishnu, Zeus, C-3PO, or whatever other deity you bow before that the lizard hopped onto my palm. I was so shocked, that when he scurried up my arm onto my shoulder and around to my back, that my body instinctively jerked and I accidentally sent him sailing towards the floor. He was thankfully unhurt. Once again I bent down and extended my hand. This time he hopped into my palm and stayed there. I slowly stood back up and walked over to the vase. He was light as a feather but I could still feel the pads of his tiny feet on my skin. Holding my hand towards the Bird of Paradise, he skillfully jumped back onto his perch. I stood amazed for several minutes before remembering how badly I needed to pee. After relieving myself I lay back in bed and spent a few more minutes looking at my new friend before turning off my light. I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Cry The Friendly Skies

2007-05-30T08:16:00.001-06:00

The Osa peninsula of Costa Rica contains one of the last stretches of primary lowland rainforest on earth. By definition, a primary rainforest has never been cut down and reforested. This lends itself to an absurd level of biological diversity, not unlike the contents of my refrigerator. In contrast, secondary rainforests grow where the primary rainforest has been destroyed either by man or natural disaster. While still biologically diverse, secondary rainforests typically have a greater representation of non-native species. This devolution continues until most of the primary and secondary rainforest has been completely displaced by a Rainforest Cafe. On the plus side, they make delicious coconut prawns and there is plenty of level parking.

I decided to explore this bastion of unspoiled wilderness before it was gone for good. My specific destination: Corcovado National Park. As is often the case, the journey is half the trip. Getting to the Osa from Denver takes two full days of travel, and I was going it alone. After landing in San Jose the passengers deplaned directly onto the tarmac. The humidity hit me in the face like a wet mop, and my clothes were soon drenched in sweat. My pores opened up so wide that a small bird flew out of my beard. God knows how long he had been in there, but at least now I know why I always wake up with the taste of eggs in my mouth. I spent the night in an unremarkable pension in a small town on the outskirts of the city.

Those who know me best are aware that I have a slight phobia when it comes to flying. I get anxious, my palms get sweaty, and my stomach knots up. It is not so much a fear of flying as a fear of plummeting into the ground and exploding in a ball of fire. This is second only to my fear of demonically possessed sock puppets stealing my soul. Common phobias, both. My aviation fear developed during a particularly harrowing flight through a thunderstorm in Florida, and was subsequently reinforced by inadvisable viewings of Castaway, Alive and Fearless. I've tried drugs but they don't really work. Then again, maybe I should actually try them on days when I travel. I share all of this because when I awoke the next morning I had to head back to the airport to confront my nemesis: the small, ten-seat prop plane that was going to deliver me either to the Osa Peninsula or the Gates of Hell (editor's note: the temperature is roughly the same).

I examined the Cessna for defects as I walked along the tarmac towards my destiny. Fate silently whispered in my ear that there were approximately 1,436 fixed-wing aviation accidents last year. I punched fate in the face and got on the plane, crouching low to get to my seat. The co-pilot sealed the door as the captain started the engines. The propeller loudly whirled to life, and the cabin shuddered along with my spine. A large moth fluttered around the pilot's head. He batted at it with a free hand while simultaneously twisting the dials, pushing the buttons and tightening the knobs that presumably prevent the plane from falling apart after take-off. Call it Costa Rican multitasking. Soon everyone on the plane was taking a whack at the moth as it fluttered its way around the cabin. The little bugger eventually alighted on the windshield, where the co-pilot smashed him with his flight log. Great. Now I had to worry that a crushed moth leg, perfectly mimicking the number seven, would inadvertently alter our proposed trajectory. Naturally, this would send us plummeting in a ball of flame directly into the Pacific. The pilot gunned the engine and we started rolling forward, quickly picking up speed as we raced down the runway. The gravity generator failed. We met the clouds head on.

An amazing thing happened once we took to the skies. I don't know whether it was the fact that you could easily peer out of both sides of the airplane, or that I could clearly see that the pilots weren't panicking and screaming Maydayat the control tower, but I actually enjoyed the flight. It was smooth and the view was to die for. This turned out to be an ironic thought. As we closed in on our destination I spied a curious sight that I was sure I was imagining. The plane gently glided in before crunching loudly on the gravel runway. We rumbled along the gravel past tall green grass, the cabin rattling madly, before coming to a stop in front of my unlikely vision. The landing strip at Puerto Jimenez borders a large cemetery. Creepy. Maybe punching Fate in the face wasn't the best idea after all.

You Shall Know My Velocity

2007-05-27T08:15:00.001-06:00

Is it a vain undertaking then, or is the time misspent, which we employ in traveling about the world, not in quest of its delights, but its adversities, by which good men ascend the throne of immortality?"

-Don Quixote

In Dave Eggers brilliant debut novel, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, he prefaces his story with a single pointed statement: This Was Uncalled For. I couldn't agree more. But no matter how tempting it might be, you can never stop the roller coaster at the top of the loop--unless you have a really good lawyer (and an even better mop). We have unfinished business here. Things got cut short, like a pair of hot pants. But let's not be too hasty. It has been awhile, after all. In a few days we'll enter the humid jungle of Costa Rica together. If we survive the trip, perhaps we will finish what we started in Africa. So stay tuned for more thrills, chills, spills and ills as the Tales of the Wandering Jew continue!

Dial M for Malaria

2006-03-05T08:07:00.002-07:00

Bakau, The Gambia. It's early, and the sun has just barely begun to creep through the blinds. I can feel the strange burning sensation behind my eyes before I even open them. Oh no, I know this feeling. I stumble to the bathroom to take care of the morning's business before rummaging through my first-aid kit. There is a lot in here: pills, potions, unguents, salves, creams, ointments, bandages, slings, solutions, needles, syringes, and various other instruments used to poke, prod, and otherwise violate yourself back to health. It takes a minute to find what I am looking for. Lying back in bed I pop the digital thermometer into my mouth. I don't even need to look. BEEP! 1020F

Being sick in Africa is a bit like being in an elevator that's plummeting from a great height - things happen really quickly, it's incredibly scary, and without a fair bit of luck most of your organs will probably end up liquefied. African diseases are unfathomably frightening. Reading about them before the trip one almost begins to regret being literate. They are often described like so:

Meningococcal Leptoschistopoliomyelitis
Signs and symptoms are initially nonspecific (fever, skin lesions, rash, edema, or lymphadenopathy) or entirely absent; however, the infection may progress unnoticed until suddenly, one day, while taking a pee, your penis suddenly slides off into the toilet.

Obviously this is a bit disconcerting. For one thing there aren't many toilets in Africa, so your penis might fall into a bunch of poison ivy. Now you have two major problems. What is even scarier about some of these diseases is the banality of some of the initial symptoms when weighed against their eventual outcomes. This is a verbatim passage from Lonely Planet:

Trypanosomiasis (Sleeping Sickness)
Found in most of West, Central, Eastern, and Southern Africa. Spread via the bite of the tsetse fly. It causes muscle soreness, headache, mild fever, and eventual coma.

Self-treatment: none.

An eventual coma is the end result of a headache and mild fever?! It's enough to make even the staunchest critic of hypochondria sit up and take notice. Unfortunately, due to the paucity of health care in most of Africa one of the first things you tend to do is flip through your guidebook and self-diagnose. So it was that I found myself laid up in bed thumbing through a gruesome collection of horrific ailments. My symptoms were definitely vague. Fever aside the only other indication of illness was muscle soreness. However, that could easily be explained by the fact that I had spent the previous day furiously dismembering a coconut. I carefully weighed my options. As luck would have it we were in the one of the most developed regions in all of West Africa, the Gambian coast. The beaches here are spectacular and dozens of resorts have sprung up to gorge on a steady diet of bloated European tourists. I'm not one to criticize, though. Without resorts where would we keep our luggage when we were scuba diving? The influx of euros has allowed the area to develop a bit but it's still in puberty. Amongst the handful of towns around the coast one can find basic hotels, simple restaurants, and several Internet cafes. From time to time there is even electricity to power them. More importantly, there was a British-run medical clinic a few minutes from where we were staying. I checked my temperature again. BEEP! 1030F

I hailed a taxi over to the massive gated campus, where the guards promptly stopped me from entering. It was early Saturday morning and the clinic is closed on weekends, no matter how many severed limbs you are toting around in that garbage bag. I was instructed to come back at 6am on Monday morning if I was still breathing. Wonderful. I headed back to the hotel to write my will. Thumbing through my guidebook again, I found some information on a nearby testing lab. They only tested for malaria but it was a start. I decided to check my temperature again before heading out. BEEP! 1040F

The test came back negative. I can't say it was much of a relief. With malaria at least I knew what I was dealing with. Now I worried that I might have one of those diseases where you die while still trying to figure out how to pronounce it. A touch dejected, I headed back to the hotel room. Xander left to try and find a phone so he could inquire about other health centers. He returned a short while later with directions to a clinic in the nearby town of Serekunda and notice that it would close in thirty minutes for the rest of the weekend. We got there as quick as we could. This was definitely a local's clinic. Dozens of weary looking women toting ailing infants packed the halls, while busy nurses scuttled about and directed traffic. Before long I was sitting in a room with a stern looking man in a white coat and explaining my symptoms. There was no examination. "You have malaria", the man said definitively. I protested, explaining how my tests had come back negative. "You have malaria," he repeated, "they get those tests wrong all the time." He began to rattle off instructions. I had done a lot of research on malaria before my trip, so I was well aware of the various treatment options. At first he prescribed Chloroquine, a treatment that is considered ineffective due to malarial resistance in the region. When I mentioned that I was taking the anti-malarial Malarone he changed his mind and suggested that I take the treatment dose of it instead. After all, I already had the drug on me. I wasn't positive but I was fairly certain that you were never supposed to take the same drug you had used for prophylaxis as a treatment for the disease. This made me extremely skeptical. I had a sneaking suspicion that if I mentioned I also had a bottle of Ibuprofen and several cans of sardines that he would have incorporated this information into his prescription. "Stuff five Advil tablets into the belly of an oil-soaked sardine and swallow whole. Repeat until malaria subsides or you run out of fish." I asked him a few more questions but I wasn't particularly satisfied with his responses. He handed me his card when I walked out the door. In the taxi back to the hotel I took a closer look at it: Dr. Momodou Samateh, Assistant Gynecologist.

Back at the hotel I decided to take the emergency standby treatment of Doxycycline and Quinine, as prescribed by the CDC. I still had no idea whether or not I had malaria but I felt I had little choice. With the British Medical Clinic (BMC) closed until Monday morning and no other clinics around, I had to take matter in to my own hands. My fever was still spiked at a 1040F. Wrapping myself in a wet bed sheet, I turned on the fan, lay back in bed, and tried to sleep. Monday couldn't come quick enough.

By Monday morning my fever had declined to a much more palatable 1010F but I had developed a sore and swollen throat. White pus had appeared along my tonsils. I got up early and headed over to the BMC where the guard proffered a gate pass and asked me to follow him. I was led in the dark down a dimly lit path. The campus was obviously huge, though I couldn't see the breadth of it at that moment. He led me to the triage area, an open-air concrete platform with a corrugated steel roof, and directed me to sit on one of the long wooden benches. Despite the early hour there were already dozens of patients waiting to be seen. We bunched up shoulder to shoulder as the benches rapidly filled up. If I wasn't sick before I was certain I was going to be now. Many of the people seemed horrifically ill. It was an incredibly sobering experience. Horrible coughs, wheezes, and cries abounded. I saw a child with a dreadfully scabbed, pus-filled face dangling limply from her mother's arms, low groans escaping her lips. Another woman was collapsed in a ball on the floor. The man next to me had a rattling cough that shook his whole body and seemed destined to tear him apart. A triage nurse slowly worked his way along the benches, sending people off for tests or treatments. After an hour I was approached and asked to describe my symptoms. I told him my whole story: the fever, my throat, the malaria test, the doctor in Serekunda, and my decision to take the standby treatment. He shook his head disappointing and said, "If you hadn't taken the Doxy I would send you for a blood smear but now we won't know if you have malaria." Taking Doxy obscures the signature that identifies the presence of the bacteria. Wonderful. I was told a second opinion was needed and to wait by a door at the end of the platform.

After another hour I was sent in to see a doctor. She was patient, thorough, and seemed extremely knowledgeable. Blood work was ordered - a prick on the finger and a smear on a slide. After another hour I was brought back to the doctor. No malaria was present but a bacterial infection of unknown origin was found. She prescribed a ten-day regiment of Amoxicillin, Parcetemol, and vitamin C tablets. Total cost for triage, blood work, diagnosis, and prescription drugs: $6. Not dying of a tropical African disease: priceless.

The Curious Incident of the Coconuts

2006-02-28T08:05:00.001-07:00

Bakau, The Gambia. The palm swayed majestically in the breeze, as they do in these types of stories. Atop the ribbed branchless trunk sat an explosion of brilliant green fronds, like a tropical party favor. Dangling in bunches amidst the fronds were the fibrous husks that safeguarded our objective--the hard-shelled coconut seeds. As I squinted up through the sunlight it became obvious to me that coconut is not a food we were ever meant to partake. One needs to scale a tree with no footholds, wrestle the armored fruit from its thick stem, breach the impenetrable husk, then split the indestructible seed, all without spilling the precious liquid within. When picking out a coconut at the supermarket we surely don't appreciate the endeavor. While heavy industry has undoubtedly developed an army of insect robots to scale the trees and deliver the payload, sonic guns to blast the husk cleanly from the shell, pneumatic drills that double as drinking straws to carefully extract the milk, and acid baths that instantly dissolve the casing but leave the flesh perfectly intact, out here it's still done by hand. Without the benefit of those newfangled technologies it would be easier learning calculus blindfolded than trying to pluck a coconut from its perch. It is a Sisyphean effort fraught with immense physical risk, and it's meager reward - some edible white flesh surrounding a sweet milky core - is hardly worth the calorie expenditure it takes to achieve. This is exactly why we decided to try it ourselves.

The palm trees in the courtyard of our meager hotel seemed like a great place to start. Securing permission was the first order of business, a request that was granted with a laugh and, presumably, the setting up of hidden cameras. A quick search through our packs for potentially useful gear found us with two locking cam straps, a length of accessory cord, a Leatherman, and an irrational amount of optimism. And why shouldn't we have been optimistic? Gathering coconuts is de rigueur out here. Little kids routinely scale these trees while wielding machetes in their teeth. True, odds were good that I would slip and inadvertently perform a tonsillectomy on myself, but I had medical coverage. While considering this, two thoughts occurred to me: (1) I probably forgot to get the optional machete proviso on my insurance; and (2) we didn't have a machete. While I was busy working out the details in my head Xander had decided to take action. He slung the cam strap around the base of the tree and secured it around his back, intending to "walk" up the tree by using his body as a counterweight against the loop. Every couple of steps he would briefly unweight himself in order to raise the strap a few inches. Though slow and exhausting he could scale the entire height of the tree, then casually lean back in his rudimentary seat in order to cut down the coconuts. Simple as that.

He didn't fall until he got about five feet off the ground--a worthy, if painful attempt. Xander tittered in his usual way and decided never to try that again, at least when there was no prize money involved. Spying an angular fist-sized rock on the ground a new idea took form. If I tied the accessory cord securely around the rock we could hurl it like a bola, either knocking off a coconut with a direct strike or looping it over the stem and yanking hard to pull it down. This was an excellent idea, despite the fact the scene played out thusly:

Xander: "You want first throw"?

Me: "Nah, go ahead. Aim for that lower bunch."

Xander: (hurls rock)

Thwack! (rock hits hard frond stem)

Xander: "Uh-oh"

Whish! (rock ricochets towards our heads)

Me: "Look out!"

Thunk! (rock hits ground inches from our feet)

Rock: Damn, I missed them.

This scene was repeated until we both felt satisfied that we had seriously strained our arms and that the rock had evil intentions. This was tough work.
Xander finally landed a throw over one of the stems. Now we only needed to tug on the cord and the coconut would come tumbling down. No such luck. We pulled, heaved, and verbally protested but the coconut refused to separate from the stem. As we yanked, the cord dug deep into our hands, leaving deep stinging grooves in the flesh. We needed more leverage. Grabbing a nearby shovel, I wrapped the cord around the wooden handle. This was sure to work. With a solid grip we could apply a greater amount of pressure and not risk severing our hands, which we decided we wanted to keep for sentimental reasons. I gave a mighty heave but the accessory cord merely stretched. It forced me to wrap up the excess, like pulling in a kite. After a few more pulls I gave up and passed it over to Xander. We had stretched the cord to its limit. Xander leaned hard, putting all of his weight into it. I shuffled back, fully expecting the coconut to rocket off the tree at us, a fruity but potentially fatal projectile.
Except nothing happened. The coconuts remained steadfast, mocking our every move. One of the hotel employees, witness to this ludicrous scene, emerged from his hidden observation post and interrupted our effort. After babbling something in an incomprehensible French he disappeared around a corner but materialized with our salvation. We sheepishly accepted the ladder. Within moments we had ourselves a couple of coconuts, but our ordeal was far from over. Getting the coconuts from the tree is only half of the challenge. Now, without the benefit of explosives or detonators of any kind, we needed to split them open. I wanted to fully appreciate the experience, so I decided to use simply rocks and my hands to pry mine open. I can now confidently attest that if I were left in the wild with but my wits and a lone coconut tree, I would most assuredly die. Actually, I did manage to get it open. In the end, my hands cut and raw, my body sore and beaten, it only took about 72 minutes. That was just to take off the husk. Thoroughly worked, I allowed Xander to puncture the shell with his Leatherman so I could sup the sweet nectar. Despite how these stories normally end, it was definitely not the best coconut I ever had. Next time I'm going to spare myself the effort and just buy one from a smiling, machete-wielding kid.

Too Iffy By Sea - Part III

2006-02-14T08:04:00.001-07:00

Toubakouta, Senegal. I still wasn't 100% convinced that the man in the room next to us was indeed the nefarious captain of our ill-conceived voyage, despite the Kiss Me, I'm a Pirate t-shirt and his strange prediliction for appraising planks of all sizes. It was exceedingly dark on that moonless eve and it is somewhat difficult to make out the features of a man who is already the color of night. There were many boats around the island and presumably an equal number of men to captain them. Surely there was a chance, even a good one, that this was a different man. As capable and responsible adults, Xander and I had wisely decided to ignore the captain's name during the initial leg of our trip. Lamin. Nope, didn't ring any bells. Certainly my mind was playing tricks on me, what with [the mind blowing fun] of our earlier delta crossing. I began to relax. Even if it was the same chap we felt confident as long as it was a legitimate ferry service with other other passengers and would sail in the false confidence of daylight. The sun may afford no actual protection - what with its skin scorching, wrinkle inducing, cancer causing ultraviolet radiation - but it least you can see the oar the moment before it strikes you in the head.

