Farewell to Fidel

8:00 a.m. Departure Lounge, José Marti International Airport, Havana, Cuba

This has been an interesting morning so far. 

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to shower and head out the door to the airport. Last night, my trusty guide Jesus insisted that a friend of his would be at my front door to take me there. Sure enough, Roberto was there at 6 a.m. sharp, and wedged my backpack into the trunk of his car, along with the well-worn spare tire and a freshly filled can of gasoline. I deduced this from the overpowering fumes and the greasy rags which had been used to soak up the puddle. He had yet to say a word to me.

Roberto appeared to be around 70 years old...about the same age as his car. The interior of his ancient automobile was so tiny that even in the fetal position I could barely close the door. When he finally did speak, he sounded as if he had a sock full of gravel in his mouth. Either that or he had just come from the dentist, which seemed unlikely at 6 in the morning. He asked me in Spanish "Which terminal are you going to?” I told him I was on the Cubana Air flight to Santo Domingo.

I then (mis)understood Roberto asking which AIRPORT I wanted to go to … that there were 5 airports in Havana. “That can’t be right! I can’t think of a single city on the planet with 5 international airports!" As the fog began to clear from my sleepy brain, and I remembered that the name of the airport was José Marti. This seemed to satisfy him and off we went.


It suddenly occurred to me that I had agreed to pay him $25 but that I only had five $10 notes, so I asked him if he had smaller bills. He didn’t. We promptly stopped at a roadside eatery and he hopped out to go get change. There were tables outside which were illuminated by harsh fluorescent tubes in the the pitch darkness, and the clientele seemed to consist entirely of prostitutes on their way home from the late shift, or beginning the early shift. Either that or it was “Dress Like a Slut” Thursday at work. There was nobody in line, but it seemed to take Roberto an eternity to get change.

Once again we set off, but it soon became evident that Roberto had never been to the airport in his life. Maybe because aviation was a relatively new invention when he was born, he thought that it was just a passing fad and had lost interest. Each time we’d a approach a road sign, he’d slow down to almost a complete stop to peruse it in a leisurely fashion. At least that's what I thought until I noticed he was squinting and that we probably should have a seeing-eye dog in the car. Pretty soon I decided it would be more efficient for me to read the signs and give him directions. The road was so full of potholes that when he swerved to avoid one we’d jump about a lane and a half to the left or right.

Not only was it dark, but we were heading into a dense fog. When we came upon a sign that said “Aeropuerto 2” with an arrow pointing to the right, I assumed the airport was 2 kilometers away. We pulled up to a mostly dark building with a deserted parking lot and a few silhouetted figures sitting in the dark outside. Roberto was obviously eager to be on his way, but I kept insisting that this was not the right place, so he suggested I go ask for directions. “So let me get this straight” I thought, “You live here, you speak Spanish fluently and I don’t, you’re the one driving, we're running late, we've arrived at this empty building and you want ME to ask for directions?!?!?!"

I saw a staircase with light emanating from the door at the top, so I dashed to the top and walked down a long corridor of dark offices repeating the word “Hola?...Hola?” But to no avail. When I came back downstairs, Roberto was trying to bum a light for his cigar from one of the people sitting in the dark. Thanks pal! Just then I saw a woman in a uniform with her shirt untucked as if she was just finishing the graveyard shift emerge from the shadows and I asked her in Spanish if she knew where the terminal for international departures was. She told me that it was terminal 3 and pointed off into the fog. I could tell that Roberto was really bummed not to be rid of me.

We meandered for a while, but eventually arrived at a large modern building surrounded by lots of cars and activity.  I saw some guys in uniform and suggested we stop and ask if this was the place. He rolled down the window and I did all the talking, while Roberto sat there mute. He pulled into the parking lot which was about 1000 yards from the entrance, rather than dropping me off at the front door. Oh…and when he got change earlier, he kept his portion of it, so I wasn’t able to “adjust” his fee. Thanks for everything man!

