Canyon windings in the age of cynicism

Cradle Mountain, Tasmania

2010-03-25T18:57:00.001-07:00

Distorted View: Cradle Mountain valley view in a safety reflector

In geologic time, nothing much happens in Australia. The continent has remained flat, dry and unchanged since at least the time T. Rex roamed the planet. This means, among other things, that Australia severely lacks mountains. Ask an Australian to point you to a mountain, and he will indicate some quaint slope that reminds you of the hills you once sledded in grandma’s backyard. “Highest peak in the state!,” he’ll say proudly.

The few mountains that do deserve the title “mountain” are more on par with American’s Appalachian range – gentle, ambling – than they are with the Rockies, which boast severe, jutting peaks and alpine summits.

To craggy-mountain deprived Australians, the iconic Cradle Mountain represents the apex of Tasmanian wilderness. Every place has its “must-sees.” Cradle Mountain was such a place.

Frequently, these tourist must-sees are a bit of a disappointment. A relatively nice but modest attraction is hyped by local tourist centers. Then it is exaggerated by guidebooks, merchandizing, and overly-enthusiastic locals. Eventually this modest attraction becomes mythologized, deified, glorified. Its reality inevitably disappoints.

Visitors to Australia will eventually find themselves hearing well-meaning but over-zealous advice from locals like “Oh, yeah, I reckon you just gotta see the giant Koala at Wangabululah,” without realizing that a large fiberglass marsupial isn’t actually that interesting and maybe best viewed in postcard format.

We had seen endless variations of Cradle Mountain in brochures, photo galleries and on artist’s easels since before we arrived in Tasmania. I have become wary of can’t-be-missed places, but we went nonetheless. It is a “must-see” after all.

Unlike other Australian national parks which tend to be bare-bones, Cradle Mountain National Park resembles American-style national parks: copious parking lots, waddling crowds and short walks undertaken by 95% of visitors, who amble from the car to the nearest designated photographic lookout. But the crowds become refreshingly sparse if you are willing to walk more than a couple hours into the park. Since watching waves of tour buses disgorge an endless stream of doddering package tourists isn’t really my favorite pastime, I decided to stroll for three hours to an A-frame cabin called The Scott Kilvert Memorial Hut. I would base my day trips from there. There is something appealing about staying in a rustic hut in the woods, miles from the nearest electrical outlet.

The trail began easily enough, skirting the peacefully-named Dove Lake before ascending our first mountain, Hanson’s Peak. The trail proceeded upwards, sometimes alarmingly so. At one point I found myself clinging to a long section of chain that had been bolted into an impressively skyward piece of granite.

Let me take a moment to say one thing about this piece of trail work. Australians in general, and Tasmanians in particular, are not subject overstating the difficulty or danger of a trail. Go to a national park in America, and you’ll probably find handrails around the parking lot and warning signs cautioning hapless vacationers about the serious dangers of gravel walkways . Australia does not have a handrail somewhere unless you are really at risk of a perilous three hundred foot drop from a cliff. So a chain on a trail like this is significant.

Shrouded in the distance are the twin crests of Cradle Mountain

Paula was not feeling as comfortable with the trail as I was, so I somehow ended up carrying both of our packs up the heftily chained section. My backpack was in its normal position on my back and hers sat slung by one strap under my arm. My right hand grasped my walking stick; the left hoisted me up the chain one awkward lurch at a time. At one particularly large and crucial step up, I found myself actually grunting with exertion, something I can’t remember ever doing before. The scene looked silly, but I reached the summit, where I was greeted with my first expansive view of the landscape.

Paula makes it look easy. Maybe it's cause she isn't wearing her pack!

The Ice Age – actually, several ice ages – factored heavily in the formation of the park’s wilderness. Glaciers stripped the park’s sheer dolerite spires and gouged the countless lakes, tarns, cirques and moraines. The ice ages created a bizarre alpine environment where one might reasonably expect to encounter mountain lions, marmots and bears. Instead, one meets growling Tasmanian devils, tank-like wombats and duck-billed platypus.

Stop off at a tannin-stained glacial tarn.

As a rule, Tasmania’s weather is fickle, and owing to its towering topography, weather in the Cradle Mountain area is downright unpredictable. As we walked to our hut, the wind blowing against the mountain was forced straight up the dolerite columns. The moisture in the air, which reaches the dew point as it rises over the sheer cliffs, churns into a cloudy vapor. Each dolerite column becomes a smokestack with the clouds seeming to pour forth like an industrial version of nature. Now and then a dazzlingly vivid snatch of blue sky appeared behind the broiling cloud-enshrouded mountain. All hype leading us to this mountain, and all the doubt I felt about this park was forgotten. I watched and watched.

We hauled in enough food to last nearly a week. I wasn’t sure how long we might stay at the hut, but on account of the unpredictable weather, it wasn’t unreasonable to plan for a few days of being shut-in. The last thing I wanted was to hike in, sit through two days of rain and then hike out again when supplies became exhausted.

As it happened, the weather the following day was perfect with enough cloud cover to stay cool but enough sun and blue sky to make the mountain photogenic. We prepared for a long day walk to the summit of Cradle Peak. During these walks I came to appreciate the many wonders of glacial alpine. The landscape is both fragile and resilient. Tiny plants and carpets of mossy groundcovers are easily destroyed when trod upon by hikers. Yet cumulatively these small plants anchor all the other life to the mountain. Without the mossy groundcover, the thin topsoil would vanish in a single storm. It’s fair to say that without these low plants, mountains would be rather sad mounds of bare rocks.

An old section of boardwalked trail is reclaimed by the moist groundcovers

On the third day in the A-frame cabin, we waited through several hours of persistent rain. From the hut’s thoughtful porch, we watched as drizzle transformed into deluge. Our hut, which had previously been on dry land, now seemed as though it had been built in the middle of a flat, wide creek. The drowned, over-saturated landscape drained to a nearby lake, and our hut was in the middle of the two.

The weather report said to expect periodic bad weather, so we decided to retreat to our car. We were well equipped to hike in the rain, and we had comfortable shelter and plenty of food. But given the likelihood of several days of impressive precipitation, there was hardly any point in getting cabin fever.

Sometime in the early afternoon, the rain let up and we made a break for the trail. In Colorado, it doesn’t rain very much and snowmelt isn’t, by definition, torrential until it reaches a river. I might have seen dramatic weather before, but the scene at Cradle Mountain captivated me. The timing of our departure from the cabin, it turned out, was lucky rather than informed. We could enjoy our lush, wet landscape without enduring rain falling on our heads.

In the distance, waterfalls spring from where there had been none the day before

As we walked up the valley and away from the cabin, the trail was transformed. Although it was the fourth time we walked along this particular stretch of track, it water altered it into a completely different place. From sheer, dry limestone cliffs sprung countless waterfalls. I don’t mean little gurgling springs came forth from the rocks. I mean raging torrents plunging nearly 400 feet at a stretch.

The calm tarns now overflowed with tannin soaked water. The small rivulets normally responsible for draining the boggy alpine terrain morphed into rapids. The lake where we had previously bathed was overtaken by the rising waters, which flooded its gravelly beach and bordering trees, and lent it a bizarre, eucalyptus-mangrove aesthetic.

High above Dove Lake on the difficult Face Track

We hiked for an hour, until we reached the saddle that joined three twisting ridgelines. The nature surrounding us was uncontrolled and raw. The pretty heather lands above drained rainwaters into the steep cliffs and glacial cirques below. Each gentle raindrop rushed roaring down the mountainsides.

Pedal to the floor and... nothing

2010-02-03T16:38:00.000-08:00

No one likes breaking down in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately, this was just an oil check. Our clutch gave out in a convenient parking lot.

I put my foot to the floor, pulling the gearshift out of overdrive and slowed for the wide turning truck ahead of me. I knew immediately something was wrong, though. The clutch was soft and the shifting was hard. My sense of touch sharpened as I tested the pedal again gingerly. Damn. In my mind’s eye, I ran the course of the hydraulic mechanism that made changing gears possible, searching for the fault. Realizing that I must have a leak somewhere in the line, I knew that I must minimize the gear changes, as each one could be my last. Not in a fatalistic sense, but at least until I got the car looked at.

We turned off the Bruce Highway and headed toward Airlie Beach, a part of the coast that is known for partying backpackers as much as sand or sea. We drew near to the outskirts of town and I spied the landing spot: a big American style suburban shopping complex. There was a grocery store, an autoparts store and two hardware stores. I knew at once it was my salvation.
I turned in on what would turn out to indeed be my last shift and coasted to a nice spot in the parking lot. I got out and was under the car nearly before the engine died down. And there it was: a pinhole sized breach in a rubber hose that was going to put an end to any further movement for the day. In fact, being Sunday, we weren’t going anywhere for a while as almost nothing in Australia is open on the Lord’s Day.

Having so recently come out of the outback, shopping malls (especially those lacking intoxicated people fighting out front) still held an air of wonder for us, so with nothing else to do, we went inside and passed the time in the air conditioned luxury that large retail developments provide.

We hadn’t planned on staying the night in the parking lot, but we still needed to make dinner before we found a place to camp out, so we waited for the shops to close and then set up our stove. We had just pulled the last of our pasta dinner off when a very rude, angry and foul man drove up in a private security car. Without so much as uttering a terse greeting, he hailed us with language that might have chagrined a sailor. I looked at him for a while then went over to talk to him. Now, I have some experience dealing with people who are (or think they are) in positions of authority. Call it too much time at the building departments trying to get permits to put in solar arrays, but I figured I could get this guy to chill out.

Not so. Though I wasn’t really concerned about the guy, he was doing his best to appear very powerful, a sure sign of a weak hand. Still, in these cases, it’s usually best to let people like this persist in their delusions of strength if for no other reason than avoiding the extra wrath that comes with unmasking them by calling their bluff.

After our brief conversation- if you could call it that- to things were clear: Our car could stay but we couldn’t. We took our dinner 20 feet away to the public road and ate on the curb. Ahh, arbitrary rules.

The next day, I exhausted hopes of a quick fix given the sparse selection of tools on hand (namely an adjustable wrench, a micro-leatherman and two screwdrivers) and went in search of a decent, honest mechanic. As most car owners know, this is rarely an easy task, even in the best of times, but as fate would have it, our failing clutch had brought us to within one street of just such a mechanic. I put the car into low range four wheel drive and started it up in gear. The car chugged along at a constant and maximum speed of 4 kilometers per hour all the way out of the parking lot and over to the mechanic savior. And praise be to god, for the Nissan dealership had the part, and yea, the price was not too dear.

And we were up and running again.

Only when you are living on the road are you thankful for breaking down close to help.

Postscript. On the positive side of things, our mechanic recommended a great beach to camp at where there was practically no one around. Salvation! I swear that everyone in Australia wants to be your tour guide.

The greatness of the sea

2010-01-25T16:11:00.000-08:00

The innocent ripples of the edge of the ocean. From here, it just gets deeper off into the horizon.

I have spent a lot of time by the ocean in the past year. Sometimes I am on a beach and often on a beach on an island, but as I sit here now, I am on a breach looking at an island. And I ponder: what is it that makes us like islands so much? I mean, although I am contentedly sitting here with all my camping gear and my four-wheel drive on a lovely beach, why do I feel the almost overwhelming urge to swim over? Am I trying to get away from being away? To be on an island is to be self-sufficient and also it is to escape from the world.

