Scribblings of a Vagabond

In Conclusion

2011-03-05T23:56:00.000-08:00

Southeast Asia has been one of the most gripping, cultural experiences of my life. I have been pick-pocketed, woke up in a hospital with an IV in my arm, had my passport and laptop stolen, contracted an agonizing stomach bacteria and spent a little time in a Laos prison. But that's just the boring stuff and I wouldn't trade it for all the safety in the world. I have met the kindest people on the earth, spending hours talking about Obama and Communism. I've listened in horror about what the U.S. has done in Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. I've seen the affects of Agent Orange still present on the city streets three generations later and heard the stories of young boys and mothers in the fields stepping on undetonated mines and bombs. And yet they love Americans. They say time heals all wounds and this part of the globe has been under constant attack since the early 1950's. Yet its heart still beats on with love and enthusiasm for all life. Buddha is not just a statue or a concept, it is as real as the lotus flower, brimming with life and growth, flourishing under the dense forest of the worlds oppression. We should learn a lesson from our Asian brothers and sisters. Their happiness is so seeded within their soul and ancestry, it cannot be deterred. Take away its water and nourishment, starve it of light and tranquility and still it grows. It cannot be cut down and, and as is the case with love, its power is unseen, untouchable yet stronger than all the forces that strive to bind it. Like water or earth or wind or fire it is a constant, always ebbing and flowing, forever in flux with the forces that push against it but remaining innocent and unchanged. I pray my own smile could reflect such joy. That my eyes could shine on others with such love and speak such emotion without ever uttering a single word.
This is why I travel. The pagodas and ruins are enchanting but they are nothing more than a back drop to what actually completes me. Or rather reflects my lack of completion. And I am searching to be whole. It's an unachievable goal but the rewards from the struggle far outweigh any tangible destination point.

Travel often, smile always and remember we see with our heart, not our eyes.

Enjoy Some Pictures

Laos Law

2011-03-02T08:40:00.000-08:00

Van Vieng is nestled at the base of some of the most dramatic limestone mountains the world has to offer. In northern Laos they raise dramatically into the sky fall like a curtain to the ground all at the same moment. The jungle immediately begins to cover them in dark green foliage, vines and exotic flower pedals. This morning I'm watching the mist role over their sharp peaks until they are almost out of view. We are at a riverside cafe and restaurant built on stilts and a soft rain is quietly falling around us. Our table is a dark wood, almost Chinese in fashion. It is short rather than using chairs we sit cross legged on an old rug with pillows all around for our backs. Below a woman has hung bed sheets out to dry and now they soak up the rain while at the river's edge some children play in the river and bathe. My eyes cannot let go of these mountains. I think of Buddha and Taoism. Not because I am one, or even fully understand the philosophy behind the religion but because I am at peace. My heart wears the calm visage of the monks I see walking the the dirt streets either on their way to morning meditation or to collect alms from the neighborhood shops. Linda is sipping on fresh guava juice while I blow on my coffee to cool it down. I wish I had ordered the juice. David has temporarily put down his book Understanding Buddhism to role a joint. in light of the previous nights events I can't believe he's doing it. And I can't believe I'm letting him. You see, I don't want to go back to jail in this foreign country. But the morning is young and life is so beautiful and the rain is cleansing our fears. Like a thoughtful ghost I watch the scene unfold before me. As David wraps the dense green marijuana buds into thin paper, time unravels and I feel powerless to stop it. And I wouldn't even if I could.

David is from Melbourne, Australia. We met him on the bus from Vientiane and instantly became friends. He teaches music and theater and has left his home for other vistas so that he might find himself, sort out tangled loves and put some direction to his compass. We had more in common than initially perceived. It would turn out to be a magical and frightening few days. but enough of foreshadowing. Let me bring this tale out into the light.

Linda and I hadn't planned ahead on where we would stay. We seldom do anymore. It's easier and more fun to show up figure it out. When we got off the bus it was already agreed that we would follow David to The Banana Bungalows where he had a room waiting. They were fully booked as were the two other establishments next door. Our packs were growing heavier and our shirts were soaked through with sweat. The bandanna I used to pat my forehead with had to be wrung out every few minutes. When David suggested we sit and share a beer it sounded like the best plan of the day. We had already endured a six hour bus ride through the mountains of Laos all on dirt roads and our stomachs ached from being tossed about. As it often goes with friends in beautiful places, one turned into many and within a few hours the problem of lodging seemed as distant as the animal calls coming out of the jungle. We talked about music and musical theory. We philosophized on the merits of experimental theater and the magic of the ensemble. David was recently exploring the concepts of Buddhism and seemed entranced by the notion that the student must always question the teacher (a part of Buddhism that is woven into the fibers of its history since the first silk worm unfolded the weavings of the human mind). Such a far cry from the religions of the Western World where follow and obey are the cornerstones of thought. Linda would listen and laugh, chiming in at every appropriate opportunity as she does so well and lifted our spirits with her charisma and charm. She is truly beautiful. I could tell David was soft for her, all the boys are keen on her and that was fine by me as we had long ago traded romantic possibilities for something much more enriching. Our love for each other went deeper than the physical and with that sort of freedom the bonds of friendship were free to travel to places I've never known to exist. David, I think, wanted some alone time with her but who can blame him, she was beautiful and he was only on the second chapter of his Buddhism book. And it matters little. No one can direct the flow of water.

But there was that sun. Always present on every corner of the earth and it was slipping behind those mountains that held me so transfixed. Soon it would kiss us goodnight. We needed a place to unpack so we could appreciate it when it gently rattled our shutters in the morning. So I left the budding lovers or way-station flirts to there business (and really what's the difference), to go and find a place to stay farther down the river. At least she was in safe hands. They hardly heard my footprints fade. I walked a length of the river and was momentarily deterred by a herd of cows who claimed the right of way. I was all to happy not to argue and found a patch of grass to lie in while they passed. They were agreeable and thanked me before carrying on.

I had some reservations when I approached this little farm road down the river. This was truly the last house on the block and we needed a room. A long path wondered past some hammocks, though a vegetable garden and beside a few squat toilets covered by a loose tin wall. The room was a bungalow consisting of little else other than a bed, mosquito net and a fan. Bottles of lizard whiskey sat next to an old U.S. Jeep that had long ago stopped working. The cost was two dollars and fifty cents per night. It was perfect. I was careful not to step on any chickens as I raced back to tell Linda about the Eden I had found. Down through the garden, past the toilets and around the hammocks (wouldn't a nap be nice); the cows were long gone but I was weary not to step in the all the gifts they had left. Along the river and back up the bank to where I found my friends laughing and smoking much as I had left them. We shared the last of the beer and agreed to meet later that night.

I don't want to be here. I didn't even smoke anything. Where are my mystical mountains of limestone and jungle where Buddha sits and meditates? None of this can be seen from the jail cell of the Laos prison where we sit. And Buddha? Why does he have to be so passive? A little divine intervention is what we need. This is all to real. The severity of what the officer is saying is resonating through my head. "One break Laos law, all guilty. Two half year in jail." This was serious. I am scared. We needed a way out. The only guard who spoke English was the one with the gun, he was fifteen years my junior. They took us, sometimes one at a time, sometimes in groups of two, into a small room for questioning. But there really were no questions. I sat and watched a gecko climb over the peeling green paint and between a crack in the wall. Safety. "By to have marijuana you have broken Laos law. No matter who smoke or no, you all guilty. Two half years in Vientiane prison. We go now." What would you do with this information? Have you any idea about the justice system in non-westernized countries? I have been to enough to know that it doesn't exist. Corrupt police declare you guilty and then you disappear until your family and embassy can locate you. By then it is often to late. Simply staying alive in these prisons is a matter luck. I thought about Linda. This would be an entirely different kind of torture for her. The men could be beat and starved but her fate would be terrifyingly different. This could not happen. What is the only other option? Where is that crack in the wall where the gecko escaped. Money. Western Money. More powerful than law or life or fate at this moment. But this too is a treacherous road. Let me ask you. Have you ever bargained for life but at the same time had to realize the limits of your resources? The more you have the more they will demand. How do you draw that line and give up? What is the amount that will make both parties happy? Or do you really have a choice. I didn't know any of these answers when we quietly, calmly and with a gentle step began to negotiate.

That's when David took command of the stage. What were in the first two chapters of that Buddhism book? He never explained why he stood and took the actions he did. Guilt? Karma? Heroism and responsibility? They had his passport. Like I said before, you cannot control the flow of water and David's soul was a river riding high on new ground. It rippled over shallow rocks but remained constant. He stood and demanded, in a calm voice, to speak with the ultimate authority. Nothing would be discussed until this was achieved. He was taken to yet another smaller room with the man with the gun and the doors were closed. From an open air vent in the ceiling I could here him explaining that the drugs belonged to him and him alone. No other person had participated in the use nor had we had known it was present in the room. This was partially true. We all knew it was there. We watched him buy it. But no one had smoked it other than him. A lie by omission is still a lie. How thick is the veil of deceit? He signed a sworn statement of liability. What's the problem with this logic? If you can bribe many why not bribe many? There was more collective money than in one. So where is the dollar amount? The officer thought the same way I did and sent David back to our cell. Another officer turned the TV so we could watch. Soccer. Amazingly my mind wandered into the game and I began to cheer for a team.

       What I wanted was a papaya salad. It's a mixture of under-ripe papaya, chili, lime juice and fish sauce. We were all drunk. David wanted a little smoke and the people all around us were getting high. It seemed like an innocent gesture when he got up to go and buy a bag. He was back within five minutes. Something recognizable played in the background and we ordered more drinks and food. Van Vieng was beautiful and the mountains were silhouetted under an almost perfect moon. We greeted fellow travelers and watched the night fall like a lose leaf from an aging tree. But special nights must always come to an end. People grow tired, morning descends upon dark and bills need to be reconciled. It was time to go and our hour had long ago fallen past the hand of time. It was time for a house party. David was carrying his guitar and along the road I met some friends from Vietnam who also played. They quickly followed suite and we were off to frolic and sing.
   For a while the music was grand. Who doesn't like singing along to Oasis, The Beatles and Neil Young? I think I was doing a particularly good rendition of Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd when they came through the door. There was no knock, no forewarning to their entrance, they were simply there in the Bungalow. And on the floor next to some dirty and tired sandals was David's small bag of marijuana. When the officer in the camouflage jacket picked it up and help it out so we could all see it I knew the last chord had been played. Did you exchange, a walk on part in the war, for a lead role in cage....Wish you were here. We were, (pardon the expression Buddha) fucked.

       When David walked out of the room with the man with the gun I had high hopes. I felt bad for him but this had nothing to do with me. I couldn't have been more wrong. Back into the room with no TV. They wanted money and they wanted a lot. Five million Kip each to be exact. That's approximately six hundred U.S. dollars and there were five of us. All because one person had some pot. That was the option presented to us. Pay or go to jail. At least we had an option. None of us had that sort of cash on us so we needed to get creative. Linda, myself and the two other people managed to come up with one million Kip between the four of us and offered it to the officer. He took it but said nothing. What of David? They still had his passport. After some discussion we were released with the understanding that David would return the next morning at eight am and pay five million Kip. They would keep his statement and passport until then. Then they let us go.

We had no idea where in this small village we were but it didn't take long to find a recognizable street and make our way back down towards the river. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet for breakfast. Then we said our prayers and fell into a deep sleep. That night I was joined in my bungalow by a small critter who came in between the walls. I could hear him scurrying and scratching along the wood floor but couldn't bring myself to get out from under my mosquito net and lower my bare feet down to see what he was doing. The next morning I rose at seven and discovered that he had ransacked my toiletry case and tore through all my condoms. Knowing his propensity for safety I felt much better about being bit by him. The way I saw it this little fucker owed me twelve U.S. dollars. He never did pay up. I also noticed that the fan was off. How had he managed that? I was slightly impressed. Linda and I dressed, grabbed our ATM cards because we were now totally broke and went to meet David. He should be back from the police by now. Things were strangely quiet around town. When we found the ATM we discovered why. A passing French traveler explained that all the power for the whole town was off until five pm. We had about eleven dollars between us and went for breakfast. David arrived an hour or so later and told us there was on bank on the other side of town that had a working ATM. He had taken out five million Kip and gone to retrieve his passport but a different officer demanded ten million Kip. He politely left and waited for the man he had spoken with before.

