Six Month Milestone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• I have a new appreciation for good water pressure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Case of Mistaken Identity: Part Two

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

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

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

I opened the card and read the inscription:

“Dear John:

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

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

My first thought was...“Heather”.

My next thoughts went something like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Case of Mistaken Identity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Top 20 Favorite Aussie Colloquialisms

1. G’day: hello; howdy; greetings

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

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

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

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

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

7. Skull: to drink a beer really fast

8. Long drop dunny: outhouse

9. Esky: cooler; ice chest

10. Arvo: afternoon

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

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

13. Flash: upscale; top notch; fancy

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

15. Schooner: A glass containing 500 milliliters of beer

16. Tucker: food

17. Togs: swimsuit

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

19. Pash: kiss

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

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

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

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

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

Lost and Found

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Top 10 Unusual Amenities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7. Pillow cases with fresh blood stains on them.

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

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

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

The Village People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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