It is to have an existence where your world is very small. As if by some magic alchemy, the water creates a barrier over which the problems, stresses and distractions of the rest of the world cannot pass.

I stared at the sea yesterday when the tide was out. Here, the slope is so gradual that at low tide, the water is nearly half a kilometer out from high tide. Out nearly at the farthest boundary of my world was a lone pair of tire tracks that seemed to disappear into the calm waters. It gave me a crazy thought: what if I drove down into the water and kept driving until my car got stuck and then watched the waves come in and take it, washing the sand from under it as it slowly sank into unrecoverability. The thought made me shudder.

Driving the Camel on the beach on Fraser Island. We must use a tide chart to avoid the high water taking our car!

The sea draws me and terrifies me. I have floated on it with a snorkel in my mouth and a mask on my face and look at the pretty fish and coral. I have strapped tanks of precious air to my back and gone down a tiny fraction of the sea’s depth. I have waited for it to recede to collect worn pieces of glass and I have driven on the beach soon to be reclaimed by the water.
But I am not under any false illusions: if I were put out into the sea without any of my life-giving pieces of technology, I would not last very long. None of us would.

So maybe there is a connection between the sea’s ability to mute problems by passing over it. Maybe the petty fears of the day-to-day can not begin to compete with the total power of the deep water for humans. And over it we pass, cleansed by it’s magic.

And the sea will reclaim all. This wreck on the beach at Fraser Island, Australia was once a luxury steamer.

My 15 minutes in the sun

2010-01-15T17:11:00.000-08:00

Averaging the sun exposure by spending an hour upside down.

When I was a kid and fifteen minutes felt like the day-after-never from now, I was pretty spotty in my sunscreen usage. It’s not that my parents or I were particularly negligent, but almost no one thought that the warming rays of the sun were anything but bliss. We would go to the ocean on vacation and it was nearly a foregone conclusion that everyone would end up with a nice, toasty sunburn with the peeling skin to be a much awaited conclusion to the suffering.
Now, just open any womens’ (or, increasingly, mens’) magazine and you might be forgiven for thinking that ‘sun damage’ is the world’s worst problem since nuclear weapon proliferation. There is SPF 70 chapstick, an unexaggerated five types of sunscreen appropriate to wear at any given moment, and probably even sun-blocking underarm deodorant. Slip, slop, slap became obsess, obsess, obsess and now I am afraid to be at the beach!

Our friends hunt for 6 foot long sandworms with these discarded shark carcasses. But, safety first! Remember to wear your long pants, long sleeves, wide brim hats or balaclavas and half gloves!

This brings me to my main point. I don’t know what to do at the ocean anymore. I am in Australia, a country with what seems like ten miles of beach per citizen, and so this dilemma is not exactly a trivial matter. A day’s group discussions might be titled something like: “do we eat breakfast at our beachside campsite now, or after surfing?”

Seriously, I am at the beach a lot. The other day I decided that since I have been living on the beach for so many months, I can’t properly say ‘I am from the US’ for now. Like a haiku that defined a life in it’s simple essence, I would have to say: I am from the beach, I skip the tides. I watch to sea, I eat the sand.

But this little slice of zen goes nowhere in addressing how often reapplications of ULTRA DEFENCE WATEPROOF SPF 40 sunblock should occur. And just how paranoid should I be about the risks to an unprotected arm experiencing withering blasts of UVB radiation while walking to the toilet?

In short: What do we do at the beach now?

Among other things, we sometimes use beach junk to erect shade structures.

We arrive at the beach and instead of bouncing from the seat and running headlong into the pounding surf with just my boardshorts, I have to consider, plan and pack mainly keeping in mind the sun. Is there a free tree to go under for shade, or do I need to bring an umbrella? Do I need waterproof sunscreen, or do I use the cheaper stuff that comes off in the water? And should I put that sunblock on here and further delay the beckoning beach, or be exposed unprotected for ten minutes to the sun, god forbid.

I want to go body boarding, but I have to think, ‘has it been at least fifteen minutes since I put on my sunblock yet?’ And if I do go into the water, how long should I stay in until I scamper back to the shade to re-apply? After all, everyone knows that waterproof sunblock never is, right?

Only YOU can prevent forehead wrinkles. Paula is maximizing the sun-protective benefits of these UV-blocking sunglasses.

The Lemur Accord

2010-01-08T03:41:00.000-08:00

One of the members of the "Star Earth Sanctuary" and her teepee.

“Yeah, just google the Lima Accords. Yeah, L-I-M-A, like the city. It was in, oh, I reckon, the seventies that all the big countries got together and decided that Japan was gonna make the cars, Australia was gonna do tourism and mining, China was gonna do the industry, and all that. America, too, but I can’t remember what they were gonna do…” the man trailed off. I had been listening to him talk about various hippie conspiracy theories for about half an hour now.

He does not have dreadlocks, but he is playing a guitar with scraggly ponytail and a short, geometrically inspired beard. Behind him, an odd mixture of stoners and uptight family vacationers from the coast coexist in a free municipal swimming pool. It seems that access to a place to swim is a universal human right in Australia. I am in Nimbin, Australia’s answer to Humboldt County, California enjoying a picnic by the pool with my friends and anyone else who shows up to the picnic table.

His friend, Frank, reminds me physically of my own good friend, Frank. I first saw him in the park and swimming pool and I thought he was perhaps a county authority making sure the tourism wasn’t getting too out of hand. He had on unironic camouflage pants and had a rare short hairstyle, almost a crew cut that one doesn’t usually encounter in a drum circle. Even his mood and mannerisms remind me of Colorado Frank as he is considerate of other people, doesn’t interrupt or spout on when you aren’t listening anymore like most others in attendance. I tell him of the resemblance and say that my friend Frank was a navy pilot when Australian Frank and the hippie go nuts. It turns out Aussie Frank was the youngest pilot in Australia when he was a kid, can you dig it?

That's right, we ended up staying with this crew and putting up a back porch with them.

Ten minutes go by and I overhear a younger hippie girl talking to Paula. She is midway through recounting a similar New World Order scheme to Paula that I have just heard from the hippie when, and I shit you not, I hear her say “…yeah, it’s called the Lemur Accords, like the animal. L-E-M-U-R, and it was, gee musta been around the time of.. aww, which one was it… I think maybe Abraham Lincoln when they all got together and decided they were going to…”
A long, rare, silent moment passes and finally she points to my jerry can and says, “is that creek water?”

I stare blankly, not knowing what to answer.

“Because if it is tap water, I can’t drink it and I would really like a drink right now.”

I tell here that it is, in fact tap water and she wanders off under a tree.

Where have you been?

2009-09-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

A quick roadside stop at the Tropic of Capricorn, headed north. I myself am a Capricorn, after all.

Ok, it's been a little while since I last wrote. This is because I had a whirlwind trip to Malaysia where there has not been time to think, a quick 48 hours in Singapore where a cheetah hissed at me (I hissed back) and then a midnight shot down to Perth, Western Australia.

Hsssss! Has Will finally met his hissing match in the Singapore Zoo?

We arrived and quickly started pursuit of a car for our Australia adventure. Australia is like America in the sense that it is impossible or very expensive to see the place without having a car.

I had previously decided that I would never, ever ever have a sport utility, however, the realities of the Australian outback made clear that some sort of four wheel drive vehicle was in order. And as my friend Sam's dad says, nothing exceeds like excess! As a result, we ended up with a pretty sizeable Nissan Patrol 4wd. It's actually pretty sweet, and a lot of the time I find myself having flashbacks to my time spent living on our converted school bus, Schoolie, back in America.

Everyone, Meet The Camel.

The Camel crossing Yardie Creek. We consulted a long time before we did this as the crossing is in the tidal zone and the bottom is soft sand.

I outfitted the back of the car so that it has a bed, tons of storage, two spare tires, enough camp equipment for 4 or 5 people and 60 liters of extra fuel. Trust me, this all comes in handy, as we shall see.

My travel companions are Paula (my girlfriend) and two backpacker girls we found using the informal bulletin board network at the youth hostels around Perth, Marilyn and Tracy.

Left to Right: Paula, Marilyn and Tracy at a lighthouse. They are actually hiding right now from a dive-bombing raven.

Tracy is the kind of British girl you might not expect to find in Australia, honestly. She started off being a bit nervous when we do things that are a bit against the rules, like illegally camping or walking off of approved trails. Though I imagine having to go anywhere with me can be an adventure and Tracy is ready for anything- after teatime, that is (she is English after all). Good for her.

If Tracy is quiet, reserved and law abiding, Marilyn is her opposite. A French girl who grew up in Africa for half of her life, she seems to have the attitude that rules are made to be broken, or at least ignored when no one is looking. If I ask the girls ‘do you think it’s ok if…?’ Marilyn will almost always reply with the French ‘pffft’ followed by ‘Will iz fine to do zis.’ I know I write her accent like I just picked up a copy of Writing Stereotype Dialog for Dummies, but I swear to you she sounds this way. I can be a bit too serious about things, and she helps to lighten the mood in the car.

I like our random little mix of people in the car. I think about if we had actually come when we were initially supposed to, how different everything would be- different car, different travel partners, perhaps even a different route.

One night at a 24 hour campsite, we share our fire and wine with a young Swiss couple. They are traveling by rented 4x4 van, but it is costing them $3400 for three weeks. Relatively speaking, we are getting a bargain. In the morning, we make a bit of chitchat over tea and they say that they had strange dreams last night. I tell them I gad dreams, but they just involved doing things around the camp like collecting firewood and going to the composting toilets. “Ah so here we are and your dreams come true” he tells me. I reflect on this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose they do.”
When we have dreams of travels and adventures, we often imagine the breathtaking sunset vistas we will see, but we ignore the more common experiences like making camp with new friends and stopping for a roadside picnic while a kangaroo watches you.

Driving out to set up camp, we joked about if we accidentally hit an animal if we should stop to collect it as food. I was cruising a conservative eighty Km/h and not more than half a kilometer down the road, a kangaroo stood in the center of the road. I did not have time to stop before it jumped at the side of the car. As according to plan, I did not swerve. Fortunately, the roo just grazed the rear mudguard, so no damage was done to us or the car. Later, after we stopped to set up camp off a sandy trail, I look for blood on the car, but I find none, so hopefully the poor thing was ok. Driving back the next morning, I saw no roadkill.

Continuing on, we stopped for a dip in a stock tank that is fed by a brackish artesian hot spring at the site of an old sheep shearing station. The scene just seems so unlikely when described, but after a week away from showers it felt very right indeed. In the Francaise Peron national park, there are a series of very red, very sandy tracks that stretch on for ages and lead to some of the most remote beaches I have ever encountered. Where the land meets the sea, a dramatic change takes place as the coffee ground red brown sand of West Australia disappears into a white shell beach. Granted, it is the off-season, but there were just one other set of people camping there, also foreign tourists.

Donde hay termales, hay Will (Where there are hotsprings, There is Will)

On the sand track in, we got a little stuck because our tires were a little too high in pressure and our extra LPG fuel tank rides a bit low. Fortunately, after a few minutes a couple of other 4x4’s arrived driven by men of that sort of indeterminate old age range that you get with country folk. These are the kind of guys who look weathered at fifty but pretty much stay the same way until they die so that by the time they are eighty, they are looking pretty good by comparison. Incidentally, my grandfather, Bruce was a guy like that- fifty until his dying days.