It was dark and we were getting hungry. Xander bravely volunteered to stay in the room while I went out looking for food. The village was full of life. People milled about the candle-lit shops trading gossip, purchasing goods, or just relaxing after a busy day. I was completely at ease. Folks were unfailing friendly, never passing up an opportunity to giggle or stare unblinkingly at the Toubob in their midst. I was pleasantly surprised when several people spoke to me in rudimentary English. Each time I made sure to ask about the existance of a ferry service and twice had it confirmed, albeit without any specifics as to days, times, or potential captains. Still, this buoyed my spirit immeasurably as I headed back, my pockets filled with the night's nutritional catch: a piece of bread, some homemade peanut brittle, and a small package of creme biscuits. I was strolling along when a voice called out to me. "Hey friend! Hey friend!" I heard in accented English. Strange, my only friend in all of Africa was at that very moment valoriously squashing a large spider with the heel of his sandal back in the room. I paused, looking for the source of the voice. A man excitedly beckoned me over to his shop, which emphatically declared itself a photo studio in colorful paint above the door, but in reality contained no photo equipment whatsoever. The man had an open, honest face and seemed genuinely affable. He introduced himself. "I'm Oman. Don't you recognize your good friend?" he said, as he nudged the man next to him wearing the Michael Jackson t-shirt. It was dark, but the man's face was unmistakably stern, his large glassy eyes drawn inward. In his hand were a pair of large scissors which he methodically opened and closed, a [clinically sane] barber with no customer. There was a decidedly [friendly] air about him. "This is Lamin, your friend, the captain who bring you to the island." Ding. The transport captain and the purported ferry captain were one and the same. This was [excellent] news. I once again I hadn't recognize him, though he had changed his clothes since I left the compound. Upon hearing his name Lamin broke from his reverie, cracked a huge smile and pumped my hand excitedly, then reverted to a stone-faced golem. Oman chimed back in. "Lamin does not know English. He says you want to take a boat to Toubakouta?" I admitted that we were planning to take the ferry but I was vague on the details. Oman shifted uncertainly on his feet. "Yes, you see, the ferry is not to be running tomorrow. No ferry." I thought I smelled something a little fishy here; then I noticed the pile of dead fish on the counter. Oman continued "You can hire a private pirogue with your friend Lamin. He can take you." I'm a bit skeptical, a feeling buoyed by the fact that I'm standing in a photo studio with no cameras and a pile of stinky fish on the counter. Despite my protestation Oman insists on meeting Xander and I in our room in the next half hour in order to discuss the particulars. As I turned to go Oman tapped my shoulder. "What do you think of Senegal?" he asked with an expectant manner. I tell him that I love it. The people. The scenery. Did I mention the peaceful, goodhearted locals? An odd look enters his face, collapsing the geniality for a moment. "Senegal is very tough. Very rough," He squinted his eyes and pointed a fierce finger directly at his temple, an air of [minty freshness] in his breath. "You have to be very clever....yes, very clever for Senegal."

At that, I took my cue and cleverly left, explained the proceeding to Xander when I returned. Sure enough our two suitors soon arrived. Introductions were made. Lamin, still wielding the scissors, leaned himself across the open doorway as Oman attempted to ascertain our departure plans. Having both practiced for years on a succession of increasingly contemptuous girlfriends, Xander and I immediately adopted an attitude of indifferent non-commital. "You want to leave tomorrow, yes?" inquired Oman. "No ferry tomorrow, but..." I cut him off with a terse but gentle retort. "That's okay, we can wait another day. We are in no rush." Lamin, obviously depressed about missing his calling as a sculptor, began to petulantly carve into the concrete doorframe with the point of the scissors. A [heart warming] expression filled his face as the scrapings bounced and rattled on the floor. It was a very [reassuring] gesture. Ignoring my interruption, Oman continued to explain how we could take a private pirogue - captained by Lamin and crewed by himself - out to Toubakouta. This was an [exceptionally romantic] notion, the four of us drifting [peacefully] through the [densely populated and fastidiously policed] delta. Now came the crux. "You give us money for fehl". We must have given him a quizzical look. "Fehl, Fehl." he repeated, "For the boat." I finally got it. Fuel. He explained that they needed money for fuel, tonight, so they could prepare the boat for an early departure. With a genial grace and an exceedingly wide smile I duplicitously expressed our desire to stay a little longer. But I assured Oman that we would come to his photo studio to discuss it again tomorrow. Satisfied, the men took their leave.

At this point we didn't know what to believe, though [we trusted all of the townfolk implicity]. Was there a ferry or wasn't there? Was Lamin the only captain in town? Could the whole town be involved in some sort of tourist trap? And what the hell is this rash that's spreading across my leg? All good questions, all unanswerable. As we laid down to sleep we [confidently and optimistically] discussed our options: we could phone a hotel in Toubakouta and see if they would be willing to send a boat, though we weren't certain the island had phones; we could hike out and brave a low-tide delta crossing, but we were uncertain of the route; or we could learn to walk on water like Jesus, but that involved admitting we had prayed to the wrong deity our whole lives. We decided on covert action. We would set our alarms for the crack of dawn and just before the sun cracked the horizon, Xander would serruptitiously slip out and head to the docks to try to find a local fisherman who might be persuaded to take us. Xander was the natural choice, since his French was much better than mine and I would probably end up mistakenly say something like, "Well month today! Would you were like to fry my socks for me?". If we were lucky we would find someone. Our plan set, we settled down and began to drift slowly into sleep before being startled back to life. In the distance, the chilling roar of a jaguar sliced neatly through the air.

Things happened quick. Morning came. Xander snuck out while I patiently waited in the room eyeing the clock until he returned. He walked back in, an exasperated look in his eyes. Oman was at his tail. He bumped into him near the docks. Xander was just taking a walk. We weren't leaving today. We would visit him later. Oman left. A minor success. Xander explains that he talked with several elderly fisherman and found someone willing to take us, or at least someone willing to fry up some socks for breakfast. One hitch. The men who agreed didn't own the boat. They still needed to get the captain. Impossible. It couldn't be Lamin again. No way. We both headed over to the dock to meet the captain, who turned out to be an elderly gentlement with a crooked grin. It seemed legit. We weren't free yet. We quickly headed back to the compound and packed up our stuff. Strangely, improbably, luckily, no one was around. No Lamin, no uncle, no spying children. We hurriedly walked our bikes along a back road, far from the main drag, eager to avoid Oman's shop and prying eyes. We wait on the shore while the boat is prepped, eager to shove off. We hopped in. Everything is going smoothly. The boat pulls away. We are free. The ride to Toubakouta takes two hours. We nearly kiss the captain when we disembark. He smiles his crooked grin, laughs, and shakes what seems a knowing head. I get the impression this isn't the first time he has helped someone. We hoped on our bikes and sped away from the past.

Too Iffy By Sea - Part II

2006-02-13T08:03:00.000-07:00

Betante, Senegal. As an art form, the episodic serial cliffhanger must be given its fair share of respect. Its brilliant use of pacing and peril is a masterstroke of psychological manipulation that would make a Freudian shrink run straight to his mother. It's simple: take a questionable plot; ratchet up the tension; at the last moment place the hero in mortal peril (dangling precariously over a bubbling vat of melted chocolate while the nefarious villain sarcastically quips, "I like my chocolate full bodied. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!", as he crushes the hero's fingers beneath his boots, sending him to a rich, chocolaty doom); cut film. By this point the audience is hooked. No force on earth could stop them from tuning in next week, except their wives, who would much rather see the laundry done, you selfish-good-for-nothing-bum, my-mother-was-right. So when I endeavored to create my own cliffhanger episode last week it was just an elaborate way of pointing out that you really should make sure to marry a woman who delights at the mention of Adam West, or is, at the least, really hot. Without further ado, I bring you Part Deux of this most lamentable tale.

Still a bit [euphoric] from our [incredible experience] on the boat we were [delightedly] led to the gated compound of the captain's [certainly-not-involved] Uncle. There, we found comfort in the presence of a half dozen children. No matter what the situation it seems nothing bad can happen when there are children around, assuming they are potty trained and don't ask you where babies come from. Weary from our adventure, we were forced to wait patiently in the dark while a light bulb was found for our room. It was obvious that no one had stayed there in a while. Drab, dilapidated, and dimly lit, the room was dominated by a large foam bed set in a warped wooden frame - leaving little room in which to maneuver. A single paneless window, set in the concrete wall opposite the door, was shielded by a series of hinged metal slats; they shrieked when I yanked them into the open, horizontal position. In one corner was a scattering of goat droppings, which perfectly rounded out the scene. Exhausted, we laid down for a [relaxed and peaceful] nights sleep.

In the morning we were expected to rejoin the [happy-go-lucky] crew and complete the journey to Banjul, but when the knock came on our door we deferred, hoping to make an alternative arrangement. We knew it probably wouldn't be that simple...and we were right. We laid in our room until a full two hours after the boat was supposed to have left. It was 10am when we poked our head out the door, confident that we could proceed unimpeded. The captain's Uncle, our host, was sitting languidly on a chair in the courtyard outside our room. Since we had the [utmost trust] in him we thought it prudent to [maintain an open and honest dialog] and queried about other transportation off the island. Anywhere on the mainland, we said, preferably right away. "No est faisable jusqu'a demain. Il est tard." said the Uncle. This is not possible until tomorrow. It is too late. This seemed hard to believe at 10am but we took him for his word, and left the compound to ask anyone else we could find. Trailing us out the door were two of the children who, despite our repeated entreaties to go away, followed us everywhere that we went; though I hesitate to say that they were spying on us. So Xander and I, along with the spying children, walked around town to get our bearings. Betante' was spectacularly beautiful. The small village, obviously constructed with care, was set amidst coconut-laden palms and leafy green trees. Thatched roof huts lined narrow sandy streets and the main drag had just enough small shops selling bread, nescafe, and sardines to keep us alive. The locals were exceedingly gregarious; it was obvious from their greetings that they have very few tourist here. "Bonjour Toubab! Tres peu de touriste ici!" Hey White Man! Very few tourists here!. We wandered over to the docks and were astonished to find that the ocean had mysteriously vanished, siphoned away in the early morning hours by Poseidon's will; or maybe the "gravitational pull" of the moon, if you believe that sort of mystical mumbo-jumbo. As far as the eye could see was a thick morass of impenetrable mud. We soon learned that the tide in the delta recedes extremely early in the morning and doesn't return until around sunset, confirming the Uncle's earlier comments. No longer keen on taking boat rides in the dark (except Disneyworld's Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Yaaarrr!!!) we had no choice but to wait until morning. We talked with a few more locals but received scant information about other ways off the island. There are rumours of a local ferry, but our poor French combined with actual lack of local knowledge made it impossible to confirm. The transport vessel - the same one we arrived in - returned every three days but [our love was so intense] for the crew were [afraid our heart's would burst with joy] if we had to face them again.

It was time to entertain other, more drastic, options. We realized that it might be possible to hike off the island, despite both knowing the definition of the word island. After carefully examining our map we noticed that we were close to the mainland, separated by what looked to be a small river. We hypothesized that we might be able to slog through the muck when the tide was out. An exploratory survey was in order, so we trundled off into the brush with our shadows (who had somehow multiplied from two to four) at our sides. The town was located near the southwest edge of the island and we needed to traverse what we believed to be the 7km width. The children - around seven to ten years of age, all male - were intent on holding our hands as walked along. It was a bit like being a camp counselor, albeit a camp where the children have a better chance of surviving a walk in the brush than their pale leaders. Unfortunately, the copse was too thick to hack through without a machete so we had to stick to the paths we found. Despite the heat of the day the children, undoubtedly hungry and definitely dehydrated, refused to turn around without us. After two hours out we decided we had to head back. We had hit numerous dead-ends but kept the plan alive as a backup. [We declared our exploration an unmitigated success!]

Back in town we ran into an English-speaking local who brightened our spirits. He told confirmed the story of a local ferry that could shuttle us to a nearby mainland town. In fact, he even knew the captain, and would be delighted to introduce us. We chatted for a while, explaining where we were staying. He was very familiar with the place, he said, and his sister worked for the Uncle. Happy to have found someone to talk to we walked back to the compound, a spring in our step. The ferry captain was on a run so we waited patiently for his return. "Ah, here he is," said our new friend as the captain walked into the courtyard. "This is Lamin. He is the captain of the boat". We all shook hands. Then man looked somewhat familiar to me, but for the time being I bit my tongue. Our new friend chatted with the captain in Wolof for a few minutes before the captain entered in the room next to ours. Our new friend explained the price, when the boat would go, etc. Xander and I were very relieved. After figuring it all out Xander went to lay down and I continued talking with our new friend. When we were alone, he leaned towards me, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, "[Don't worry about a thing. The captain is the best and the crew is top notch. They are professional and sincere.] I just wanted to let you know". The good feelings I had a few minutes earlier were replaced [by an even better feeling]. It had been dark last night, so I wasn't certain, by now I was sure: the man in the room next to us was none other than the transport captain who had led us here.

STAY TUNED for the amazing conclusion in Part III, [My Love For Africa]

Too Iffy By Sea

2006-02-12T08:02:00.000-07:00

Some tales are better left untold. The subject matter (as it is called) is sometimes just a little too intense for both younger and older readership alike. The former, due to the fragile nature of the nascent sponge they call a brain, and the latter due to their unfortunate habit of...well, dying when encountering undue shock. You see, I hate to scare my mother, unless it involves rubber spiders or the news that I've married a Wolof medicine woman. Speaking of which, we have registered at the local covered market for those that would like to buy us a much needed dugout canoe or some spare thatch for our porous roof. Nuptials aside I would like inform the readers that certain unpleasant aspects of this particular tale will be censored for the sake of sanity. Perhaps some day there will be an unabridged novel, and bearded fathers will read my exploits aloud while their children huddle silently in front of roaring fireplaces, cups of hot cocoa in hand, eager expressions on their doe-eyed faces. Very Norman Rockwell. In order to maintain a proper cadence I have taken the liberty of creating a literary device, wherein I replace all harrowing and/or life-threatening segments with bracketed pleasantries that are sure not to upset anyone. So starts an [excellent] adventure.

At the northern end of the Sine-Saloum Delta - a lush tidal region boasting verdant mangroves, still lagoons and uninhabited islands - lies a finger peninsula stretching out into stunning blue waters. To the west lies the Atlantic Ocean and a really long swim back to New York, and to the east lies the beginning of a labyrinthine network of waterways that make up the delta. In the middle of this narrow stretch of sand lies the small fishing village of Djieffer and the end of the coastal road. The ocean has been rapidly reclaiming the land in recent years and what little remains can be traversed in a matter minutes. A strong-armed NFL quarterback could undoubtedly throw a ball from one end to the other, though he would probably wonder exactly what penalty he had drawn that landed him in sub-Saharan Africa. We had two options at this point: either backtracking up the peninsula and spending three days tracing around the arc of the delta on our bikes or cutting off the length of the delta by hopping a ride in a boat, getting to the same point in just a few hours. A possible third option involved building a lightweight glider out of palm leaves glued together with snot, powered by a distilled coconut milk bio-fuel, but we as it turns out we knew less about aeronautics than we did about drinking gin and reminiscing about Gilligan's Island. After spending a few nights in the village sobering up we chose the boat. The hand-build and elaborately painted boats known as pirogues are the lifeblood of all of Senegal's coastal villages and utilized in a number of ways: fishing skiff, transport vessel, cargo ship, and finally, underwater observatory, when they inevitably sink. That isn't to say that they aren't well constructed...but truth be told, without so much as a passing thought, I've created bowel movements that have better buoyancy. They have figured a way around the leakage issue though - no matter how small the boat and how short the ride at least one member of the crew is fully dedicated to bailing out water from the seeping hull. So, despite my staunch (though under-utilized) heterosexuality I try my best to pick a boat where the Bailer has a chiseled Fabio-esque upper body.

Since there is no such thing as public transport we arranged passage on a large cargo pirogue, reasoning that the locals would use the most reliable transport for hauling the necessities of life across the islands. If you want to get somewhere you just haggle with a local with a boat and hope you end up on dry land at your intended destination, or at least somewhere with the same time zone. Our chosen vessel, brokered with the help of some English-speaking Gambians, was being used to transport tremendous amounts of fuel: dozens of industrial size jugs filled with petrol and an equal number of metal propane tanks. So it was that we found ourselves the only passengers amidst the seven-man crew. Our intended destination: Banjul, capitol of the Gambia. Our route: south across the yawing mouth of the delta with an overnight stop on one of the innumerable islands. The boat was supposed to leave at 2pm, giving us plenty of time to outrace the sun on our purported two hour ride. At 4pm the boat was still being loaded. Ditto 4:30 when a light breeze began to push at my carefully sculpted coiffure. When we finally pushed off at 5pm the sun had prepared for landing, placing itself in the full upright and locked position, and the wind had started to dance. As we crossed the spot where the ocean meets the delta the waters had begun to churn. A swell - that nautical misnomer that is more closely associated with the words nausea and capsize than feeling wonderful - threatened to spill us into the pulsing waters. We stayed upright but our once-smooth surface was now a dolloped meringue of whitecaps. Four to six foot waves were streaming into us near broadside, robbing our small motor of power as we crested and sank into the troughs. The captain impressed me with his skillful ability to navigate a cigarette into his mouth and light it without blowing up our fuel-laden skiff. As the sun dipped halfway below the horizon the piercing light gave way to soothing shades of red and the winds mercifully died out.

Before long it was dark. The moonless sky was clear, the stars twinkling fiercely in the inky blackness. The boat had no lights, which was great for star gazing but not so great for, say, not running into another boat. Xander glanced over the side and noticed flashes of phosphorescence emitting from our wake. It was somewhat magical, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't [happy as a clam] that we had no lights and no landmass to navigate by. I put my faith in the crew, who I was certain were licensed and bonded by the state. To my relief a light appeared on the horizon and we made a beeline for it. Still far from land the boat began to slow. A [friendly looking crewman] approached us and in a [cheerful] tone [pleasantly asked us for a hug]. We didn't have any [love in our hearts] so we had to turn him down. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as a [heretofore unknown happiness] filled my entire body and a [benignly comforting] feeling settled in my stomach. [This was truly bliss], I thought as the crewmen laughed at our [emotional depth]. Again the crewman [smiled and pleaded for the hug] but we carefully explained that we didn't speak French and couldn't understand what he was after. After a few [peaceful] moments the boat continued on its way. We came to shore on the small island of Betante' where we were escorted [with great enthusiasm] to our prearranged accommodation: the personal compound of the captain's uncle. It was here, on this small unknown island, that spent our first of several [blissful nights]...
Stay tuned next week for the exciting finale: Part II - [The Best Time of My Life]

On The Rode Again

2006-02-06T08:01:00.000-07:00

Joal-Fadiouth, Senegal. In a bus or taxi you have an incredibly narrow view of the world. Your have no choice but to swallow the scenery in rough, unchewed chunks as it whips by your window. People, villages, markets, goats, trees, and trees with goats in them all vanish in the blink of an eye. On a bike it is different. You can slowly inhale your surroundings, breathing in each face, every bird, and each blade of grass; though you should be paying attention to the road, so you frequently roll into the grass and crash into birds and people's faces. Pulling feathers out of your drive chain is tedious at best. The most rewarding part of biking is just the ability to divert to something of more immediate interest. As someone who grew up watching the epileptic fits we call Saturday-morning cartoons this is incredibly appealing to me. If ever something catches my eye I can slow, turn, pause, or stop for as long as I like; so long as it doesn't exceed my thirty second attention span.