So was I surprised to see him that morning rolling a joint? Not really. That's just the way some things work. Later that evening we sat with a couple from the UK while they sipped on opium tea. David smoked and we played guitar and laughed, putting the previous evening behind us. Eventually he got his passport back and we parted ways, most likely never to see each other again. We had come to Van Vieng to go tubing and kayaking but saw so much more. Farewell Laos. We appreciate both your hospitality and corruption.

Saigon: The Official Report

2011-02-10T18:21:00.000-08:00

Thursday Feb 3rd., 2011, 10:00 am, Phonm Phenh, Cambodia

Breakfast as usual. Two eggs (fried), toast, bacon, sausage and a potato cake. Strong coffee and juice. When we bought our tickets to Saigon we decided to take the scenic boat voyage alond the Mekong River. We were told it would be a four hour passage with a short bus ride to our final destination. I paid for the tickets and we prepared for the trip the following day.

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 11:30am. Phonm Phenh, Cambodia

Arrived at the docks, left our bags with the caretaker and were escorted to a beautiful riverfront cafe for fresh shrimp spring rolls and juice. Sad to be leaving Cambodia but the show must go on.

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 12:00pm. Phonm Phenh, Cambodia

Rushed onto the boat only to discover moments before taking off that our backpacks were exactly where we left them with the caretaker. Back off the boat to get them ourselves.

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 12:10-5:30pm. Tonle Sap River heading towards the Mekong, Cambodia

Arrive in Chau Doc, Vietnam and are herded off the boat to get our Visa's stamped, welcomed to Socialist Vietnam and loaded into a fourteen passenger Toyota Van. There are twenty-one of us with luggage. We are all starving from the boat ride, in need of a bathroom (toilet paper not included when you find one) and a little tired. Beautiful countryside with stilted homes made of tin or wood, fishing boats everywhere, children bathing and playing along the riverside, plenty of lush green rice fields and ox hard at work. But I was talking about the van.

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 5:45pm. Chau Doc, Vietnam

The road from Chau Doc to Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh as it is presently called) is a six hour journey through continuous bustling city streets. At times paved but for the most part not. There are four people in my row made for two and my knees are at my chest because under my feet is the mammoth bag of Linda Batista. Our driver has chosen a soothing speed of 90 kilometer per hour (roughly 62 mph) to navigate us through the sea of motobikes, vendors, children and potholes. Not to mention traditional bicycles, goats and ox. Ok, I'll mention it. We should have cracked an axel at least a dozen times. You got to hand it to Toyota, they build a hell of a vehicle. Despite everything I manage to fall asleep for brief moments only to be torn awake by the sound of my neck cracking as the van takes complete flight going over a bump, (or maybe it was a child, it's was dark and we were all to tired to care).

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 10:30pm. Who Knows, Vietnam

Stop for food and a restroom. What the fuck! Did Linda use the last of my toilet paper? I quietly grab a dress out of her bag and head for the nearest hole in the ground. Almost to hungry to eat but manage some pork and noodles in broth. If I still drank I would have ordered a beer. Instead I had two. It's been eleven and a half hours since we left our hostel and we have no idea where we are or when this will end. Our driver communicates only through the use of his horn and he has been talking to every driver and pedestrian since we left. To us he has said nothing. I'm coming back with a fog horn so I can reply in a language they all understand.

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 11:30pm. A corner in Saigon. Population: 5.38 million

Arrive in Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh, whatever the fuck you want to call it). We have no idea where in this massive city we are and have not secured a hostel for the evening but we are glad to be out of that sardine box with a Toyota emblem on it and have both sandals planted firmly on the ground. Still no sight of toilet paper but there is plenty of trash in the street that will work just fine. I'm always touting the benefits of recycling right? I suck down two cigarettes in rapid succession and lift our packs out of the van. Linda's is covered in sandal prints. Oh well.

Inventory: Linda - One God awful 70 liter pack overstuffed weighing at least 49 lbs. Two shoulder bags. Me - One 40 liter pack weighing 29 lbs. (yes I weighed it before I left). One day pack and one laptop. Six bags between two people.

Friday Feb 4th., 201,1 4:30pm. Somewhere on the Mekong River before the Vietnam border

Notice my clever use of time reversal? Just checking.

The Lonely Planet Shoestring Guide to South East Asia was revised in 2010. If you flip to page 905 where it talks about Saigon there is a heading entitled Dangers and Annoyances. As the sun was losing ground over the Mekong River and the Chinese New Year was reaching a feverish pitch, my feet were dangling over the back of the boat and I was thumbing through all the sights and activities we would soon be experiencing. But this is what I read:

"The city has the most determined thieves in the country. Drive-by 'cowboys' on motobikes can steal bags off your arm and be gone before you ever notice."

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 11:30pm. Somewhere on a corner in Saigon, Vietnam

Being a communist country (or socialist as they prefer) even the great Saigon begins to shut down around 10:30pm. There were no taxis, no Tuk-Tuks begging for our business or motobikes waiting to take us on a hair-raising ride where luck plays a very large part in our survival. We were stranded, temporarily at least.

Saturday Feb 5th., 2011, 12:01am. Same crappy corner in Saigon, Vietnam

A taxi approached and stopped on the corner of Ly Tu Trong and Trung Dinh. I know this corner in the middle of nowhere now. I will never forget it. The trash on the street. The small plastic chairs where some locals were sitting playing dominoes. A neon sign across the alley is blinking and casting a blue and red hue on the street. There are a few rats scurrying down a gutter, (really more a hole in the sidewalk). I will never forget that corner, nor will I ever forget the force with which my arm was pulled from my shoulder. I will ever forget the scream that escaped from Linda's gut as she realized what was happening, or the way time froze and I locked eyes with the locals on the corner, vacant stares that showed neither compassion or anger, only transparency and recognition of the what had just taken place.

The motobike slipped away into the night, somewhere in Saigon. He had my laptop and my U.S. Passport. There was nothing I could do but watch it hang in his hand as he rounded the corner and disappeared. I was left stairing at a red and blue neon light that said 'Crazy Girls' in English. I was left with a pit in my stomach. Lost in a communist country with no passport. It is Chinese New Year and the U.S. Embassy won't be open for another five days. Welcome to Vietnam.

A NATION REBUILDING

2011-02-01T00:11:00.000-08:00

I don't remember my history like I should. Cambodia was a country bordering Vietnam while I learned about the first war America ever lost. Little was said about the Khmer Rouge. Pol Pot was granted maybe a few pages in my high school books, compared to Hitler, and then passed on. I will read more about this atrocity and the people who have overcome mass oppression and genocide. Books like They Killed my Father and The Killing Fields I hope will broaden my understanding.

When the word genocide is used the Western world conjures up images of Hitler and the second World War. We think of a time now long gone, indeed seventy years have passed since the Third Reich came to power and began to carry out there vision of the supreme race. Saloth Sar, better known as Pol Pot came to power in 1975 when I was two years old. My father came home from the war to my mother and his children. Life slowly carried on. For Cambodia the nightmare was just beginning. Pol Pot created the Khmer Rouge, a self developed metamorphosis of the Marxist ideology now known as extreme Maosim. Under his rule the banks were destroyed, capitalism and any form of free trade other than agriculture ceased to exist. Any man, woman or child with education be it of the scholarly nature, science, medicine, law, religion or philosophy were sent to re-education camps. There they were tortured for confessions and immediately put to death. Wearing glasses or speaking a foreign language was cause enough for execution. It was a cleansing of a country few had even heard of in the western world and on a scale never seen before appropriated upon its own people by its own people. Cambodia was transformed into a mass slave labor camp. Bewilderingly the UN allowed the Khmer Rouge to occupy a seat at the UN General Assembly until 1991. This meant the murderers represented their victims for twelve years. Pol Pot died under house arrest in relative luxury and was cremated upon his death.

   Why do I take so many pictures of young children here? Every day I eat a meal or have a coffee I am out numbered by Cambodia's youth begging for money or selling black market items to tourists. The Lonely Planet book I payed $29 for is a mere $3 here. They speak better English than there parents and hold a glimmer of innocence mixed with a street smarts unparalleled. They beg and play in the streets unaware of what their parents have endured in the last few decades. If they still have parents. The best estimates are that 1.7 million men, women and children were executed. At the Killing Fields I saw a tree where children were taken by the legs and bashed upon the trunk in order to save bullets. At S.21 which at one time was a high-school, an exercise post was used to draw people up until they lost consciousness. Then putrid water was doused on their bodies to awaken them and the lashes would begin. They were led to a cell, shackled to metal beds, tortured and killed. I could see the blood stains on the yellow and white checkered flooring. Meticulous documentation was taken of every person wiped out and the photos line the rooms and haunt you while you try and take it all in. I couldn't bring myself to take pictures of some of what I saw.
   In spite of this, under the thumb of such recent history, the Cambodian people have made the best of recent years and seem to be adapting and finding progress. I am nothing but a tourist but I have never seen such warm and friendly people. It is not uncommon to be stopped in a plaza and asked, "Where are you from? How old are you? How much money do you make?" I have found myself watching the shadows change while I engage in lazy conversation over nothing in particular. I'd like to think I am slowly gaining the right to call myself a world traveler, but I have never experienced anything quite as remarkable, quite as beautiful as I've witnessed here.

   In all my adventures there is one consistent. People don't generally like Americans or trust them. From Peru to Baja Mexico, Bolivia, Thailand, Argentina, Chile, or Cambodia we are not always the beloved people we think we are. Our government is meddlesome and manipulative. We support whatever regime will keep our prices low meanwhile preaching from the mount about freedom and democracy. Disagree? Let me ask you this. Do you think we were unaware of the atrocity taking place in Cambodia? Or was it simply not profitable enough to get involved? I don't have the answers to these questions but when an American gets outside their bubble, when they abandon FOX News and the Washington Post there seems to be an immense amount of data that is general knowledge to the rest of the world and simultaneously lacking in our own papers. Who freed the Cambodians of Pol Pot? The Vietnamese. Remind me but weren't we at war with them?

I love my country and I defend it the best I can as an individual. At times I get angry with the anti-american rhetoric but I politely listen. Listen. Listen, listen and listen more. I think we Americans could do a lot more listening and less speaking. I don't want to be forced to wear this, do you? But are we really so far away from it? Ideology is a powerful and persuasive tool. The farther away I get from the America I love, the more I see how brainwashed we are by corporate advertising, poor food production, political injustices, lobbying powers and a general idea that our ignorance, not our thought is our freedom.

A Nation Rebuilding

2011-01-31T21:58:00.001-08:00

When the word genocide is used the Western world conjures images of Hitler and the second world war. We think of time now long gone, indeed seventy years have passed since the Third Reich came to power and began to carry out there vision of the supreme race. Saloth Sar, better known as Pol Pot came to power in 1975 when I was two years old. My father came home from the war to his wife and children and life slowly carried on. For Cambodia the nightmare was just beginning. Pol Pot created the Khmer Rouge, a self developed metamorphosis of the Marxist ideology now known as extreme Maosim. Under his rule the banks were destroyed, capitalism and any form of free trade other than agriculture ceased to exist. Any man, woman or child with education be it of the scholarly nature, science, medicine, law, religion or philosophy were sent to re-education camps. There they were tortured for confessions and immediately put to death. Wearing glasses or speaking a foreign language was cause enough for execution. It was a cleansing of a country few had even heard about in the western world and on a scale never seen before appropriated upon its own people. Cambodia was transformed into a mass slave labor camp. Bewilderingly the UN allowed the Khmer Rouge to occupy a seat at the UN General Assembly until 1991. This meant the murderers represented their victims for twelve years. Pol Pot died under house arrest and was cremated on a bed of tyres.