Ocean and Red Cliffs at Francois Peron National Park, Western Australia. (Click to enlarge, it's worth it)

After much experienced offroader consultation and generally bullshitting with the older guys, it was determined that the best course of action would be to push the car backward down the track. All three girls from our car plus the two wives from the helper cars stood shoulder to shoulder and grabbed a hold of the roo bar to begin pushing. One of the old timers approached them, contemplated the scene for a minute and said, “whose bottom do a push on?” with a wry smile.
We were unstuck again in no time.

As we left, one old guy appraised me and said, “you’re not a bad rooster in that henhouse.” Whatever that meant.

Crash

2009-06-09T20:11:00.000-07:00

The view from our 'Hotel Crazy Guy' It's amazing at all times of the day, but especially at Sunset. Labuanbajo, Flores.

I am on the Indonesian island of Flores.

Everyone stares at me, no matter where I go.

There is a crazy (or possibly just retarded) 21 year old handcuffed to a bed in the house next to our hotel who makes 'da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da' noises all day and into the night continuously.

It's very hard to arrange transportation and I never seem to know what is going on.

We all spent a few days viewing Komodo dragons and snorkeling in some of the most wonderful waters I have seen. We took leave of Lauren, Zubeyir and Lindsay who were bound for Bali and thought we would hire a car to get across the island. With five of us, it seemed like a reasonable proposition.

Of course, I have noticed a negative correlation with reasonable propositions and occurrence of the phrase 'not possible' wherever I go in the world. And this is a not possible part of the world.

Me and my sister with some pretty lazy Komodo Dragons. Not that I am being judgmental...

We bargained for a car and driver for the next week. One deal came together then fell apart. One driver demanded all $200 for the week upfront. No Way. Another man kept injecting himself into every attempted transaction until my sister sent him away because when he was around, everything seemed worse. Finally we struck a deal with a driver, Hermans to take us and we were off.

Flores, like much of Indonesia is volcanic- really recently volcanic in fact. Time has not had the chance to flatten out the youthful exuberance of a geologically active island. Roads are narrow, steep and winding all at once. Our diminutive driver could not see over the irresponsibly placed strip of tinting that covered the bottom third of the windshield and thus we had many hair raising brushes with the mountain as night fell and visibility reduced to the domain of pathetic. At this point, you might expect that I tell you we had an accident. I was expecting that myself, but no, it was not to be until later.

Creepy shrine-like thing of Komodo Dragon leftovers. (Deer and Monkey). Rinca Island.

Instead, we got to our hotel safely and checked in for the night. It was not until the next afternoon, just minutes after lunch that the course of events would change for the real worse.

It is amazing to take a moment- an instant in time- and freeze it in your mind, rewinding it and seeing just how easily things could have been different. It's so simple that we could have stopped to buy a soda at a store, or left behind something at a stop and gone back for it. Or even paying the bill with exact change and getting on the road again an half minute earlier. Any one of these, or an one of an infinite number of other changes to time would have prevented us from colliding with a motorbike carrying two Indonesian men and a sack of rice. If almost anything had been different, I would not have looked down at my ipod and felt the crush of metal and plastic only an instant later. If I had just gone to the bathroom, we would not have loaded the delirious man with a huge patch flesh hanging from his leg into our car to take him back to the clinic 2 km away.

It was not our driver's fault. He was on the correct side of the road, taking the left turn around the corner slowly. It was just pure bad luck that the guy on the motor scooter hit us, but it really changed lives. We got the two damaged men to the clinic and the doctor on call sewed the enormous wound up. Of course, no effort was taken to repair what must have been serious damage to the muscles and ligaments that will ultimately cripple the man- there just aren't resources for that or the expertise on this island.

At the clinic, people started to gather. We are in a town where there is not much to do, so all the people doing all that nothing gravitated to the clinic grounds. At first it was 10, then 20, then 30 then it was 50 or 60 people all huddled around us staring.

Just staring.

It was creepy in a way that I don't think I can explain to someone who has not seen it. We moved to our scratched hired car to retrieve our bags. They followed us, silently, without expression. We decided it would be best to get out of town. We left on the next bus that came through town and were glad to be rid of the whole mess.

Chapter 2.

One of the deal-clinchers for my sister in deciding to come to Indonesia as opposed to somewhere else was a particularly fabulous volcano with three lakes at the summit, each a different color. So it was to Kelimutu that we continued on towards.

I get to play dress up for reasons that are not clear to me with a hawker at the summit of Kelimutu just after sunrise.

Sorry if the rest of the story is not so dramatic. We ended up at the lovely town of Moni and went to the top of a truly magnificent volcano at 4:30 in the morning to catch yet another mountaintop sunrise.

One of the lakes of Kelimutu. Just beyond this lake is a darker green one. The pH is an incredible .37 (extremely acidic). In case that doesn't mean anything to you, this lake is probably about like condensed battery acid. It would kill anyone who got in it.

Lousy Thieving....

2009-06-04T22:30:00.000-07:00

So, I am a bit bummed out because for the first time in all of my travels, I was robbed of something other than a decoy wallet.
Good news is, it wasn't irreplaceable. Bad news is, the theft included my computer's power cord. (WTF?)
This is troubling because at the moment, I am precisely in the middle of nowhere in Indonesia, closer to Australia than I am to Jakarta- closer to timelessness than the information age- and certainly nowhere near a Mac store. Now I have an extremely well designed, state of the art, 3.6 pound $1000 backpack ballast.
I know it might seem like, hey man, you are at the beach, you should just chill out! Why don't you go to Komodo Island and see some giant reptiles? Well, I will do that, but dammit, I want to use photoshop...
grumble grumble
Being gone this long, I realize that I really like having a couple of things that make anyplace home for me, and the computer was a big part of that.

Ok, aside from the temporary loss in faith in humanity that is inevitable from being robbed, I am happy because I am with a huge crew- Paula, Arturo, Alex (my sister) Lindsay and Lauren Harrell, Julie, and Zubeyir. It's pretty sweet to have such a big crew. Aside from causing huge crowds of very bored locals to form around us whenever we go anywhere with backpacks, it's entertaining to have so many friends around. I don't really know how it worked out this way, but I am glad that it did!

Sweet Mantis Video

2009-05-26T22:53:00.000-07:00

Above: A praying mantis chows down on a beetle. Caught on tape!

I am in KL, Malaysia right now on my way to Indonesia to see my sister and a bunch of friends. I expect to visit among other things, the Komodo Island (and its famed Komodo Dragon monitor lizards), volcanoes and additional sweet beaches. But until then, I am in Kuala Lumpur, which is arguably the world's largest shopping complex. For anyone who maintains the bizarre notion that conspicuous consumption is a western or American failing, please take note: you have seen nothing until you have seen KL.

It's actually disgusting, and I have been to Beverly Hills.

I mean, how many Cartiers does one need? Apparently quite a lot, and not only that, one needs access to such fineries at multiple locations within walking distance of one another. On a related side note, I think that Luis Vuitton is really pretty ugly stuff.

Anyway, please enjoy this sweet Praying Mantis video that I shot the other night in Thailand outside my room.

Are you disappointed?

2009-05-06T01:22:00.000-07:00

Why be sad about tiny images? Click above to see the Himalayas in all their glory!

Something that I am not completely excited about in Blogger (the site you are on right now) is that my sweet travel photos are tiny....

Well, if you ever want to see more detail, just click on the picture and make it big! Easy as 1-2..

Burma and the Water Festival

2009-05-01T03:29:00.000-07:00

A street kid who hung around our guesthouse. He didn't beg really, but would accompany us out and sometimes we would buy him food.

Burma is the sort of place that, upon arrival, you are left with the feeling that you have made a mistake. The error is not one of having come there, but one of having not come there sooner and for long enough. I was feeling pinched for time in the timeless Yangon upon arrival with three weeks still to go.

A view of some of the temples of Bagan (more on this later)

Although the internet and TV have finally (and pretty recently) come to this very isolated country, it still maintains its own pace and time in the universe. At times, it is perfectly in sync with the rest of the world and at others I feel as if I am in a Rudyard Kipling novel. DVDs are sold by the truckload in the market right next to a man who polishes brass by hand on a cloth on the sidewalk. My beard has grown long and neglected, so I pop into a dirt-floor barber’s shop (which is directly across from the Samsung showroom filled with new flatscreen TVs and freezers) and treat myself to a 20-cent trim. The young male barber works cleanly and precisely with his scissors, frequently snip-snipping them for added flourish when they are nowhere near my beard, and makes me perfect in the length of two Celine Dion songs.

Later, when I was preparing to leave the country, I stop by again to get spruced up. The same young man trims me, but this time the power is out and a storm is coming. While he works by the light of a dim LED desklamp with hand-operated antique trimmers, the rain kicks up. I don't notice at first due to the dim conditions, but water is flowing into- no, through- the shop. The sewer has overflowed somewhere deeper in the block of buildings and now a small river is escaping to the street right through the lean-to shop. Cockroachs, mosquitos and some some alarmingly large red centipedes come up from somewhere below my feet to avoid the rising black water to seek shelter on the wall in front of me. The barber works on, ankle deep in the streaming tributary. He gets me a stool to put my feet on. He finishes and I pay my 20 cents, grudgingly dropping my feet into the filthy torrent. I walk home in the rain because I just want to get clean.

A tin-roof Buddhist monastery where we slept.

When I was doing a bit of research on Burma in Bangkok to prepare for our arrival, I saw that the weather forecast for Mandalay was to top 107 degrees. Slightly concerned by this fact, I packed as little as possible in my bag so that at least I wouldn’t have too much to lug around in Bikram-yoga heat. I was in for a pleasant surprise when we arrived in Burma- the Burmese New Year was about to begin. Normally I think festivals are over rated. Either you get some sappy made-for-tourists ethnic dance routine or, frankly, you (the common tourist) are not invited into the Byzantine rituals of the locale. This is certainly not the case in Burma. New Year is one part street party, one part music festival and one part water park. Little boys, young women, old men- everyone produces buckets of water to dump on everyone else. Southeast Asia knows a thing or two about fantastic quantities of water from above, so believe me when I say the days are wet. The idea is that it cleans the bad luck of the past year, but I less than secretly suspect it has a lot more to do with just having a good time. After all, if water is to wash away bad luck, what is all of the whiskey for?

Arturo takes a break from all the action in Burma at a tea shop. Ok, it's true, we spent at least half of our waking hours in tea shops...

Everyone is invited (a little too enthusiastically, sometimes) and if it is a show for tourists, it would have to go down as the most ingeniously executed tourist show of all time for we foreigners, as always, are few and far between in Burma.

Arturo asked the question: ‘Where is the line between homosexuality and simple aggressive fun?’ I still don't know the answer to that one. In their enthusiasm, many elated Burmese guys pull us by the wrists into the street, in front of the stage where bands played and dozens of volunteers spray endless quantities of water on the parading traffic and revelers. We would dance there in strange waltzes, jigs and water stomping dances in the inches-deep accumulated water in the streets. If I could describe Burmese music, it would be like this: Burma is a country that has lost the words to a comprehensive collection of American hit songs from the past 4 decades and is perfectly happy to just make them up. Nearly every song is familiar, but sung in Burmese and many people you talk to don’t even realize that these are not the originals.