Along a barren stretch of land on the way to Djiefer we spied a feathery pile of incredible interest: a horde of vultures devouring a lifeless donkey. Having never seen this in New York we pedaled our bikes off the road onto the cracked, dried, mud, dismounted, and slowly approached. There were several dozen of the frightful fowl, some perched in a nearby baobab tree, several on a hillock above the kill, and the rest jockeying for position on the carcass itself. It was truly fascinating. Large, dominant males would puff themselves up, spread their wings, and run down the hillock into the scrum, gaining a bit of loft at the last second in order to plunge their talons into a rival with a better position at the table. I mentally noted to emulate this behavior the next time I fought for crab legs at a Chinese buffet. On occasion, a large bird would hop atop the beast and spread his wings with a menacing hiss, slowly rotating as if to say, I am the Donkey King. My first decree is to...ow! Get off of me you greedy pack of vultures!, as another dove at him to take his place. They strutted and squawked, digging sharp beaks into holes in the flesh, tearing out rich bits of fat and muscle, their evil faces and beady eyes not once betraying their innate cowardice. Despite our relatively soft bodies and complete lack of defense Xander and I easily startled them when we advanced to take a few pictures. Let no man say that I am afraid to slowly walk into a pack of cowardly vultures. My courage, like my waistline, knows no bounds.

That same day we rested our laurels in the dual township of Joal-Fadiouth, a seaside villa with a small island tethered to it by an interminably long footbridge. We were required to dismount from our bikes as no vehicles of any sort are allowed on the island. This lends an air of quite solitude to Fadiouth, which is set firmly in a tidal marsh amidst lush, green mangroves. It is quite peaceful and has the added curiosity of being composed of millions of seashells. The "streets" are merely piles of shells, the homes are decorated with shells, the local art is made of shells. It's all rather fun, though the seashell cuisine is a little tough on the teeth. We decided to stay the night. That evening we were lucky to catch a live wrestling match, considered Senegal's national pastime. The Senegalese eschew the spandex-clad pomposity that characterizes Minnesota's gubernatorial farm team in favor of more traditional sport - that of wrenching the piss out of one another. We walked back to the mainland, bought our tickets, and passed through the large steel gate. A throng of ticket less voyeurs crammed the entryway and scaled the walls in order to catch a peak of the action.

Towering piles of black muscle, clad in nothing but hand wrapped loincloths, prepared themselves for battle. The sounds of thumping tribal drums filled the air with an excitable energy, the type that makes you want to dismember people with your bare hands. I think it was a Metallica riff. Children would dash out from the sidelines in a wild dance, limbs flailing like a marionette, then abashedly rush back to their seats. We had a great seat right up against the cargo net that separated us from the sand covered playing field, which was roughly the size and shape of a hockey rink. There were no scoreboards or announcers, no foul lines or playing rings, and no apparent rules - which is exactly why men love it. Several matches take place simultaneously so you have to stay alert if you don't want to miss a beat.

Directly in front of us a wrestler prepared for a match. First he lifted a large jug of water and poured it over his smooth, shaved head, then rubbed it across his chest, arms, and thighs. This seemed perfectly logical. Proper cleanliness is crucial when you are about to grapple with another man. Glistening in the moonlit sky he next tossed sand across his body, presumably to prevent his opponent from getting a firm grip. Covered in sand, dripping with water, he was a truly fearsome sight - a tribal warrior set to kill, maim, and destroy anyone foolish enough to enter the ring, or steal his beer. He turned, put his ankles together, and hopped forward three times like a bunny rabbit towards his opponent. The two men squared off and bent at the waist, with one arm dangling loosely and one other planted firmly in the sand. They crouched low and slowly circled one another. The BunnyMan grabbed handfuls of sand and tossed them tentatively at his foe but he didn't flinch. His opponent reached out a large palm and lightly clapped it over the BunnyMan's head, as if anointing him, before letting it gently slide off. It is all very ape-like, but mercifully light on feces throwing.

Suddenly there was a flurry of movement. The opponent leapt forward like a coiled spring, hoisted the BunnyMan above his shoulders, then planted him face-first in the dirt like a begonia. The BunnyMan slowly got up, dejected, his face painted in a Phantom of the Opera mask of sand from his head first landing. Other men grappled and tossed each other around the arena. It was sort of like a bar fight but with a lot more chickens running around. The crowd was surprisingly quiet the whole time so we assumed these random matches were only a prelude to the main event. We listened expectantly when an announcer began to orate over a microphone, trying our best to decipher the African dialect. I quickly realized that I would have better luck figuring learning how to lactate. Suddenly the meager lights died out and the drums stopped. Everyone got up at once and within three minutes the entire arena had emptied out. We sat there, dumbfounded, in the dark, with only the trill of the crickets to keep us company. To this day I have no idea what the announcer said, but I figure it was either "Free seashell soup on the island for the next fifteen minutes" or "The rabid vultures will be released momentarily, I hope you enjoyed the show". We most certainly did.
A Special Note: I am alive and well. Sorry for the lack of posts but Africa has an unsurprising dearth of Internet connections. I have settled in Guinea for a while and will do my best to catch up on these posts. To all those who sent notes of concern, or laments about my untimely death death, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To the rest of you guttural plebeians, those either cheered or unconcerned with my sudden disappearance, I'll have you know I have updated my Will accordingly.

On A Six-Speed Steed

2006-01-25T08:01:00.000-07:00

Palmarin, Senegal. Riding a bicycle through Africa is an extremely liberating experience. This is partly due to the self-sufficient nature of the endeavor, the rider becoming the master of his own direction and velocity, but it is just as likely because it affords the ability to wear tight-fitting, spandex biking shorts. I don't actually have a set with me but I never before understood just how valuable that stretchy,unflattering fabric could be. After six hours in the saddle I often realize that the warm, tingling sensation that has spread throughout my body is not in fact the afterglow from a successful day of profitable peddling, but rather, the pins and needles awakening of my heretofore dead and paralyzed crotch. Still, this is the perfect way to see this vast continent, peddling slowly across the country side, the wind in your hair, your pack jerry-rigged to the back your bike with a half dozen bungis, some accessory cord, and a couple of zip-ties. If God didn't intend us to roll through the world on wheels how else to explain all that smooth, heavenly pavement?

From Dakar we pedaled south along the shore, through a region known as the Petit Cote. Far from the well-paved artery that runs through the heart of the country, we ride the road less travelled, frequently pedaling over broken pavement, hard-packed dirt, or soft debilitating sand. Here the coast is dominated by small, rustic, fishing villages and it is obvious that not many travellers ply this particular route. We are treated with more than a few curious stares, especially when we alight to push our bikes through some of the looser sand. Every child we pass smiles, laughs and screams, "Toubab, Cadeaux!". It's charming at first, though we learned early on that Toubab essentially means white man. Many of them even give chase, completely surrounding us if we dare to slow or dismount. The luster wears off a bit when Xander and I learn that the latter word means gift. So essentially, kids are running up to us, yanking on our arms like slot machines, and hoping to win a prize. Still, they are cute, and I suppose their method beats hearing "Hey cracker, where's my present?" There us a large debate amongst seasoned travellers about gift-giving in third-world countries. While some think in best to give what they can - be it pens, candy, or money - we have seen first hand how it can lead to an absurd level of expectation amongst the natives. It is astonishing that even the youngest of children utter the phrase as clear as a church bell; as if the whole country had completed a mandatory course titled White Man Gift Giving 101.

In the interestingly named town of Toubab Dialo we stay at a hotel directly on the beach for six dollars a night; in reality, a dilapidated house that has recently started to solicit guests. The owners are really trying to fix the place up though and they are incredibly gracious hosts. The second floor sports a terrace with an unobstructed view of the ocean, from which we enjoy several meals. It is here that we are indoctrinated in the age-old traditions of Senegalese tea and food. For meals, a mat is unfurled on the floor and a single, large bowl of food is placed in the middle. We all kneel in a circle around the dish, and using our right hands - for the left is traditionally used for, shall we say, unspeakable things - tear pieces of meat, smash up vegetables, and ball up portions of rice. This is exceedingly difficult for me, since I am a natural born Lefty and prone to spillage regardless of silverware, but I somehow make it work. I can't even begin to fathom how they eat soup. Maybe everyone gets a really long straw, though Matzah balls might present an insurmountable challenge. After the meals we are served tea. The tea set is brought out: an old, beat up kettle; a small, rusty, charcoal stove; the tea itself; and two glass cups a few licks bigger than a shotglass, resting comfortably on a silver platter. Every family in Senegal seems to own the same set, undoubtedly bought at the local Foam Bed, Bucket Bath, and Beyond. Drinking the requisite three cups of Senegalese tea is a leisurely affair, requiring a minimum of two hours and a maximum of about two and a half weeks. Each successive glass is sweeter in taste. We have heard several reasons but the one I like best is this: the first is for Death, the second for Life, and the third is for Love; love being a fair bit sweeter than death. After brewing for a lordly length of time - no tea bags here - the tea is poured into one of the two glasses and the pageantry begins. With incredible skill and dexterity the brewer begins to rapidly pour the bitter liquid from one cup to another, back and forth, again and again, each time from a greater height, so as to create a frothy residue in each cup. When satisfied with his work, the tea is equally split between the two cups and served. The more skillful the tea maker, the greater the height between the two cups and the frothier the head; circumstances permitting, a man might scale the tallest of palm trees to artificially increase the height of his pour, though he runs the risk of being accused of doping - not to mention falling headlong from the top of a forty-foot palm. After each glass, you wait an indeterminate amount of time for the next to arrive. In fact, we have yet to actually see the third glass materialize. We know it exists, it having been described to us on numerous occasions, but despite having been invited for tea a multitude of times, we never seem to get that final glass. Xander and I have sat for hours on end, patiently waiting for its arrival, wondering if we had offended our hosts in some way. To this day, the mystery of the third cup remains unsolved.

On the road to Palamarin we pass dozens of small villages, most full of lively children. Watching Senegalese children play is astonishing. Their games go something like this: up to a half-dozen children between the ages of two and eight, completely unsupervised, run around in the dirt - amidst garbage, broken glass, goats, chicken, and/or fecal waste - chasing each other with rusty pieces of metal, tackling one another, with great mirth, until, inevitably, a loud wail erupts as someone is fitfully wounded, at which point the anxious parents, obviously concerned about the well-begin of their progeny, continue brewing that stubborn third cup of tea. At one beach encampment we stayed at, a little girl ran around with a small lightbulb in her mouth like it was a lollipop while we conversed with her mother. Obviously bored with the taste, she took it from her mouth and smashed it under a rock. Concerned, I took the now jagged base from her hand and passed it to her mother, who, eyeing it curiously for a moment, threw it into the sand next to us and continued the conversation. This despite the fact that all present were barefoot. Amazed at her nonchalant attitude all I could think was this: we Americans truly are a bunch of pansies.

Dakar Noir

2006-01-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

Dakar, Senegal. Our transport to Dakar, the capitol of Senegal, is a rickety old Minibus with a thick spiderweb of cracks in the windshield. Inside are three bench rows, each comfortably seating four people; which is strange, because I am certain that with a little Vaseline and a crowbar would could easily fit another fifteen. Many woman here are decked out in brilliant attire, intense primary colors that contrast wonderfully with their dark skin. The woman directly in front of me is wearing a brightly colored purple dress and a bouffant head wrap cut from the same cloth, making her look a bit like a birthday present. Though one should think twice about attempting to unwrap such a tempting gift; I would have a one in three chance of contracting any number of exotically indescribable venereal diseases, like SyphaHerpatitis Simplex B.

The Minibus drives deep into the Sahel, the semi-arid region characterized by frequent periods of drought. The grass is patchy, dry and yellow, the bushes and trees widely spaced, like a receding forest hairline. Random goats and herds of zebu graze lazily. I seem to have a penchant for sitting on the sunny side of the vehicle and I am baking in the heat. For some incomprehensible reason the windows are never open on these rides. It's 150 bijillion degrees out and the drivers seem either unwilling or unable to manipulate the muscles which control the arm, which, when sufficiently torqued, can crank in such a way as to roll down a window. Maybe they don't want the car to fill with the dust that kicks up on the sandy roads, but I would gladly inhale lung-fulls of dirty air, like a Hoover, for a chance at the faintest, cooling breeze. I settle for placing a jacket across the window, which partially obscures my view. Ancient baobab trees start to appear. Their thick trunks and stumpy, leafless branches look completely unnatural, like a tree planted upside down. We pass countless wrecks on the side of the road, the obvious victims of high velocity collisions. On several occasions we stop, and the vehicle is swarmed by woman selling nuts, fruit, fried dough balls, and small plastic baggies filled with chilled water. The water bags are the best - you either bite off a small piece of plastic from the corner, careful not to spill a precious drop, and sip the contents; or you hurl them at your friends, which is equally refreshing. If I were a budding African entrepreneur I would add a goldfish to the bag, providing not only a hydrating beverage but a nutritious snack. The drive continues. A little girl sitting nearby spends the entire trip just staring at me, her large brown eyes soaking in my countenance. As the middle child in my family I've been ignored most of my life, so it's interesting being the center of attention. Large buildings, completely incongruous in this rural landscape, this land of thatched hut villages, appear on the horizon.

Dakar is a big, burly, beast. Home to a motley crew of silver-tongued salesman, shrewd swindlers, and cantankerous con-men, it is a city where the people move as fast as the cars and you have to be careful to watch your back. It is bit scary, but still fun, like riding a New York City subway after midnight. After a bit of exploration we settle on a budget hotel just off the Place D'Independance, the city's main square, and a popular spot for getting fleeced. One of the interesting facts about budget accommodations in Dakar, even according to our guidebook, who, with the approval of their lawyers still recommends them, is that they all double as brothels. The sex trade is alive and kicking in this fair city, and it is not uncommon to see a tall, skinny, buxom local, perhaps with a little junk in the trunk, walking arm in arm with a pudgy, middle-aged, white man, who I have determined, using my own internal probability calculator, is probably not her Godfather. We explore the markets and shops, restaurants and bars, patisseries and Nescafe stands. Given the lack of sophisticated cuisine throughout most of the continent, we are surprised at the quality of the food. Dakar is home to both an amazing burger and the most amazing patisserie on planet earth. The burger, a thick juicy patty fried up on an oiled griddle, then placed inside a massive bun that is stuffed with french fries, slathered with mayo and ketchup, and topped with a fried egg, is heart-stoppingly good; so much so that the joint has a full-time doctor on call to help with frequent cardiac arrest. You'd think this bad for business, but when someone hits the ground like a sack of bricks, it frees up the table, which is good for the impatient line of customers waiting outside the door. The patisserie was equally impressive. Stacks of golden baked breads, trays of sweets, and row upon row of the most decadent looking pastries I have ever laid eyes on: chocolate enrobed ganache, decorated in gold leaf; custard filled tarts piled high with glistening fruit; fanciful layer cakes, full of caramel, nuts, creams, and sponge. I was skeptical at first. Those who frequent such institutions know that there is an invariably an inverse relationship between the visual presentation of a showy dessert and its taste, a dissemblingly regal cloak that hides nothing other than peasant bread. This place blew that theory out of the water. I try four distinctly different desserts, each is orgasmic taste and quality.

Just a few doors down from us we have a couple of drinks at the Imperial Bar, a surprisingly classy place. It takes us a few drinks to realize that the bevvy of beautiful women who are draped across the bar aren't there for the beer. From time to time a foreigner leaves the premises with one of these chocolate courtesans and hops in a taxi, presumably heading to my very hotel room, which is currently available since I am busy having a drink at the bar. That night I double-check my sheets to make sure they are clean, which, thankfully, they are. It isn't until the next day that she catches my eye. She is beautiful and sexy, a fiendishly clever seductress. She calls to me and I obey, her wish my desire. I am a weak man, truly I am. Perhaps one of stronger fortitude or sounder mind could resist, but not I. Some might find it morally reprehensible to spend money on such a thing, but then again, some find it repugnant to take a shower without a bathing suit. God have mercy on my soul, I paid the dough and took her for the ride of my life. Xander, obviously jealous, laid out some of his own money so he could join in the fun. We had bought our bicycles. Our new path: Senegal; The Gambia; Casamance; Guinea-Bissau; Guinea; over 700km South. The real adventure has only just begun.

Bleating Heart Liberal

2006-01-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

St. Louis, Senegal. At the mouth of the Senegal river lies the remains of a once glorious colonial city. Lorded over by the French, who laid claim to much of West Africa in the late 1800s, St. Louis was once the capitol of the imperial colony. It has a rich and illustrious past - meaning that the French subjugated the locals, destroyed their culture, and established a trade in slaves and gum. Fortunately it's difficult to chew gum and trade slaves at the same time, and the empire eventually collapsed. France tried its damnedest to hold on, granting the natives citizenship and a tempting array of stinky cheeses, but to no avail; the French reign over West Africa was broken. Prior to the fall the capitol shifted to Dakar, several hundred kilometers to the south, and the once great city has since fallen into disrepair. Time has not has not been kind to this aging debutante with its decrepit colonial architecture, a mere shadow of its former self.

Still, it has it's charm. The locals are some of the mostly genuinely friendly people I have had the pleasure to meet, proving once and for all that not everyone who speaks French is an asshole. And forget Milan, forget Stockholm, forget Paris; St. Louis has the most stunning women I have ever laid eyes on. Tall and curvaceous, with flawless onyx skin, they walk through the streets like runway models. Toubabs like myself, distracted by the show, frequently walk directly into telephone poles and other decidedly stationary objects. What can I say, love hurts. Finally, with some dumb luck, our arrival in St. Louis coincided with the start of a thrilling festival known as Tabaski.

We had been seeing them all week, the rams and the goats. They were tied up on roof racks, shuttled in trunks, motored on laps. In fact, our ride to St. Louis transported several live rams. All were stuffed into potato sacks, in a kneeling position, with only their heads exposed; two were strapped under the cargo net on the roof with the luggage and the third was literally dangled from the side of the car with a rope. Call me a bleeding-heart liberal, but I'm not sure this a particularly humane practice - a goat would provide little personal protection in the event of a side impact crash. If they really cared about their passengers they could at least install something safer, like a passenger-side rhinoceros or something. The rams were all blissfully unaware of their date with destiny; their fate, the Festival of Tabaski. Biblical in origin, this festival celebrates the gesture of Abraham, to whom God had ordered to sacrifice his son. In the olden days God did this sort of thing all the time, it being better than watching reruns of Survivor- Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham, knowing that his son was doomed to a life of a boredom and inequity anyways, immediately takes God up on the offer - which totally ruins the joke. So God has to put on the brakes and provide a ram to sacrifice instead. In effect, thousands of rams and goats are slaughtered every January 11th to commemorate the Almighty's surprisingly underdeveloped sense of humor.

The air-raid siren sounded at exactly 10am. The long, wailing cry a harbinger of doom. The posse walked rapidly through the streets,butcher knives in hand. Blood dripped from their palms, stained their clothes, splashed on the ground. It pooled on the pavement, forming crimson lakes, congealing in the sun. The smell of death hung thickly in the air. They were an tirelessly efficient death squad. One man dropped the victim to the ground, a second pinned his legs, while a third twisted his neck viciously and went to work with the knife. It took about ten seconds for the dull blade to cut through the thick, rubbery windpipe. A horrible gurgling noise emitted from his throat as he bucked and kicked under the weight of his assailants. The posse moved on to its next victim, each helplessly tied up to a post outside each and every door. The Silence of the Rams had begun.