Inside, the lower floor was dark and deserted…clearly not where the ticket counters were located. I asked for directions and when I eventually arrived at the ticket counter there was already a LOOOONG line.  I was relieved to see a beautiful, smiling attendant behind the counter until I put my glasses on and realized that it was a life-sized photograph on the wall.

Instead, the counter was manned by three guys who were not pleased to be working at 6:45 a.m. I have seen glaciers that moved at a faster pace. In addition, the queue resembled a strand of mutating DNA…large groups of people would arrive, greet someone in line and insert themselves ahead of all the passengers behind them. One guy in particular had an entourage larger than Justin Bieber's which kept growing in size with each passing minute.

We had now entered geological time….minutes stretched into eons. By the time I reached the front fo the line, several people had celebrated birthdays, anniversaries and one woman had had a baby. After paying my departure tax and finding my gate, I sat down and finally exhaled. Total time elapsed since arriving at the airport…one and a half hours.

Please don't get me wrong. I absolutely loved my month in Cuba! If only the crumbling walls and flaking paint could speak, what tales they could tell of a man who liked to write and catch big fish named Ernest Hemingway, or the scraggly-bearded but devastatingly handsome revolutionary named Che Guevara, or America's Public Enemy Number One..the flamboyant gangster named Al Capone who played high stakes poker in Havana's casinos while enjoying Cuba's finest rum and cigars and señoritas.

I found almost everyone I encountered to be friendly, helpful and eager to talk to an American who had entered the country illegally through Mexico because our government is still holding a 50 year old grudge and doesn't allow Americans to travel to Cuba without special permission. Many people said "Welcome to Cuba!" to me and treated me like family when I stayed in their homes. 

If you ever have the chance to go, jump on it. It won't be long before the Cuba I visited will be taken over by McDonald's and Starbucks and KFC.  You'll have a blast...but when you get ready to leave, just make sure you take a map in case your driver is a guy by the name of Roberto.

I've Dived and Gone to Heaven

Can you spot the shark in this photo before it spots you? ©www.CosmicCandidCamera.com

As I descended the buoy line into the increasingly cold, dark and murky abyss...unable to see the bottom, or more than 10 feet in front of me, I could hear only the sound of my breathing and feel the bubbles rising past my ears as I exhaled through my regulator.

I felt like a flag flapping in the wind as my body swung perpendicular to the rope in the powerful current. I was already shivering when my mask began to fill with icy water.  The thought went through my mind that if I lost my grip I’d be swept into the middle of the Pacific Ocean where the likelihood of anyone finding me would be slim.  I was reminded of the poster for the movie “Alien”….In outer space no one can hear you scream.

The four of us finally reached the bottom...125 feet below the surface.  Letting go of the rope and clinging precariously to the rocks, we inched our way hand over hand until we reached a lookout point frequented by large reef sharks.  Peering down from our perch atop an underwater cliff, the rocky wall below us plunged into a deeper, darker pit of blackness.  

To make matters worse, the dive computer strapped to my wrist was beeping manically, alerting me that I needed to head to the surface NOW.  The deeper you dive, the more slowly you need to ascend in order to avoid the risk of decompression sickness, paralysis or even death. But I didn't have much choice....I could either leave the group and take a chance on not being able to find my way back in the semi-twilight terrain around me, or I could stay until the rest of the group was ready to ascend.  But at that depth and chilly temperature, combined with the effort required to advance into the powerful current, I was consuming a lot more air than usual.

Meanwhile, my dive computer continued to rack up the number of minutes I would need to ascend in order to get rid of the nitrogen that was rapidly accumulating in my tissues and bloodstream.  It was like sitting in a taxi in the middle of a traffic jam watching the fare climb higher and higher without getting any closer to your destination.  To continue to ignore it would not only put me in serious danger but would also render my computer useless for subsequent dives, since it to "punishes" you by shutting down completely for 24 hours if you disregard the warnings for too long.