   Why do I take so many pictures of young children here? Every day I eat a meal or have a coffee I am out numbered by Cambodia's youth begging for money or selling black market items to tourists. The Lonely Planet book I payed $29 for is a mere $3 here. They speak better English than there parents and hold a glimmer of innocence mixed with a street smarts unparalleled. They beg and play in the streets unaware of what their parents have endured in the last few decades. If they still have parents. The best estimates are that 1.7 million men, women and children were executed. At the Killing Fields I saw a tree where children were taken by the legs and bashed upon the bark in order to save bullets. At S.21 which at one time was a high-school, an exercise post was used to draw people up until they lost consciousness. Then putrid water was doused on their bodies to awaken them and the lashes would begin. They were led to a cell, shackled to a metal bed, tortured and killed. I could see the blood stains on the yellow and white checkered flooring. Meticulous documentation was taken of every person wiped out and the photos line the rooms and haunt you while try and take it all in. I couldn't bring myself to take pictures of some of what I saw.
   In spite of this, under the thumb of such recent history, the Cambodian people have made the best of recent years and seem to be adapting and finding progress. I am nothing but a tourist but I have never seen such warm and friendly people. It is not uncommon to be stopped in a plaza and asked, "Where are you from? How old are you? How much money do you make?" I have found myself watching the shadows change while I engage in lazy conversation over nothing in particular. I'd like to think I am slowly gaining the right to call myself a world traveler, but I have never experienced anything quite as remarkable, quite as beautiful as I've witnessed here.
   In all my adventures there is one consistent. People don't generally like Americans or trust them. From Peru to Baja Mexico, Bolivia, Thailand, Argentina, Chile, or Cambodia we are not always the beloved people we think we are. Our government is meddlesome and manipulative. We support whatever regime will keep prices low meanwhile preaching from the mount about freedom and democracy. Disagree? Let me ask you this. Do you think we were unaware of the atrocity taking place in Cambodia? Or was it simply not profitable enough to get involved? I don't have the answers to these questions but when an American gets outside their bubble, when they abandon FOX News and the Washington Post there seems to be an immense amount of data that is general knowledge to the rest of the world and simultaneously lacking in our own papers. Who freed the Cambodians of Pol Pot? The Vietnamese. Remind me but weren't we at war with them?

I love my country and I defend it the best I can as an individual. At times I get angry with the anti-american rhetoric but I politely listen. Listen. Listen, listen and listen more. I think we Americans could do a lot more listening and less speaking. I don't want to be forced to wear this, do you? But are we really so far away from it? Ideology is a powerful and persuasive tool. The farther I get away from the America I love, the more I see how brainwashed we are by corporate advertising, poor food production, political injustices, lobbying powers and a general idea that our ignorance, not thought is our freedom.

Angkor What???

2011-01-28T17:46:00.000-08:00

Cozied up against the alluring town of Siem Reep in Cambodia hides Angkor Wat, the eighth wonder of the world. It began during the 8th Century when King Jayavarman II declared himself the supreme being. Building continued to develop through the reign of various kings, it changed from Buddhism to Hinduism and back again between 790 AD and 1327 AD. The western world discovered it in 1908 and since then the French and Americans have been investing in its restoration. But enough of history.

We've all seen the photos of Pyramids, Machu Picchu slipping behind the cloud forests and the The Great Wall. Angkor Wat rightfully stands among the great achievements of man. It's scope is vast and it touches the soul like the many water lilies floating in the surrounding waters. In Angkor Thom hundreds of faces, larger than two men standing on shoulders, are built into the temple walls. You may recall a scene from Tomb Raider with Angelina Jolie; parts were filmed in this very spot and much was modeled after the bizarre and eerie feeling that accompanies these ruins. The craftsmanship and stonework are so detailed it is said that it must have been done by women because a man's hand would not be capable of such delicate and beautiful work. Every wall, every corner and ceiling and entrance are meticulously covered in stone carvings.

I wanted to write something great for such a great place but my imagination escapes me. Better just to let the photos do there work. Enjoy.

If You Meet Buddha on the Road...

2011-01-15T20:31:00.000-08:00

Bangkok is awkwardly nestled somewhere between the the old-world tradition that we westerners commonly conjure up in in our minds and a post modern mass of skyscrapers and technology quickly making its presence known to the rest of the world. It frantically bustles at a dizzying pace beneath a whirl-winding blanket of smog and exhaust. The humidity only makes the tension stick to the skin more; it's a wonder the go-go girls and ladyboys are able to have such intimate moments covered in the

Khaosan Road

Yes...I ate every bug.

musk of grime and pleasure. The whole squalid scenario only adds to the charm of Bangkok. It bothers neither the prostitutes nor their over overaged, pot-bellied counterparts. Only under the Bangkok skyline have I encountered anything like it. And it's fascinatingly, no intoxicatingly erotic to watch. Like a car crash that you can't seem to take your eyes off of, coming at you over and again. But there is so much else going on as well. Just as the eye delights in a feast of color and speed, so is the nose bewitched by thousands of spices and herbs being cooked in the streets. Old mothers and young daughters who have opted out of the love profession are busy sautéing, frying and grilling every imaginable sort of treat you could imagine. If whole fish and skewered squid doesn't flirt with your palate then there is plenty of chicken, pork and beef to be had. Just remember, it's all spicy. But therein lies the beauty. Just when you think you can no longer bear the heat beating at your brain, a small chili will attack you from the inside sending those tiny marbles of sweat beading up on your forehead and upper lip. When you put all these sensory impulses into one brain it's only a matter of time before it overloads and has to re-boot. A mid-day nap to escape the heat and traffic usually does the trick. When you're finally ready to cope with that, then you start to recognize the architecture. Cozied deep in the shadows of skyscrapers and condominium buildings are the old temples and royal palaces. Buddha is very much alive and he tranquilly watches over his flock with a passive acceptance and radiant joy while we humans go about our linear existence. There is a saying, If you meet Buddha on the road, kill him. He must travel by boat because he is simultaneously everywhere while comically not existing at all. Such is the magic of the original pot-bellied wanderer. I must meet this vagabond and share a cup of tea.

caterpillar

The nightly market

The American Institution. At least it's politically correct.

The White Trousers

2010-01-14T11:41:00.001-08:00

   The first time I met Uyuriy was at the Milhouse Hostel in the city center of Buenos Aries. It was after midnight and I wanted to sleep. I occupied the bottom bunk near a small patio. We left the doors open to let the breeze in. Across from me was a man who appeared to be sleeping. I had a smoke, brushed my teeth and got into bed. Uyuriy waited until my eyes were shut to begin speaking.
   "You from America, yes?" He asked in a loud whisper. I responded yes. "Good. America is King. No one fucks with America." He had what sounded like a thick Soviet accent.
   I said something to the effect that he was right; we were the last true super power. Then I turned my back to him so he might understand that I didn't want to talk. There was a brief silence where I could here the curtains moving in the wind. The traffic from below reminded me of the busy city. I was almost asleep.
   "No true!" He exclaimed and sat up in bed. He turned his body and placed his feet on the dark tile floor. "History shows us there is always waiting someone to take over. U.S. is not last super power. They could be but will not be." When I didn't answer he continued. "We could not defeat China, no one can. Their army is to big. They have standing army of one billion people. And now they buy up everything American. Total shame."
   Out of politeness I turned back around but kept my head on the pillow. Uyuriy took this as his cue to go on. "I tell you this. President Bush Jr. never should have entered Baghdad. Most sucessful war ever fought. In six days U.S. defeated all Sadam's army without one casualty. Six days!" He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees now. "But why he enter? Now 4000 casualties. Lots of Arabs love U.S. We could have got them to enter and fight. U.S. cannot win a civilian war. Doesn't have the guts for it. To much humanitarism. They should learn from Isrealis. They are killers of women and children. Butchers of innocent men. The have no right to be in Hezbollah!" The last he shouted rather loudly.
   He had changed the subject three times now and I was oddly curious as to what his point would be. "Uyuriy," I said in an almost pleading voice. "It's really late. Can we talk about this tomorrow?"
   "Yes, yes, yes. I am old man. Tell me to stop talking and I do it. Goodnight Ryan of U.S."

   That was how I came to know him. His full name was Uyuriy Mylko. He was born in the Ukraine in a town called Lukansk in December of 1940. I had mistakenly placed his accent as Russian. In the days that followed Uyuriy would explain to me that he was a war time child. His mother did not have enough milk to nourish him so he remained small and weak. As a youth he was forced to wear braces on his legs and left inside to read while the other boys played sports in the field. His father had other plans for his youngest son.
   In the Ukraine world of academics the highest honour to be bestowed on a scholar is when he achieves his second doctorate. This normally happens when a man is in his late fifties or mid-sixties and has devoted his entire life to the art of higher learning. Uyuriy's father decided early on in his son's life that he would be the youngest man ever in the Ukraine to achieve this honour. He would be thirty-five. As a result the boy was forced to to rise at 5:45am everyday to to begin his studies. History, mathematics, literature. While the other kids played he poured over his books and gradually developed a resentment for the life his father had chosen. A destiny that he was powerless over.
   At the age of fifteen in 1955 Uyuriy had had enough. He left his family and ventured into the city to live with the gypsies. The braces had long since been taken off his legs. He was not strong like the other men but had strength of character and wit. Despite the fact that he remained slender with almost no muscle, he had grown quite tall. He was picked up by the policia and returned to his father four months later.
   When he was nineteen he attempted and succeeded at crossing into France and assuring his freedom from a tyrannical political regime full of corruption and violence. He was on French soil for less than six hours and began to worry about the fate of his older brother and father. Begrudgingly he enlisted the aid of some French merchants who helped cause a distraction while he crossed back into his country. His best friend, (whose name he would not give), escaped into Finland and made the mistake of asking a local policeman for aid. He did not know that although the Finnish people hated the Soviets with a passion, they were locked in a political agreement and anyone caught crossing the border would be detained and returned into the custody of the Soviet Army. His friend was never heard from again
   This was the life that Uyuriy had led; so unlike anything we fourth and fifth generation Americans know today. My financial troubles or car problems pale in comparison. Having friends assassinated by Soviets, secretly crossing borders for freedom and worrying about the massacre of your family are out of my conception of reality. This made Uyuriy all the more fascinating to talk to. The other boys in the hostel viewed him as an old annoyance who didn't belong there and talked to much. His stories of political war and and pre World War II tyrants didn't fit in with there desire to get drunk and fuck a woman for the night. He could talk above the pounding Spanish Techno music that played twenty-four hours a day. But I was the only one who listened.
   For two days we walked the Plazas of Buenos Aries. Up to Casa Roja where Eva Bron gave her famous speeches to raise money for the poor. Down to the Congress building which is the political heart of Argentina. We walked along the old port which has been transformed into a massive tourism hotspot, lined with restaurants and bars. Over to La Boca and the art district then across town to Palermo where the wealthiest patrons have their colonial mansions. Even though Uyuriy was one year away from turning seventy, I could barely keep up with him. He walked with a purpose as if we actually had somewhere to go. Once while we were heading down a small residential boulevard we passed a graffiti painting of Che Guevara. Uyuriy looked around frantically until he found a small stone on the ground. He threw it wildly at the wall. This infuriated some local men standing outside a corner fruit market and they started to approach us. I grabbed Uyuriy by the arm and pulled him around the corner. "Socialist pigs! Communist bastards!" He shouted. "They revere Che for his boyish good looks and charm. He is a murderer! A doctor of death, not medicine. Thank God the CIA had him assissinated. He would have been worse than Castro for this country."
   In 1976 Uyuriy escaped to the U.S. through Italy and France. He would not elaborate which was unusual for him. He liked to talk. He worked two jobs, married a lady from California and within five years was able to buy some property in West Virginia. Shortly after that the U.S. government hired him as a language specialist. He worked with Ukrainian refugees mostly but briefly mentioned interrogation. I pressed him for more information but he would only smile and say that that was not to be talked about. He retired thirty years later with a full pension and a home in Washington D.C.
   While I passed the humid days on the balcony smoking my cigarettes, Uyuriy would wash his clothes in the sink and hang them to dry four stories above Av. de Mayo. One day he was working frantically at the dirt and sweat that was consuming the white trousers he wore every day. They were beyond repair and needed to be thrown away. "Hey Uyuriy, why don´t you get yourself some new pants, those are filthy?" I said.
    "Why," he replied. "So I look then like a rich tourist?" He didn´t look up from his scrubbing. "I´m fearing they will not let me on the plane. I look like terrorist in these pants. I get them clean soldier."
     He called me soldier because of my name and its connection with the movie Saving Private Ryan. He thought is was a funny joke and I admit it amused me to be of service to his poor humor. The truth though, was that I had been called this many times before in Argentina when I told people my name. I was constanly being called Bryan. When I tried to correct people they would say, "Oh, like the soldier!" That took a while to figure out.
     "Suit yourself." I said. "But those pants couldn´t even be used as a surrender flag. They´re ruined. Get yourself a nice pair of beige trousers for the plane. At least you´ll be a well dressed terrorist."
     Uyuriy ignored my sarcasm. "They call this country dangerous. That everyone will rob you. Hold on to your bag and don't take your money out on the street. So foolish. I say to you if men are watching you, walk over to a trash can and rummage through it. Ha! That will make them think you have no money or you are crazy. Trust Uyuriy, they will leave you alone." He sat on his bed and took out a white grocery bag. From it he produced a small bottle of red wine, some fresh bread, a tomato, cheese and salami. "Today I eat like the Mediterranean. You want?" He cut a slice of salami and handed it to me.
   The sun was dipping down and streamed into the room. I kept my bandanna close so I could dab my forehead when needed. We ate his food and he let me ask him questions so I could get the names and dates correct. My feet, bare and dirty, stuck to the floor. Despite a soft breeze, the air in the room was stagnant. It hung on our clothes like a peasant begging for his life. It drug me down and made me want to drink. Hanging from the ceiling was an air conditioner unit. For five pesos ($1.25 U.S.) we could have had it turned on but we both agreed that there was something pleasant in our condition. Why ruin it with cold air.
     Uyuriy finished his wine, wiped the bread crumbs from his sheets and stood up to leave. I took a paperback novel from by pack and laid it down on my bed. He left the room and said nothing. In the absence of company I thought of lonliness and starred at the cheap wooden boards that held the matress above me from falling. I couldn´t figure out if I was happy or not.
     The door opened and Uyuriy walked back in. He didn´t bother to close it behind him. He stepped close to my bed and looked down at me. Perhaps down on me, I don´t know. Still thinking of the matress boards, I didn´t sit up. "Are you married? How old are you?" He said.
     "No I´m not. And I am thirty-six." I replied. I could hear his laundry falling off the rail from the balcony. "You need to be married. I tell you this. Go to Romania. Or to Prague. Make no difference which one. Go to these place and find a wife. A good wife, twenty years old. Is ok for you, no? Take her to U.S., have babies. No black woman, No Mexicans!" He sat down on the edge of my bed. "I love America. I love my country. Is my country, I am citizen now. I love America. In one hundred years I am scared. Not now but then. Go to east of Europe and find a wife. Preserve our genes." Uyuriy stood up and walked towards the door. He stopped and turned back towards me. "Besides they are quiet. Know how to treat man. I say to my wife, when I am at work I am king. When I come home you are queen. This house," he shouted, "is your Kingdom! But why when I come home why you have to talk so much? Blah, blah, blah. I love you! I want sex and food and children and clean. I love you but why you have to talk so much about nothing?" His hands appeared to be conducting the symphony coming from his mouth. I raised in my bed a little and set my book down. "This is what an American wife will get you. Listen to Uyuriy. A Romanian wife? She will give you silence." Then he left the room.