The people were exuberant. The goats were skinned, gutted, and dismembered with extraordinary skill. It was a lot like dismantling an engine, though I would think twice before trying to put a dismembered goat back together. Walking through the streets, past open doors, one could spy the most gruesome of scenes. Organs spilled on the ground, carcasses hung from hooks, pelts littered the pavement. It was worse than a Republican fundraising event. Truly, it was fascinating. Many people invited us to join in this joyous event and we took them up on it. We got to watch the whole thing. No part goes to waste. If anyone wanted to know, it takes about 45 minutes to remove the skin off the head of a goat with a razor blade. It took a bit longer to split the skull with the dull axe they used. We all sat in a large circle on the floor, where large trays full of smoking, hot ram meat were served to us. We gorged ourselves silly on the freshest meat one could possibly have. Whole Foods ain't got nothing on this. Bon Tabaski.

The Derka Derka Sand Witches

2006-01-08T07:58:00.000-07:00

Nouackchott, Mauritania. For the life of me I can't image why, in the sun drenched desert, where temperatures routinely hit quadrouple digits, the local populace insists on burying themselves beneath several layers of clothing. Long pants, long shirts, a turban, and a billowing robe are draped across the runway models of Mauritania. Given the intense heat, it is a tad perplexing. The best I can figure is that the blistering sun has reduced their brains to tapioca. Come mid-day, when the sun hits its peak, I've debated peeling off my skin as if it were just another shirt. I think the robes might be religious in nature, but Hell, choose another religion - something more appropriate for the climate, like the Church of Club Med, where you are encouraged to wear shorts and they serve pina colodas during Communion.

Mauritania was actually a bit of wash for us. You see, one of the problems with this official Islamic Republic, besides the sandy tasting food and the I Heart Osama t-shirts, is that they are officially required to hate us. At our first stop in country, at the port city of Nouadibou, a Senegalese man pointedly warned us not to discuss our nationality. They hate us, he said emphatically. Americans had always been tolerated out here but a mistakenly released copy of Team America, World Police may have pushed them over the edge. We definitely took his advice to heart. It was kind of nice being Canadian for a change. I miss my dog-sled and my hockey sticks but at least I have good health converage.

Nouadibou itself held little interest, with the exception of the one place we could find alcohol - a Chinese restaurant, run by Portugese speaking Koreans, who were watching a subtitled, English-language version of Garfield, The Movie. After that scary scene we decided to get out of Dodge. The longest train in the world, a mind-boggling 2.7km of locomotive, slowly works its way east from Nouadibou, deep into the Sahara, termintating at a iron-ore mine some 500km away. Hundreds of open top cars transport iron from the mine to the port, save two, which are reserved for the 600 passengers that fight for a small spot on the open floor. You are allowed to ride in the cargo cars for free. For eighteen hours you can inhale a steady stream of iron-flaked dust, which later allows you to cough up all manner of useful hardware. Need a screw? Haaaacckkk!!!. Still, this may be preferable to the crowded passenger cab, spending the better part of a day with your face jammed into someone's armpit at an awkward angle. We waited at the train station - a small, covered, concrete slab at the edge of the desert - for hours on end. This was what they call Africa Time, a zone where the concept of time doesn't really exist. The train comes when the train comes, or it doesn't come at all.

Now I want to remind those of you reading this - especially my mother - that I am alive and well, safe and sound, and have obviously survived the foolish incident which I will now relate. It can be mind-numbing, these hours in the dry desert heat; the brain stews, crucial details evaporate. I'll admit I didn't walk far, and I mostly stuck to some rocks that were protruding from the sand, but I kinda, maybe, sorta took a few hundred steps through the unmarked mine field that is directly west of the train tracks. If it makes anyone feel better, the view was incredible. But as it turned out, they may have been the least of our problems. Due to a long story I haven't the time to tell, we ended up skipping on the train, and essentially skipping the rest of Mauritania. We headed to the capitol of Nouackchott the next day, then south through the desert, to the border with Senegal. The ride was beautiful, we stopped frequently to help out broken down cars and to face Mecca and pray. The sun was setting, a new day would soon come.

A Crew of Jew

2006-01-04T07:57:00.000-07:00

The Road To Mauritania. Some people like to wake up and attack the day; my decidedly more languid approach involves feebly poking at it with a stick. My stomach has been feeling kind of queasy of late; a not uncommon condition for me, due to what one might describe as an intolerant, or rather, racist stomach. The digestables we commonly refer to as food or "essential nutrients" just don't particularly agree with me. Whole grains herald an uncomfortable distension, legumes presage the most unpleasant of pains, and a sampling of dairy tends to induce small villages to flee in terror. In short, I often don't feel particularly well. This worried me a bit as we were about to board our transport, a bathroomless bus that would take us on our 27 hour journey to Dahkla, the final port city in Morocco.

The road to Mauritania is a long and difficult one. Over 500 kilometers of desert stretches south across the Western Sahara to the Mauritanian border. It is barren, cracked, and dry; a sandy skin that no industrial strength moisturizing cream can cure. Since the ride was so long, and the bathroom so nonexistent, I feared a repeat of an earlier disaster. This time I vowed to drink as little water as possible, to slowly dehydrate, to make myself into the equivalent of human beef jerky. This is not the best of ideas. As we headed south, the greenery of Morocco slowly started to disappear. The desert here is not the sandy dune seas of, well, Dune, but rather, the limitless expanse of scrub-brush flatland in Tremors. Both movies have monster worms which erupt from the ground and devour people like pork rinds, but I am sorry to report that I didn't see any. Still, the desert is mysterious. South of Agadir we drove past groves of small, leafy, trees no more than twice the height of a man. There, amongst the shimmering leaves, alighting atop the narrow branches, precariously balanced, like some exotic fruit, stood, unbelievably, incomprehensibly, a dozen or so live goats. We passed many of these trees, so heavily laden with goats as to make one wonder if the trees hadn't popped straight out from the ground fully formed, instantly lifting surprised herds into the sky. Tis true. To you wretched rogues and doubting dullards who question the validity of such an audacious claim, who believe my tales to be embellished or exaggerated, I say get bent, the Magical Goat Trees of Morocco exist. Though one has to wonder what happens come Fall, when, presumably, the fully ripened goats fall from their perch onto the hard desert floor. There are very few hospitals in this part of the world and I suspect they have precious little time for twisted horns and sprained udders.

As it turned out, the bus ride was easy. We glided along the coast with reclining seats and plenty of leg room, we made frequent stops for food, and I had managed to dehydrate myself to the point of delirium. Before we knew it we were in Dahkla. On the edge of nowhere, between the endless desert and the expansive sea, this large port town was incredibly quiet. The roads were lifeless, the buildings weather-beaten, and it had an eerily abandoned feel. We ambled about, this way and that, until we accidentally - and I stress the accidentally part - wandered onto a military air field. I took us a while to figure out why the men near the small wooden shack in the distance were avidly waving their arms and blowing on a loud whistle. Unfortunately we had walked quite a ways since stepping over the knee-high pile of rocks that apparently constituted their "security perimeter". We had already turned around, but we were still fifty yards from the barrier when the uniformed soldiers in the six-wheel convoy truck came roaring down the street at us. Somehow we managed to cross back over just before they intercepted us. God knows what would have happened if we were still inside but - since there was a bit of a language barrier - the soldier in charge pantomimed getting gunned down with the type of two-handed, mounted machine gun that Arnold Schwarzenegger will likely to use on his constituency we he loses the next election.

That evening, an even more unlikely event transpired - we met three young, pot-smoking, American Jews. Well, one was British, but that makes my preceding triplicate sentence structure more complicated. These young men lived together in a kibbutz in Israel and were also travelling through Mauritania. We decided the cheapest way to go was together so we could split the fair. We arranged for a ride - which is story enough for another whole tale - and in the morning got transported a short distance to a security checkpoint. There were an incredible amount of security stops on this trip, so much so that I debated stapling my Passport directly to my forehead. At the security checkpoint we transferred to another vehicle - a large dilapidated van. Our valiant steed was a sight: rust throughout; the side windows gone, covered in plywood; the interior inlaid with the same thin, oft splintered wood, behind which lay a perplexing layer of Styrofoam; a heavy sliding door which would tend to unlatch itself in the middle of the bumpy ride. If this wasn't enough, the spacious rear - on the floor of which we were seated - was stuffed with jugs, heavy sacks, boxes, and other transportables that forced the five of us towards the front, against a two-by-two hole in the plywood that allowed us to peer into the cab. None of this mattered however, since the car was jacked up, the front passenger-side tire no where to be found. We waited an eternity to a spare to arrive, along with five others, which were loaded in the back, one per passenger, like some sort of desert life-preserver. I can honestly say I think I now have a good idea of what it's like to be smuggled from Mexico, sans the delicious supply of tortilla chips. The ride was tough: it was cramped, dark, and dusty; it took incredibly long, with frequent police checks for illegal sand transport; and we were literally the last car to cross the Moroccan border, the police closing it immediately behind us. It was a great adventure.

Happy New Beard!

2006-01-01T07:57:00.000-07:00

Essaouira, Morocco. Unlike the States - where the ringing in of the new year tends to involve a raucous party mixing equal parts alcohol and vomitus - New Year's is not a particularly important holiday in Morocco. In the quite seaside village of Essaouria, one could easily miss it. It is a beautiful town and my favorite so far. Surrounded by towering ramparts which abut a dramatic coastline, the medina is clean and spacious. The western shore is sandless; a heavily pitted, volcanic bedrock. Large, craggy specimens errupt straight from the sea, where waves explode upon their impenatrable bulk, sending geysers of foam and spray into the air. The eastern shore is no less dramatic, but in an entirely different manner. An endless beach arcs from the southern edge of the peninsula all the way around to the mainland, silky sand replacing hard earth. The sand was incredibly fine, like walking on flour. I was surprised when the cake I decided to make from it was gritty. In the distance sit several islands on which one can spy ancient ruins. Surfers, windboarders, and kayakers ply the deep blue water. Like I said, the place is a real shit-hole. At the southern edge sits the fishing fleet, where the fresh catch is brought in daily and displayed proudly on the docks; by which I mean the fish were laying either directly on the floor or in a rusty wheelbarrel. Still, the selection was good: stingrays, shark, squid, shrimp, and a variety of other seafood that starts with the letter S.

Every day we trolled the market looking for something new and interesting to eat. On New Year's Eve, we found a wonderful treat - a gargantuan, live spider crab. This collasal crustacean had a carapice that was roughly the size of my face and weighed in at approximately five pounds. When we first spotted him he was busy taking off the arm of a dockworker. After a bit of haggling, in which we successfully argued that something so ugly shouldn't cost much, we managed to secure the operating rights for only 40dh - in more colloquial terms, the price of a Big Mac Meal Deal. One of the most enjoyable aspects of Essaouira is that you can not only get fresh seafood straight from the dock, but they will cook it for you as well. Inside the medina is a central fish market with a small grilling station in the back. Bring over anything you can find and they will gut it, scale it, broil, bake, or fry it for a couple of bucks. Such was the fate of our newfound travelling companion, who, although not much of a conversationalist, was definitely somewhat of a chick-magnet. We sat patiently while he boiled, munching on some bread, till he emerged from his lethal stew, aromatically steaming. Part of our fee goes towards the presentable plating of our meal, so the cook set about carefully dismantling him. The shell of this mammoth crab, both spiny and sharp, presented a problem for the cook, who could not seem to break it by hand. Far be it from me to criticize the use of certain cooking utensils - for I am neither baker nor chef - but I was a bit surprised when he pulled a large, greasy crescent wrench from under the counter and began to bash upon the crab with such force that bits of shell and flesh flew across the room with each swing. Sundered and undone, the crab was delivered on several plates. It was the best piece of shellfish I had ever had the pleasure to dine on, and a fitting meal with which to end the year.

Over the past few weeks, as we explored various cities, we have often heard a tout cry out to us, "Ali Baba!". This would be often be accompanied by a stroke of the chin and a nod at my heavily bearded face. On rare occaisions someone would pass by and exclaim: "Bin Laden!". Though it's true that Bin Laden is actually a distant cousin of mine - thrice removed on my father's side - I hardly think I look like him. Besides, I liked my beard, and after a few months of untamed growth several species of birds had taken up permanent residence. Still, maybe it was time for a trim - though I was going to miss having fresh eggs for breakfast. I picked a salon that looked suitablely clean and sat down. The barber was friendly and spoke a bit of English, which was nice. I carefully explained that I just wanted a quick trim. "No problem", came the heavily accented reply. On the counter was a tape deck, which he popped open. Three cockroaches quickly scuttled out of the tape slot and vanished beneath the counter. The barber laughed heartily. "They live there", he said as he popped some Bob Marley into the deck. God knows how many critters got ground up in the spindles when he hit the play button. He plugged in his electric razor, snapped on the plastic attachment, and took a quick pass across my face. Along the razor's path my beard had been brought low, like a thresher through a field of wheat. Where once stood a proud four inches now meekly lay no more than half an inch. "Is good, yes?" queried the barber, pausing to point to the cut he had made. I nodded yes, for it was too late to go back. Satisfied with the shearing, the barber set his sights on the rest of my head. My hair, also uncut for several months, now looked ridiculously long. I decided to allow him to trim that as well. As he started on my head, a man brought in two cups of tea. It is incredibly difficult to drink a cup of hot tea while in the midst of a haircut; you need to avoid getting sliced when you tilt your head to drink and you are constantly moving your hand around to avoid having hair fall into your cup. With a bit of luck I managed to avoid both. When he finished I looked in the mirror and saw a shorn sheep, naked and cold.

With a signficantly lighter head we headed to the Ville Nouvelle (new town) to check out a mythical story we had heard whispered about - the town had a liquor store. As I've mentioned in the past, this is a very dry country; mostly due to a strong Islamic presence which forbids the imbibing of alcohol. However, one might have noticed - perhaps from the name of the Web site - that I am Jewish, a religion that actually enourages us to get drunk. It being New Years, it seemed a good idea to get as drunk as humanly possible and generally reinforce every negative stereotype people have about us. As it turned out, the store was real, though their stock was limited to a few simple items: wine, beer, gin, and vodka. I'm not sure exactly what one can concoct with such liquors, but it would no doubt go well with a bowl of salted peanuts.

As the New Year approached we ran to the top of the ramparts, where powerful canons once used to defend this strategic port now rust, forever pointing to sea. With us was a Indian couple, and a Moroccan man we had met. We drank vodka and wine; we sang songs in Hindi, Arabic, and English; we clapped our hands to the beat; we toasted the new year and everyone in it; we stared at the sea and the stars; we got horribly drunk and urinated off the edge of the ramparts; we stumbled home without injury. New year, new look, why not?

Snow Way, Dude!

2005-12-29T07:56:00.000-07:00

Marrakesh, Morocco. Travel writers tend to exaggerate a bit. Flowery language is used to create a picture perfect world; one of far off realms, exotic locales, and endless beauty. They do this because they have to sell their literature in order to make a living, and strangely, romantic notions tend to sell better than ferocious diatribes. Nobody buys the travel book titled The Drunken Hellholes of Mexico. Sadly, hyperbole can become a necessary evil for these dreamy travelers. If they can't manage to sell their poetic pontifications they would just become a bunch of hopelessly unemployable hippies with no travelling money. Unfortunately, this desire to succeed makes for an extraordinary conflict of interest. Case in point, though little is written about it, prior to his career in politics Dick Cheney honed his particular brand of malevolent duplicity whilst writing cheery passages about the Middle East for Fodors. It's a shame really. A typical blurb about Morocco, from Lonely Planet, might read as follows:

If Fes is Morocco's spiritual capital, then Marrakesh is it's beating heart. Follow its twisting arteries to its pulsing energy source - the Place Djemaa el-Fna - a huge square in the medina where jugglers and storytellers jostle for position with snake charmers, magicians, and acrobats. Only in Marrakesh does this medieval pageantry survive.

Now I'm in no position to argue with Lonely Planet, they probably have lawyers. Let's just say that I strongly disagree with their word choice. For example, where they say storytellers, I might choose to precede that word with Arabic; and where they use the term medieval pageantry, I might use the phrase filthy pack of travel writing lies. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy Marrakesh, I most assuredly did. It's just that it really wasn't what I was expecting.

Arriving late, with our stomachs empty, Xander and I were hungry for food and excitement. Putting our trust in the infinite knowledge of our guidebook, we headed to the Place Djemaa el-Fna, in the center of the medina. The immense square was packed tight, everyone having obviously followed their own guidebooks. I'll be the first to admit that there was definitely energy in the air. As we entered the fray a traditionally dressed musician danced around us, his castanet-style palm cymbals clashing rhythmically. As he spun, a frilly tassel at the peak of his skull cap twirled skillfully around his head. It was exciting...and it lasted for about three seconds. He stopped, held out his hat, and aggressively pleaded for a tip before hastily moving on to the next set of tourists. We moved on to the celebrated snake charmers, a sight I was definitely excited to see. Now I don't know much about zoology, so perhaps it was merely the chill night air that had created the stupor in these venomous reptiles - or maybe they were dead. Three of these harmless critters lay on a carpet, limp and lifeless, the purported snake charmer playing neither fiddle nor flute. I think he was busy clipping his toenails. Upon our advance, one was quickly scooped up and placed over Xander's neck. They it lay, developing rigor mortis. "Take picture...take picture", crowed the handler, then proffered his hand for the fee of this charming service.

We hoped the food stalls would take our mind off this shameless hucksterism. Exotic smells filled the air, my nose blindly leading my body, as Jewish noses tend to do. There were over a hundred food stalls and visions of succulent meats braised, baked, or fried made my mouth water. The first stall was encouraging: piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. We fended off the hoard of hawks who tried to get us to sit and moved on to the next stand. Hmmm....piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. I looked further down the row but it was like looking in a fun house mirror, the same scene repeating into the distance. Everyone was selling the exact same thing, we had unwittingly entered some sort of culinary Twilight Zone. Even the prices were the same - too little for too much. In the end we found about a half-dozen unique stalls amongst this throng. Some were decidedly interesting, like the place where you could eat a lamb's face. I respect anyone who can look their food directly in the eye before peeling off the skin, removing the jaw, then happily munching on the cheeks. Personally I'm not much of a face eater, so I set my sights on the other end of the beast. As I gaze absently at a woman who is sucking on the marrow of a skull, I can't help but wonder if she feels the same touch of revulsion when she sees an American chomp down on a rump roast.

As for the title of this Tale, I once again have skirted the entire point. Having tired of this medieval farce, we decided to take a day trip to the Ourika Valley. Deep in the mountains of Morocco, about a two hour ride from Marrakesh, is a town called Oukaimeden; home to the most unlikely sight in all of Africa - a ski resort. After a confusing day of travel, involving, amongst other things, a clown-car taxi ride of eight people, and a late arrival, we found our hidden gem closed. The snow cover was light, as would be expected in Africa, if at all, so, downtrodden, we hiked as high as we could before giving up. As we hiked back down, the ski lift started to move. We could ride it up to the top, they said, sans skis, to see the view. So up we went. The snow cover was thicker at the top of the mountain and there stood a man renting skis. We strapped them on, of loose fit, and ancient age, and took one steep run about 200 yards down an untouched bowl, carving fresh tracks in immaculate powder. I can now say that I have skied in Africa. We were the Lord's of Creation -- that is, until we realized we had to hike back up to give back our skis.

