Memo from the Ministry of Fear

“The traveler’s is but a barren and comfortless condition” wrote Henry David Thoreau, who never traveled alone and whose cabin at Walden was less than a mile and a half from his home in Concord, where his adoring mother waited, baking pies for him and doing his laundry; and throughout the Walden experience he went home most days.” 

Excerpt from "The Tao of Travel" by Paul Theroux.

A little over a year and a half ago, I sold everything I owned…my home, my furniture, my car, my clothing, my artwork, my lawn mower...and closed my business of 20 years.

I said goodbye to everyone and everything that was familiar to me and embarked on a 3 year around-the-world odyssey with no fixed schedule, no definite itinerary and no plan other than to see the places I've always dreamed of, experience each moment as fully as possible and to embrace everything that comes my way as an opportunity to learn and grow.

As I boarded the plane that would take me halfway around the world, I wondered what I would feel like to be this far down the road. Would I have lost my passport? Would I be tired? Sick? Injured? Lonely? Regretting that I had made such a drastic change in my lifestyle?

The answer to all of the above questions is that at various points throughout my journey I could answer "yes". Except for the last question. I have never regretted for one nanosecond the decision that led me to this point, which at the moment happens to be a pretty crummy hostel in Santiago, Chile.

When they hear about the journey I’ve undertaken, most people respond by telling me how brave I am.

I’m not.

Crazy maybe...but making this departure from “real life” came quite naturally, and after much thought and planning. It wasn’t done on a whim or in response to a mid-life crisis or precipitated by some devastating event. I’ve been planning to do this my entire life.

The other response I get is “What are you going to do when you’re finished traveling?”  Variations on this question include “Do you have enough money set aside for retirement?” “How are you going to return to the REAL WORLD?” “Aren’t you worried about finding a job?”. “What about health insurance?” “What inoculations and vaccinations have you taken?” “What about food poisoning?” "What about terrorists?" “Do you have hand sanitizer?”

I view these responses as a manifestation of fear. Their aversion to risk…to taking a leap off a cliff into the complete unknown. I realize that what I’ve chosen is definitely not for everyone. Selling everything is kinda drastic…it was the only way I could think of to finance this life-long dream.

Even if they don't want to forsake all their earthly possessions, and wander the earth barefooted with nothing but a canvas satchel and a wooden flute, everyone's got something they wanna go after. And most folks have lots of excuses for not chasing their dreams, including some that sound really legitimate and plausible.


"I don't have enough money." "I'd have to quit my job and go back to school." "I have a wife and kids and a mortgage and college tuition to think about." "I'm not smart enough. Or talented enough. Or good looking enough". "I'll get started on that the day after tomorrow." "Let me just finish typing this email". "I'm too busy/tired/fill in the blank." 

Which is not to say that I don’t experience plenty of fear. I've used all of the excuses above and then some. Sometimes I’m courageous and I step through the fear. And often I don’t.

Making the decision to leave everything behind didn’t cause me any undue concern. Getting rid of all my stuff was a relief really. And saying goodbye to dear friends was sad and tearful, but not fearful.

But now, facing fear is a daily exercise. It rears its nasty head every time I land in a new city. Did my bag arrive? Twice in the last week it didn’t. And if not, will I be able to locate someone who speaks English to help me find it?  The answer is not always yes. 


Will I be able to find a place to stay? Last night the hostel I had booked in advance had lost my reservation and had no available rooms when I arrived at midnight. 


Will I get ripped off by the cab driver on my way from the airport?  This ain't my first rodeo and yet that happened this week.  You know you're being taken for a ride, literally and metaphorically, but you're stuck watching the meter roll over like a Las Vegas slot machine...unless you want to get out of the car in the middle of nowhere in the dark and walk.

Fear comes in many forms. 


Being constantly immersed in unfamiliarity. Deciding where to go and where to stay and what to do each day. Fear of getting swindled. Or robbed. Or run over by a motorcycle, or dragged down an alley and having my throat slit. These thoughts rarely occupy my mind on a conscious level, but I know from the fatigue that I feel at the end of most days that they're lurking in there somewhere.  

The truth is there have honestly been only one or two moments when I've felt unsafe.  Being on a minibus at 1 in the morning on the wrong side of town and hearing everyone muttering the word for "foreigner" in Swahili.  And not in a "Welcome aboard!" kind of way.  Other than that it’s really been smooth sailing and I've experienced so much kindness and generosity from total strangers along the way.