Strangely, for a country strongly affected by the monsoons, Burma's roads love becoming small lakes.

As foreigners, we are almost like visiting dignitaries and manage to get into all the VIP water spraying stations. We get up on the large stage and are handed firehoses. I open it up on the dancers and open top trucks and jeeps bursting with people which are trawling the grand avenue in front of us. It is a serious amount of water and joining me are dozens of others dowsing the revelers below as the band plays on to our left. A helmeted police officer tries to make sense of the scene and direct traffic to move along as there is a jam waiting to be sprayed for at least an hour behind them. It is so crowded that even though the street is six lanes across plus a generous median, I have difficulty passing through.

Miles of smiles- People are really happy about the water festival. I mean it.

At six pm, the festivities promptly draw to a close for the day. This is fine by me, since the guys are getting a little drunk and rowdy. We start walking back to the hotel and a young boy, perhaps five years old, spots me. He is holding a jug of water, and I am holding nothing except a towering stature over him. He starts toward me with the jug, and playfully, I start toward him with mock bravado. I lunge straight for him with my arms high above my head. The kid howls and diverts off to the side with a comical timing, I could not have scripted something better. A policeman looking on cracks a smile and reveals his red and deeply rotted betel nut stained teeth.

Cambodia

2009-04-03T02:25:00.000-07:00

Clothes unearthed form a mass grace at the killing fields near Phnom Penh

My abbreviated loop from Laos through Vietnam and back to Thailand has brought me necessarily through Cambodia. I am not here for long.

In the capital of Phnom Penh, my little backpacker ghetto du jour is situated along what I will call a “little lake,” for lack of a better term (though a better term might be swamp). It’s pretty laid-back, with wooden guesthouses hanging above the mosquito-laden waters. It’s not a Thai paradise beach, but it is far more relaxing than one would expect from an Asian capital.

In my little world on the lakeside, everyone I meet on the street has exactly three things to offer me - a room, a ride on their scooter, or drugs. The first two of these things are usually said out loud, the last one under their breath as I pass by. I walk to breakfast and someone from behind me hisses “you looking for something?” At nine in the morning, I assure my new ten-step escort that the most exotic thing I am searching for is a mango. As if the innuendo was not perfectly clear, he continues with me for some predetermined distance extolling the virtues of his (I’m sure) quality product and assuring me that his ‘stuff is the best one.’

I can’t blame Cambodia for its lack of economic sophistication. It endured probably the worst genocide in the last century, yet the atrocity is not well-known. For those of not up to speed on their Cambodian history, let me offer a quick primer:

First, the French colonize Southeast Asian country(s). Then the French split, and the American war in Vietnam spills over disastrously into Cambodia. Country is destabilized and group of psychotic whack jobs (Khmer Rouge) come to power and kill half the population for no reason. They get testy with Vietnam and attack its border. Vietnam responds by invading Cambodia and deposes the crazies. World learns of atrocities, but does nothing to help. Got it? Good.

'They have human form but their hearts are demon's hearts...' -Killing Fields Memorial

So this is how I find myself at a horrible place called Tuol Sleng. We are taught in schools that the worst, most inhumane people ever born were the Nazis. Having seen the activities of the Khmer Rouge, however, I am no longer so sure about that.

Skulls of two victims of the Khmer Rouge. There are 9000 at this pagoda alone.

Everything in the world was turned upside down under the rule of the Khmer Rouge (KR). Education, art and even eyeglasses were banished; these were seen as signs of the elite that must be eliminated. The KR was going to establish a ‘perfect’ egalitarian peasant state where everyone would work in the fields together in harmony. Phnom Penh was evacuated -- the ‘soft urban parasites’ were sent to the country to learn the virtues of hard work in the rice fields. Most were worked nearly to death. When they were too weak to produce one more grain of rice, they were taken to pits in the red, red earth and cracked on the head with a piece of iron. Tuol High School was covered in barbed wire and became Tuol Sleng (S-21) prison where the most horrible tortures were used to extract false confessions.

Chain, gruel pan and ammo-box toilet in a cell at Tuol Sleng

Being at the prison, I am struck by the immediacy of the place. I am walking in the very places that unimaginable atrocities took place. I feel like I am in a dream. The place is haunting, and probably haunted. Photos of tortured victims shackled to iron beds are displayed in the very rooms where the photos were taken. The beds and shackles are still there.

By starving, torturing or clubbing the inmates to death, the KR hoped to spare their precious bullets. One thing they did expend their time and resources on was documentation. Each man woman and child was photographed, usually in a chair with their hands bound behind them. They made exhaustive archives of the victims like twisted librarians.

My Visit to the Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng

The other tourists and I don’t exchange greetings or smiles. We glide silently through building after building. It’s as if we are all ghosts moving through this torture-school. My eyes are down as others approach; the shame of this genocide belongs to the whole world.

In contrast to the propaganda-laden Vietnamese war museums, there is little interpretation here. There really is no need for it. A crazy group of ideologues ruthlessly and pointlessly murdered three million of their own innocent people. What must really be said about a mass grave or the bloody photo of a torture victim?

The Khmer Rouge often took photos after they had exterminated their victims through torture.

Being in Vietnam had been a jarring experience for the brutality and senselessness of a war with America. The paranoid and insane KR managed to kill just as many of their own people as were killed in Vietnam. But they did it unassisted, and in less than a third of the time.

Several floors are devoted to the photographs taken by the KR at the complex. The portraits show a surprising range of expressions. The photos have no names, just numbered tags pinned to their shirts to give me a clue to their identities. #401 has sad eyes. #349 leans forward as if inspecting the camera. #404, an older man, is simply terrified. Another one looks imploringly through 30 years of time. It could have been taken yesterday. They all could be in the other room.

Prisoner #404

There are rows upon rows of faces, the ghostly remnants of three insane years where the world stood by as an entire country was transformed into hell. I want to take pictures of all the photos of the prisoners. I want everyone to see these gentle, innocent faces. I want to believe that some of them escaped to survive and find something other than this.

But I know that it’s not true and after many rooms of pictures I can’t look anymore.

All of the people photographed in the Tuol Sleng prison were executed by the Khmer Rouge.

There are just too many faces silently staring at me.

Cu Chi Tunnels

2009-03-26T18:29:00.000-07:00

What's inside the ground? Oh, it's Will!

Having visited the Cu Chi tunnels outside Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City), I have no doubt as to why America was defeated in Vietnam.

The Vietcong built hundreds of kilometers of tunnels. That is what I am popping out of in the video. They were narrow, dark and scary. Most Americans couldn't even fit into one. Many of the tunnel entrances were fakes with booby traps inside of them. It must have been a nightmare to be a soldier there.

We had massive firepower. The Vietnamese had massive ingenuity. They re-manufactured our bombs and other military detritus into dangerous booby traps- pits full of barbed hooks that maimed and slowed our troops. And these traps are really nasty. Imagine walking through a jungle or rice field, your face dripping sweat into your eyes. You are scanning the horizon for enemy soldiers. Of course, they look just like everyone else, so this isn't very effective. All of a sudden, your weapon and pack laiden body just drops through a hole in the ground. A swiveling peice of "ground" has just given way and you now find yourself in a pit with barbed metal spikes sticking into you. That is bad enough, but what is worse is that because they are barbed, you can't pull them out without tearing your flesh and skin further. And on top of all that, there are spikes also facing inward so that if you just pulled your foot out, you would ram it ino even more spikes. You have to be dug out and this takes hours.

We had bomber aircraft. They took our unexploded bombs or ordinances (UXO) and carefully, painstakingly cuth them open with hand tools to rebuild them into anti-tank landmines. They marked these mines and moved them around as the battlefield changed shape.

The biggest asset the Vietcong had was a home field advantage. They blended in with the population- no they were the local population in many cases and they had a lot of support. We bombed and killed and tortured and mutilated and deforested the South of Vietnam, and naturally, the villagers who bore the brunt of this abuse didn't seem to agree with the 'destroy a village to save it' philosphy.

The thing that strikes me most now, was how stupid the conflict was. A cruel dictator, Diem governed the south. We supported him (as had the French before they split and left us holding the bag) as he oppressed his own people and the anti-Diem movement grew. Deim's (and our) repression and exclusion of the communists probably falsly added to their stature as is often the case with insurgents. (There is a strong parallel here with groups such as the Taliban or the Iranianian revolution- while they fought the corrupt power structure they were cheered on bny the people. When they got to power, they ended up being as bad or worse than those they replaced.)

In the rice fields of Vietnam, I feel like it could be 1965 -or 1865 for that matter- and it seems so foolish that these power men in Washinton were scaring us into an idiotic war with this communist threat. I sit in the emerald green rice fields and watch a man in simple clothes and a cone shaped hat tend to his field and think 'is this the Vietnam the American government was so afraid of?'

The Ho Chi Minh Experience*

2009-03-22T09:12:00.000-07:00

Workers pull weeds in front of the massive Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum and Theme Park* in Hanoi, Vietnam.

Thanks to Vietnam, I can now check visiting one of the great communist propaganda mausoleums of the world off my to-do list.

Ho Chi Minh (his nom de guerre meaning “Bringer of Light”) was the revolutionary leader of Vietnam’s struggle against the French, and after America got suckered into their lost war, America and the unpopular South Vietnamese government it supported.

Much has been written about this legendary figure, and I do encourage readers to check out more about him. What struck me, while visiting him in his final resting place though, was the amazing contrast between his life and death.

A simple man of great conviction to freeing the Vietnamese people, he lived in spartan dwellings and, by all accounts was humble and thoughtful. I believe it.

Uncle Ho, as the Vietnamese sometimes refer to him, has a statue, street and museum in his honor in basically any town of any size. In Hanoi, there is an enormous citadel devoted to him where he is kept. You see, even though he died in 1969, he is still on display in all his low light glory, tucked into blankets and incongruously wearing a suit, embalmed for as long as it is useful for the powers that be in Vietnam to have him there.

He had wanted to be cremated and spread across Vietnam. He said that it was a waste of farmland to build funeral monuments, as is the Vietnamese tradition. His wishes notwithstanding, he spends 9 months of the year on display and 3 months ‘vacationing’ in Russia where the world experts on dead communist leader preservation give him an embalmers’ spa treatment.

Unlike most other cultural attractions in Vietnam, it is free to see Ho and anything related to him. I suppose you can think of it as propaganda supported activity, similar to google’s ad supported services.

I waited in line for about an hour to see him. Guards in perfectly pressed uniforms ensured (twice) that no one had cameras or cell phones in the building. They hushed us so as to ensure the proper reverence for a man of his stature. The line moved into a massive granite cube, up some stairs and around Ho on three sides before spitting us out into a wonderland of Ho-artifacts.

I have to say, it was impressive to be in the room with such an important figure in our modern history. It was also, frankly, a little creepy.

On my way to the garage of one of the greatest men of the last century

Outside, the Zen-landscaped, park-like setting is dotted with ‘do not enter’ signs directing the visitor in a seemingly random and sometimes discontinuous path. It was actually quite a lot like a theme park, except instead of rides called ‘Twister Coaster’ or whatever there are things like ‘Garage of Ho Chi Minh’s Used Cars’ and ‘Ho Chi Minh’s Wooden Stilt House’ and, of course ‘Giant Hideous Stone Cube Containing Small Dead Man.’ Think Six Flags with bayonets, honor guard and a VIP corpse.