Here's Looking At You, Yid

2005-12-28T07:55:00.000-07:00

Casablanca, Morocco. The elevator slows, comes to a stop, and the doors slide open. Our escort leads us down a long, poorly lit corridor. It is painted a dull, drab, beige and is completely silent, empty. The only sound is our feet as we walk, each step echoing lightly. We pass no one in the dusky hall, but this is not particularly surprising given the late hour. Our escort leads us around a corner and through a large door. The room is cavernous, bare, the walls completely unadorned. Not all of the bulbs are lit and much of the room is dim. Long windows grace the outermost wall, but they are tinted, and nothing but a few pale points of light filter through. A few old computers sit atop basic desks, though no one is at the keyboards. There is too much space and not enough to fill it. It feels abandoned, cold, lifeless. There are two men at the far end of the room, tapping away at one of the computers and talking in Arabic. Our escort leads us over and we are told to sit in a set of folding chairs behind them. A rapid exchange takes place between the three, then the escort leaves. As he walks away my eyes follow his weapon, a snub-nosed, semi-automatic machine gun. As the two officers swivel in their chairs to face us, I have to wonder: How in the world have we wound up here, on the fourth floor of the massive Casablanca police headquarters in the middle of the night?

Let me explain. A few days ago we were killing time in Rabat. We were supposed to be in Casablanca getting visas for Mauritania, but it was Friday and the embassy was closed for the weekend. Figuring it was better to explore than continue to sit in one place - unlike that month I spent at home playing video games until my eyes started to bleed - we set our sights on the capitol, though we heard it was a rather characterless place. Rabat was not nearly as dull as I had presumed. In fact, it has both the frenetic energy and motion of a motor rally. The motorized carriages that Moroccans have dubbed CARS (Camels Are Really Slow) race through the street at break neck speed - as do motorcycles, mopeds, bicycles, and thousands of pedestrians. Truly the most fun you can have in Rabat is dodging traffic. Even the most major of intersections have no crosswalks, nor crossing lights of any kind. To make matters worse, the traffic lights themselves are no where to be seen. For the life of us we could not figure out how traffic knew to stop; perhaps a sudden realization that even the most standard of vehicles come with brakes plays a roll. Regardless, the best way we found to cross a busy intersection was by carefully listening to the sounds of the road. If you hear a loud thumping noise, for example, you know that your body was just hit by a car. This means that you shouldn't have tried to cross at that particular moment. Wait a few minutes, and if you can drag your battered body back to the sidewalk, try again. Unfortunately this method gets progressively more difficult. Better to watch what the locals do, I suppose. The pedestrians of Rabat have developed a fiendishly clever way of counteracting this particular menace. It is quite amazing, really. First, people slowly begin to mass at a point on the sidewalk. Like a malignant tumor they grow, rapidly expanding, until - with no audible or visible communication whatsoever - they all step into oncoming traffic at once. The traffic has no choice but to stop or plow into everyone, risking not only extensive damage to their car but a significant increase in their monthly insurance payment. It is a sight to see.
On Sunday night we headed to Casablanca. The name itself evokes strong images of romance and intrigue. In my opinion nothing could be further from the truth; unless you find Hilton hotels intriguing or skyscrapers get your pulse pounding. Still, we had a great time. Casablanca has one thing that all the other cities in Morocco lack - namely, bars. The Islamic religion prohibits the imbibing of devilish liquors like BudLight and Zima, so heretical pubs are few and far between. These have been tough times for us. Those who know my travelling buddy Xander are aware that without a constant supply of liquor he slowly devolves into a thoughtful, well-spoken, intellectual. It's quite scary, really, but we seemed to have dodged that particular bullet.
Early Monday morning we dropped off our passports at the embassy, hoping to have them back by mid afternoon, as our guidebook said. Unfortunately the bureaucrats at the embassy had a better idea - not giving them back until 10am the next morning. Though we were a little disappointed to have to stay another night, we certainly made the most of it. As we hopped from bar to bar we met some fascinating locals. At one joint we met a drunk-as-a-skunk magistrate. Speaking slowly, with a thick Moroccan accent, his words slightly slurred, he gave us a surprisingly cogent civics lesson. He asked what we had done to defend our civil liberties since the institution of the Patriot Act. I could only shrug, surprised that a Moroccan judge could be so passionate about the outcome of a New England football game. This seemed to upset him. With each word getting louder he said "You...are all...contr'lled...by...da MED-IAH". Unfortunately I wasn't paying much attention, an old Pepsi ad was replaying in my head. He repeated it again, this time much louder, a few people turning their heads. I felt...well, I felt like Chicken Tonight, Chicken Tonight! Hmmm, maybe he had a point. I agreed with him, suggesting that I felt the same way about my government and national media that he did. The judge bellowed: "No d'ffrence...between you and govn'ment. No d'ffrence! I can NOT SEPARATE THE TWO". We calmly assured him we did not agree with the current political regime. Once again he barked: "No d'ffrence!". He rotated his chair to face me and - much to my surprise - palmed the front of my skull with one large hand. Spit flew from his mouth as he roared in my face, "YOU BRAIN....IS...WAR!!"
I'm sure you've guessed by now how we ended up at the police station. If you haven't figured it out yet it's because we had left our passports at the Mauritanian Embassy and all hotels require a passport to check in. We had photocopies but these weren't sufficient. When we came back to our hotel in the evening they forced us to get the copies verified by the authorities - which we promptly did, though it was quite late. You didn't actually think I was stupid enough to get into a fistfight with a local judge, did you?

Take You Wonder By Wonder

2005-12-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

Fes, Morocco. It is dark and cold. Two thick opaque blankets cover my head, blocking out all light, sheltering me from the world. The chill air has penetrated my weak defense, seeped deep into my flesh, sent slivers of ice through my bones. The call of the Muezzen has roused me from my frigid slumber, a shrill cry eminating from the top of the minaret; first one, then another, and another. The sounds joined one another, jostled with one another, a rising crescendo, a blaring cacaphony of prayer. Dogs started to howl in solidarity, a barking benediction, or perhaps they just have no way of covering their ears as I had now done. It was pitch black under my woolen shroud, permanent night, and I had no concept of time. I let out a soft groan and pushed the button that lights up my digital watch. The luminous, blue indiglo blinded me and I cringed, trying to focus my eyes. It was 4:48am. Holy mother, mercy, of Christ, Yaweh, Zeus, or Allah. The Quran is very explicit in one regard: the Muezzen does not have a snooze button.

Now I'm not one to criticize another man's religion - unless they wear funny hats - but for a major religious movement, this pre-dawn zeal strikes me as preposterous. I'm not sure who or what god is, if he/she/it even exists, but what otherworldly being, what purportedly benevolent deity, would demand a call to prayer before the sun comes up? Hell, most people can't even put their underwear on straight until they've had a couple of cups of joe. That black, spiritless libation has surely roused more spirits than even the most purified sanctification. Nevertheless, every morning the call begins: "Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" and my feeble brain, crushed beneath twenty-eight years of constant media bombardment, finishes for him: "Yeeeaaaaahhhhhhh." In truth it continues in Arabic but I always get a kick out of the beginning. This occurs every morning without fail. Piety in today's world can be refreshing but it would be nice if they took a morning off sometimes. Maybe even just once a month--sleep in, have a late breakfast, maybe read the paper. Afterwards, by all means pray. I'm sure it would help retention rates. I can even imagine the billboard: Islam, Now With More Coffee!" Obviously I jest. The morning call, when not accompanied by the howling canines, is often beautiful. I have lain awake carefully listening to the melodic words, the almost hypnotic tone, appreciating the sanctity of the burgeoning day. Then I roll over and go back to bed.

The medina of Fes beholds a fascinating array of sights, sounds, and smells. Wandering the ancient, medieval streets, one has a sense of being transported back in time - to about 1983. Seriously. People are dressed in one of two ways here: either in traditional garb or in street gear from the 80s. Faded flourescent jackets, old addidas jumpsuits, and worn Nike sneakers pass by at random intervals. One vendor had a pile of mismatched snow gloves and I'm positive I spied a couple of sets of Freaky Freezies atop the mound. I'm not sure where it all comes from but the denizens of Fes have unwittingly attained the heights of retro fashion. We walked for days around the winding streets and endless markets. Clothing, jewelry, art, rugs, a variety of crafts, and an immeasurable array of junk. The junk is the best. Countless rugs are spread out in the street, the vendors selling the most incongruous of items side by side: two dozen watches, a pile of remote controls, some potatoes, a doll with a missing head, three tampons, and a large bolt cutter. Persumably this last item has been used innumerable times to collect the junk on display. It boggles the mind. Food vendors abound: piles of juicy, ripe tangerines; hillocks of potatoes and onions; mounds of artfully arrange dates, figs, and nuts; barrels of beans and pasta; towering pyramids of brilliantly colored spices. Meat vendors display the choicest of cuts and proudly present the pieces we throw out--heads, tails, toes, stomachs, brains, kidneys, livers, and testicles. The only thing that might go to waste is your appetite. I even saw an entire camel head hanging limply from a hook. My personal favorite has definitely been pigeon. Cooked into an unlikely dish containing layers of pastry dough, secret hobo spices, lemon, and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar, it is amazingly good. If anyone happens to notice a dearth of pigeons trotting around Central Park in the coming months it probably means I'm back home in New York.

Fes is incredibly large and complicated. 9400 twisting streets and alleyways. 350 mosques. Dozen upon dozen of site of interest. Despite our aversion to touts we decided we might need a guide for this one. Couscous (as he called himself) seemed a genial sort. He seemed to know the city, spoke decent English, and had a good sense of humor. Though skeptical at first, he won us over, and we arranged to have him lead us around the next morning. We were mildly surprised when he showed up with a replacement, claiming to be too busy. We hemmed and hawed a bit but agreed to go with the new guy anyway. The price was still too good to beat. The new guy ran us around the back alleys, occaisionally showing us an ornate doorframe or some ancient buildings, claiming all the while we were seeing what very few tourists saw. Our tour was supposed to last approximately three hours. I wasn't the least bit surprised when after sixty minuted he wanted to show us something extra special. You guessed it--his cousin's carpet shop.

Livin' Medina Loca

2005-12-22T07:53:00.000-07:00

Tetuan, Morocco. After our initiation in Tangier we decided to head south, to the small city of Tetuan. Similar to our first stop, Tetuan is dominated by an old Medina filled with a cast of colorful characters. We wandering around the twisting streets without much enthusiasm, gazing at the markets and avoiding the touts, until the sound of distant chanting voices began to permeate the air. We paused and listened as the voices steadily grew louder, bolder, more urgent, a wailing Arabic cry. It grew closer and closer until suddenly, our doom had arrived. Here in the tight Medina alleyways, with no where to run and no place to hide, an angry mob had rounded a corner and rushed headlong towards us.

My mind reeled. A few moments earlier Xander had mentioned to an inquisitive tout that we were American. It stood to reason that a furious cabal had now gathered to kill us. America is not very popular these days, what with our growing national debt, unbalanced trade deficits, and mishandling of prescription drug coverage for seniors. Oh right, and that pesky war with Iraq--nearly forgot that one. I was not certain whether we had done anything to Morocco directly, though I had heard rumors of a plan to open a Walmart in the Medina. Perhaps they were inflamed by the prospect of rock-bottom prices on everything from figs to camel-hide coats.
From around the corner they streamed: twenty, forty, sixty men--I lost count. The narrow corridor forced them to bunch up tight, forming a ferocious river of heads and bodies. The chanting intensified, fists pumped in the air, and stamping feet rattled the ground. Swiftly they descended upon us. This was definitely the end. We stumbled backwards into an intersection. I froze upon seeing the wooden casket they held to bury what would remain of my tattered corpse. I prayed quickly to God that when I died no one would ever uncover my secret obsession with Ricky Martin. And then the most curious thing happened--the crowd veered away from us. Onwards they flowed, passing us by, a harmless brook. They were nott coming to kills us at all. We had merely stumbled on a funeral procession. As they passed I noticed more and more people joining the crowd. It seemed anyone could jump in and participate, so we shrugged, and followed.
The throng turned left and right, back and forth, winding their way through the Medina towards (for us anyways) an unknown destination. Lagging behind, we were stopped by a policeman as a second funeral procession appeared. Followed by an array of smartly dressed individuals--some in formal military uniforms--we believe we witnessed the procession of a dignitary of some sort. Eventually allowed to pass, we continued following the masses through an ornate gate to a large, open-air stone plaza bordering a cemetery. A group of old men dressed in traditional robes (called djellabah) sat chanting on a stone bench. They seemed unconnected with the ceremony, in their own world, a permanent chanting section for the deceased. We stood back, taking in the experience, soaking in it, until the body was interred and the crowd dispersed.

Ootini!

2005-12-19T07:53:00.000-07:00

Tangier, Morocco. The engines roared to life as the boat pulled away from the dock. An angry tempest spewed forth from the stern, propelling us forward, into the deep blue waters of the Straight of Gibraltor, that thin blue band that seperates these two incredibly disparate lands. Europe and Africa, a stones throw away, a world apart. My stomach unsettled as our vessel raced towards the shore of the Dark Continent, as if realizing I had chosen an express elevator to Hell. That's a bit harse, I suppose. After all, Africa was my intended destination, and though the temperature in Africa often exceeds that of Hell, it's rather pleasant this time of year. I steadied myself as the boat docked at the port. Our first destination: the infamous port town of Tangier, Morocco.

Filled with hustlers, touts, con-men, smugglers, and the like, Tangier leaves one indelible thought in most tourists minds: leave now. In fact, so many people have hopped in taxis and told the driver to "step on it" that there are actually deep grooves in the pavement leading from the port to the edge of town. Many a traveller had warned us about the scum and villainly of this vile place, with its unsavoury characters and complete lack of Starbucks. Truth be told we were both a little frightened by the stories we had heard about this rough and tumble town -- so we stayed for two nights.
The Medina (old town), where we spent our time, is built into a series of steep hills that begin just a few hundred yards from the shore. Row upon row of boxy, white houses pile on top of one another in a curious jumble up the hills, spilling across the top and down the sides. Hiding beneath this white-washed facade is a labrinyth of narrow twisting alleys, endless markets, and spurning dead ends. Beyond the Medina a more modern (but still seedy) city emerges, but where's the fun in exploring Moroccan Harlem? The Medina was buzzing with life. The streets are packed with fascinating individuals, and I mean no disrespect, but a large portion of them are dressed exactly like jawas, which raises Tangier's stock immediately in my book.
After deboating (you can deplane, why not deboat?) Xander and I wandered the streets, getting lost every fifteen seconds, until a helpful individual led us to the hotel we were looking for. In this case helpful means that we paid him a couple of bucks to leave after we got there. I cringed a little bit upon seeing the shared squat toilets we needed to use, but hey, this was Africa -- it was time I lowered my expectations a little. For example: where one expects a traditional toilet, expect two footpads with a hole in the ground; where one expects a bus, expect a bush taxi jammed with more people than a clown car; and where one expects potable water, instead expect fatal amoebic dysentery. Such was our new life, and once we got settled we quickly threw ourselves into the fray.
Tangier is a trial by fire. Though strangely quiet at first--we thought the stories exaggerated--we were soon beseiged by incessant touts hawking everything from guiding services to magic carpets (aka, pee-stained carpets). And they don't take no for an answer. They follow, they beg, they bribe, they threaten, they guilt--come to think of it, it was a bit like the last time I went on a date. The first time you are approached you speak with them and decline. The second time, you decline a bit more forcefully but still politely. The third time, the politeness has vanished and you beg them to leave you alone. The forth time, you avoid eye contact and keep your lips tightly sealed to prevent any words from leaking out. By the eighty-seventh time, you proactively knee any Moroccan you see directly in the groin. It is a daily battle. As a grizzled veteran of these wars did tout: ?Welcome to Morocco, my friend. If you are very curious, would you like to see what is behind the door?? Indeed I do.

Something Wicked This Way Went

2005-12-16T07:51:00.002-07:00

The National Express bus deposited us unceremoniously at the entrance to Stanstead airport, an hour or so out of London. This regional airport is home to RyanAir, the budget airline of choice for countless backpackers and those trying desperately to cash in on life insurance policies. Ryanair, whose motto Fly for Less with Less that Flies doesn't exactly inspire confidence, has an interesting business model. They actually just give the seats away, perhaps hoping their progressive socialist approach will save the company's shareholders money while flying, thus negating the need for any actual profits. Since it takes more than Monopoly money to run an airline, the company has come up with some incredibly creative synergistic strategies to help cut operational costs. For example, in the back pocket of every seat is a standard barf bag; one that doubles as a 35mm film drop-off envelope. No shit. I took it with me to prove to everyone that this item actually exists, though it's tempting to vomit into it after a rough night and mail it to Kodak. I'm curious to see what they develop, perhaps the reconstructed remains of the fried fish that necessitated the bag in the first place. Despite all this, RyanAir managed to get us to our destination, Seville, with only a bit of turbulance.

This was my second time in Seville, my first visit having been just a few months earlier. Our plane landed late in the evening and after a brief wait we caught the airport bus to the center of town. I got extremely lost the last time I was in Seville, where the narrow, winding, street plan was undoubtedly engineered by a toddler with an etch-a-sketch. Luckily I remember quite a bit from my last experience and we quickly made our way towards the massive cathedral which dominates the old quarter and where many of the hostels are located. After examining a few without much enthusiasm we finally settled on a clean and quiet little place tucked in one of the many alleyways off the main shopping grid.
Several travelers had told us about a bar with a free flamenco show so organized our belongings and headed out to look for it. The air was cool, crisp, and delightful. Seville is spectacular at night, and the seasonal holiday lights adorning the buildings and trees (not present on my last visit) only added to the majestic grandeur of the city. The stunningly classic architecture is a wonder to behold at any time of year, but lit with a thousand lights it transceded its normal beauty to become a vision ripped from an angelic dream. Occaisionally checking a compass, we walked the curving streets looking for this place. Finally, after about forty minutes, we saw something we recognized?our hostel. Somehow in all the twists and turns we had walked in a giant circle. Frustrated, but not about to give up, we gave it another whirl. With the help of a local woman we eventually found the place; its single entry a signless, nondescript red door in an alley wall. Elated to be there we sat down for the show. We expected beautiful Andalusian women, glinting castinets, vigorous and rhythmic dance. Instead, an old man took the stage. With a Spanish guitar strumming in the background he bellowed some deep, throaty, Spanish songs. It was an auditory nightmare. You could visibly see the crowd revulse. I imagine a similar sounds would eminate from a man pinned underneath a Greyhound bus. We took in a few more songs then headed back home.

Our second day had a completely different feel but was no less interesting. Xander and I crossed to the western side of the river, away from the old quarter and into a more modern Seville. I had never explored this part of Seville before and it is shockingly different. Strange, modern, and incongruous buildings formed an unlikely skyline. Now here was the strange part - it all looked like it had been recently abandoned. Cars were definitely passing by on the streets but as we walked down wide pedestrian boulevards - in the middle of the day - we were alone. The walkway, though modern in appearance, was cracked and buckled. Dead plants hung limply from artistic metal tubing which ran overhead. Fountains in this large median were flowing but looked dirty and unkempt. We walked a good mile along this Path of the Modern Day Damned before it dead-ended at a decrepit train station. Two arcing metal struts at least 100 feet high crossed from opposity corners, making a giant X in the sky that held aloft a torn and sagging sunscreen. A lot of effort went in to building whatever we had encountered but now it looked nothing more than a future lost, a shell that was once full. We never found out the cause of the decay or even the reason for the construction itself, but one thing was certain, something wicked this way went.