     Uyuriy was a war time child. He had a war mentality that years of peace could not soften. He drew his line in the sand as a young man and then walked away; opinions formed. He loved America and everything American because of the opportunities it had provided him. America, like Uyuriy, hated the Soviet Union. This made us allies and he was a man of honor. For that reason alone I found myself on his side of the sand.
     I checked out of the Milhouse Hostel the next afternoon and moved my meager belongings to a quieter side of town. Uyuriy had already left for his morning walk; I never got to say good-bye. I wish I could have said sorry for the hardships he´d been through but I never did. I wish I could have thanked him for his thirty years of service to the U.S. government. We did not exchange emails. He was not on Facebook. I never told him the name of my blog. I stood in the quiet of my dormroom, both packs strapped to my body and wanted to hear the voice that never stopped talking. He was the man I turned my back on the first night we met so I could get some sleep. Uyuriy, I hope one day you get your white trousers clean.

Wrong Again

2010-01-07T15:10:00.000-08:00

     Imagine arriving at LAX alone, with no real idea of the city layout, being turned away from your accomodations at 1:30 am and not able to understand the language. That´s how I found myself in Buenos Aries on January 3rd. This is a town of endless night-clubs, tango, restaurants and cafes. In the city center (which was where I was) nothing closes until 4am. I was not alone on the streets. This is not necessarily a good thing. With one backpack on my back and one strapped accross my stomach I was an easy mark for a quick robbery. I may be a forgeiner but that much I already new about Buenos Aries, the most romantic city in the world.
     And there was the humidity. I had just flown from El Calafate deep in the south of Patagonia where temperatures dippoed below freezing even in the day. My dress was more accomodating to hiking and keeping warm than strolling the boulevards a buzz with well dressed tourists and prostitutes. The magnitude of heat and humidity filled my body with salt water until I overflowed and it escaped through every pore. I took out my blue bandana and dabbe my face and forehead. Within minutes I was wringing it out in the gutter and potter plants which lined the streets. By now I had been turned away by every hostel and hotel within a three block radius and the concern on my face was only amplified by my sweat and the late hour. I needed to find a place to sleep. I needed rest and a chance to look at city maps. I wanted a glass of wine but for once reason won the battle over desire. Not even I was stupid enough to make that mistake.
     By 2:30am I was entering the Four Star Hotels that lined the streets of Ave 9 de Julio and Av de Mayo. I was willing to pay the $400 pesos just for some peace of mind. Again I was turned away everywhere. I refuse to believe they were all at capacity but in my present dress with boots and sandals strapped to the outside of my worn and beaten pack, I think I was refused a room for fear I may make it smell. And I guarantee I would have.
     After walking the same bit of stree for the third time, afraid I would get lost (from where I didn´t know), I came accross a small sign that simply said Hostel. I rang the bell and waited. My pack was growing heavier with the passing of night. Blisters on my feet, ripened by Patagonia, stung and I prayed the skin just hold on a little longer. I rang again. A fat matronly señora camed to the edge of the stairwell and staired down at me. She wore a filthy cotton skirt that went to her knees and a blue tank top that barely held on at the seams under the weight of her massive fallen breasts. Her sandals were a cheap plastic variety and one had been duct-taped back together. She looked more like a sweaty madam at a back-alley brothel than the owner of a hostel. But she was my last hope. I smiled warmly and waved. When she was done inspecting me and perhaps somewhat assured of her own safety she buzzed me in. I climbed the two stories worth of stairs and entered the common area. The walls were no less than eighteen feet high but the ornate molding that once lined the ceiling had long since decayed from water damage. Where holes had developed in the walls she hung sheets to cover it up. The tile was cracked in many places and a few boards had been put down so her high paying guests wouldn´t trip and kill themselves. Her hostel was no cleaner than she was. It was also no cleaner than myself. The smell of roasting sweat and stale cigarettes pushed down from the hot air above. For the moment it was the most beautiful hostel I had ever seen.
     She had a bed for me. I shared a room with seven other Israelis whos combined perspiration outweighed my own. The word for bed sheets in Spanish is hojas or ropa de cama. She had none. And no pillow. This would be one of the worst best-night sleeps I would ever have. Under her harsh appearance and untrusting gaze she was quite motherly. I had woken either from sleep or late night TV but she fumbled around in a damp utility closet until she found a thick blanket. She draped it over the mattress, spotted and stained from years of neglect and apologized in a way that said ´What do you expect?´more than ´sorry.´ I paid her the thirty eight pesos and dreampt in Israeli. The following morning I drank her instant coffee and ate two mezalunas that were surprisingly fresh and soft. I thanked her and headed up the street.

     Buenos Aries is a literal maze of Plazas, Museums, Cathedrals and stone work. It boasts a four to one girl/guy ratio which is all to evident. The wealthier areas of Palermo and Relocata are a short subway ride away. Here you can watch professional dog walkers stoll by with as many as fifteen dogs and sip quality coffee on a sidewalk cafe. I have been traveling for two and a half months on what was supposed to be a seven month journey but looking at my bank statements I knew I would never make it to Colombia, Equador or Venezuala. I had long ago given up on Brazil due to my lack of VISA and the high prices during carnival. My vagabonding was going to be cut in half and there was nothing I could do about it. With a cauldren full of sorrow, anger regret and love I reluctantly purchased my ticket back to the United States. This trip of a lifetime has been more like a lifetime worth of lessons learned the hard way. I must remember to shelve them for future days.

During a difficult portion of my trip I recieved an email from a rather wise person. He said two things which are quotes:

1) Even death is not an escape from your current dilemma.

2) If you have no path, any path will get you somewhere.

He has this tendency to piss me off and send me powerful thoughts just when I don´t want them but most need them. The rest of the time I believe he listens to me ramble and quietly laughs at the riddle of life. Thank you person.

If you get the chance to travel do it. If it doesn´t always go your way expect it. In the theater there is a saying: Íf your going to fall, fall big. Make it fantastic, entertaining and large. Then get back up and keep going.´ The applications are large I think. Didn´t someone say that art immitates life?

This dog is my hero!

People

2010-01-07T14:11:00.000-08:00

I fear El Calafate will go unwritten about. Other than Moreno Glacier there is not much to do in this small town. It was the hostel i Keu Ken that caused me to stay for Christmas and it was the hostel that caused me to go back for New Years. There is nothing like the wonder of people to make you fall in love with a place. Ruins, glaciers, spires and salt flats are wonderous and they deserve to be seen but people are where the magic is. People are why we wander. Friendship is to be coveted like our National Parks. Spend a few months without it and you´ll appreciate it all the more. I think even the lonely would agree. Those who long to be lost in solitude for long periods of time still want their story told. A story unto itself is a summer solstace without a harvest. We want to be heard. Alexander Supertramp died next to this realization. What a chaotic and mystic journey he must have had to reach that conclusion. Right now words are pouring from me but a Rottweiler has taken to my side and I feel more compelled to pet him than right about my experiences.

My steak is ready and the owner hustles me inside. I´ve asked for jugoso (rare) and it comes out raw. The Argentinians cook their meet all the way through and have little sense of temperature. The old man that owns this place is so sincere I dare not ask for it to be put back on the grill. With a look of honest pride for his food he asks me how it is. I smile back with a resounding ´Muy Beuno!´ He has put some Irish music on just for me, mistaking my heritage. The meat, almost completely raw and cold, will be one the best steaks I have in Argentina.

So goes my final night in El Calafate.

Thanks

i Keu Ken

Down South

2010-01-07T08:38:00.000-08:00

Patagonia is where the wind strips you raw and lonliness is the only thing worth thinking about. Away from the picturesque Fitz Roy and the glacier it is still a vast uninhabitale stretch of bare tundra. Copella is the native plant and it grows everywhere. Even when the wind takes an occasional pause to draw more breath they remain bent over as if trying to protect themselves. Frozen in fear and wonder from a power for which they have little defense. But yet they prosper. That is obvious by the fact that they cover thousands of square kilometers where other flora has failed.

I am finding that this corner of the earth to be my favorite so far in my travels. It is calm in its hostility. You know what to expect here in the south. Wind and cold. Clouds tumble by overhead, migrating to warmer weather. I think often they get caught in the Andes and stay for generations. Not to unlike the Germans and Welsh that have been here for years. They have acclimated both to the climate and culture. Many Welsh residents only know their homeland through pictures on the internet. This is their home. Next to their traditional foods sit empanadas and chorizo. They are wonderful to talk to.