Uncle Ho's Cabin: A no-frills office in his two room house. Note the Karl Marx portrait above the desk.

So there it is: a simple two-room wooden house with a couple bookshelves and pictures of Communist greats where he lived compared with a cold grey monolith where people come to worship his body. Honestly, it is hard to reconcile the Ho Chi Minh of life with the Ho Chi Minh of death.

Random P.S.: If, within just a generation, such an exaggerated representation can be made of a modest man, I really have to wonder how realistic our centuries-old views of other great people of history, like leaders and especially religious figures can possibly be.

*There is not really a theme park about Ho Chi Minh at his mausoleum. I totally made that up. But if there were, it would be called 'The Ho Chi Minh EXPERIENCE'

Vietnamese Trains: India, take note.

2009-03-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

Detail from a burial tomb near Hue, Vietnam. Vietnam is set to bury India in tourist savvy.

India would really like to attract 10 million tourists by 2010. At least, that’s what I read in the newspaper in Bangalore in an article bemoaning the drop in tourism in the wake of the Mumbai terrorist attacks.

Well, India, I don’t know what to tell you to attract more tourists, but I have a few constructive ideas for how to get them to come back. First, we must look to Vietnam.

Seriously.

Vietnam and India share some significant features. They were both recently European colonies that became free from their masters after protracted struggles. Vietnam gained independence from France in 1954, only to be invaded by America shortly thereafter, while India threw off the British yoke in 1947. They are both poor and have many, many uneducated people. Both cover large distances- India is of course larger, but Vietnam is very long for it’s size, extending at least 2000 km down the edge of the coast. Both have large relative populations and high population density. I might add that they are also both inordinately fond of rice.

So how do they stack up in the tourist experience? Let’s look at the train system.

Recently, I booked some tickets from Hanoi to Hue, an overnight trip of 624 km. At the station, the normal sleeper class was full due to some holiday weekend, and because of our timetable, we happened to be moving during that weekend. Having been disappointed by the patient Vietnamese woman behind the glass, I looked down the plain-jane government counters to the end of the row where I saw a colorful sign for a high-end tourist train run by a company called Livitrans. This service, which attaches privately run train cars onto the publicly run train, cost slightly more than the normal first class service, but only by about 5%.

The beds are clean, the compartments private. Everything works, from the lights to the locking cabin door. The chains that hold up the top bunks are even wrapped in crushed-red velvet fabric. The mattresses are comfortable and clean and there are recessed halogen lamps that give a modern, sophisticated and comfortable feel. There is even convincing faux-wood paneling. The bathroom is spotless. An attendant (one per car) brings us jasmine green tea served in our own ceramic cups. There is a trashcan. It’s very comfortable. It is nothing like an Indian train.

Just try to get India to be this coordinated...

I have to say that I do love riding the rails in India. If I didn’t I might not take the time to write this. However, some improvements could definitely be made. Take cleaning, for example. It is done in Vietnam in a coordinated manner, but in India it is haphazard at best. I was once on a particularly filthy and electrically unfunctional Indian train and I was actually shocked to discover that it had been completely remanufactured less than a year prior. There are cleaning contracts awarded in the Indian system, but I think most of the money ends up getting skimmed off so not a lot happens. India has a throng of people who need jobs and could be converted into an army of cleaners for not very much money. Instead, there is an army of beggars- polio victims with twisted legs, people with terrible industrial accident birth defects, etc- who come through sweeping the coach of some detritus. This should not happen.

I applaud India’s online rail booking system- it is efficient and effective- though it is pretty clunky to operate. It’s functional if not pretty, so high marks for that one.

To be sure, Vietnam has some advantages over India in the organization department. Vietnam is a monoparty country that is at least nominally communist. It has a long history of pulling together as a nation for a common cause, defeating invading Chinese armies 13 times in the past 900 years (including 1979), which implies a level of organizational ability. India has never, to my knowledge, rebuffed any major onslaught from anywhere- they just don’t seem to care. India is a democracy, which is incredible if you try to imagine a process by which a billion people could ever manage to make anything happen. But still, a country that has tested an atomic bomb should be capable of clean bed linens.

The larger context here is that in order for India to be taken seriously by tourists from the developed world, there are certain standards that must be met. Cleanliness and quality in transportation is one. Fairness and transparency is another. I read that the Vietnamese government had previously exacted a harsh four-times ‘foreigner tariff’ on their trains, but they dropped it. Now everyone pays the same price. This is also true of Indian trains, but all government monuments, such as the Taj Mahal, charge foreigners 10-20 times more than locals. Now, with an official government attitude of discrimination and price gouging based on country of origin, it is little surprise that India is home to some of the world’s most unscrupulous and nasty tourist scammers. If the government would like to lead by example, perhaps singling out non-locals isn’t the best way to encourage a welcoming environment!

Notes from the Mekong

2009-03-07T07:17:00.000-08:00

Laotian boy plays at a Buddhist Wat (temple)

‘My friend is having a birthday- we are making a party!’ Toby announces as he pops onto our wooden river-view balcony.

There are hastily patched electrical wires hanging across our porch, which we have ducked for the past two days. The wires are exposed and constantly at risk of arcing together, sending a bright green flare into the night. Somehow, the wires sneak through Toby’s dreadlocks and spark against his skin.

‘Yeah, that one is live’ I say, nodding to the neighbor’s porch light. The light flickers as Toby touches the bare wires again then yanks his fingers away. ‘Not too bad- maybe only 120 volts or something,’ in his very German-accented English.

We had met Toby on the songthaew (a truck with two rows of benches- literally ‘two rows’) ride to Ban Nakasan, the jumping-off point to the island Don Det where we were to reside. He has been on Don Det, our little emerald rice paddy island for six weeks so far. When we follow him to the party, he speaks in Lao to nearly everyone we meet, though he is having pretty much the same conversation again and again, presumably about the local spirit called lao lao that has intoxicated him. Toby is all natural threads and has a fascination with the conceptual simplicity of the laidback river island life.

He leads us to a bar where a sitting table of ten or so travelers is drinking and rolling cigarettes and grooving to sci-trance. Out of the din, Radish, an improbably skinny Gujurati-Canadian girl with dreadlocks and a layered, shimmering hippie skirt grabs Toby’s hand and says something about the indigo aura people and how glad she is that he knows about them.

The bar closes and the party moves to the nearby beachhead where electrical poles lay stacked. The promise of consistent electricity looms above us like the moon, but for now lights are out at 9 PM and from there it is all candles and conversation. Soon, I think, there will be video bars showing American movies and programs all night long, but tonight there is a campfire on the sand and guitars have been produced and everything is perfect.

After the circle around the campfire broke up, we found ourselves walking down the moonlight dirt path behind another group. A tall, blonde, curly haired Scandinavian plays guitar and the synchronic sound of our collective flip-flops keeps the time of a rendition of ‘Free Falling’ by Tom Petty that he sings so sweetly you would never expect from a 6’4” Viking descendent.

Don Det is a special place. Locals still live there because it just happens to be where they live. They raise their chickens among the modest wood and thatch bungalows and children come home from school at noon in their tidy uniforms to the family-run restaurant that also serves as the place to do homework. The island’s metronome is the sway of hammocks whose western occupants gaze for hours at the Mekong. It is the archetype of a perfect escape from everything for those of us fortunate to experience it now, before things change too much.

All too often, a place that was enchanting and magical loses its luster once workers arrive en masse to some palm tree island to resentfully serve cheap drinks to tourists. For now though, the Lao villagers have not grown jaded by these strange visitors and it is common for a group of Lao men to wave you down on the street to join them on a log in a clearing for a drink.

Sun sets over the Mekong River. View from our balcony, seriously.

New Crew!

2009-03-07T06:54:00.000-08:00

I am pleased to announce that Paula and I have met up with Artie and Rebecca in Laos! After much theorizing as to whether the universe would align to see us in the same far-off country at the same time, we have once again shown email to an effective tool for finding people!

We have also been spending quality time at waterfalls and caves.

Will in Cave

Will with Dragonfly

Pretty Waterfall with no obvious subject

A little movie

2009-03-06T07:26:00.000-08:00

When I was in Nepal, I was invited to record a surgery at a local hospital who has a connection to Boulder. I could not expect to get such amazing access in America to something like this, but in Nepal, somethings are actually easier, believe it or not! Here is my edited video I made. Please note that it is a graphic video of a medical procedure, FYI.

Attack By Bull

Quick observation- travel semantics

2009-02-10T01:56:00.000-08:00

The word "canal" sounds way more romantic than the phrase "open sewer"

I have officially been traveling in the developing world for too long.

Will, King of the Monkeys

2009-02-02T23:59:00.000-08:00

“This isn’t going to work.” Paula said very matter-of-factly. “There’s a monkey blocking my way.” She said it as if she was talking about a traffic jam or a long line at the grocery store. (I guess we are just getting used to everything at this point.)

Paula was attempting to deliver some leftover shrimp and fried egg to a pregnant cat that she had befriended at our bungalow in Tonsai, Thailand. Unfortunately for her, the monkeys had other ambitions on the snacks.

“There was a big monkey right on the path, so I tried to go around our bungalow, but it darted around the side and intercepted me,” she said. “Why are you laughing?”

I am fascinated at how monkeys, from quite a distance away, can tell when someone is carrying food. They have such one-track minds.

“Ok. Let’s go,” I told her, smugly getting up from my beach-strung hammock. “We’ll get past the monkeys.”

We neared our bungalows and caught wind of an unexpected sight. The lone monkey had multiplied into a full troupe of monkeys – papa monkey, mama monkey, twin baby monkeys, cousin Earl the monkey. And believe me, they were causing havoc. A small female perched on our railing eating a banana peel that we had discarded, apparently unafraid of fulfilling every monkey stereotype. Another small monkey fished the remaining crumbs from a neighbors’ Pringles can as the neighbor looked on helplessly.

I have never taken a primate behavior class, but I have hung around enough bars in a college town to know how to make a dominant male behavior display, so I knew what to do.

I bared my teeth at the largest monkey I could find. Paula, meanwhile, coaxed the pregnant cat to a nearby bungalow. As the monkeys attempted to follow her, I held them at bay by making sustained eye contact, hissing and showing my incisors as needed. As ludicrous as this sounds, it worked. Paula was able to feed the cat in relative peace while I battled the monkeys.

What has my life come to?

Why Indian Men won't marry you... You'll leave him!

2009-02-02T23:57:00.000-08:00

“ Indian men like to have European girlfriends, but for a wife, they want an Indian woman. If you beat a western woman, she will leave you! Indian woman stands by her husband.”

The Indian man at the next table had seemed nice enough, and I could not totally believe what I was hearing. I wanted to think that he was talking about Indian men in the general sense, but he had just finished telling us that he has had European girlfriends but when he gets married, it will be to an Indian woman.

I am aware of the problems with domestic violence that is pandemic in India. I am aware of the bride burning when a man or his family feel that they have not collected enough dowry. In the abstract, I know that these problems, which are almost unimaginable to me in the scope of their cruelty and prevalence, exist in a theoretical way in India.

But to hear the acceptance of this cruelty expressed as a virtue of Indian womanhood still left me shocked.