The biggest struggle is loneliness.  Obviously a guy who's lived alone and worked alone for most of his adult life and who's traveling the world by himself enjoys his own company.  And I do. There’s a lot to be said for solitude, and I'm absolutely positive that the most memorable adventures I’ve had on this trip are the result of traveling alone because I'm more receptive and flexible and approachable by others.  But at other times the solitude is overwhelming.

The great thing about fear is that it  propels me to try new things that terrify me...if for no other reason than to have the experience, or learn what my limits are, or at the very least, have a story to tell.

Like taking a deep breath, knowing that at the end of an underwater tunnel is a beautiful cathedral-sized chamber filled with air….and wondering whether I’ll make it before I pass out.  

Or steering a dingy through a majestic rock arch in the middle of the ocean in 6 foot swells and a strong head wind knowing there's a good possibility of capsizing and going for a swim in the ice cold water, fully clothed and with all my camera gear.

Rappelling down the face of a 150 foot cliff.

White water rafting through rapids twice as tall as I am and swimming across a raging river hoping I make it to the opposite shore before getting swept over the falls that are just a few hundred yards downstream.

Scuba diving in a current so strong that if I let go of the anchor rope on the way down there would be little chance of finding me before I ran out of air somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

Buying a used car and driving it 3500 miles down the east coast of Australia and finding out it needs new brakes and guzzles a quart of oil every couple of days.


I sold it for scrap.


Or embarking on a 2 week trip in a camper van with three complete strangers.  We survived a tire blowing out in the middle of the desert miles from the nearest garage, we ate enough peanut butter to cover the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and most of all that we survived that much "togetherness" and emerged as friends.

Arriving in a new country and learning the rules, the routine, the culture, the customs is always and adventure. 

Like sitting cross-legged for hours on end  while drinking kava in Fiji because to straighten one's legs to get a brief respite from the agony is considered disrespectful to the village chief.

And I'm pretty sure my waitress at lunch today was trying to politely let me know that nobody in Chile uses toothpicks.

.

Or choosing accommodations that don't have the amenities I'd like so that I can stay within my budget.

Like water.  


Or windows.  


Or a room that doesn't smell like a blend of urine and cigarette smoke and cleaning products.

You'd be astounded at how many crowing roosters/barking dogs/construction projects there are going on all over the world at this very moment. And most of them are on the premises of  hostels where I've stayed...or right next door.  


More often, the Boogey Man visits me in more subtle ways, in a variety of clever disguises, morphing into a thousand different forms and planting disconcerting thoughts in my mind that make me feel afraid and small.

Most common are the every day, run-of-the-mill fears.  

Having to force myself to go outside and explore yet another strange city when I’m feeling particularly road-weary, or paralyzed because of all the options there are, or for no good reason at all.

Learning to ignore the feeling of being an outsider or sounding foolish when I make an attempt to speak a few words in one of the 17 languages I've encountered in the past year and a half.  And that’s not including the dialects of English spoken in Australia and New Zealand.  

You think I’m joking, but I didn’t know what a capsicum (bell pepper) was…or a “long drop dunny” (outhouse) until I spent some time with the Aussies and the Kiwis.  Likewise, I had the hardest time making them understand me when I said the phrase "bottle of water".  It was as if I was speaking Swahili.  Which was really helpful when I arrived in Kenya.

Fear of walking into yet another restaurant and having everyone in the place turn and gawk at the foreigner like I'm a space alien and watch me like a bug under a microscope while I eat a dish I've ordered that contains not a single ingredient that I recognize by sight, taste or smell. 

Getting really, really lost is another fear.  That happens to me A LOT.  At all times of the day and night and in all kinds of weather. It’s not that much fun anymore. I've really worked on improving my sense of direction, and I rely heavily on maps and the GPS on my iPhone.  

Often it's best if I just go in the opposite direction from what my instinct is telling me.  Especially when i discover after wandering around like Moses in the desert that the map given to me by the hostel is printed with south on the LEFT side of the page instead of at the bottom.  With no indication that the local cartographers are playing a little geographical prank on unsuspecting travelers.  Or parking my rental car in downtown Melbourne and realizing about an hour later that I had ABSOLUTELY no idea how to get back to it.  

Somehow it always works out.  And I have no evidence to support the theory that it doesn't.

Before I embarked on my trip, a dear friend printed the following quote on a card which I keep with me always:

“I will not die an unlived life

I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days.

To allow my living to open me.

To make me less afraid.

More accessible.

To loosen my heart until it becomes

A wing, a torch, a promise.

I choose to risk my significance;

To live so that That which comes to me as seed

Goes to the next as blossom

And that which comes to me as blossom

Goes on as fruit.”