Put Patagonia today is much changed from from when Bruce Chatin first wrote about it in the 1970`s. His book In Patagonia would change the way the world say this place. Not that people really even thought of Patagonia before that; not on a global scale anyway. Today the Gaucho Trail is a well worn path that is not easy to get off of. Hostels, restaurants and tour guides have sprung up everywhere grabbing for the pesos brought by tourism.

I am sitting at a wine and cheese bar in El Chaten. It is called Rincon del Sur. Fifty years ago El Chaten didn`t exist but today it hosts a the Los Glaciares National Park with over ten buses arriving daily. It is the smallest town I have been in and I cringe to think what it will look like in five years. It is fast becoming a haven for rock and ice climbing, trekking and glacier viewing. Cerro Solo, Egger Torre, Poincenot and Fitz Roy peaks all keep El Chaten safely nestled under a blanket of shadow and mystisism but still the buses come. In any other setting the Techado Negro peak would be a main attraction but next to Fitz Roy it plays a faint and distant fiddle. Beautiful nonetheless.

To my point. I am at Rincon del Sur sipping on a Malbec and eating olives. I`ve asked the owner, Sebastian De Angelis if could sell me a wine opener as I lost mine in Bariloche. He has none for sale but has many he can give me. This sparks a heated argument between him and his wife, Marcela, all in Spanish. She is unhappy with his gesture. She knows I would have paid at least 30 pesos for it; it was a quality opener. But he will have nothing to do with that and hands it to be with a warm smile. Their daughter, an eight year old girl named Florencia has attached herself to my leg. I pick her up and set her on the counter to play with her. I am happy to have a new friend and happy for the gift. I am especially happy for the olives which are salty and taste great after a days hiking.

In total I will have spent six days in El Chaten. Fellow travellors tell me I am crazy and will get bored but a strange thing has occured. My hostel is completely filled with Israelis. In a broad Picaso stroke I will paint them as a people who keep to themselves. They are not unfriendly although I think many westerners would disagree. They simply don`t mingle with other trekkers unless they are from their own country. In this setting I have found myself most alone. More prone to drink and dwell on the properties of lonliness (which are dangerously close to insecurity). But I have not become lonely. I have not succumed to drinking as in other towns. The solidarity I feel is making me more resourceful and my inner thoughts are taking on a new interest for my mind. Someone once told me that solitude is a powerful thing to overcome but if accomplished opens windows to the world that are unparalled.

After my bus ride I checked into my hostel. It was getting late but al Chorrillo del Salto offered a perfect two hike where I could unwind and listen to the waterfall. The rain and wind didn`t bother me but made it impossible to light my smoke.

The next morning I saw a break in the weather that I was told hadn`t happened in the last eight days. I had already packed a lunch of apples, bananas, chocolate and a sandwich consisting of salami, cheese and avocado. I quietly left the Israelis sleeping and and headed off towards Laguna de los Tres on a 13 mile hike in the hope of seeing Fitz Roy and Poincenot peaks up close and without cloud cover. The prize is a frozen lagoon that hides deep down at the base of these stark and naked spires. It is in the picture above. But the weather is fickle and keeps me guessing. The trek is steep and considered the hardest day hike in the park. Its slopes are akwardly rough at times but in reality it is the constant change in body temperature that people battle. Within minutes I had sweat through my long underwear and had to disrobe in a fire cold wind so I could tie it to the outside of my pack to dry. This left me pretty cold and susceptable to the thirty degree temperature and snow blowing in from the north. I had also sweat through my Alpaca hat but dared not take it off. Sometime after about two hours my body settled into a grumpy state of complacency and found comfort where there was none. I was happy not to be miserable. I passed Lago Capri and at higher altitudes saw Lago Madre and Hija with great clarity.

On this day Fitz Roy would not give. I sat just above the base of Lago de los Tres and waited for that perfect picture. The wind and cold, like termites, silently ate away at my core until I sucumbed to fear and slowly made my way back down to the valley. My long underwear had long since dried but the effort of putting it back on seemd futile. I would not see Fitz Roy in absolute clarity and who knows if I will ever be back. That is the magic of its allure. A light snowfall on my back knudged me down the trail and the wind laughed in my ears. I never heard Fitz Roy say a word.

The next day would prove equally as long but much easier. The trail to Laguna Torre promises breathtaking views of the Torre Peaks but they are often covered in clouds. Today it will not bend to my will. Six hours of trekking through the back country proved only to be a peaceful walk. I learned something here. Somewhere between the 4th and 5th hour I settled into the realization that it is not about the picture I wanted to get but more about the struggle and enjoyment of the journey. This may seem a basic and much written on topic but I`m telling you, go out and try to find yourself. You may discover it is more difficult than you think. I returned to my hostel, bought two empenadas and fell asleep. When I awoke I found that the Israelis had stolen my Q-Tips.

Get here quick. Travellors before me are laughing at my late timing in their memoirs. Get here quick. Tourism is a deadly pen in Patagonia that I fear will have a sad story to tell in a few years. Come and see for yourself before the locals all speak English and the peso is prettier than the peaks. Better yet, come in the winter. You will be more brave than I.

Getting On

2009-12-09T16:29:00.000-08:00

I can now say I´ve been to Peru, I´ve been to Bolivia, Chili and Argentina as well. I´ve sandboarded in San Pedro de Atacama and trekked the four day infamous Inca Trail. In Mendoza I paraglided for the first time and toured the Bodegas via bicycle. I´ve been higher than 14,000 feet and stood mesmorized before the Andes Mountain Range. Tomorrow, weather permiting, I will ice climb the extremely active Volcan Villarrica in Pucon, Chili before heading south east back into Argentina and on to Patagonia.

If you could see through the window of your dreams what would lay beyond?

For six weeks I had the best travelling companion I could have ever asked for. Linda Batista worked for me at Tommy Bahama in Palm Desert, California. Before she left to return to Santa Maria in the Azore Islands of Portugal we developed a friendship that would exceed both our expectations. I had not seen her for over five years but through Facebook we managed to stay in contact. When I told her my plans to backpack through South America for eight months her only response was, "Great! Where are we starting? Hoovie this will be the adventure of a small but fruitful lifetime. Let´s go vagabonding!" From there one we planned the trip together.

Linda. This blog is for you! Thank you for your free spirited attitude and laid back approach to every obstacle we tripped over. Thank you for you abundant laughter and always calling me on my bullshit. Thanks for being cranky in the morning but demanding that you "shop till you drop." Thanks for managing to trip, fall or stumble over every crack in the sidewalk or sewage drain you could find. I always waited for you to laugh first...and you always did. You are one of the few people who laughs at your own folly before that of others. Anyone can light up a room but you lit up entire Hostels. Sometimes to the point of almost getting us kicked out! Coco will never forget you. In the next Lonely Planent book you will be mentioned as a warning to all International Hostels. All of Ireland is in love with you and you left Brazil envious of your abs. Colombia laments for another kiss, (if only you had drank his secret elixhar). God only knows what La Paz and the Wild Rover would comment on. You are a legend on three continents. In Chili some petty thief is looking at your pictures thinking what a crazy chica you are. They would probably return your purse just for the chance to party with you.

I am left without a friend. Without a travel companion. Now I have to make friends on my own where once you made them for me. You are the best! Already I miss singing to Michael Jackson and howling at the moon every time you tried to carry a tune. And I´ve never seen a person fall as much as you have. Whether it was off a chair, into a pool, up an Inca step or over your own two feet; every day it amazed me. But when I saw the wonder in your eyes I understood that you you are one of these magical persons who just don´t have time to look down. Life is in front of you, not at your feet.. It holds so much wonder and excitment for you; I can almost see it going through your eyes, directly to your heart and back out through your smile. Those who are fortunate enough to be around you appreciate a glimpse of life through your soul.

To the family and friends that recieve gifts from Linda, enjoy them. She had to buy a rather large duffle bag for all of her hairpins, dresses, skirts, magnets and earings she purchased. Many Alpaca met their demise at the her demand for hats, sweaters, socks and gloves. Now that I think of it, don´t thank her. I think she bought it all for herself.

Linda. In Spanish and Portugal it means beautiful. You are exactly that but with magic, wonder and amition as companions. Here in Pucon where the days are as long as the mountains high I wonder, "Where is Linda? Back to work. Back to the Pub with fresh ideas." Perhaps one day we will paraglide over you island. I´m just a dish-dog looking for a laughing joke and some meager work. Besides...someone has to tend the garden while you become an old cat lady.

Extreme Sports

2009-11-24T14:46:00.000-08:00

It's been a bit since I've posted but it really is to much trouble to deal with. I've borrowed a buddies laptop from Ireland and am begging for more time with it. Here are some pics of the last few weeks. I will post more on Facebook because it seems to run a lot faster.

Sandboarding has serious consequences!!!

Sunset hike in Valley of the Moon, San Pedro de Atacama, Chili.

Rockclimbing wall in Cordoba, Argentina. To easy!

Linda paragliding in Mendoza, Argentina!!! Crazy best time of my life

We kept saying we needed some activity and we got it. Today we toured the Bodega's of Mendoza and tasted some of the best Malbec in the world. Oh...and we did it all on bikes! Life is about to slow down as Linda leaves in 10 days and I head south to Patagonia for some serious trekking and camping. I'm more than ready to leave the cities behind and get back to these incredible mountains and glaciers.

More pics will be on Facebook so check it out. More writing later when I really have time. At least my journal is slowly filling up.

Salar de Uyuni

2009-11-17T14:09:00.000-08:00

A four day journey through the salt flats of Uyuni, Bolivia. They are the worlds largest stretching 6479 square miles. Beyond that is tens of thousands of miles of volcanic minerals reaching as high as 15,000 feet. I am going to let the pictures speak of the trip but there is one story to tell.

The Toyota Landcruiser is arguably one of the best off road vehicle in the world. Tough, reliable and durable under tremendous stress both from driver and terrain. I have owned two myself and have never been disappointed. You could even call me a bit of an enthusiast. My old FJ55 was a 1971. To this day it is my favorite car I´ve ever owned.

You can imagine my excitement when we arrived via tourist bus to Uyuni, Bolivia only to discover that all the tours were taken by Landcruiser. Although none dated back as far as my FJ55, many of the older ones were FJ60 and FJ62 which date back to 1989. The newer cruisers (which we were in) were more luxury vehicles in the U.S. The rounded body and high roofs lent themselves to the Baby Boomers and would comfortably seat 7-8 people fr family travel. I have always laughed at these trucks thinking of them more as an expenisve mini-van than an actual off-road vehicle. I couldn´t have been more wrong.

Our driver, Raul, was a sort and capable man of few words. I don´t think I ever saw him without his sunglasses on or without a fiendish grin on his face. He was born to race to Baja 500, only he had no idea what that was. He adorned a full body aviator suit every time he climbed onto the roof to load our gear and food supplies. He was, I would say, a Bolivian bad-ass.

Day two of our trip commenced at 8am with the usual bread, jelly and tea. Raul loaded up the packs and hearded us into the truck. Along with Linda and myself were four Irish guys on a break between school and the world of work. They were cordial and polite, not at all like the other Irish we had met along the way. Ny that I mean that they were mostly sober and a bit reserved. We loved them and were fascinated by their shy nature.

And that was how day two began. I was a little tired and spinning from the constant climb in altitude. Our average elevation was around 12,500 ft. I´m not sure if I was daydreaming about U.S. comforts long gone or trying to take a picture but I was jarred by the sudden halt of te truck only ten miles outsdie of camp. Even after only one day we had pretty much become accustomed to the violent rolling of washboard roads at 110 kph (68mph) which our calm but psychotic guide seemed to enjoy. Even at times when an experienced driver might switch to Low Gear, Raul prefered gasoline and speed. I prayed for his suspension system and tires.

Why were we stopped? Raul put the truck in park, lifted his sunglasses (for the first and only time) and turned around to look at me. We had no common language with which to communicate but I understood at once what he was saying by his hand signals. He pointed at me and began to turn his hands as if holding a steering wheel. He wanted me to drive!