North By West South

2005-12-13T07:50:00.000-07:00

Mentally preparing for a trip into the untamed regions of Africa is quite exhausting. There is much to think about: disease, civil war, banditry, wild animals, endless expanses of desert and mosquito plagued jungles. How does one take it all in? My preferred method is to take a deep breath, slowly count to ten, clear my mind of complexity, then try to refocus my attention on whatever is playing on the Game Show Network. It usually works; those cartoon Whammies on Press Your Luck are endlessly entertaining. Still, as soon as a dozen or so episodes fly by, my mind invariably drifts back to the difficult path that lies ahead. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me catch you up to speed on a few things.

Still unsettled after my jaunt around Europe I decided to keep on the move for a while. Having allowed my lease to lapse, I packed up my apartment and divested myself of some of my most valued possessions, including my collection of mint condition Steven Segal Hard to Kill action figures and my Don King Chia Pet. It was a sad and liberating experience. I'm lucky enough to have some of the best friends in all of explored space, so I moved what little remained into one friend's apartment, dumped my death-trap of a car on another friend, and left my heart in San Francisco.
I had been thinking of travelling again for a while now and several ideas floated around my head like dead bugs on the surface of a stagnant pool. Conversations passed between me and my buddy Xander, an old friend and experienced world traveller who was ready for another adventure himself. We tooled around with the idea of South East Asia but alarmist concerns about sneezing chickens and phlegm hocking roosters gave us pause. With avian flu hysterics at a fever pitch - I believe a Canadian goose was found passing out toys at a children's hospital without wearing a mask - it seemed prudent to redirect ourselves on a safer trajectory. So we finally kinda-sorta settled on a trek across North and West Africa.
Now came the tough part - procrastinating. Though always somewhat of an art form our procrastination became downright avant garde. A few weeks ticked by with nothing more than some vagaries about airline tickets and some crude jokes about camel humps. Finally, in the waning moments, a flurry of activity: tickets bought, apartments vacated, jobs discard...oh wait, we didn't have jobs. All of a sudden the trip seemed very complicated. Africa is no walk in the park, it requires visas, immunizations, med kits, mosquito nets, antibiotics, insurance, currency strategies and more. Yikes. I made an appointment at a travel clinic and found myself staring down the needle of a syringe. I was inoculated against typhoid, yellow fever, hepatitis A, hepatitis B, diphtheria, measles, small pox, large pox, tetanus, and the ill effects of watching too much political news. I also paid hundreds of dollars for the latest malaria medication, a combo drug that not only destroys your liver but leaves your breath feeling minty fresh.

Visas seemed to pose an entirely different problem. At first it seemed we wouldn?t be able to get them in time, but we soon found that if we follow a certain path we could get visas along the way for every country we wanted to visit. To do this we needed to amass an asinine amount of photos, lots of copies of our passports, and - if we could get it - what's known as a "letter of introduction" from an American embassy. Presumably, this reads as follows: "Dear Senegal, Xander and The Wandering Jew are two intrepid, though perhaps foolhardy, travelers. My understanding is that their parents love them. Please see that they are not arrested, kidnapped, gang-raped, or shot. Sincerely, John Smith, American Ambassador to Africa"
Indeed the excitement generated by the thought of this exhilarating journey was growing with each passing day. Things happened rather quickly after that. Gear was hastily bought and haphazardly stuffed into borrowed bags, debts were settled (or a return address was surreptitiously changed), good-byes were said, and before we knew it we were on our way. So I'm sitting here in an internet cafe in London, typing away, letting you all back in to my world. Tomorrow we fly to the south of Spain. In a few days we make our way to the coast and a ferry will shuttle us across the Straight of Gibraltar, where the real adventure beings. Our bags are packed, our flight is booked, and we are ready. Are you?

Planes, Trains, and Ought-To-Go-Feels

2005-08-03T07:49:00.000-06:00

So I'm back in New York. Some call it Gotham, The Big Apple, The City That Never Sleeps. I call it Urine Soaked Subway Town, but it's still home. The rats are right where I left them. Never has the angry phrase, "Hey fuckwad, getcher ass outta my parkin space" seemed so melodious to the ears. It's a bittersweet feeling being home, more so because I almost didn't make. As Robert Burns once poetically wrote, the best laid schemes o' mice and men often go astray. Truly this is meaningless, since mice can't even spell the word scheme and their thoughts are rarely committed to paper for future analysis. Burns, a Scottish lyricist, may have had a bit too much smoke in the ole bagpipe, if you catch my drift. Nevertheless it may apply in this situation, as my best laid plans, sans mice, nearly crumbled beneath my feet. My tightly scheduled travel plans called for the following: ferry from Hvar to Split; train from Split to Zagreb; train from Zagreb to Salzburg; flight from Salzburg to Stansted (UK); bus from Stansted to Cambridge. Thus begins my final tale.

As the evening ferry pulled away from the dock in Hvar everything seemed in order. The engine roared as we picked up speed and an acrid exhaust billowed from the rear. Hvar quickly receded into the distance, its physical form dissolving into memory. Kristen (my Canadian travel companion) and I were even treated to a spectacular sunset on the way back. The sun lit up the horizon like a fitting analogy that a more talented writer could conceive. Two hours later we reached the shores of Split and headed for the train station. Our train tickets were a touch confusing. We were both taking an overnight train that passed through Zagreb on its way to Budapest. I was supposed to hop off the train in Zagreb at 7:30 in the morning - where our intertwining paths would finally diverge - and Kristen would continue further on to Budapest. The lady who sold us the ticket mentioned that there would be an hour long layover in Zagreb, which struck us as strange, but anything is possible in Eastern Europe. We did our best to confirm all of the information before leaving but we were stymied by her imperfect English. The train arrived when it was supposed to and we quickly hopped on and secured our place in a six-seat compartment. We closed the glass door and spread out as much as we could in order to dissuade others from entering. Passing some gas probably would have sealed the deal but we managed to restrain ourselves and our luck held out. As we rolled away from the station I pulled out some playing cards and taught Kristen how to play Texas Hold 'Em, an American version of poker where the person with the best hand gets bombed and their oil fields are siphoned to replenish U.S. reserves. The hour grew late and we settled in for the night, stretching out our legs across the seats before falling into a pleasant slumber.

"Zagreb!" yelled the ticket-taker in Croatian, as he flung open the door then loudly stomped off to the next compartment and repeated the process. Startled awake, we were both disoriented and slow to rise. I blinked hard in the morning light and glanced at my watch. It was only 6:30. On overnight trains it is fairly common to get a wake-up call well in advance of a major transfer station, so I was unconcerned when the train began to slow for a stop. Poking my head out of the window I didn't see any signs for Zagreb on the stations walls and the station didn't look all that big when one considers that Zagreb is the capital. Just to be on the safe side I leaned out the door and queried a platform attendant about our current location. His thickly accented response, "Budapest", was a sure-fire indication that he didn't understand my question. I thought about making a quick dash off the train for a better look but was afraid the train might leave without me, since stops are generally only a minute or two. Feeling really uneasy about the situation I quickly moved around the train trying to see a sign, any sign, that would tell me where we were. I still didn't see anything so I decided I better pack up my stuff, since it was currently strewn around our compartment. The train let out a piercing hiss then slowly started to move. At the end of the platform a sign suddenly came into view: ZAGREB GLAVNI KOLODVOR. Fuck.

Grabbing my pack I dashed towards the closed door and threw it open. Maybe I've seen a few too many movies but the gravel alongside the tracks didn't seem to be sliding by too fast, though we were definitely picking up speed. I quickly calculated that if I missed my train connection in Zagreb, I would miss my flight to England, miss my bus to Cambridge, miss my flight home, then have to wander the streets of Europe, broke, homeless and hungry until I died in the gutter outside a Starbucks (those damn things are everywhere). Well I certainly wasn't getting to let that happen. I held my breath and stepped up to the lip. At that exact moment a rail worker on the adjoining track yelled loudly at me in Croatian, angrily pointing towards the open door. As if to emphasize his point a train suddenly came around the corner on the neighboring track, significantly increasing both my risk factor and my blood pressure. Our train still wasn't moving all that fast but now I was afraid that if I jumped I might end up under the wheels of the inbound locomotive and become twice the man I am today. I resigned myself to fate and backed up to close the door. But then the strangest thing happened. I still don't know the cause, whether it was the other train coming in to the station, a routine move before a turn, or that the conductor saw an open door with some human appendages dangling out, but our train started to slow down again. I had no idea whether is was going to fully stop or not but I decided I wasn't going to find out. I chucked my pack out the door and jumped. Jumping onto a narrow gravel corridor from a slow moving train in a pair of flip-flops is definitely not the best idea I've ever had. That being said, it was an unmitigated success. My heart was racing as I took stock of my toes, ankles, and knees. I turned to see Kristen standing in the doorway. I yelled up at her to quickly run back to our compartment to see if I had left anything behind. She disappeared from view as the train let out another loud hiss. It was starting to pick up speed again. Kristen reappeared in the doorway and the next thing I knew a pair of shoes were flying at my head. I had forgotten my hiking shoes. The last I ever saw of her, Kristen was waving goodbye as the train sped her away from the station and out of my life.

I made my connection to Salzburg, which was a huge relief. A quick bus ride later I was at the airport, eagerly awaiting my RyanAir flight to Stansted. RyanAir is the skinflint's airline of choice for jetting about Europe. Sometimes they literally sell tickets for $2 before taxes. It's not uncommon to see flights advertised from London to Rome for $60 round trip. They are able to achieve these unheard of prices through a series of crafty innovations, such as single-class cabins and not putting in enough fuel to reach your final destination. They also have a curious boarding process whereupon they announce all rows simultaneously and the crowd rushes to the narrow entrance as if St. Peter had just called a moratorium on entrance through the Pearly Gates (which might seem a prescient analogy when one considers the bargain basement price I paid for my window seat). Elbowing grandmothers, children, and the infirm I dashed for a seat near the front so I could quickly get out when the plane landed and catch my bus to Cambridge. I don't know whether it's some manner of pheromone I exude or what, but I ended up next to yet another Canadian girl. We chatted about this and that until an oratory faux pas on my part changed the course of the evening. In deference to our 90 minute flight, I foolishly remarked: "You know, this is actually one of the shortest rides I will have taken on this entire trip". As the final word of that imprudent observation escaped from my lips a stewardess came on the intercom and announced the following: "Ladies and gentleman, I am sorry to disturb you, but are there any doctors onboard the aircraft this evening?" I shit you not. There was a bit of a commotion near the back of the plane but since I was in the fourth row I couldn't really see what was happening. Within moments the pilot gets on the horn and alerts us that we will be on the ground in exactly seven minutes due to a "medical emergency". This from our maximum cruising altitude of 36,000 feet. My heart skipped a beat and I clutched the seat as we immediately angled into the steepest dive I've ever encountered. We were descending at a rate of 85 feet per second, which is great when you're dropping water balloons on your sister from a treehouse but not so much fun when plummeting towards the earth in an aluminum can.

When we touched down (in Germany, no less) the airfield was alight with the flashing strobes of emergency vehicles. With the plane still on the runway, a half-dozen EMTs quickly boarded up a mobile staircase and ran to the back. They eventually carried someone out of the back of plane. It turns out the guy was all right, just had some bad sushi or something (note to self: don't eat sushi on discount airlines), or at least that's what they told us. We sat on the tarmac another hour while they unloaded every bag from the belly of the plane in order to find this guy's luggage. I suppose if they were lying about his health it's possible they just folded him up inside his Samsonite expandable suitcase for the rest of the trip home. After the luggage was replaced we had to refuel then wait to get back into the flight rotation. All told, our 90 minute flight ended up taking almost four hours.

So, not surprisingly, I missed my bus to Cambridge. Though that had more to do with the Draconian way station they call Customs than with the lateness of the flight. There's nothing like standing in a line for an hour so someone can ask you if you slept with any farm animals in Europe. As if anyone would admit that. Well, this is getting excessive so I better wrap it up. I managed to catch a later bus to Cambridge where my extremely accommodating friend Val still welcomed me into his home at three in the morning. I got a final night's sleep wrapped in a giant feather comforter, caught a bus to London, and had a pleasant and uneventful flight back to the States. So here I am, take me or leave me.

Hvar Nagilah

2005-08-02T07:48:00.001-06:00

The final stop on my journey was the small Croatian island of Hvar, and what a perfect stop it was. Once again a bus deposited us in a throng of placard toting room peddlers. Vowing to do a better job selecting a room, we carefully screened out potential risks by going with the person who offered us the lowest price. Hmmm...come to think of it, that might have been a critical error. Regardless, we followed the English-speaking man with the thick Croatian accent on the purported five walk to his abode. On this occasion we let him know we were timing it. When we passed the seven minute mark we began to browbeat him but he assured us it was just up the hill and would be five minutes without our heavy packs. As we ascending we haggled about the room fee until Kristen gave at a yelp when a massive, five-inch grasshopper leapt towards her leg. Our gallant guide scooped it up and proceeded to tell us that he was going to eat it, since he was starving due to an overabundance of haggling guests who cut into his profits. This probably should have set off warning bells but I was too busy laughing as he taunted Kristen with the giant hopper in his hands. We arrived at the house and examined the room, which fit the bill. Our host talked rapidly, used numerous hand gestures, and frequently supplemented his speech with a curious whistling or whooshing noise. Before we knew it we were seated at the kitchen table, downing glasses of homemade wine poured from a Coke bottle while being instructed on Croatian drinking customs. Though he poured ours straight, he cut his own wine with water. The conversation started to get a little weird when our host adamantly insisted that 'Croatian fascists killed the Indians' and that everyone he knew was 'Crazy like a cabbage'. Kristen and I smiled and tittered at this rapid-fire chatterer. After pouring us more wine and whining a bit more about how hungry he was, he lightly told us 'I am so hungry I am going to cut off your legs when you sleep and fry them in the oven'. We giggled and mocked his faux hunger, suggesting that the wine was used to dull the pain of the severed legs, while he told us how much 'I hate this job and I hate my fucking guests'. I laughed hard but couldn't figure out why it was all so funny. Maybe it was because when I was part way though my third glass of wine he said with a laugh, 'Only stupid fucking Americans don't cut the wine with water. After two glasses you would be drunk'. Which shrewdly explained why the room was spinning and his head looked like it was being reflected in a funhouse mirror. Lucky for us his intentions we truly benign. In fact, he showed us the time of our lives. Having spend the entire afternoon chatting with him at the kitchen table he took us down to the Stari Grad of Hvar Town, which was pulsating party of an old city. Before long we ended up stuffed in a bar like sardines, dancing and singing to American 80s tunes as the bartenders juggled flaming bottles of alcohol, lit the bar on fire, and pounded the aluminum air ducts with their fists while wielding a chainsaw. The next morning we were in for a treat. Our new friend threw us in his car and took us to the small village of Brusje, where the maker of the homemade wine, his old Uncle Antonio, lived and worked. The dilapidated old town of about two dozen homes was built entirely from the stone gathered on the surrounding lavender-covered hillsides. He proudly reported that his Uncle's home was built in the year 1600, though I presume his Uncle is slightly younger than that. We were welcomed with open arms and without any previous knowledge were treated to a home cooked meal with the family. Stuffed peppers, mystery meat on the bone, a fresh tomato salad made from homemade olive oil and vinegar, and copious amounts of bread filled our stomachs as we listened to the family argue in Croatian about, um, let's say tactical nuclear war. Hell, I have no idea what the heck they were saying, the only one that spoke English was the guy that brought us there. Nevertheless it was a fascinating experience and one I will not soon forgot. Now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, feeling indebted to our friend we decided to help him out with is work. He managed to convince us to help him nab potential room renters off the bus. So, before we knew it we were the ones in the throng selling our wares. I knocked a few old ladies out of the way and showed a bit of leg but it was harder then I thought. Despite our native English-speaking advantage all our attempts ended in failure. Maybe I should have gotten completely nude. To forget our woes we headed out for one last wild party. The night was long, the drinks were plentiful, and Kristen and I carried each other up the steep hill before collapsing into a deep and pleasant slumber.

Better Off Dead

2005-08-01T07:47:00.000-06:00

You know that line in Jerry Maguire where Tom Cruise blathers, 'You complete me' to the gullible blond? Well that's how I feel about Dubrovnik, Croatia. Never has a city so captured my heart. Stretching out into the Mediterranean, the picture-perfect Stari Grad (Old Town) exhibits stunning medieval architecture astride smooth stone streets, spacious town squares bustling with life, and splendid cafes and bars which beget a musical reverie come evening; all of which is surrounded by an imposing stone edifice replete with turrets. George Bernard Shaw called Dubrovnik, 'Paradise on Earth'. Since I can't compete with that kind of descriptive magnificence I'll just say that it was 'Utopia on Terra Firma'. Original, no? When you step off the bus in Dubrovnik the heat hits you in the face like a wet slap. Just as you begin to recover from the blow a throng of weathered old women descend on you like a cloud of locusts, jockeying to offer you private accommodation in their homes. It's a bit like a livestock auction?and you're the prize pig. When we arrived Kristen and I picked an old lady with no glaring deficiencies, were promptly deposited in her rickety old car, then whisked off to the unknown. She spoke only a few words of English but had a kindly, broad smile and instantly softened our skeptical hearts with cookies and drinks when we arrived at her home. The place seemed clean and comfortable so we agreed on three nights. Better still, she granted us use of her washing machine; which was fantastic because my clothes smelled like they had spent the better part of a fortnight in a dumpster. We threw in a load of clothes and the old lady offered to hang them on the line and fold them for us so we could head to the Stari Grad. Excited about our luck we grabbed the keys and took off. Our first indication that something wasn't quite Kosher was when the purported 'ten minute' walk to the Old Town turned into twenty, then thirty minutes. Well, knowing that old people are prone to exaggerate and occasionally pee themselves, we let it roll off our backs. The Stari Grad was worth any walk. We enjoyed an evening at a great seafood restaurant before settling in to listen to some cool jazz music at an outdoor cafe. When we returned at around 2am, the house was still. Kristen went to wash up and I was organizing some stuff in our room when, without warning, the door flung open and there stood the old maid. She had a wild look in her eyes, her steel gray hair standing on end. Pointing her figure around the room she loudly exclaimed, 'Madame?! Madame?!'. Assuming she was looking for Kristen I pointed towards the wash room and indicated she was within. With a look of relief she quickly vanished into her room without another word. Odd, to say the least. The next morning I took a day trip to the stunningly green island of Mljet. I met another couple of Canadian girls (Europe is infested with Canucks) and we lazed around the two giant lakes of the island's National Park, swimming in the cool waters and baking in the sun. When I returned I found our laundry on the dresser, separated into two neat piles (his and hers), with a note on each that read '20 Kuna'. Since we hadn't discussed any charge it seemed this sweet little old lady was trying to extort about $8 for a load a laundry that had maybe ten articles of clothing in it. Irritated at the gall of the women, we did what any self respecting people would do when they felt they were getting ripped off; we decided to sneak out without paying. We managed to avoid her the rest of the afternoon, and the following morning we quietly packed up our things. Feeling guilty, we left a few dollars on the dresser and hastily made for the door. Unfortunately her husband, a lone sentry, was standing guard outside our room and yelled for his wife the moment we appeared. My blood curdled as this sweet old lady, now a nightmarish banshee, swept down the steps whilst uttering some chilling language of the dead (or possibly Croatian). Her broad smile had became a twisted grimace of hate, her hair a nest of snakes striking blindly at the air. All I could make out was something about 40 Kuna as those wild eyes searched my soul for penance. Fear sucked the air from my lungs, so I mumbled and pointed towards the insufficient funds on the dresser as I made haste towards the exit. Kristen was right on my heals but when we cleared the door I exhorted her to run. Sensing she was right behind us we blindly ran down a steep hill and dashed around the edge of a truck. When the devil is on your heals, you don't stop and ask for directions. Laughing uncontrollably, we made our way to the bus station and sped away from a most certain doom.