 

When we finally began our ascent, without having seen a single shark, my computer indicated that I needed 16 minutes to ascend 125 feet.  That's the equivalent of walking at a pace of 2 steps per minute on a chilly day wearing nothing but your underwear.  That’s slow.  And cold!  Oh...and don't forget...there was an increasingly high probability that I would run out of air.  I watched the needle on my pressure gauge drop from 200 to 150 to 100.  As we inched our way up the buoy line, I narrowly avoided impaling my hand on the rusty barbs of a fish hook that was imbedded in the rope.  Needless to say, I made it back to the surface safely, albeit with a tank that was almost empty.  I loved every minute of it.

On the other end of the spectrum, I’ve dived in water so crystal clear that it created the optical illusion that the boat was hovering in mid-air above the ocean floor. The water temperature was like taking a bath as the sunlight played on the coral and the schools of multi-colored fish that swarmed around us. 

The feeling of gliding effortlessly and weightlessly through a world that is inhabited by creatures which bear absolutely no resemblance to their terrestrial counterparts is like no other.  White-tipped reef sharks that stopped evolving a million years ago because they reached the apex of efficiency with regard to killing their prey.   Yellow and black and white striped angel fish swimming in pairs with long streamers trailing from their dorsal and pectoral fins.  

Lobsters and octopi hiding in the cracks and crevices of rocks.  Moray eels as thick as your upper arm with faces that would make an atheist believe in The Devil.  Graceful sea turtles gliding by as if in slow motion....which you soon discover is not the case if you try to follow one.  Kind of like watching a plane land, their speed is deceptive.  Puffer fish, squirrel fish, clown fish, tarpin.  Slow-moving, slack-jawed grouper that look like the village idiots compared to all the clever or comical looking fish around them. 

Huge sea fans and coral with ridges and grooves that look like a massive brain.  Tube sponges of neon red and yellow and green. Starfish of every size and description and picturesquely peaceful outcroppings on the faces of underwater cliffs that make you want to build an underwater house and live there.

There's a sensation of flying, of being on another planet, of being in an altered state of consciousness...of dreaming and yet feeling completely lucid. The colors and shapes that defy description.  The strange beings that look like aliens...manta rays, sting rays, eagle rays...creatures that would boggle the imagination of Dr. Seuss.

The sense of camaraderie you feel with those in your dive group...knowing that you're looking out for them and they're looking out for you.  At least that's the idea, anyway. The sense of danger and the need to stay alert and to keep your wits about you. The hyper-awareness of everything around you but also the sense that if you pay attention, if you check your equipment, if you stay close to your buddy and you don't do something careless or stupid, it really is a safe sport. Having done over two hundred dives I've seen very few mishaps…and most of those were the result of my own carelessness.

Whether I’m diving in claustrophobic caves, or the deep, dark depths, swimming with sharks, navigating by flashlight while night diving, struggling against strong currents, swimming through shipwrecks with the ghosts of drowned sailors, enjoying a bird’s eye view of the reef below, or descending through a coral archway as shafts of blue sunlight play on the surreal landscape and the creatures who’ve allowed me share their company, diving is a portal to an amazing and alternate universe. 


"All fish, reptiles, amphibians, birds, and mammals carry within their veins the elements of sodium, potassium, and calcium in almost the same proportions as the oceans. The "sea" within us has the same saltiness as the Precambrian seas of three billion years ago. Rachel Carson, in her book The Sea Around Us, gives us a clue to our origins: "When the animals went ashore to take up life on land, they carried part of the sea in their bodies, a heritage which they passed on to their children and which even today links each land animal with its origins in the ancient sea."  :: Prentice K. Stout

The Breakfast of Champions

I feel like I'm caught in a swirling vortex of bad luck.