Part of me wanted to say, “what the hell is wrong with you?” to all the men in India. I wanted to blame such vile behavior on basic ignorance, but the man sitting before me spoke English well and was apparently worldly enough to attract a female western friend. If he were just a stupid bumpkin, I could reconcile him also being a viscous wife beater. But he was not.

I think Indian men just have a keen sense of bargaining position (and are also maybe a little cruel and ignorant as well). Let me explain.

You might think ‘if Indian women are suffering so much abuse at the hands of these guys, why don’t they leave them? I mean, a guy hits you for bringing his dinner out a little too cold because you were bullshitting with your friends for hours, who wouldn’t up and split?’ That is what I though anyway, but realized I was examining the problem from an American viewpoint.

Consider this: In India, divorce is extremely uncommon. It’s not that there are just no marital problems- it’s that a female divorcee’s options are, to put it generously, very limited. A divorced woman (or even a widow, for that matter) will find it difficult, if not impossible to find a new husband. Women are expected and presumed to be virgins before marriage; so obviously, a woman who is getting remarried can not be virginal.

What’s the big deal about not having a husband? For a woman in India, she probably got less education than her brothers and also has much worse or nonexistent job opportunities if she were to strike out on her own.

Long story short- a man knows he can beat her as much as he wants because any amount of abuse is better than being out in the streets. Trust me, almost anything is better than being on Indian streets.

I don’t know how much times are changing, but I did see an article in an Indian Cosmo-style women’s magazine that had a long ‘ask the experts’ section about domestic abuse.
All of the segments either congratulated women who had left their abusive husbands in spite of the problems (usually returning to abnormally supportive parents) or encouraging women in bad relationships to leave them.

While I was pleased to see this as a positive sign, I definitely would not pronounce widespread barbaric treatment of women in India to be dead and buried.

The Inauguration- Live from Bangkok

2009-01-22T08:44:00.000-08:00

Not long ago it was en vogue to be a cynic. Green Party presidential candidate Ralph Nader liked to confabulate Republican and Democrat into “Republocrat,” signifying that there was no real difference between the two parties.

I must admit that I was a cynic.

I watched Obama’s inauguration from an internet café in Bangkok. I did not have any sound on the computer, yet I watched and for the first time in my life, I was moist-eyed because of a political event.

Now, I will not claim that Democratic President Obama will live up to the high expectations the nation has for him. The truth is, we are in a position more perilous than at any other time in my life. We once took pride in education, science and developing great inventions. Times got good - the best the world has ever seen - and we slacked off a bit. Like amnesiacs on a cruise ship, we gorged at the buffet morning noon and night, forgetting how we had gotten to the enviable holiday and not aware of the cost on our credit card that we would have to pay when we got back to the real world. We are standing at a momentous crossroads. The first path returns us to work after a long economic and social holiday and the other path rides our past achievements until they have finished rusting away.

America became very wealthy and became the envy of the world. Love us or hate us, people from around the world pretty much all agree that they would love to be Americans themselves. Give an American-flag-burning member of Hamas a work visa and I guarantee you he will be on the next flight over and driving a New York taxi within a week.

America is hard to define. One could not reasonably point to anything that makes a person ‘American’ except this: the fundamental desire to make something better. As a result, we have attracted -- and, I hope will continue to attract -- the best from around the world who want to do something.

And ultimately, this is what is great about America. In one election cycle, the voters can refute the greedy cynicism that represented the Bush presidency and return to the greater principles upon which we are ultimately successful. Maybe Obama can’t fix everything wrong with our country. That’s ok. Obama’s election is important, but not as important as what his election represents: America has decided to make things better again.

No, we can't

2009-01-21T09:03:00.000-08:00

As the story goes, waffle cones were invented at a world’s fair when an ice-cream seller ran out of sugar cones and, thinking quickly, started rolling waffles which he turned into makeshift cones. Newly elected President Barack Obama’s campaign slogan was ‘Yes, We Can.’ What do these two stories have in common?

Neither would ever happen in India. You see, I was just eating at a restaurant which sells a tasty snack called a dosa. The type that I (and many other Indians) like is called a masala dosa. Of course, the restaurant had stopped making the masala filling earlier and had, predictably run out of it. If it were the world’s fair, the enterprising restaurateur might have made a substitution and created a new product that would endure for generations, not to mention boost his immediate sales. But, no, it is India, so they are just out, as they probably run out every day. It is India, so given another chance, they reconfirm my long-held theory that India’s motto is ‘not possible’ or, translated to American English, ‘No, We Can’t.’

Obama's Inaugural Address

2009-01-20T10:08:00.000-08:00

So You Wanna Be a Rock and Roll Star?

2009-01-16T06:17:00.000-08:00

Many people come to India to do work on their egos. Usually, that means trying to reduce that nagging, struggling voice that is the cause of so much suffering in the world.

One of the (many) unpredictable side effects of traveling to India for me, however, is the development of a bigger ego.

My rock star ego.

In America, I am a pretty average Boulderite. I like to think of myself as intelligent and not unattractive. In India, though, I am magically transformed into a near movie star, or at the very least a B-list celebrity from a prominent car commercial. Perhaps it is my dreadlocked hair, my height (several inches higher than even the tallest Indians!), my passing resemblance to Jesus and Krishna or just my white skin, but these guys go crazy for me- at least occasionally.

It is not uncommon for me to be stopped a dozen times in a good day by Indians asking me to pose with their wives, parents, children or friends for a photo. Mind you, I have never met or interacted with any of these people before in my life, but it feels like they all know me, recognize me.

I have to say, it’s pretty creepy.

And I am starting to feel what celebrities are talking about when they speak of the isolation and loneliness of fame. ‘Does this person really want to know me? Can they really know me, or do they just want a piece of my brand to rub off on them?’ That kind of idea doesn’t seem at all paranoid to me now.

I realize I am not really at risk of becoming a star at this point in my life, but just in case I had any Hollywood ambitions, this has certainly put them in check.

I will leave the hard work up to Brad Pitt.

Goodbye, Fatty!

2009-01-14T06:22:00.002-08:00

Tom, our travelling companion for the past 3 months is on his way home. Of course, because this is India, it will take him a week, so those of you awaiting his arrival in Boulder, please don't hold your breath just yet!

Thanks Tom for coming along with us. We were very glad to have you!

On the Sidewalk

2009-01-14T06:22:00.001-08:00

Paula poses by a wall in Cochi. Not that she didn't have anything better to do- we asked her to stand there!

I was walking down the road in Cochi, Kerala India. It is a fine city, much more developed than others in India. This fact is made apparent by the existence of (albeit imperfect) sidewalks. Unlike in America or other developed countries, the sidewalks are not always ideal- occasionally there is a missing section or an inopportunely placed pole blocking a quarter of the path and so forth. But much of it is of good quality.

What I noticed was this: when I was walking on the smooth part, people filled to occupy the whole space and even though my longer legs afford me greater seed than most Indians, I was blocked up in the flow of people occupying the paved expanse. There was no way to get a head, really in this situation. Now, when an obstacle came in the path, most people naturally deviated around it causing congestion and a general slowing. Whenever I saw this, I noticed that there was an opportunity to move ahead of a number of people and did so by stepping over or around the small obstacles. Soon, I decided to look for these obstacles in the road with anticipation for the opportunity it would bring me.

How could I apply this to regular life? It is easier to look down a road with good vision of the ‘future’ than time. Even so, could it be possible to learn to better recognize and even seek out these obstacles? Would this be a valuable metaphor?

A Date with Dosa

2008-12-30T00:20:00.000-08:00

South India is brutally hot. It is December, and we are wilted in the mid day scorch. Even the locals do nothing at this time of day- not in the North Indian sense of doing little for the whole day- but they intentionally do nothing at all. The great three millennia old temple Sri Meenakshi Amman is closed from noon until four pm because, frankly, nothing is going to happen during those hours anyway. The middle of the day brings the age-old ritual of finding shade and parking there until the temperature is bearable again. All this means that the working day is compressed into short hours of intense activity in the morning and evening. And dining is no exception.

Tom and I approach Shree Annapoorna, a restaurant that serves up all sorts of South Indian food at a rapid pace. One of the specialties is a dish called a dosa, which is a large flat crepe filled with spicy curried vegetables. The restaurant is simply buzzing with activity. Even in India, where crowds are the rule and everything and everyone is competing for breathing space, I am taken aback by the busyness of it all. Like the mass of pilgrims at the ancient shrine we visited earlier in the day, there was a torrent of Indians and westerners circulating through the two cramped dining rooms like a whirlpool. We gawk, not knowing what to do. For a moment, we hesitate and consider leaving for some place less hectic. But Shree Annapoorna has the best Masala Dosas by several orders of magnitude. The Dosa’s burrito-style rice paper is crisp and soft; the filling inside isn’t just cheap potato, as every other restaurant serves, but brimming with onion, carrot, even cashews. While in Madurai, I have eaten every meal at this restaurant and we are set to leave early the next morning.

I am not going to miss my last meal in Madurai.

A man, who I must assume is an employee, drags us to a table which is still occupied. Two Indian men have not yet finished their meals - they look up at me as they scoop the last of their food into their mouth and motion for me to take the table. In the flawlessly choreographed scene that followed, the two men rose from their seats, Tom and I slipped in as their dishes were cleared and another man appeared to squeegee clean the black granite table. If anyone had been off cue, the scene would have ended in a disaster.

Seated, we are given a brief respite while our waiter attends dozens of other clients in the sifting saree sea. Two South Indians are eating at the same table opposite us. They finish eating soon after we sit. They leave wordlessly, squeezing through the crowd with their check and payment in hand, headed for the cash register. Out come the plate clearers and squeegeemen again, and the surface is returned to virginal purity as two new diners sit in front of us.

I focus on my food in the midst of this madness and I don’t talk with the new guests opposite me. They order, eat, pay and leave.

I begin to feel like I am in a bizarre speed-dating-meets-south-India comedy show as our third set of diners join the table.

Tom and I have already ordered our second and final round of Masala Dosas. The food arrives just as this pair of guys from New Delhi join us and speak in Hindi for their order. The Southern Indians of Tamil Nadu have a proud history, but have historically been pushed around by successive waves of advancing conquers coming from the North. They do not, as a rule, care for Hindi.

One diner requests what I am having, which he incorrectly identifies as an Aloo (potato) Dosa. The waiter replies with what’s probably the only Hindi phrase he knows. “No. Finished.”

Before the befuddled diner can react or question, the waiter storms off to the kitchen without offering an alternative.

“Do you pay for this food, or is it free?” my new tablemate asks me.

Puzzled, I slowly tell him, “Well we pay of course.”

“Then why like this? We are paying customers - how is that it is not possible?,” he almost desperately implores to me.

I am amazed. I thought that I was the only one to question this sort of ‘not possible’ door-slam of a no. To see an Indian struggling with this is truly a turn for me. I don’t know what to say to him besides “Ke garne?” (“What to do?”), which is what Indians usually tell me when I ask such questions.

Somehow in the chaos, he manages to place an order.

A few minutes later, a server slaps down a banana leaf-covered plate, then shoots into the masses. Our new date’s food bears no similarity to what he ordered. Like a good Indian, he resigns himself to his destiny and digs in. He must hurry. There is already competition for his seat.