In any other situation I think I would have paused for a moment to ask myself why. But here we were, six travellers lost in world´s largest salt flat somewhere in the Bolivian desert and our dear Raul was handing command of the mother ship to me! I was out of the truck and around to the driver´s side before he could tip his sunglasses back down. He tried to expalin the gears but I already had the truck moving. "Sesenta! Sesenta, no mas!" He would yell. 60 km per hour is only 37mph and I know good old Raul never travelled any slower than about 80 km. He was trying to keep me honest. I rolled the truck foward, excellerated and took my first really good look at the road ahead.

If you´ve ever seen old animal trails you know that they diverge. They branch off and splinter every hundred yards in multiple directions only to meander back to an original path. This was no different. I wondered about gaining speed when every minute a new road appeared. I looked back at Raul, now sitting next to Linda, for some advice but his hand signals simply motioned me foward; he seemed not to care where I went. As best I could tell Raul wanted me to go about 70 mles ahead and to the southeast of a mountain that shared a border with Bolivia and Chili. That was at best an educated guess. The Irish boys remained cautiously quiet and I decided to see what this truck could deliver.

Before passing out on Linda´s shoulder Raul informed us that yesturday was his birthday and he was too tired to drive. That would explain the music and playful groans of a woman we had heard late into the night before. With that, he was asleep. Linda said he stunk of booze. Good for Raul! Hate the player not the game. If a man, in this vast desert, can get can a piece of ass, why not? Who were we to judge? Hit it and quit it from Bolivia to Chili! Raul who was about to party, we salute you! I think all the men (and maybe even Linda), were more than little jealous.
For now there was the road to think about, or lack there of. By now we were beyond the salt flats. Volcanic ash and dried mud from the rainy season formed deep grooves in the road. I used these tracks from last season´s treks to find my direction the best I could.

In the far distance, up along the mountains and directly ahead, we noticed some lumps in the landscape. We all agreed that it must be a town. Road or not we were going to head towards it and see if we couldn´t buy some water. On this decision Raul was quite passive and we took his snoring as a sign of agreement. Tracks in the mud would veer off to the left and right but everything seemed to be taking us in that direction. And it was none to early. We needed our daily dose of Coke and Pringles. The hearty were already talking about a noon glass of red wine and piece of bread. I had long ago rolled down the window and started smoking, acting the part and demanding to be tipped in Bolivian Pesos for my role as tour guide.

In hindsight I´m not sure if the road became more difficult or I just started to proceed with more caution because this group of buildings was definetly not a town. A dozen or so oval structures took shape. They were lined in a very organized fashion and had a short five foot wall encasing the entire area. As I had never seen any round architecture before anywhere in South America (other than a church dome) I believed them to be tents. In my mind this could only mean one thing. Military.

Up until this point we had been pretty jovial. We snapped shots of Raul passed out and I swirved the truck west to east just to watch him sway in his sleep. Bastard that he was, he remained asleep and stoic like an Incan stone artifact. There was no denying what we were looking at though. The road was even and I could tell it had been pushed to the side by a machine and grated. The lack of rock made the tires quiet and the road took on an ominous sound. White rock began lining either side of the road escorting us to a gate ahead. Signs in Spanish gave directions but we had no idea what they said. We did notice that they were not pedestrian in nature. I felt as though we were entering area 51. It´s one thing to see the familiar yellow signs with the sillhouette of a woman and child dashing across the road. It´s another thing entirely when they have barbed wire, rifles and landmines on them.

I reduced the speed of the Landcruiser to 30km and approached a clay hovel that had a decrepid wooden post blocking our way. Along the mounside gypsm had been used to write the words Bolivian Militaria in giant script. The Irish boys clutched their ipods and I could almost here U2´s Sunday Bloody Sunday coming from the earphones. Linda was knudging Raul harder now but he was lost in the slumber of his birthday. As the driver of precious cargo I tried to appear as though all was normal but I too, couldn´t mask my fear.

Outside the gate were 3 young guards. They couldn´t have been any older than eighteen and they all had Russian built AK47´s losely slung across their shoulders. As I rolled the truck to a stop at the gate, I´m not sure what was noticed first, their amazement to see me driving or my fear of imprisionment and death. The commander looked at me, then at the tour truck and back to me. He furrowed his young brow; I could see this made no sense to him. He may have tightened his grip on his rifle a bit when he motioned me closer. I thought I was goig to be shot with only four Irish kids who loved the Beatles to bear witness.

       Linda knocked Raul so hard his head almost hit the window. He didn´t need to raise his sunglasses for me to see the surprise on his face. I think he dropped the pringles that had been nestled in his lap. Feigning that all was as it should be Raul laughed, offered an hello and motioned the guard to the other side of the truck. The guard wasn´t as confindent as Raul but he came around the back side to where the door had been opened. Another guard took his place at my side and said nothing.
       It´s customary for guides to come upon check points or toll roads where they pay a fee which has already been included in our price. They show ID, pay the money and off we all go. This was a little different. Raul fumbled around for his identification and then produced a rather large sum of cash. He seemed a little out of sorts but cross cultural differences are hard to decipher. Once the money had changed hands the tone of the entire scene altered. The guards snickered at the fact that I was driving and made friendly eye contact. A few even raised their hand in a welcoming gesture.
       The gate was lifted and we were allowed to pass through. What exactly we crossed I´ll never know. Raul laughed loud with a sense of new found ease, muttered something in Spanish and was back to his dreaming within minutes. Not sure what to do, I kicked the truck into gear and proceeded towards Chili. Not 3 miles down the road Raul woke and motioned for me to stop. My day as a Bolivian Tour Guide was at an end. Militia or no, I was sad to relinquish the wheel.

Here are pictures of Salar de Uyuni and the surrounding area:

uyuni - Create slideshow

La Paz

2009-11-13T08:13:00.000-08:00

La Paz. With her dizzing off balance height, her whirlwind of traffic, people and vendors. Her music never stops; locals and tourists alike delight in her sounds until the morning light is at arm´s length. She is alluring like a woman engaged in an exotic and foreign dance and dangerous like a dark alley with to many encroaching shadows. She takes your breath away. Literally. At 12,007 feet she sits as Inca once did overlooking her people, all the while grining at being the heighest city in the world.
As the locals sit selling their wares, chewing the medicinal and mythical coca leaf, tourists race like out of focus neon lights prepping their noses for the cheap cocaine. La Paz is where you set your clock to noon so you know when to rise from a comotose slumber. There is an old poem that says, ¨where the Inca shall find comfort and healing and prosperity from the coca leaf, the white man, when he attempts to let it enter his body, shall find only pain and his veins will run through his body in chaos. He shall encounter only poison and a shattered mind.¨ That is a rough paraphrase but what an accurate prediction of the future.

       It is early today when I wake. I sip on some coca tea that I bought from and exteremly kind mother who was selling on the street. My head faintly pounds from the music and costumes of last night´s festivities. I am toying with the idea of a brief walk down to the Witches Market where an exhilar for any aliment can be purchased. Dried llama fetus´s hang everywhere. When a new home is purchased they are burried in the front to wash the house clean and ward off evil spirits. It is impossible not to stare at the tiny creatures, dried up with eyes wide open. Such a brief moment they had in this world. Their first breath was immediately followed by their last and in those eyes I see them screaming, ¨Wait! I want to be a blessing in life before you make me a martyr in death.¨ Tiny forepaws that aren´t yet totally developed stretch up to cover their face rather than hang down to take a first step on dry soil and stumble to drink their mother´s milk. I don´t know whether they are still born or untimely ripped from their mother´s womb. I suspect the latter. So hang the hundreds of MacDuff´s, killers of Macbeth just as the witches prophesied.
My eyes wander over them, past the armadillos and charm braclets of animal claws and teeth. Thousands of tiny viles filled with liquids and powders fill the stalls, promising to to cure everything from poor digestion to fertility. I stop just for a moment to examine one witche´s brew a little closer. It is enhance the size of a man´s member. Hmmm....who couldn´t use an extra inch or two? But the hag will not sell to foreigners and she cast an evil eye on me while I snap a photo and move on.
       I stumbe and try to catch my breath on the steep cobblestone streets. Around the corner is the famous black market. Here in what consumes dozens of city blocks a person can buy anything from fabric to stereo equipment. Tobacco, alcohol, toys, hardware supplies etc. All of it seems neatly packaged and ready for Western consumption. But it will never make the western shore. Pirated, it now sells for pennies on the dollar in La Paz. I had to pick up some Camel smokes since they were only four dollars for 10 packs! I am amazed at the vast amount of toilets, faucets and piping s this whole continent seems to be void of any sort of septic system or sanitation.
       Tonight Linda and I have a ten hour bus ride that will herd us and hundreds of other weary travellors out of La Paz and south Uyuni where the world´s largest salt flats reside. We will spend three quiet days in a Landcruiser touring southern Bolivia and camping in mud villages along the way. It will be a welcome change to the disharmony of Bolivia´s capital. I prefer the quiet open space and dirt roads of the country to the dazzling cities and throngs of local buses spewing out endless amounts of carbon minoxide. When I go to wash my face and clean my nails, I like to know that I am washing simple soils rather than soot and exhaust fumes.

Adios La Paz. Adios Boliva.
Estoy consados y debil con su enfermo.
Gracias para su casa y comida y personas,
Estoy caminando a la Sol.
Bienvendios Chili!

Oh Bolivia.

2009-11-07T05:07:00.000-08:00

1-11-09

It just occured to me to put the dates of when these were written because I don´t post them for days after. The sequence is European, day/month/year. It´s amazing how backwards the states are in everything. My fellow travelers look at me with glazed eyes when I tell them how many miles I´ve travelled or how high we are in feet. Why couldn´t King whoever have had a ten inch foot! We´d all be in the same page.

Anyway...it´s 9:30 pm and Linda and I are rushing like mad lamas to make our bus from Cusco to Copacobana, Bolivia. We have not travelled by bus yet but were quite accurate in assuming that it would be a mad house. The station is cold and buzzing with an uncontrolled, incohearant level of noise and excitement. We seem to be the only two travellers lost in its sea of irrational composition. But when I slow down, breath deep and let the noise fade and the movement slow, I see another picture. I begin to see the other scared faces speckled throughout the crowd; travellers like us, who have no clue where they are supposed to be. We are all clutching our packs, white knuckling it through the mass of locals, dogs, vendors and pick pockets trying to find our platform.

       Linda manages to find the right line and we make our way onto the bus. One quick prayer for my luggage and on I go. It´s now 10:50 and we were supposed to be on our way at ten. We have learned not to be early now. Licky for us our double decker bus is full of fellow nomads, weary and scared. We feel safe enough to let our guard down and go to sleep, hoping that our day packs will be there under our seats when we awake. The tempature drops to 50 degrees in the bus and now I am angry that I declined a blanket. Such is life and the learning process begins.

       I am awoken to our caretaker hurrying us to get off the bus. Peeking through the thin drapes, I peer out the window expecting to find the sleepy town of Copacobana on the shores of Lake Titicaca. Instead I see desert. Miles of dry and barren land in every direction. Why are we being ushered off our bus? Our bags are already on the dirt waiting for us. One by one we gather our things and are directed to a very small bus, a van really. It looks older than any Inca ruin I have seen but the motor is running so we get on. Our driver takes us to the border of Peru and Bolivia and seems annoyed that he has to wait for me to get a Visa. No other forgeiners need a Visa for Bolivia but since America declared a war on drugs (Bolivia´s number one export, and 80% of it to the U.S.A., this is how they responded). Another 40 minutes to Lake Titicaca. A small Bolivian boy and his father, who we squeezed in along the way, sit facing me and stare with faint interest at my skin and fair color.
       Finally we arrive and gather our belongings to begin a short hike up hill to our Hostel. Copacobana is a quiet religious town thriving only because it sits next to Lake Titicaca. The lake is a massive body of water at 3820m (12,532 feet) with two notable islands. Isle del Sol is the birthplace of the sun in Incan mythology. After staying one night in Copacobana we will take a two hour boat ride on the worlds highest navigable body of water and stay on the island.