Knights of the Old Republic

2005-07-30T07:46:00.000-06:00

Just because Serbia's first democratically elected Prime Minister was assassinated doesn't necessarily make it a bad place to visit. There are at least a dozen other reasons. For instance, you might be discouraged from visiting when you hear that the doors on the overnight train from Romania are chained shut from the inside to prevent thieves, rapists, murderers, and proselytizing missionaries from breaking in during stops. You might be further discouraged when you hear that the doors between individual cars are not only chained but also barred. This discouragement might even turn into a palpable fear when you don't hear of this until you are already traveling inside the steel belly of this Locomotive of Doom. Such was the case when I personally noticed these safeguards while getting up to use the restroom on my night train to Belgrade. Luckily, having evacuated my bowels moments earlier, it made it a lot harder to literally shit my pants. Kristen and I shared a few jittery laughs before settling in for some restless sleep. Fortunately, I woke up in the morning with the vast majority of my organs where I left them. Who needs two kidneys anyways? As we slowly rolled into the city the first thing I noticed was Belgrade's impressively elaborate recycling program. With little fanfare, residents carefully separate their plastic, paper, and organic refuse before depositing it directly into a nearby river, where it is immediately recycled into the drinking water. Fascinating, really. The city didn't really improve much from there. Ugly buildings and tacky neon signs dominated the main thoroughfares. The main attraction was the massive Kalemegdan Citadel, a fortification that had been attacked a whopping 115 times since it was erected, despite the fact that the view from the top isn't very impressive. Interestingly, the Military Museum inside the citadel proudly displays bits of a downed American stealth bomber from the latest war. It seemed like a cue to leave if ever there was one. Another night train deposited us on the Montenegrin coast. After a few short but painful bus rides we arrived out our destination. Ringing the edge of a shimmering fjord and lorded over by striking granite mountains, the small town of Kotor was a gem. Dwelling high above this settlement is a magnificent fortification whose steep stone steps and imposing walls snake their way a few hundred yards up the mountainside before ending in a fortress with a spectacular view down the length of the fjord. Though incredibly impressive, your can't help but wonder why in the hell anyone would want to get up there in the first place. Nevertheless, it was still my favorite set of ruins on the trip and a nice escape from Belgrade.

Vlad to the Bone

2005-07-21T07:46:00.000-06:00

Holy fuck, I'm in Transylvania. Land of rolling green hills, gothic castles, and Vlad Tepes - more commonly known in Romania as Vlad the Impaler for his habit of making human shish-kebabs out of minor law transgressors. You might know him as Dracula. I learned a lot about the man, the myth, the legend. For example, contrary to popular belief Dracula did NOT suck the blood of his victims. He sipped it from a port snifter while enjoying cuban cigars (made from actual Cubans). For an alternate view of the history I suggest the 1972 film Blacula, starring William Marshall. Romania is an awesome country and I learned to party like the undead. Our first stop was the small village of Sighisoara, purported birthplace of the aforementioned bloodsucker. The house where little Vladdy was born has been converted into a steak joint. For an authentic experience I suggest sinking your teeth into a rare cut of beef. Above the local residence sits a beautiful walled citadel; home to cobbled streets, an ancient clocktower, and a wide assortment of craptacular Dracula schwag. An uninspiring tour guide tried to tear down the Dracula myth so I bit her in the neck. Surprisingly, the tour ended soon after. Back at the hostel someone magnanimously produced a bottle of absinthe and the party was on. Before we knew it, night gave way to dawn and several of us turned to dust. The rest just vomited. The next morning we somehow made our way to the village of Brasov. The town wasn't too interesting but it was a great base for touring the local castles. Perched high up in the mountains of Sinaia was the spectacular Pele's Palace. There was no soccer memorabilia but the interior sported a treasure trove of intricately carved wood work that would give a beaver a hard-on. It also had a room filled with hookahs. Without a doubt my favorite castle in Europe. Next stop was the infamous Bran Castle of Dracula legend. Once again, our guide tried to separate man from myth. I'm really disappointed that an entire country is in denial of its patently obvious heritage. My dwindling spirits were buoyed on exiting into the square surrounding the castle, which was filled with local Dracula supporters and enough vampire merchandise to crush several small school children. The final stop on our tour was the Rasnov Citadel. The best aspect of this ho-hum citadel sitting precariously atop a high hill was that the bus took us straight back to the hostel. We finished up our Brasnov experience by downing a bottle of Vampire Brand Romanian vino. Good stuff, but a little heavy on the Romanian. As we left Romania, heading for Budepest, the train slowly screeched to a halt in the middle of nowhere. The dilapidated shell of a station had but a few patrons mulling around waiting for the train...about a half dozen giant chickens. None got on and the train continued on its way. I love this country.

Stuck on Slovakia

2005-07-19T07:45:00.000-06:00

I haven't really spent much time in these posts talking about my feet. Well, that's all about to change. My shoes are pretty nasty. Having received several good soakings without time to dry they have achieved a level of funk previously ascribed only to George Clinton. If they were exorcised by a priest, burned, and the ashes were scattered across the Pacific they might be laid to rest. Despite these precautions there is still a distinct possibility that all indigenous marine life in the affected area would go suddenly extinct. So, in an effort to rectify the situation, I switched over to my flip flops. These are of the shower variety and were in no way intended to bear the load of a 170lb man carrying a 25lb pack up to ten kilometers a day. As such, the base had begun to separate. Which, naturally, brings me to the subject of Slovakia. First, some background. In Zakopane I met a Canadian lass named Kristen who was travelling a similar route to me. Stately ambassadors that we are we decided to bury the strife between our two warring nations and travel together for a while. Our first stop was the small Slovakian town of Levoca. As we walked the cobbled streets I kept stumbling; my sandals had finally reached a point where they required life support. We found a little shop that sold Slovakian superglue, which could have been goat urine for all we knew, but the 30 cent price was right so we snapped it up and went outside for a quick repair job. It was your typical tube of superglue and I forgot about the seal that needs to be pierced before the first use. As such, my squeezing of the tube had but one effect; Freddy Mercury said it best, it was under pressure. Remembering the seal, I punctured it with the cap, temporarily sealing it again. Kristen, in her infinite wisdom, took a big step back as I confidently declared, "It won't splash that far." Apparently I know less about fluid dynamics then I think I do. The second I removed the cap a geyser of permanent bond sealant erupted from the tube. About half the contents spewed forth onto the pavement, my sandals, arms, and legs. Barefoot for the repair job, one errant step would have left in me in Slovakia a lot longer then I originally intended. The big problem with permanent sealant is that it has a nasty habit of being, well, permanent. Since I didn't really want to become a town resident we patiently waited for the glue to dry then finished the repair job. Feet intact, crisis averted, we hightailed it out of town high on the fumes

Pole Position

2005-07-18T07:44:00.000-06:00

Having gone to Poland for a single purpose - to visit Auschwitz and Birchenau - I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this country. Not the concentration camps, of course. Truth be told they are an extremely difficult place to visit. When you view a room filled with seven tons of human hair from Holocaust victims you're scarcely human if it doesn't put a knot in your throat. I don't feel a need to preach about the self-evident horrors of these places so we'll just skip to the good stuff. The Polish city of Krakov was absolutely brilliant. Boasting awesome architecture, a teeming nightlife, and the biggest square in all of Europe, the city was alive with post-Communist energy. Or it may have just been booze. The city even has a Jewish Quarter, though in my estimation it was more like an eighth. As luck would have it, an International Street Performance Festival was in town. I got to see a full half dozen of the strangest non-sexual experimental theater on planet earth. The Ukranians win a prize for Trippy Artistry with a performance that saw soulful arias accompanied by elegant dancing give way to a screechingly loud carnival from Hell. Clad in flowing red robes and walking on stilts, the performers relied heavily on pyrotechnics; sparklers, flaming spears, roman candles, firecrackers, and what I'm fairly sure was C4 lit up the sky and literally rained down on the crowd. Catching on fire is surprisingly exhilarating when the great unwashed are cheering you on. The "What the Fuck?" prize goes to an overweight 55 year old Italian man who looked and dressed like Drew Carey, cracked wise like Rodney Dangerfield, smashed watermelons like Gallagher, and spun basketballs around his legs like a Harlem Globetrotter. All this while ranting about politics, the future, and Coca-Cola. The latter of which irked him so much that a good chunk of his performance was dedicated to shaking up cans, attacking them with a cordless drill, and spraying them onto the crowd while convulsing to hard-core techno music. It was supposed to be funny. If this is what passes for comedy in Italy we may finally have an explanation for the wry, piteous smile of the Mona Lisa. What do you call a Polack standing on the border of Slovakia? The South Pole. That was where I headed next. The small mountain town of Zakopane is located right at the base of the Tatra Mountains and I made it my home base while I explored the amazing national park system. The Poles could teach America a thing or two about trail building. I have never seen such a labor of love in a National Park. Stone steps graced nearly the entire length of every trail from valley to peak - a Herculean effort that needs to be seen to be believed. Over two days I hiked to four different peaks. The weather was mostly crap but when it cleared it was some of the most stunning scenery I have ever laid eyes upon. And definitely the most challenging and rewarding ascents I have ever attempted. The highest peak, Mt. Swinika, had a series of chains bolted into the side of the mountain for the last 100 meters to help prevent the slippery ascension from becoming heaven bound. At the top of Kasprowy Wierch I straddled two countries; Poland to the north and Slovakia to the south. An excellent place for a game of hokey-pokey if I ever saw one. All of which was great until the sky cracked open and a Biblical rain poured forth. Luckily I had just left the peaks but my meager rain gear was no match for the three hour descent I had to endure. Halfway down I'm fairly certain I saw a bearded man in a robe collecting animals. Soaked from head to toe, my underwear still hasn't fully dried. All and all, an amazing experience. Except for the underwear.

Have You Driven a Fjord, Lately?

2005-07-15T07:44:00.001-06:00

So, like most people, the first thing I noticed about Norway is that nothing rhymes with fjord. The second thing I noticed was it's unspolit splendor. If a massive earthquake shook the earth, fracturing our beloved United States, and everything west of the Rockies fell into the sea, drowning millions of men, women, and children you may begin to approximate the beauty of coastal Norway - without any of the gratuitous death and destruction. The rugged coast is chock full of majestic fjords, wind-swept isles, and quaint, rustic towns. On my way to the coast I spent exactly four minutes in Hell. Once again, we have been lied to. Hell, as it turns out, is only an express train away from Oslo. No service I ever attended described Hell as being surrounded by some of most pristine forests and glacier-carved ravines on the planet. Had I known this, I would have gladly gone to Hell a long time ago. And I suggest you all do the same. After taking a the most scenic train of my life from Dombas to ?ndalsnes - which curved down a massive gorge teaming with countless waterfalls - I hopped a quick bus to the coastal town of ?lesund. ??Note: I'm going to have to cut this short because I am out of time.?? There I met an Englishman named Chris who I hiked around with for a day. We wandered along the rugged coast and ended up in this woman's backyard by mistake. She caught us red handed and we sheepishly (and not too honestly) claimed we were lost. The following day I headed down to the small town of Gerainger via the Gerainger Fjord cruise. Cruising through the giant fjord was an amazing experience. The day was perfect and I got a million pictures. The town itself was lovely, and I got in some seriously good hiking to the most amazing waterfalls I have ever seen up close. I even got to hike behind one. Well, my time is up! I have to run!

Ruldolph Got Ingested On The Train, Dear

2005-07-12T07:42:00.000-06:00

Because I ate the reindeer. If it makes you feel any better, Rudolph was a little gamy. This and other delicacies can all be yours if you visit beautiful, stormy Finland. Once again proving the dictum that it's not the destination but the journey, the most enjoyable part of my Finlandian excursion was the voyage to and from Sweden. Unbelievably, my Eurail train pass provides free passage on the Silja Line cruise ship from Stockholm to Helsinki. No slouch of a ferry, this massive overnight cruiser had six restaurants, two clubs, several bars, a tax-free shop, and, most importantly, blackjack tables. The impact of the ship's enormity sunk in when I saw a full size 18-wheel Mack truck drive into the hull like it was a match-box car. My roommate on this fateful journey was a Korean student of architecture named Jo (actually Jo is his last name, but to pronounce his first name correctly I would need to pull out your tongue). A boisterous and jovial sort, we had a blast together. Having never been on a cruise before we both greedily explored the ship from bow to stern. We ate at the restaurants, drank at the bars, and discussed his requisite service in the Korean military. Jo was a member of the chemical decontamination unit whose job was to clean up the mess after a bioweapons attack. Scariest factoid: once a bioattack region has been thoroughly cleansed, it is the responsibility of the youngest team member to remove his protective biosuit to give a live test of the affected area. As Jo explained with cold logic, the youngest member is the least experienced and therefor the least valuable. Yeesh! We had a good laugh about it though. I also taught him how to play blackjack; as I once again walked away from the tables with 100 euro in profit. I could make a living off of this. Helsinki itself was nothing special. It was cold, rainy, and overcast which is not out of the ordinary, according to the locals. Dark and snowy for most of the year, Helsinki is to suicide as obesity is to Houston. It's really a wonder that anyone lives there at all. For me the highlight was walking around the open-air fish market down at the shore. I bought a couple of whole, smoked mackeral right out of the back of a boat and fought with the seagulls as I munched on a pier. The gulls swoop down and try to grab the fish right from your hand so you can imagine the scene as I'm sitting on the end of a pier waving a bunch of half-eaten mackeral in the air like a madman. I sampled a few other creative dishes, my favorite being the miniature, whole (head, tail and all), whitefish that are battered and fried then served like french fries with a garlic sauce. Yummy. Tell me if you've heard this one before. So, a Jew, a Korean, and Frog walk into an Irish pub where an international crowd is listening to a Swedish band playing American music. There's no punch line, except that if you've heard this one before then you were at my birthday bash at Molly Mallone's. The place was packed (almost certainly in my honor) and the band belted out tunes from the eighties while we sang along, tapped in rhythm, and tried our best to talk above the din. A met a mongolian man who bought me a celebratory shot of Finland's national drink, Salmiakki-Kossu. The powerful, inky-black liquor tasted like a cross between licorice and Nyquil. As I sipped the shot, a warm burning sensation spread out from my lips across my whole body; and my phlegm was definitely looser. All and all, not a bad way to crest into my 28th year.

Two Bits

2005-07-09T07:42:00.000-06:00

A sea of blond-haired, blue-eyed, beauties glided through the streets like a parade of angels descended from heaven. Naturally, I assumed I was dead. As it turned out I was in Stockholm, where jaws hang slack and you need to mind your feet to avoid crushing anyone's lolling tongue on the sidewalk. I had a theory that a tall, dark, and handsome lad such as myself would be like an exotic pearl, rare and precious in this fair-skinned land. Nope. I was more like the discarded oyster, given a cursory glance of disgust before being shucked into the disposal. Bruised ego aside, I found Stockholm to be one of the most beautiful cities in all of Europe. The historic center of Gamla Stad was architectural eye-candy. Steep, hilly roads and narrow, cobbled streets beheld an array of colorful homes, quiet squares, quaint shops, and the buildings of the Royal Palace. Everything was immaculate, the paint even seemed fresh and vibrant. I had gotten up early and the streets were deserted. It felt like my own personal playground, so I broke a few windows and stole some candy. On a sugar high I visited Storkyrkan, the unpronounceable Royal Cathedral of Sweden, whose most interesting feature is a life-sized statue of St. George and the Dragon. This was fascinating to me for two reasons: One, there wasn't much mental association in my head between dragons and Christianity. I once heard a story about Jesus curing a ham but never slaying a dragon; Two, the vast majority of the dragon was built using the antlers of elk and deer. So, despite all of Sweden's ravishing beauties, this dragon has the odd distinction of sporting the nicest rack. I once again skipped all of the museums, as is my custom, but wandering the streets was joy. Stockholm is built on a series of islands that stretch out from the city, east into the ocean. In fact, the coast sports an unimaginable 24,000 of these little islands, of which only a handful are inhabited. I explored the two most accessible, Skeppsholmen and Kastellholmen, looking for a rest room. Definitely a recurring theme in European travel is to make sure you have pockets full of change for the facilities. Can you believe it costs a dollar to take a shit in Sweden? I'd hate to think of the spiraling debt I'd accumulate if I got a bout of the runs. Finally, I rented a bike and explored the large garden island of Djurgarden, getting lost only thrice before finding my way back home. I have a confession to make. Truth be told, I did get lucky with one of the Swedes. I met her in a little shop off of one of the main squares. A knockout by any standard, we chatted about this and that, and before I knew it she was seductively running her fingers through my hair. Surprised, but not enough to lose my cool, her delicate fingers caressed my head and sent tingles down my spine. I'm a gentleman so I'll spare the details, save I was late for a train and thirty minutes later we mournfully parted ways. My haircut was done.

Wavy Gravy Had Babies

2005-07-07T07:41:00.000-06:00

After the ribald fury that filled the streets of Amsterdam, Copenhagen seemed a veritable ghost town. Despite wide, multi-lane streets, traffic was but a trickle. This isn't surprising when you learn that Copenhagen - no joke - has a budget busting 180% tax imposed on new car purchases. It's your standard Toyota Buy Three, Get One deal they've been running throughout the States. Suddenly, public transport seems pretty appealing. The quiet streets give this big city a rather small town feel and it was a nice respite from the hurly burly I had emerged from. On foot I explored the lovely parks, large plazas, and the forgettable but requisite visit to the famous statue of The Little Mermaid. A small crab crawling around the base of the statue started to break into song but I crushed him with a rock before it got out of hand. Another highlight was Amalienborg Palace, the residence of the Royal Family. The guards had none of the pomp and circumstance of the Brits but they had funnier hats. I think you can tell a lot about a country's military prowess by the size of that beehive. There seems to be an inverse correlation between hat size and military might, which may explain Copenhagen's Christiana neighborhood. Have you heard of this place? True story: a bunch of stoned and homeless hippies broke into an abandoned military barracks and refused to leave until someone delivered 32 pizzas with extra cheese. The military balked and - 30 years later - the hippies are still there, now 1000 people strong (apparently, if left to their own devices hippies multiply like rabbits). Keep in mind that this is smack dab in the city proper, not out in the boonies somewhere. They have their own political structure, education system, radio station, and (ahem) pharmacy. Curious about their society, I explored this crazy shantytown to learn what I could. Their main industry seems to be, well, sitting around smoking weed. Actually, it's tourism, which I find rather humorous. Nothing screams ''sell out'' like leading middle-aged gawking yokels on guided tours of your hippie commune. From what I understand, the place isn't what it used to be. A series of police raids in the late nineties knocked out the soul (aka, 5,000 lbs of hash) from the community. I got a nice kebab for lunch though. Away from Copenhagen on subsequent day trips I visited the small hamlets of Hillerod and Helsingor. Both had glorious castles but Hillerod's Frederiksborg Slot blew me away. Built on three adjoining islands, Frederiksborg is a magnificent example of Dutch Renaissance architecture. From a distance it was breathtaking, but, like two hippos having sex, it just got better the closer you were. The courtyard housed a massive fountain, my favorite of the trip; a triumphant Poseidon, poised high in the air, giving the death-metal devil salute with his right hand, surrounded by no fewer than 15 acolytes who were all spurting water from their nether regions (rectum included). Yeah, that'll do for Denmark.