As the Dosas on our plates dwindle, a large bearded man and his wife hover above us. We know our welcome has worn thin.

We settle our bill and join the conga-line of dining evacuees as the bearded man and his wife, the next speed dating contestants, are hustled into our seats.

Holidays. Have some happy ones, ok?

2008-12-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

Above: Will at the southernmost point of India

I am here with Tom and Paula on the southern tip of India, where the Bay of Bengal, The Arabian Sea, and the Indian Ocean meet in that theoretical sense that large bodies of water do! To me, it’s all the Pacific, but whatever. I guess it sounds more romantic if you imagine three goliaths of immense waters meeting, so we can go with that.

This town, Kaniyakumari, is incredibly popular with domestic Indian tourists as there is a big Hindu temple here. There is a loud festive market, reminiscent of an American flea market, that sells things like fluorescent dolphin keychains, mirrors in the shape of an ‘om’ made from seashells and, strangely, winter coats. I guess I understand the tacky shell items as souvenirs, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why people are buying these heavy coats. It is hot here- we are only about 5 degrees north of the equator, so it isn’t like anyone is at risk of frostbite. It goes to show, just when you think you have India figured out, you see a guy in 90 degree weather wearing a winter coat and shorts and you sort of have to scratch your head for a minute.

Back home in Colorado, I hear that it is cold, and hope it’s a white Christmas. I am about the ‘whitest’ thing around here, so people frequently ask to have photos of me taken with them. Today after one of these little photosessions, I asked for ten rupees as a joke (many holy men in India ask for a small donation like this for a photo). The hapless South Indian vacationer started reaching for his wallet, but then I smiled and told him I was not being serious. I am not sure if Indians understand my humor.

I have been traveling for going on four months now, and I have a lot left. I miss everyone back home, especially now during the holidays.

From the bottom of India and my heart, Merry Christmas (or other holiday) and happy new year!

Hot, Flat and Friedman

2008-12-25T08:20:00.000-08:00

Above: Tom takes careful notes on Friedman's new book, "Flat, Hot and Crowded"

I have just finished reading Thomas Friedman’s new book, "Hot, Flat and Crowded.”. In the book, Friedman basically argues that we are all doomed unless we make a serious movement into clean technologies due to global warming and increasing luxury demanded by an immense middle class in India and China (among others).

I agree with Friedman’s analysis and recommended actions steps, but my basic concern is this: Our leadership, like most humans, is short sighted and forgetful. On a macro level, my fear is that people will not invest in the clean tech that will make a difference until the situation has become painful for them. Meanwhile, our economy is being weakened by the inflationary effects of an increasingly erratic fossil fuel market, so I predict that society will see clean technologies as ‘too expensive,’ due to the high cost of fossil fuels and poor state of the economy tied to those dwindling fossil fuels!

Although I am not buying gasoline right now, I hear that the price has come down, probably due to a decrease in demand as a result of our depressed economy. The question I have is this: Can the incoming Obama administration can still make the case that something must be done and this is just a temporary easing of prices related solely to a slack economy, and not a return to the ‘good old days’ of endless cheap fossil fuels?

India: You are here, but why?

2008-12-17T06:13:00.000-08:00

Why am I here? Is usually a sort of soul searching, meaning of life kind of question. A question reserved for people on acid trips, having had a near-death experience, or an encounter with god- all of which can be described as religious experiences. But no, I am writing from India, and here, the question is of much more a practical nature: Why am I here? Or in my case, “why did I come back here?”

It all started in 2006. I had laid the seeds for a new solar energy company called Sunflower Solar in the fall and winter of 2005. But by the spring of 2006, the market had not quite yet come due to a delay in subsidies for solar energy in Colorado, but they were promised soon. So, without too much careful consideration, I explained to my long term girlfriend that I needed to leave for a few months (let me tell you how excited she was about that) and met my brother, recently out of the Peace Corps, in Thailand.

After a month of enjoying ourselves in Southeast Asia, we made the decision to go to India for reasons that are now lost on me. All I can say is that I lived through the experience, and despite the numerous frustrations associated with being in India, it was a great learning experience in which I even found some joy.

However, learning experiences usually involve things that are not altogether fun, and can rarely be described as a vacation, so I can hardly explain my insistence on returning once again to the subcontinent.

It is still hard to be here. Though last time I was here, I believe I had mastered the serene acceptance of the unending hassles of India, I clearly had not put those into long term use because I have allowed it, once again, to scam me, annoy me, and generally get under my skin.

But India is a learning experience and it does make you tougher. It lays bare people’s motivations and makes things, through the chaos, more transparent. The beggars who simply say “money money money money,” while holding out their hands lack a certain refinement- but they get the point across. And the point, I am finding, is that most people who interact with you want something from you. And that is usually money. Sometimes people just want to practice their English or alleviate boredom, but usually it is just this: you have money, and they want it. As a result, many interactions I have here on a daily basis resemble someone at an ATM, with me being the ATM. Mind you, in true Indian style, I have made my ATM extremely difficult to operate and I refuse most bankcard pleas for cash. In India, seekers of divinity commonly use a mantra, which they repeat day in and day out. Mine is this: “I know you want my money, but I am not giving it to you, so please go away.” I would prefer it were “Om Mani Padme Hum” (I am one with the universe) but for now, it’s all about the money.

Staying in the ashram boom town of Puttarpathy, I had briefly lost my voice due to sickness, so I decided to just stop talking altogether. Now, 3 days into my experiment, I have told no to exactly zero people, though many have asked. Their requests, which used to hold sway over my western sensibilities governing politeness, are now declined through the power of my intention and my actions rather than the words of someone being held-up at guiltpoint.

I also realized I don’t hate the people who beg or try to otherwise get into my pocket. In fact, I am pretty much indifferent toward them, and my adjustment goes a long way in explaining why most Indians seem to have no particular attachment to what is going on around them- they simply stopped (or never learned to) caring about what anyone else around them wanted. Through this experiential lens, I find it totally understandable that Indians would be so obstinate, uncaring and unhelpful. If they weren’t, they would simply be drowned with requests, pleas and distractions anytime they left their house.

Nepal’s Knit-Wit Gang

2008-11-27T04:00:00.000-08:00

On the bus ride from Pokhara to Kathmandu, we encountered one of those low dollar scams that I have now come to expect from the developing world. It is important to keep in mind that Kathmandu (which is huge) and Pokhara (relatively tiny) are the two largest cities in Nepal. Therefore, the road between them, in all of its almost-two-lane glory is the national highway. Now, about two hours into the trip, in one small town, we were greeted with a traffic jam that was disproportionate to the meager population and car ownership demographic. In other words, there was rush hour traffic in a two horse town. Strange. Buses were sprawled across the road here and there and motorcycles darted in and out of holes in the stagnant traffic.

At last we crept close enough to see that the source of the disturbance was a group of local morons who were holding a fundraiser for their soccer team by hanging a banner across the road. The rope was so pathetic I would barely classify it higher than a string in the hierarchy of twines. Men brandished pulp-paper carbon books covered in meaningless scrawl as receipts for each ‘donation’ received. That’s right- we were being help up at string-point. As an experience bus operator myself, I could hardly fathom why our driver, or really any driver of anything larger than a tricycle would be impaired by this absurd roadblock. I would have just driven through, but for some reason, it was working. I was dumbstruck. Imagine if a bunch of yokels from BF Kansas decided to halt all traffic on I-70 and extort $.35 from each of them. You can bet how long that would last. I don’t exactly know what charge would be levied against them, but it would no doubt be substantial. Tom had a great idea, and if Prachanda, prime minister of Nepal is reading this, please take note: You must not allow your main traffic arteries be impaired in the least by guys with string. It’s just not what real countries do. This is a case where swift police action is warranted, and the sentence for the offenders should involve lots of picking up trash from the national arterial. Unbelievable.

One man on the bus told us that this happens all the time, if you can believe that. In parting, I would like to leave you with this shot taken from the Nepali equivalent of a rest-stop for the bus. As could be expected, its food was overpriced and underquality. But they were trying to make up for it with this garden planting, which will no doubt make any westerner feel right at home.

Note that the Nazis directly borrowed the swastika from Hinduism. Hindus still associate its use with the original, benign religious significance they have had for thousands of years so no offense is meant. Still, I don’t think it translates like they think it does...

Trekking to Annapurna, Part Three

2008-11-26T04:21:00.000-08:00

The costs, in case you were wondering!

Though the lodge-towns were frequent, we had brought most of our own food to avoid paying the extortionate prices levied against the tourists. Nepal is surprisingly organized, though it is usually the type of organization that works against you. In my experience, this means various mafia-style cartels for most things that tourists want including internet, food and lodging. Once you step outside of the tourist areas, of course, the price drops by a factor of three but there is no ‘outside of the tourist area’ in the remote mountain lodges, so you are pretty much stuck paying $3 for a bowl of cereal. Having brought our own food, we were able to save about $6 per day, thus making our total expenditure per day around $12 including all permits, fees, transportation, lodging and food. This is almost unheard of for this sort of trek- a testament to our craftiness.

Most people we talked to said you could squeak by on $20 a day.

Trekking to Annapurna, Part Two

2008-11-25T04:17:00.000-08:00

I had my doubts about whether we would really reach the base of Annapurna. Ever since we talked with a Canadian at the Taj Mahal in India who related his tales of thefts and blizzards on the last stretch of the trail, combined with the sky-high altitude, I had become somewhat resigned to the idea that we may make it 90% of the way there, only to be turned back at the last moment.

Finally, the nighttime hours leading up to our pre-dawn push to Annapurna Sanctuary came. It was cold but the air and trail were clear of snow. Of the four of us, Tom left first to reach the area by sunrise. Laurel left with Pragya and me, but pushed ahead faster. The full moon hung like beacon above Annapurna to the west and guided us up the rapidly balding valley. For the four of us, the last bit of the trek became personal and private. For me, it was a meditative confrontation of the old dragon of high altitude that had haunted me since childhood.
My breath issued into the perfectly clear night air as steam. I was carrying almost nothing and though the progress was slow, I felt much better than I had imagined possible. Running uphill was obviously out of the question and the strenuousness of a humble pace felt like an aerobic workout, but it was working. An hour and a half later, as the dawn was breaking, we had all arrived. Pragya and I had taken our time, enjoying the subtle shifts in color as we moved up and the sun moved around the globe to meet us.

Small streams covered in crisp pappad-thin ice were the only moving things in the strange Martian rockscape leading to the mountains. The trail was thin but fair and as the sun finally touched the mountains looming thousands of feet high above our heads, the whole scene blazed with pink light. It’s easy to understand why people would call Annapurna a goddess. The elevation itself encourages silence- each spoken word comes at the expense of hard earned breath. The quiet is as pervasive as it is unbroken. For reasons that are part mystical and part circumstantial, the goddess of Annapurna is pure reverence and solitude.

During the course of the trek, we had been taking videos and I joked that I was still looking for ‘the prayer flag shot of my dreams.’ It would take nearly an hour for the sun to touch the valley where we stood but as it did, it illuminated a mass of prayer flags that garnished rocky monuments to dead climbers. The weather was perfect and for the first time I could see the potential attraction that would lead those climbers to try to ascend the snowy, beautiful and treacherous ranges.