I arrived in Santiago around 10 p.m. and took a $30.00 cab ride from the airport to discover that the hostel I've booked online has received my reservation but has no rooms available.  To quote Jerry Seinfeld “That kinda defeats the whole purpose of a reservation!”  Not only that, but there are several thousand people in town for a marathon tomorrow, as well as a weekend long music festival.  There’s not a room to be had between here and Valparaiso.

The desk clerk, who’s wearing glasses with one ear piece missing, is shuffling through a huge stack of papers, all of which appear to be “reservations”. I’m not sure how many other weary travelers he’s had to deliver the bad news to, but I knew there was no point in getting bent out of shape.  What I need is a place to lie down.  Pronto.

I ask if I can use the free wifi, and he reluctantly gives me the password, as if I'm asking for the combination to the safe, but in keeping with the rest of this increasingly ridiculous situation, I can’t get my computer to connect to the internet.

Completely clueless and constantly adjusting his crooked glasses, the guy behind the desk seems stunned when I ask if he can help me find another place to stay.  I eventually get him to make a phone call to one of the hotels on the list I can see pinned to the wall next to his elbow, and when he hangs up the phone, he’s confirmed that they have a vacancy, but he’s neglected to ask the price or the address, and can’t remember which number he just called.

So, he calls again, and on the third try gets the right place, asks for the rate, the address and the name.  When I ask him for a map, he can’t locate the hotel where we are OR the other hotel. He also has no idea how much a cab will cost to get to my new accommodation. I don’t know this guy puts his pants on or finds his way to work!  Maybe he was born here and has never left the premises.

Meanwhile a guy on crutches who has been silently observing my exercise in futility announces that a cab driver will almost certainly rip me off at this time of night since I’m carrying a big bag and am obviously a traveler.  I feel like a tiny, rusty, bent cog in a massive, malfunctioning machine!

I go to the hotel next door…no rooms. Meanwhile another guy shows up who has just flown in from Buenos Aires and, not surprisingly, he is given the same warm welcome I‘ve just received. 

I decide to intervene and tell him he’s welcome to share a cab with me.  The guy behind the desk has his first good idea of the night and calls a cab, gives them the address where we are and where we’re going and asks how much it’ll cost to come pick us up and take us there.  $4 each.  Fantastic!  So off we go to find Hotel Nova (ironically, but not surprisingly, "no va" means “no go” in Spanish…perfecto!)

When Andrew and I arrive at the address we’ve been given, we’re in the middle of a dark street, and all we can see is a pitch black hallway with an iron gate.  Immediately next door is a massive red neon sign with 6 foot tall letters generically announcing “HOTEL”.  Thinking we’ve been given the wrong address, I go next door to check and there‘s a speaker with a “call” button, but when I press it I receive only dead silence in response.  This is starting to feel like a David Lynch movie.

So I go back to where our cab driver is clearly eager to be on his way, ring the bell, and a dark-skinned woman emerges from the even darker darkness of the hallway.  When I ask "Is this Hotel Nova?”, she replies “No”.  At this point I'm thinking this is a private residence and we’ve woken her up.  Out of desperation I decide to ask her if she has any rooms and she says “Yes”.  Why not just say “Yes this is a hotel…are you the one who called earlier?”

So she opens the gate and leads us down a loooong hallway which is darker than a coal mine.  We turn a corner and feel our way along the wall down another hallway where she shows us two rooms, right across from each other.  They are much nicer than I expected, given the ambience of this cavernous building which makes the motel in the movie “Psycho” look like Little House on the Prairie. 

My door has two room numbers, 13 and 14, one above the other, and Andrew's has the same two numbers, but in the opposite configuration.  I’m not superstitious, but this is getting creepier by the minute.  Neither room can be locked from the outside and his can’t be locked from the inside either, but we don’t really have a lot of other options, so we decide to stay.