Everything Mom Told Me Not To Do

2005-07-03T07:41:00.000-06:00

Amsterdam was hellishly crowded. A human river flowed through the streets, making cars and trams a dangerous and wily minority. The lively crowds ebbed and flowed through parks, squares, and the ubiquitous ''coffee'' shops. Sreet performers entertained hundreds on nearly every corner. There was a tremendous energy because, heck, it was Amsterdam. This real Sin City makes Vegas seem laughably quaint. Like a hit from a bong, I took a deep breath and held it all in. A few girls and I started with a wake-and-bake at one of the aforementioned coffee houses. All that smoking built up an unquenchable thirst so we headed over to the Heiniken Experience Brewery Tour. It was completely surreal. Since this was no longer a functional brewery, you instead toured through an impressive array of multimedia exhibits and rides, got three beers and a free Heineken glass, all for $10. The strangest part was the ''What is it like to be a Heineken bottle?'' ride. You stand on a hydrolic floor plate - getting shaken and jostled around - while standing in front of a giant screen that makes you feel as if you are moving along a conveyer belt (along with hundreds of other bottles) getting washed, filled, capped, labeled, sorted, shuffled, boxed, and shipped. After our three beers we ambled out and I learned a valuable life lesson: when you are high and drunk, riding a bike is not just like riding a bike. We eventually figured out how to get the locks off and carefully made our way over to the Van Gogh Museum. Dissapointed not to see a display of a severed ear, I nevertheless enjoyed several of the pieces before moving on. I seperated from the ladies and did what any respectable gentleman of leisure would do by himself - I went to the Red Light District. So named due to the glow that will likely be emitting from your crotch after a visit, rows of women stand behind glass doors beckoning with a finger or a wink. You can have what's behind curtain number one, or you can trade it all in for what's in the box. Or, hell, you can pay to go behind curtain number one and dive head first into the box, it's your money. Honestly I found the whole thing rather distasteful, so I only slept with two of them. My adventures winding down, my pockets nearly empty, out of work, vagabonding around Europe, I did the only sensible thing...I went gambling...and I won about 120 euro. Life is good.

Your Friets Are In My Stoofvle

2005-07-01T07:40:00.000-06:00

Bruge, Belgium. I skipped Brussels in favor of this lazy, compact hamlet and I have not a moments regret. Cobbled streets, dazzling architecture, and stunning town squares made for an exquisite visit and a silly rhyme. Old buildings aside, Bruge was a gastronomic wonderland. I gorged on sugared Belgium waffles, which, strangely, are eaten with the hands while standing. I sampled the oddest of flavored chocolates: lavender, which tasted like a bar of chocolate soap; lemongrass, a bit of an earthen taste; chili, which had a spicy kick to it; and finally, tobacco, which tasted about as good as it sounds. Maybe I was supposed to smoke it. Call me old fashioned but I like my chocolates chocolate-flavored. Another Bruge delight are friets (fries). You can get them at stands and stores all over the city. Cooked fresh while you wait, these salty, mouth-watering snacks are traditionally served with gobs of mayonnaise. I preferred mine with stoofvlees, a chunky meat stew that's similar to stroganoff. It's your basic meat and potatoes dish but every last ounce of nutritional value has been fried out of it. Yummy. As penance for my indulgences I once again rented a bike and toured around the countryside. I rolled through small towns, past cows, farms, and the obligatory old churches. It was a mellow break before the hedonistic orgy that was soon to come...

Berlitzed Beyond Berlief

2005-06-29T07:39:00.000-06:00

Berlin is a living, breathing, history lesson. Great and terrible things have taken place within its bounderies; mostly terrible, but I'm not one to point fingers. A heaping ladle of justice was eventually served and most of the city was leveled during World War II. You can spend hours walking around looking at the bullet holes left by Allied troops as they marched on the capitol. It would make a good drinking game if it weren't for the fact that the sheer number of battle-scarred buildings would leave you in an inebriated coma by the time you were done. I spent my first day exploring the city by bike, which I highly recommend as a means to significantly shorten your life expectancy. Dodging cars, drafting buses, and clipping pedestrians is the best way to explore this sprawling metropolis. Some of the highlights: The Berlin Wall, which presumably fell to make room for the new Sony IMAX megaplex at Postdamer Platz; Checkpoint Charlie, the point where East met West in a titanic staring contest for twenty years (we won); The Reichstag, the German Parliament building with the giant glass popcorn dome on the top; The Holocaust Memorial, a series of massive, stone blocks of alternating size - some twenty feet high - laid out in an enormous undulating grid across an entire city block; Brandenburg Gate, a big...well, gate for the Brandenburgs; and the Victory Column, a 220 foot tall spire positioned by Hitler to point towards France as a challenge to their sovereignty. Back in the forties pointing a statue at another country was grounds for war. That evening I participated in the traditional heavy drinking games of Berlin's nightlife. I don't know much about drinking games but I'm pretty sure I lost. After a slow start the next morning I participated in a facinating Third Reich walking tour. We goose-stepped our way around the city while learning how the Nazi regime came to power and how to Heil a taxi. Most interesting factoid: of the 20,000 animals housed in the Berlin Zoo at the start of the war only 50 survived the bombing. If I had to guess, I'd say cockroaches. The tour ended at the site of Hitler's underground bunker, which is now, fittingly, a parking lot. But of all the disturbing sights and stories I saw and heard in Berlin, perhaps the most perverse was this: a large, organized choral group, sitting on the steps of the awe-inspiring Berliner Dom cathedral, belting out an a capella rendition of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. No joke. So, hooray for Democracy, I guess.

Look Both Ways Before Crossing a German

2005-06-27T07:38:00.000-06:00

The Germans are a fascinating people. Orderly, precise, and efficient, they are tireless in their persuit of perfection. The trains are arrogantly punctual, clocks are perfectly synchronized, and you can eat a three-course dinner off the toilet seats in the train station. The language itself is long and complicated, with names like Heigerdusselflingerstreudlebahndorf Strausse. And to hear them speak is to know the very depths of hell itself. Every time someone opens their mouth I'm ready to perform the Heimlich maneuver for fear they are choking on their wiener schnitzel. Curiously, stern mannerisms often cloak a genial positivism. But teeming just below the surface of this perfectionist facade are many issues which affect the national psyche. Here you have a people that blindly participated in one of the worst genocidal acts in human history yet won't be caught dead jay walking. I'm serious. There can be no cars visible for a mile in either direction and people are patiently standing at the corner waiting for that cross walk sign to light up. You don't know whether to laugh or cry.

My German adventure started in the small, quiet town of Fussen. This was Bavaria, home of kings, castles, and the delectable cream that fills your donuts and clogs your arteries. The town hostel was completely booked so I landed in a local B&B. Run by a elderly, short, stout, German women it was authentic in every way. Breakfast consisted of bread, jam, and some manner of German mystery meat that I dubiously dubbed worstwurst. I spent a day touring the famous Neuschwanstein Castle. Built by Mad King Ludwig (not angry, but definitely mad) this mass of gleaming white turrets and ramparts was purportedly the inspiration for the castle in Disneyworld. The following day I rented a bike and wandered around the beautiful countryside until I ended up in Reutte, Austria. You ever take a wrong turn and end up in a different country? Didn't think so. In Reutte I visited the Ehrenburg Ruins, a 13th century fortification which is now just a series of cool crumbling rock and stone. With nary a soul in sight I had the whole place to myself. Soon my imagination got the best of me and I ordered an attack on a nearby farming village, but with no troops to obey my orders I had to settle on making obscene gestures at a nearby cow.

With little time clocked on floating transport during my trip I decided to catch a cruise up the Rhine river. I spent my first night in a castle that had been converted into a hostel. My favorite stop on the Rhine was a small town called St. Goar, where I explored the fantasically cool Rheinfels Castle and once again tried to place myself in mortal peril. The inhabitants of this particular castle built a series of narrow tunnels with thin slate roofs packed with explosives in order to blow up invaders. There are six hundred feet of twisting, turning tunnels; it's pitch black, muddy, slippery, cold, full of dead-ends, and you're in a deep crouch the whole time. Oh yeah, and did I mention the only light I had was a six-inch wax candle and a book of matches? Matches being the obvious choice for tunnels that used to be filled with gunpowder. Germany obviously doesn't have any lawyers. Lucky for me, I had a set of directions in my guidebook. Unfotunately, I went in the wrong entrance to the tunnel and was following the directions backwards. Alone, shivering in the dark, panic started to settle in when I hit my second dead end and a furious swarm of crane flies erupted from the walls around me. The candle was half gone at this point so I slowly backed out till a found a space to turn around, then carefully backtracked to the entrance. After turning my guidebook rightside up I decided to give it another whirl. Fifteen minutes later I made I made it to the other side, cramped, muddy, covered in wax, with quite a large smile on my face.

I spent a quick day in Munich as well. Munich is great city where approximately 50% of the women look like men. I actually expected it to be a higher precentage. But some of those girls....yikes. I took a free city walking tour and you truly do get what you pay for. I listened to the schlock and spiel in front of the Glockenspiel and tried not to fall asleep. The Glockenspiel is basically a giant clock with a series of rudimentary analog figurines that stike poses and dance around for about 15 minutes every hour while a series of bells chime along. The first five minutes were interesting, the second set dulled the senses, and by the third you prayed that you would simultaneously go deaf and blind. The tour mercifully continued. We saw a few churches then stopped in a beer garden for bratwurst and beer, which is what most Germans do after some heavy sermonizing. The beer is served in massive, one liter mugs. I swear I saw some guy carrying his baby around in one of those giant mugs. It must have been Bring Your Daughter to Work day. With 126 kinds of beer and just as much fattening sausage one has to wonder how any Germans live past 40. If ever an earthquake struck Munich it might just be a national coronary.

Salzburg at Sunset

2005-06-21T07:38:00.000-06:00

Salzburg surprised me with its quaint atmosphere, quiet streets, and beautiful vistas. To be honest, I hadn't even intended on stopping there. I'm not a big Mozart fan and I may be the only man on earth who still hasn't seen The Sound of Music, though my understanding is that the hills are alive with it. Sounds terrifying. Having missed the last train to Germany, I was lucky enough to catch a beauteous sunset and spend an evening exploring this little burg. Wandering the streets at dusk I felt completely at ease. Salzburg felt very safe, like a motherly embrace, or your finger on the trigger of that snub-nosed .38 in your purse. I strolled through the perfectly manicured Mirabell Gardens with an exquisite view of the Hohensalzburg Fortress, passed by the marvelous Mozart platz, and parked myself in front of the Salzburg Cathedral. And I took tons of pictures, until they caught me and I got kicked out of the women's locker room at the local gym. Gosh, those women are bashful. I was really taken aback by the architecture. At sunset, the skyline was magnificent. As a budding wordsmith you might think I would have the vocabulary to describe this scene. Not so. My knowledge of architectural terms is right up there with my ability to juggle flaming daggers. As such, I will revert to infantile and obscentity laden gutter speak. Let's just say the buildings were fucking awesome. And you know that big, blue, thingamajig at the top of that column? That was one bad-ass mamma-jamma. Though I only got to spend a single evening there it was a glorious one.

The Absinthe-Minded Confessor

2005-06-20T07:37:00.000-06:00

Prague was full of surprises. Despite the fact that literally millions of bodies crowd Europe, I seem to keep running into the same damn ones. I've had approximately eight close-encounters of the weird kind since being out here, but Prague was the most unlikely. First I ran into Natalie, a girl I met on a mountainside for all of about 20 minutes in Switzerland. Next was Amy, the girl with whom I had travelled to Paris and Interlaken. I liked Prague but something about it seemed rather off to me. The original architecture is stunning, one of the only European cities unscathed by the carpet-bombing of WWII. For a city that was under Communist rule for so long I was surprised to find the buildings so...cheerily colorful. Nearly every building was painted in various soft pastels, leading me to conclude that Communism was a lot more cuddly then I had been led to believe. Maybe the top of the Kremlin looking like a series of soft-serve ice cream cones isn't so strange after all. In some warped way the whole place reminded me of Disneyworld, only with more alcohol. Prague had a large Jewish population at one point and for the first time during this trip I was treated to a series of impressive synagogues. Since there are only about five Jews left in Prague, most have been converted into museums...not the remaining Jews, the synagogues - stupid grammar. Regardless, the synagogues here are not nearly as ornate as their cathedral counterparts. In an effort to strengthen stereotypes, I'll suggest that we were too busy investing our money in controlling the media. There were several interesting exhibits, including some old circumcision knives that looked duller than a redneck at a spelling bee. I couldn't think of anything to make circumcision worse then it already was, but there you have it. Leaving religion behind, I turned my sights towards more practical matters. Like getting drunk. Natalie and I cruised around until we found a local pub, where I sampled the local beer. Nope, still don't like it. I needed something stiffer. We closed out the bar (at a surprisingly early 11:30pm) and went hunting for the mythical, mystical, green liquor I knew could place me in the coma I desired...absinthe. We wandered the empty streets. Everything was closed. Finally we saw a flashing neon sign that brazenly proclaimed, "non-stop". A creepy staircase descended into a dimly lit corridor. I hesitated, but Natalie led the charge. It was dark and dreary and we were completely alone, save the bartender. This was DEFINITELY the place. He didn't know more then a few words of English but he knew the word absinthe. Seventy percent strong and illegal in the States, I lifted the shot to my lips and took a sip. There's no point in me describing the sensation when you can so easily replicate it at home. Just light a butane torch and suck on the end like you were drinking milk through a straw. That burning sensation you feel? That's just the lining of your stomach disintegrating as the bile bursts through and starts to liquefy your intestines. Before leaving the Czech Republic I took a day trip to a place called Kutna Hora. This small town is infamous for it's ossuary, called Kostnice - in the common tongue, The Bone Church. Inside dwells the mortal remains of literally thousands of people, all playfully constructed into home furnishings like some ghastly Erector-Set Of The Damned. There are adornments on the wall, a giant coat-of-arms, a chalice, and other such feats of creatively morbid engineering. Outside is a sign which reads, "Please, do not mock the dead". This is quite ironic considering the fact that your great-uncle Jack's pelvis is the centerpiece of a massive bone chandelier. Nevertheless, it was a unique experience and another notch in the cultural belt.

Luke, Ich bin Ihr Vater

2005-06-18T07:36:00.000-06:00

The imperial city of Vienna holds the dubious honor of kicking off the first World War. As it turned out, it's a lot more difficult to wage war than to produce a good wiener and the Viennese soon found themselves...well, holding their hot dogs. Like my father's hairline, Vienna quickly receded from the world stage. After a good spell they regrouped and turned towards finer pursuits, like overcharging tourists. To be fair, they also overcharge the locals. Honestly, I wasn't very impressed with Vienna. The most interesting parts of the city are almost entirely contained within a four mile ringed road, a vestigial reminder of the walls that used to surround and protect the city in its heyday. It also makes street maps of the city look like a giant, single-celled amoeba. Probably the most interesting site was the Schloss Sch?nbrunn royal palace. Though I've officially sworn of the interiors of these places, the grounds were most impressive. There was even had an honest-to-God hedge maze. In a vain attempt to act cultured I even went to the Opera. No joke, it was five HOURS long. And they lock the doors once it starts. After the first twenty minutes time seemed to stand still. I grit my teeth and waited patiently for the fat lady to start singing. Unfortunately there were no fat women in this particular Opera and the shrill, womanly voice everyone eventually heard was my own, begging to get out. To be fair, my outlook was partially obscured by clouds. Overcast skies and occasional downpours plagued my entire stay there. The weather did afford me a chance to finally go see the last Star Wars film, may it rest in peace. Funny thing about the theaters in Vienna, all of the seating is assigned and they actually charge more for better seats. Anything to squeeze another dime. To be truthful I didn't really like the movie very much, despite the positive reviews it has garnered. It seemed poorly directed, had horrendous dialogue, and tons of superfluous plot elements; rather like the Kerry campaign. I nearly laughed out loud when Vader rips loose from the operating table like Frankenstein's monster. Well, enough of that. I set my sights on my next stop, Prague.

Careful, Those Venetians Aren't Blind

2005-06-17T07:36:00.000-06:00

Ahhhh, Venice....a colorful maze of carefully constructed canals, narrow streets, and more bridgework than a Florida Bingo parlor. Loaded with tourists - despite the very real possibility that it might sink - Venice was nevertheless a worthwhile stop. Though from the train you might as well be cruising the Robert Moses causeway of Long Island, Venice quickly becomes unique in almost every way. Consider this: the "bus" system is an armada of roving boats; St. Mark's square might be the only place on earth you could lay on your back, swing your arms and legs, and artfully create a pigeon angel; and if your taxi springs a leak you may drown. How cool is that??? Truth be told there wasn't really much to "see" in Venice. It was enjoyable to just wander around, taking in the people, the buildings, the canals, and the architecture. And no, I didn't ride on a Gondola. In addition to the unreasonable cost, to be frank, it's kind of pathetic to take a romantic Gondola ride by yourself. The oarsman were cute but not THAT cute. Still, I enjoyed the breeze in my face while riding the public transport, the smell of the sea air, and the taste of my final Italian gelato (sniff!) and I chugged away from Italy to my next desination: Vienna.

It Wasn't Built In a Day

2005-06-16T07:35:00.000-06:00

Rome may not have been built in a day but you can sure see it in one. The grandeur of Rome spread out before me like a virulent flu. It was hot and muggy, wet and ruddy, and you just sort of wanted to be done with it already. I know, I know, many of you are probably thinking but I love Rome. Well, some people love rectal thermometers too but that doesn't mean we all do. I started in Vatican City and was lucky enough to catch a Wednesday mass in the square of St. Paul's Cathedral. I saw the Pope, waved in earnest, but not even a nod in return. What an asshole. Whoa, just kidding!!! I didn't wave. Actually it was really cool being there with the square full of people; a pulsing mass of cheering, praying humanity. Next, the Vatican Musuem, home of the Sistine Chapel. Definitely smells like church, lots of paintings on the ceiling. From there I headed over to the Colosseum, which was my favorite part of the day. Standing outside the arena I tried to imagine what the place looked like when it was first completed, but it was tough ignoring the modern-day "gladiators" in their cheesy costumes hustling pictures for money and the guy peddling the "Glad He Ate Her" porno films on the sidewalk. Once inside, the scene changed. Big as a football stadium, its impressive to think that all of this was built before unions and teamsters. I spent quite a bit of time there before moving on. I walked through the Roman Forum (full of ancient ruins), up to Capitol Hill (home to modern political ruination), over to the Pantheon (an old dome with a big hole in the ceiling), across to the Trevia Fountain (predicatably full of water), and finally collapsed on the Spanish Steps (nary a Spaniard to be found) ready for death. Before leaving the following day for Venice I went and checked out the Bourghese Museum, home to a fantastical series of sculptures. Unfortunately I didn't have a reservation (required) and they wouldn't let me in, which I suppose was kizmit considering my earlier promise to never lay eyes on another sculpture that didn't have a giant penis. Not to be deterred, I explored the surrounding gardens and the lovely park before bording a train for my next destination. Venice.