Dawna Markova

What Goes Around Comes Around

I was having that strange feeling of déjà vu.


I was standing in a courtyard surrounded by colorful murals.  A couple was chatting quietly at a table nearby.  The sun was shining and the intense blue of the January sky was interrupted here and there by fluffy cumulus clouds.  The temperature was a perfect 78 degrees.


I'd been traveling full time for 16 months and the 19 countries I had visited during that period had all started to blur together.  I knew I was in Austin, Texas, but I had the strangest feeling that I was back in Africa. Why do the paintings on these walls look so familiar?  And these signs that say “Comfort the Children”….why do they ring a bell?


Suddenly it dawned on me!  Six weeks and five countries ago I had visited the village of Maai Mahiu in The Great Rift Valley in Kenya. On a lark, I had gone there with a friend of a friend whom I had met in Nairobi a few days earlier. Since it was an opportunity to see a part of Kenya I hadn’t been to before, I tagged along for the ride. I wasn't prepared for what was in store for me.


I had the unexpected privilege of spending a day at The Malaika School which was founded and funded by Comfort The Children.  The school, which is for kids with profound disabilities, provides them an opportunity which would otherwise be unavailable.  Ordinarily, In a small village like this, these children would be hidden away by from public view to protect them from the derision and mistreatment they would receive, and so their families could avoid the shame of such a taboo.


There are some places in the world where the sense of dedication and joy are palpable.  The Malaika School is one of those.  It felt as if the very walls of the building were permeated with the intention of those who work there to provide for the special needs kids who attend the school.

Equally joyful was the Malaiku Mums workshop next door.  We were greeting with radiant smiles and nervous laughter as we took photos and video who were hard at work measuring, marking, cutting and sewing fabric.  


The women were transforming the rough woven cloth into items which are then sold to provide income for their families and support for their children. 

Click on the image above to play the video

By far the most touching moment of the day was seeing George, who has Down’s Syndrome, writing the numbers 1 to 10.  I watched George as he started, then faltered, then used the chalkboard eraser to begin again, all the while looking to his teacher for encouragement.


He never seemed frustrated or upset, but simply kept at it until 2 minutes and 37 seconds later he had completed the task.  Feeling choked up, I realized how annoyed or angry I can become at even the smallest inconvenience and how much I have to be thankful for.  I’ve thought of George many times since then, and the tranquility he embodies.

Lost in my reverie about my time in Kenya, I wasn’t sure how long I’d been standing there in the courtyard of Comfort the Children in Austin, Texas.  I had the strangest sensation that I had stepped through a portal into another dimension.  I wasn’t really sure which continent I was on.


I'd stumbled in quite by accident.  I was supposed to meet a client at a nearby location which we were considering using for an upcoming photo shoot, but had come to the address of Comfort The Children by mistake.  I wandered inside to ask for directions, and was greeted warmly by the staff who pointed me down the street.


Before I left, I let them know that I had just come from Mai Mahiu, and had a bunch of photos and videos from the Malaika school if they wanted to use them.  They were delighted, and asked me to write a blog for their website as well.  As I walked back to my car, I couldn’t help noticing what a great location the courtyard at Comfort The Children would make for our photo shoot. I dashed off to meet my client and convinced him to return with me to scope it out.  

A week later, I rented my former studio from the guy who took over the space when I moved out a year and a half ago.


It was strange to be back in place I where I had worked for more than 20 years but which now had  different furniture and someone else's photographs on the walls, but at the same time a wonderful sense of familiarity and coming home.

By the time we arrived at the courtyard of Comfort the Children, the weather had turned chilly and overcast, and we had to create images that looked like they were shot on a sunny day in Mexico!

Thanks to the miracle of artificial lighting, we got some great images, despite the fact that our model's teeth were chattering and his skin was turning blue. 

Another bit of serendipity was that the check my client wrote to Comfort The Children to rent their location went to support a great cause.

Before we called it quits for the day, I persuaded one of the CTC staff members tocome outside and let me photograph her.  Grabbing a brightly colored piece of cloth that was on display in their gift shop, I wrapped it around her head and posed her against a tree looking directly into the camera.  

As I looked through the viewfinder, once again I wasn't sure if I was in Austin...or Africa.

  

Timbuktu or Texas?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Parlez-Vous Anglais?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kept repeating it.

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

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

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

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

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

My thought process went something like this:

1. I’m in a foreign country

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Monk And The Motor Scooter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to come too” he responded.

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

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

I was dumbstruck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you O.K.?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never know what a day will bring.