At Copacobana near our hostel we found a local church that was built with a Moorish influence between 1605 and 1820. The locals make long pilgrimages to see the monk who blesses them for health and prosperity. I snuck a picture here while he was meditating (highly discouraged). There is a chasm behind the church where for hundreds of years they light candles in hommage to the Virgin Mary. Wax covers the floors and the walls are black with soot. It is called Capilla de Vellos and if you ever visit, don´t miss it.

Linda and I will spend a quiet night here watching the sun dip over one of the world´s highest lakes. We have no idea what to expect but have been told that for $5 U.S. we can get a room with a view of the lake. We have to be willing to lug or packs up 200 meters of stairs but why not? We are used to the abuse!

Vagabonding Life

2009-11-05T20:22:00.000-08:00

It occurs to me now that I have always underestimated the value of toilet paper. It is unheard of in the public bathrooms and restaurants that I visit. I have learned to keep a stash readily available in my daypack and I´m finding that I use it more than anything else I have brought with me. And with a frequency that almost scares me.

To be caught without toilet paper can cause quite an emergency here. At a local market a man charged me .50 soles (.33 U.S.) to use the toilet. When I entered the tiny room I found it to be little more than a hole in the ground. No flushing required right? Looking around I found that there was no toilet paper. I left to find the kind man who had taken my money and inquire about my situation only to find him gone. Missing in action just like my toilet paper!

Moving on....what about mosquitos? We all hate them. They are tiny, fast and have an addicts taste for gringo blood. See my leg in this picture! That happened in about 30 seconds after changing into shorts at a patio cafe in Aguas Caliente, Peru. I ran my hand innocently down my leg to find it covered in blood. Twelve hours later my leg looked like this! Deet 100% is the common cologne for all smart travellers. Linda brought along a full body mosquito suit but I have yet to see her wear it.

Machu Picchu

2009-11-05T15:56:00.000-08:00

Where to begin. This magnificient community was never mentioned in the records of the conquering Spanairds and its location was only known by the local Quechuas until 1911 when it is said that a small boy took an American historian by the name of Hiram Bingham up the now famous Inca Trail.
Today over 1000 people vistit the site daily in the high season and it is the undeniable gem of South America. My friend Linda Batista, who is with me for six weeks began the 33 mile trek with me just past Ollantaytambo at 8502 feet and had an easy six hour accent to the first camp 12km away. Our site was on a womans farm. Dogs and Burros followed us everywhere while the senora offered to sell us everything from water to Coke to Cusquena, the local Peruvian beer. After the porters had unpacked our gear they engaged in a game of futbol. Some of the braver Europeans joined in but were quickly put to shame. This seemed to be a great source of humor for the local children.
After watching the game for a bit I climbed up to a small peak that overlooked the valley below to wait for sunset. Some local children were playing in the dirt so I snapped a few photos of them for fun. When they noticed what I was doing they immediately ran over to see what I was up to. I showed them the pictures and they errupted in laughter and exclaimed, "Es Domingo! Es Rodrigo!" I don´t know if they had ever seen their own reflection before. I blew up a few balloons for them and wandered back down to my tent.

The next day was by far the most difficult. We climbed to 13,779 feet in a few short hours, besting what has come to be known as Dead Woman´s Pass. The air was thin and cold and the wind found every opportunity to invade our clothing, leaving us gasping for breath and freezing. In the excitement of our accomplishment we hardly seemed to notice.

Day three I took a turn for the worse. Lack of sleep and dehydration took hold and left me vomiting on the trail running for a bathroom (which there were none). Although it was sunny and easily 75 degrees, I was shivering with cold and sweating at the same time. Todays hike was relatively easy in terms of altitude gain but it was also an 8 mile stretch. Up until this point I had ussualy been in the lead and was almost always the first to arrive at rest points but now I had fallen behind just trying to get one foot to follow the other, slowly leading me through the jungle towards my tent where I might get some rest.

Wilfredo was our assistant guide and he stopped me and made me get on my knees. I watched with suspicion as took from his bag two small viles and mixed the contents together in his hands. Without warning he threw his hands up in my face and yelled for me to breath in. The stench was indescribable and I fell to the dirt vomiting. Then he took the top of my head in his hands and began to chant. Other trekers watched while Wilfredo commanded the sickness to leave my body and return to darker shadows in the jungle where the Puma hunts. By the next morning I was fine.

The fourth and final treking day our guide Yuves woke us at 3:30am for coca tea. In total darkness we began our climb towards the Sun Gate, the ancient entrance for the Incas into Machu Picchu. What a spectacle! As the sun blanketed the jungle, we could almost see the orchids tip their heads up. Rain water from the previous night evaporated into a mist and vines unravelled from tree trunks to dangle at our heads.

We had arrived. There are moments in life that seem to transcend time. Moments that take on a life of their own and become spiritual. Standing on Inca built terraces, looking down at the lost city, I had such a moment. Its grandeur and elequence defied the architectural technology of the time and it left me amazed and asking how? How did they manage to build such a complex system of irrigation, worship temples and terraces so high? Unlike almost every other major society in history, the Incas never engaged in slavery. Every citizen was expected to make a contribution and for that they were fed and kept safe. The Incas did not conquer surrounding tribes as much as they requested that they join and enjoy the fruits of the society. That said, no tribe was allowed to say no.

There is far to much to write about and my words can´t do it justice. I´m trying to get a slideshow up but these computers aren´t updated and nothing works correctly. Here are a few...

Machu Picchu - Create slideshows online

Arriving In Life

2009-10-27T18:00:00.000-07:00

Cusco. I´ve seen it spelled Cusco, Cuzco and Ququo. Cusco with it´s cobblestone streets just wide enough to fit a compact car, with its tattered tile roofs and mercahnts selling there wares on the ground. I fell in love the moment my derrelect cabdriver dropped me off. I was immediately struck by the forgeiness of my surroundings. My year of preparation and research was no where to be found. I got into a scetchy cab, the kind with no meter and no official signage. I paid him way to much and quietly observed as he took the longest possible route from the airport to my hostel. Now I know I could have walked the distance in twenty minutes. It would be my last cab ride in Cusco.

Cusco, Peru sits at 11,000 feet nestled in a long valley surrounded by moderately dry hills that reach as high as 4000 km. (12000 feet). There is a strong presence of Inca tradition coexhisting with the thriving Catholic Church, a gift from the Spanairds that plundered their beautiful temples, kindly removed them of all their gold and constructed a maze of European worship centers where they could pay taxes and be converted to Christianity in the name of our Lord. In this the Spanish were quite sucessful.
Today there is a power far greater than colonization or persecution. It is patient, cunning and persistant. It is the culture changing presence of tourism. It feeds the majority of Cusco´s 400,000 inhabitants and is the reason for it´s continued success as a speck on the map in this vast planet.

Perhaps I am to much of a daydreaming purist. In a country stricken with poverty, Cusco thrives. Women in traditional Peruvian garb will let you take their picture for a mere 1 sole (roughly .33 U.S.). Other families travel to the jungle to retrieve the insects and flora that are used to make the dyes for their vibrant colors. In my broken Spanish I´ve learned that the poorer shop keepers and street vendors do in fact make their own products. One woman, who I insisted we buy from showed us pictures of her family buying the wool and dyeing the cloth themselves. They gather an insect in the Northern jungles which is then used to make the variety of reds and browns for the clothing.

What else of Cusco? After six months of reading government travel warnings and hearing the horror stories of muggings and pack slashers I have arrived to find that the people are beautiful. They smile when they speak and are genuinely currious about where we are from and if we are enjoying their town. They are helpful and full of warmth; a charm that has been lost in the fast paced advancement of the western world).

It is about midnight now. I am at a rickety table writing only by a light shining through in the next room. Up here in the Plaza de la Blas it is quiet and far enough from the noise of the bars and restaurants that crowd the streets of the main Plaza de la Armas. I can only hear the constant sounds of dogs barking and roaming in friendly packs. Ocassionally a drunk tourist stumbles by, tripping on therough cobblestone, looking for their hostel. It is wonderfully cold and suits me for a place to write.

I will not post again until after I have visited Machu Picchu. Our four day trek which covers 42 km and takes us to the dizzying height of 13,776 feet begins on Wednesday. After that we will return to Casa de la Gringa for two days before we catch a nine hour bus to Puno. There we will explore Lake Titicaca which shares a border with Bolivia, before heading to La Paz.

Thanks to all that continue to read. Remember: It is good to go out into the world and do well. It is better to go out into the world and do good.

Gear Head

2009-10-19T09:50:00.000-07:00

This is for all the gear heads out there who may be planning there own trip. Endless amounts of time were spent on choosing the right pack, boots, water filter, camera, rain gear etc. I have laid it all out by brand where I could and will occasionally reference it along my trip to let people know how things are holding up. This may seem boring to those of you who are just checking in to see what's going on in my world, but believe me, this kind of information floods the Lonely Planet forums. People are continually asking what kind of anything should they take. In fact most of my questions were answered by searching these forums. Outdoor companies charge top dollar for these specialty items and I want to put them to the test and document my findings. That's just the kind of vagabonding nerd I am. Get out and see the world, not the gear, right?
I have to live with this stuff for eight months and I'll be traveling from 1600 ft in the Andes to sea level in the Amazon Basin. I want to know how it all worked, what I forgot and what I didn't need. And preparation is a great deal of fun. The attendants at REI came to know me by name. I spent hours in every department of the store; some days would result in a big purchase and other days I would walk out empty handed. This constant planning got me through the days where I was tired of my job and yearned to be out on a trail or lost on a chicken bus heading towards some unknown village. Daydreaming is a great way to patiently wait while your bank account builds.

I went so far as to lay it all out on my bed just do I could look at it and take photos! Playing with this stuff can be more fun than using it at times. A piece of gear like a first aid kit or a rain cover for a backpack isn't all that exciting when you have to use it but if you've handled it, inspected it and played with it, you will know exactly what to do when you actually need it. You need to know it inside and out. For instance I spent a great deal of time deciding what brand of water purifier I wanted. After reading all the negative reviews of the Steripen I thought I might pass. I bought it just so I could handle it a bit (REI will take anything back) and discovered that most of the negative posts were not from inferior quality but rather from buyers who hadn't spent the time to master all its signals. The directions need to be followed perfectly and it lets the user know what's happening through a series of blinking signals. This took time to figure out. Now I feel I have one of the best purifiers on the market (for my purpose) and will be adequately prepared when I need to use it.
So part of this blog will be spent chronicling the choices I made in gear. Where I can I have named it by brand and model name. It may help the adventurers come after me. If not then it will be an experiment in self-entertainment. I prefer it over reality TV and late night dramas. This is what I took:

Travel Packing List

GEAR:

Osprey 40L pack with hydration sack

Marmot ¾ zip 40° sleeping bag. 1.2 lbs.

North Face camelback day back – very small and straps to outside of main pack

Thermarest expanding pillow – medium.

Petzel Tikka XP Headlamp

Maglight – small

Steripen water purifier with extra batteries

REI hiking 1^st Aid kit – modified. See below.

Oakley FLAK polarized sunglasses

REI DUCKS Pack rain cover – medium

Camelback hydration sack cleaning tablets

Nalgene water bottle – 1

2 compression bags (med & small) for sleeping bag and clothes + 2 stuff sacks

to compartmentalize pack for easy reach.

Mosquito net for head

CLOTHES:

Patagonia Capaline long underwear – top and bottom

Marmot Rain Jacket – ultra light + Patagonia lightweight rain pants

North Face Windbreaker fleece jacket - lightweight

Columbia dry fast shorts

REI dry-fast pants

Smartwool socks 2 pair full & 2 pair ankle

Lowa hiking boots

Keen sandals

Underwear 4 pair

REI wind-stop gloves for high altitude in the Andes (optional)

Sun Hat

REI Peruvian Hat (will replace with authentic)

T-shirts 2

Exofficio 100% Nylon long sleeve shirt with UV coating

Eagle Creek silk hide a pouch for inside clothes. Waist type.