We follow the woman back to the dimly lit office to pay, and she never asks us for our names or passports. It’s as quiet as a graveyard, and it seems like no other victims...I mean “guests” are staying here, or have ever stayed here. Andrew I agree that we’ll check out first thing in the morning.  I can hear the lyrics to the song “Hotel California” playing in my head as the hair stands up on the back of my neck…”You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

I thought morning would never arrive.  All night long, at what seemed like 15 - 20 minute intervals, a loud electric bell like the kind used to announce the end of class rings right outside my door.  And when that isn’t happening, I can hear our “hostess” having a loud conversation with somebody on what sounded like a walkie-talkie.  Every so often, she gets up to go let somebody in…. I used to work the night shift at a funeral home and we did a pretty brisk business most nights…but not like this place!

Andrew and I are out the door by 9 a.m.  He’s got a reservation at another hostel and I decide to accompany him on the off chance that they’ve got an extra room.  It’s several blocks away, but there don’t seem to be any cabs around, so we decide to hoof it.

Twenty minutes later, huffing and pufffing and sweating profusely, we discover that we have to cross the route of the marathon which is jam-packed with runners. It's like a real life version of Super Mario Brothers, so when a small opening appears on our side of the street, we make a dash for it…each of us carrying two heavy bags.  Unfortunately the gap quickly closes and we’re bashing into marathoners left, right and center...as if running 26.2 miles isn’t hard enough without tripping over a couple of knuckleheads.  Andrew and I aren’t making a lot of friends in Santiago.

When we get to the new hostel, of course they have no extra rooms.  So I borrow their phone, call the original place where I was supposed to stay last night to see if they still have my reservation for tonight.  They do.  I leave my bag there and go in search of some much needed coffee and sustenance, but am unable to find any place open at 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning, so I go back, grab my stuff and set off on the next leg of my ordeal.

It suddenly dawns on me that today it's April 1^st….April Fool’s Day.  That explains everything!  And I have no idea how to get back to my destination. I arrived there at night via taxi through what seemed like a maze of winding streets.  I left there by taxi while engaged in conversation with Andrew, taking a circuitous route to Hotel Nova, and now I'm completely turned around.  My map is completely useless, because neither of those place are on it!

I start heading south…passing through the Red Sea of marathon again.  I'm hoping to catch a cab, but somehow wind up on a dead end street.  I make it to back to the main thoroughfare, but because of the marathon there are no cabs.  I keep walking, and finally see a gas station where a taxi is refueling, so I wander over and ask the driver if he has any idea where the tiny street I’m trying to find is located.

He tells me to walk 6 blocks west and then turn right, which, suprise...surprise, isn’t quite accurate. Somehow I manage to get there after quite a hike.  By now I’m bleeding through my shirt because of a motorcycle accident a few days earlier which left me with 6 stitches in my chin and road rash on my shoulder which is being rubbed raw by the strap of my backpack.

As I’m checking in, they tell me that they have no twin rooms with a shared bath for $20.00, which is what I booked, so instead I’ll be staying in a room with a double bed and a private bath for $50.00!  I explain to the lady what I’ve been through, and after placing a phone call to the owner and a lengthy conversation, she agrees to let me have the room for the original price.  As I’m being led down a long corridor with high ceilings, large windows and white gauzy curtains blowing in the breeze, I start to think that things are taking a turn for the better.  


My room is lucky number 7.  It’s spacious, clean and had a bathroom larger than some apartments I’ve lived in.  I open the shutters to discover a lovely courtyard with laundry hanging out to dry, and a small potted flower blooming on the window-sill.  This is too good to be true.  I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As I'm headed back through the lobby, determined to vacate the premises until they realize it's too late to correct their mistake,  I see the guy with crutches from the night before, who'd also been in a motorcycle accident...15 years earlier.  But instead of a few stiches and scratches like myself, he'd had his left leg amputated above the knee.

Take a few minutes to listen to his story…I think you’ll find it quite remarkable and inspiring.  And it makes my misfortune not even worth mentioning.

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

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.