Eagle Creek money belt

ELECTRONICS:

Cannon G10 camera with two 5-hour Lithium batteries & charger

8 GIG memory cards – 3

360 GIG portable Hard Drive for storing pics

Lowepro Camera case (very small)

iphone with charger

All applicable cords for charging and USB into internet cafes

HYGENE & PERSONAL:

Toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, razor, shaving and bath travel sheets, nail-clippers, shampoo, travel bag, earplugs, clothes line, deodorant, foot powder, REI Large dryfast towel, microfiber multipurpose hand towel, sunscreen, insect repellant 30% DEET, Permethran spray for clothes, chapstick with sunscreen x2, hand sanitizer, toilet paper & shovel, Power Bars and Gu Gel for energy on Machu Picchu,

PRESCRIPTIONS:

Azithromycin or Z Pack Antibiotics Cipro for Diarrhea

Acetazolamide for altitude sickness Doxycyline Hyclate for Malaria

Tamiflu

FIRST AID KIT ADAPTIONS:

REI Hiking First Aid Kit. Medium size. I added Imodium AD, Pepto tablets, liquid skin, DenTek temporary filling Material for teeth, Chlorine Dioxide tabs for potable water, Moleskin, the Extractor bug and bite treatment kit, digital thermometer.

MISCELLANEOUS:

Sink stopper, duct tape, copper wire for sewing, sewing kit, nylon patches, bandana, coffee filters to pre-filter water, flexible soft spiral journal + 2 pens, rubberbands, hard plastic silverware, locking carabiner, travel lock, basic bike lock (combination type), pocket knife, strike anywhere matches, zip ties.

I also included balloons and crayons to give children along the path of Machu Picchu as well as 5 pair of cheap reading glasses for adults. This will go a long way in establishing relations.

DOCUMENTATION:

I made photocopies of Passport, emergency contact info (including # for Nomads International Travel Insurance), possible allergies, any prescriptions, traveler’s checks, ATM and credit card phone numbers and all computer passwords. Copies are hidden in various places on my person and in my pack but I also emailed PDF’s to my gmail account in case they are lost.

Getting to Oregon

2009-10-14T17:22:00.000-07:00

I know I’m supposed to be talking about South America but being that I'm not there yet this will have to do. The excitement is mounting. I awoke at 6am and left Palm Desert with the rising sun on my back. Cigarettes, beef jerky and Dr. Pepper kept me company. The drive to Mt. Shasta was neither memorable nor note worthy but a journal, no matter how small or insignificant is so alluring to me, I can’t help but write it all down. I am just outside Mt. Shasta National Recreation Park. I finally got the sense to pull off he road and find a place to camp. After driving along a forest service road for about a mile I got down near a river. I’m not sure what river it was but it was pleasant to hear and drown out the faint sound of trucks from the interstate. It did not however drown out the railway tracks that were about 30 feet from my camp sight. That is the drawback of picking a place to sleep in the middle of the night. Inevitably one wakes up to find the surrounding area completely different than what they imagined when they lay down. I didn’t have to wait long before the trains started rumbling down the tracks. It started right after I had set everything out and got snug in my sleeping bag. Exhaustion overtook me and I hardly cared enough to watch the freight trains barreling by. The moon was just two days past full and blanketed the ground enough to make it appear mysterious and tranquil. The river, whatever river it was, ambled by and barely took notice of me sleeping on the ground in front of my car. Soon enough the train passed and I was back to the babble of the brook and dreaming of South America with its cloud forests and ruined ancient empires. I dreamt that I was on the shore of the mighty Amazon River washing my clothes with the villagers who depended on it for so much of their resources.

I woke before the sun crept into my narrow valley, packed my gear and had a couple smokes while I walked around to survey the area around me. There was an old bridge that led across the river; I was still forty or so feet above the shore. Adjacent to that was a fairly large stone bridge that arced across the small ravine where I had found myself. Not that one ever really finds himself, but rather where I found myself on this particular morning. Between the two bridges were the railway tracks. They stretched as far as I could see in either direction, which wasn’t really that far. They wound into the distance on both sides following the river until both were out of sight. I must have driven over the tracks to get to my camp but in my dreariness I had completely failed to notice. On the other side, where my car was parked, there was the usual white railroad crossing sign. Again I had totally failed to notice.

I snapped a few photos and then turned the car around to climb out of my little valley and back to the highway. One last look around and I was gone. Just the way I liked it. Next stop, Bend Oregon. Here are some photos I took.

Saying Goodbye

2009-10-05T16:35:00.000-07:00

Alexander Supertramp tells us that happiness is only felt when shared with other people. Edward Abbey spent his years in solitude in order to explore the far corners of his mind and soul. Both are correct. To try and be so linear in thought is a huge mistake. We need companionship, love and laughter as equally as we need solitude, quiet and self-exploration. I think the latter makes the first more fulfilling.

Background. Check. Now Where?

2009-09-26T11:27:00.000-07:00

I can't believe this is actually about to begin. Thanks to all who have checked in to take a look, I hope you follow me throughout all of South America. The plan is to spend eight months backpacking through every country I can get to, get involved with the culture and basically live a more freeing life that I think we all deserve. I have sold my house, traded my car, removed myself of almost all possessions except what I will take on the road and received, in return, a freedom and chance for self-exploration that few people ever get the opportunity to indulge in.

My final days work will end on September 29th, 2009 at about 11pm. By then I will have everything packed and ready to drive over to Palm Springs and then on to Bend, Oregon where I will leave my car and books. October 22nd is the day I fly out for Lima, Peru and then over to Cuzco to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu and one of the Seven Wonders of The World. My good friend Linda Batista will be along for the first five weeks. We'll head south into Bolivia, Argentina and Chili and then to Santiago where she will fly out and I'll be solo.

Where does this traveling bug come from? Why from such an early age did I relate so much with Jack London and Thereau? For what reasons was I so entranced by the biographies of Ernest Shackleton or the fragmented journals of Alexander Supertramp? I know my father played a part in the One Act play that will be my life. He took me hiking, climbing, rafting, skiing, sailing, cave dwelling and exploring as far back as I can remember. He took me on the road and got me fascinated with pavement and the dotted yellow lines of America's highways. Little did he know it would be a phase I would never grow out of. Instead I would work, go to school and seek out a profession that would be lucrative and add stability to my life. For a time I was happy with that. But there was always something missing when I came home from work and marveled at all the neat things I had accumulated with my paychecks. It nagged at me while I watched the National Geographic Channel. I felt as though I was missing out somehow even though I had Anthony Bourdain there to tell me how wonderful the world was while I grew fat and complacent on my new luxury sofa. As my friends eventually all got married and began having children I wondered to myself, sometimes aloud, "should I just stay on the couch?
   "I will need all 'this stuff' when I get married." But I never did. And I mean that in the dual sense. I never got married and I never needed the stuff. In fact it seemed to make me angry. "Why should anyone in there right mind spend $5000 on a couch or TV when that money could take them half way across the globe for months on the proper budget?" Brave thoughts for someone sitting on a couch and watching a TV with an accumulated value of $9000!
   At the end of No Reservations, Mr. Bourdain always gives a little monologue weaving in philosophy, humanity, desire and adventure. It is just enough to keep us happily on our ass's waiting for the next episode. By the way, that is our fault, not his. But he got me thinking scared sober one night in 2007, "Why not me?"
   Why am I spending all this time watching so much crap, letting this man define my expectation of a place, culture or food, when I could do it myself? I may not have a television show or camera crew but I could sell this couch and my new 55 inch TV and probably get pretty far!"
   That's a frightening thought. Sobering. Full of mythology and logic that is counter-intuitive to our up bringing. But let me say from experience, once you go down that road there is an adrenaline rush that is like no other. I held garage sales, posted listings on Craigslist, sold things to friends and coworkers for pennies on the dollar. I'm still not sure if my goal was to make vagabonding money or just get rid of the things that hindered my travels! I was off running but to where, I did not know.
I am fairly certain of one fact. In America we have but 70 or 80 beautiful years on this planet and it is up to us to decide how we are going to spend it. The first quarter is spent on education and development, years where we have little say. We are but observers in the Grande Comedy. Sadly we often spend the second and third quarter doing nothing else but accumulating wealth so that we can live the fourth quarter in some sort of comfort. When we are older, wiser and full of thought then we rest our heads on the pillow of our dreams. But by then it is to late. The fancy of youth and the wisdom of age seldom collide together at the same moment in time and space. We are left with memories and dreams. And really nice couches in front of huge TV's!
   I know this is not an original thought but what if we were to redefine the confines our our own existence? Bend the bars; devil give chase to our own tail! Can we not work and play in the manner so expected of youth and still retire happy in the end? We all face the same specter at our door-step lacking manners. I would rather greet Him on a bed of straw with stories to enchant than lined with silk ready to bore Him with my greatness. He has come to take us either way. I say grab your youth by its own ass and God willing, hurt yourself in the process, because then you can stand on equal ground facing the ultimate unknown with defiance and smirk. Laughter is the only song I suppose Death can enjoy. Don't let Him down. Be a good house guest as you have for all those whose presence you could barely tolerate. We must take it in stride when that stride is our last.
   It appears to me from what I have observed (and felt in myself) that we spend our lives preparing for an illusion that we will never obtain. We chase happiness like a sun dipping over the horizon. When we finally figure out that the world is not flat we feel like the hamster in the plastic wheel. But by then we have used up all our energy, and at such a frantic pace, that the heart has slowed and silently prepares for its long sleep and separation from the soul.
   I can't speak for other countries but in America, I believe credit has become the modern demon from which so much misery has been born. We are enticed by it's ability to produce an immediate outcome, one which we would otherwise have to wait and earn and plan for. Credit replaces long term satisfaction with immediate gratification. It allows us to live, for a short time, outside our means. And with the American Dream pressuring us to buy, buy, buy it is no wonder we give in. How can I possibly be happy in life without German auto-engineering? Doesn't everyone deserve a four bedroom house with a pool and gated yard? Aren't we all supposed to wear $200 dollar jeans? I swear it's an inherent right built into our constitution! Seinfeld never spoke of money problems. He just did stand-up and bought his parents Cadallacs. And Rachel and Ross never squabbled over bills while raising a child out of wedlock. They were able to spend countless hours at their favorite coffee bar and leisure time with friends.
   Get the point? Life just doesn't work like that. Who would watch a TV show about people who worked hard all day at a job they hated just to come home, prepare a substandard meal full of artificial every-things and plopped down on the sofa to escape the their own dull existence. No one. Because it's boring, pathetic and drowning in atrophy. But this is the path so many of us choose. We are kept afloat only by escape and the illusion that tomorrow will bring a better day. Perhaps a Lotto ticket. If we're really depressed we can just go buy the latest surround sound system or maybe some new rims for the sports-car that won't be paid off for six years!
   Credit is a demon. We would be better off to work in trade. At least trade requires that you bring a talent to the table. Look at the economic climate of the US today. We are in the dregs of the worst downfall since the Great Depression yet the upturn is only measured by the amount that Americans are spending! 'Summer spending is down, back to school spending is down, Christmas spending is forecasted to be less...Americans just aren't spending what they used to.' We must be in a recession! Three years ago all we heard was 'the US family must learn to budget. Don't follow in the footsteps of our government with a trillion dollar deficit. Invest in real-estate...land is the only thing they won't make more of.'
   When money is tight the government and media seem to tell us that the only way out of this mess is to start spending again. 'Lets get progress back on track. Get stock prices back up and inuities flowing again.' Shouldn't we be spending our money on food and fuel rather than the rising cost of COX Cable or True Religion jeans?
   The truth is they want us in debt! They want us so high in debt that the only payment we can afford is the minimum one. That's the only way they make money. Lucky for them debt is transferable. At least after you pay the death tax. The economy no longer runs on money but rather the transfer there of.
   I know I sound like a conspiracy theorist. I can hear the criticism from friends shouting Capitalism and Freedom from every mountain top. All I'm saying is that I have yet to meet a friend without money problems. Poor or rich. But I have an abundance of friends with cool cars, fancy clothes and dollars to spread at a bars, concerts, festivals and hi-tech gadgets.