Trekking to Annapurna, Part One

2008-11-24T04:06:00.000-08:00

Above: A boy plays with a hammer on the steps leading into one of the numerous Himalyan Mountain lodge towns.

Our goal was simple- to walk for 10 days from Pokahara, Nepal, to the holy sanctuary base of the Annapurna. The mountain itself is believed by Hindus to be a goddess. By climbers, it is a challenge. And to some unfortunate climbers, it is an icy tomb above a prayer flag covered memorial site.

I am no mountaineer, nor do I aspire to be one. I just wanted to get to the base of this great mountain. To some, this may not sound like much, but then you realize that the valley-basin where we were destined is as tall as some of the highest mountain summits in Colorado. The elevation is above 13,500 and that’s just your hotel room toilet.

I had many thoughts while plodding up countless slate steps on the trail. It struck me that I was on a ten-day hike up to an elevation greater than I had ever experienced on foot. Like this entire yearlong trip itself, I had spent a lot of time preparing for the mechanics of the trek, but not at all for the implications or the effects of the trek on me. When I was preparing for the trip, people would ask if I was excited. I never was because it hadn’t started yet and I was mostly consumed with the details of preparation. My experience getting ready for this trek was similar. Anyway, how can you get ready for something that hasn’t happened yet? I usually feel that I am not truly ready to do something until just after I have done it! Until that point, of course, it is just speculation.

One of my main concerns was my ability to deal with high altitude well. Once, when I was young, I was with my parents on a trip to Breckenridge for some cable tv conference of my dad’s. I had a difficult time breathing and ended up going to a hospital. After that, I had developed a heart arrhythmia that left every eighth beat of my heart absent. The abnormality corrected itself spontaneously when I was a young teen, but I continued to be weak at elevation and easily suffered from altitude sickness.

Every step we took meant another foot of elevation gain. The clinking taps of our trekking poles on the stone steps were clicks of some Himalayan adding machine.
Tap… tap… tap…
For hours we ascended the mountainside, each step bringing us slightly closer to a warm meal and, if we were lucky, a warm shower as well.

Our days passed with the taps almost uninterrupted. We paused now and again for a snack, always reaching into our packs for some of the dried trekking food we had brought. At night, we ate full means of dhal bhat (lentils and rice with some curried vegetables). We slept early and long, our bodies struggling to cope with building muscle tissue and additional red blood cells to fight the ever-thinning air. We woke early at or before dawn, drinking tea and packing before our next ten-hour hike. We stopped for photos, water, snacks or just to enjoy a moment in the shade of a bamboo grove before moving on toward the great basin awaiting.

McVeg

2008-11-07T00:46:00.000-08:00

I just ate a McVeggie Burger, followed by a McAloo. At McDonalds (New Delhi Edition), there is a box where extra condiments are collected for re-distribution. All vegetarian and nonveg items are clearly marked as such with color coordinated packaging and kept strictly separate (they even have different racks down which the freshly completed products slide)
Laurel and Pragya split the Chicken Maharaja Mac (an Indian take on the Big Mac)
And finally, there is a prominent sign that says “ This establishment does not sell Beef or Beef Products”
Trays are bussed for the customers, and a man knelt polishing a floor mounted door hinge to the outside.

UPDATE-
I believe the McFoods have made me fabulously ill. After eating there, we boarded a train to go, ultimately, to Rishikesh. I woke up sick and threw up on a passing motorcyclist while on the bus for the final leg of the journey from Haridwar. I felt a little bad, but what you going to do? Please don’t judge me! It was mostly water, anyways.
I am now recovering in a hotel room, where a sunny, hilly scene and refreshing Ganges River lay just beyond the reach from my bed. Sorry for the whining.

Relaxing, India Style

2008-11-02T00:41:00.000-07:00

The long transition from Egypt to India began with everything going right- no missed trains, trams or flights- and even passing through customs in New Delhi was a breeze. When we got through to baggage claim, however, we were alerted that our bags had, in fact, not left with us from our stopover point in Abu Dhabi. However, the friendly agent who found us to deliver the news assured us it would be no problem and helped us fill out the appropriate bureaucratic forms. As these forms usually do, it reminded me of our ‘license bureau,’ a mock government office some friends and I set up at Burningman to confuse and entertain hapless passersby (“Property Irregularity Report- Missing/Damaged/Pilfered”).

As we did not yet know where we would stay in Paharganj, the Delhi Mecca for all things exportable to worldwide Indian shops, we told the agent that we would call them back and give the address once we had one.

We had an address starting at around 6 in the morning and called the number.

and called

and called

and called, altogether, around 150 times, with only one time getting through, only to be promptly dropped. I decided to give up for the day, but I hope no one thinks I am a quitter! Still, I decided that India just didn't want me to get through that day- the message was clear.

The next morning, I called. Lo and behold, on the first try, someone picked up, politely took down our hotel address and information and promised a speedy delivery.

At 10 PM, the bags showed up, just as I was calling (once again) to inquire about them. It was amazing.

So, bags in hand (or on back, as it were) we are off to Rishikesh for a couple of days before meeting Tom at the Taj Mahal. What better place to meet?

Lesson: kick back, relax, and, amazingly your bags will arrive!

Scams I know

2008-11-02T00:13:00.000-07:00

“Americans verrrry honest. I’m not lying to you,” Mohammed said emphatically. Mohammed, who lived with my dad as a roommate and drove a taxi for him in the early 1990’s is now before me cautioning about travel in Egypt.

At this point, I am used to the scams, touts, liars, rip-offs and commissions that invariably seem to accompany me anywhere that I can afford to travel. Like the street food slopped up from woks and pots (developing) world-wide, these various scams all have their own local flavors. Yet for their differences, they all seem to have mostly the same basic ingredients. An earnest, albeit fraudulent smile are like the noodles. A redirection toward the scammer’s service and away from whatever you had initially wanted is the sauce. The lousy feeling after you had been had is indigestion from too much MSG.

Let’s just say that I have had plenty of street food in my life.

Still, Mohammed’s words of caution were well taken. Egypt did not disappoint in either the grandeur of it’s Pharonic sandstone antiquities nor in the utter completeness of nearly everyone a traveler would encounter trying to make a quick buck.

The more basic scams are simple overcharging. To me, these are the most insidious. When a sandwich should normally cost 1 LE but instead the vendor asks for 1.5 LE, you really need to pick your battles. Sure, you are probably getting overcharged by 50%, but who knows? Maybe the guy’s price is a little higher. Or not. It’s easy to rationalize and say ‘well, it’s only a difference of 15 cents’ but it adds up and also, it doesn’t change the basic unfairness of the situation. This rationalization also breeds a kind of complacency that the overchargers thrive on, wearing you down one by one like an eternal barrage of Saharan sand ebbing away even the most stolid stones. At the end of a long day, no one wants to be hassled over the equivalent of another half dollar, but I suspect that this is just what these guys count on.

I am reminded of the Komodo Dragon, a giant land dwelling reptile that lives on a few islands in the Indonesian Archipelago. One of their favorite treats are the feral goats on the island but the dragons’ feeding habits are quite strange. They kill their prey through what is essentially bad oral hygiene- infecting a passing goat with a bite that will almost certainly turn fatally gangrenous. Since it takes several days or weeks for the hapless goat to succumb, one would imagine that the dragon lurks behind until it can claim its festering reward. Not so! As it turns out, they simply wait around for any goat bitten by any other Komodo Dragon to die so they can feed on the carrion. It’s a strange communal but non-collaboratory hunting style.

I mention this because I have many times felt like the goat on the island, surrounded by reptiles trying to get a bite in, biding their time until one of them finally gets me and I fall victim to their persistent dishonesty.

An old favorite of touts (people looking to get a commission by directing you toward a given service) is to congregate anywhere travels may possibly frequent. Most of the time, they are satisfied to use broken English to try to move you from, say, a train station to the nearby budget hotel of their choice. I have checked into a hotel and upon deciding against it, had the hotel staff themselves try to accompany me to the neighboring hotel to get a commission! In the past, I didn’t know what to do in these sorts of situations. Now, my strategy is just to lay it out in the open. I also find that talking a little fast, then re-emphasizing my points multiple times is an effective style. What can I say, I learned it from the scammers! Sample lines:
‘No, no. This man is not with me. He is just following me around and I have asked him to leave. I know he just wants some money. Everyone here knows it, and I have told him to go away again and again and yet he still comes with me to this place? Why does he come here? I know he is greedy and wants my money, but don’t pay it to him. He didn’t bring me here.’ [Repeat as required]

If they can have a script for the occasion, why can’t I?

[Below: A scammer no doubt hides near the colossal and marvelous statues of Ramses II at Abu Simbel]

New Best of Photos

2008-11-01T09:34:00.000-07:00

I know that this may be a little bit like a band with 2 albums out releasing a best of disc, but I have added a link to the best photos from Israel and Egypt so far. Now, we are in India, though it will be a bit before photos are forthcoming, as we have spent the last bit waiting for our bags. More on that later.

Here is another one I took and am quite fond of:

It is a mosque built in Luxor, Egypt whose columns are pillars from part of the temple of Luxor, from the Pharonic times. This may mean nothing to the readers, but the long and the short of it is that you have Islam pasted over the old religion in the most fabulous striking way. The work you see in the foreground is a renovation under way.

The Pyramids are as Sweet as You Have Heard

2008-10-26T15:15:00.000-07:00

I have just returned from the oasis of Baharriya where much adventuring has been had. I know I keep saying this, but I promise to post pictures soon. Batteries on the camera are dead, I swear.

Now I am in Cairo, once again, my home away from home in Egypt. Since I have the option of going to Alexandria tomorrow at just about any time I feel like, I figured, 'why not go back to the pyramids again for a day?' As Paula put it: they enslaved and sacrificied thousands of people just so they could have sweet places to die in.
And since it is literally only 5 subway stops away, I think I will go back to these ultimately sweet places to die in. I mean, I don't want to get flippant about it, but maybe I will even ride a camel if I feel like it. Who knows?

UPDATE: Obligatory "Will in front of the Pyramid Shot" We made it!

Aswan

2008-10-15T16:20:00.000-07:00

Today, in Aswan, I said this thing on the boat crossing the Nile. I hope you don't mind, but I am going to mis-quote myself now: "I understand why people come here- Aswan lets you keep believing that Egypt is how you imagined it."

What I mean of course is that very pretty, scenic and full of absurdly romantic boats, sand and old things. It also holds the top honor in the newly created Will Sisk Prize for Clean Devloping World Cities. There are people here who really seem to understand that tourists don't want to come to a trash strewn concrete filth den. (Right? It seems like the tourism schools in Egypt are teaching something afterall!)

The Western (Wailing) Wall

2008-10-13T12:20:00.000-07:00

We visited this wall that you may have heard of- it's called either the Wailing Wall or the Western Wall. It is the last existing remnant of the famed second temple of Jerusalem, which was demolished in 70 AD by the Romans to end the Jewish revolt.

(Anti Defamation League Disclaimer) I mean absolutely no disrespect to the Jewish people when I say the following:

The civil engineer in me did really enjoy the notion that people pray and revere this fervently what is in fact a retaining wall. Engineers, be proud and do a good job. You never know when you will make something that, 2000 years later, inspires divine feelings galore.

Also, if you are also bemoaning the fate of the wall, don't despair! A group of orthodox Jews and whackjob Christians (many of them American) are hell bent on bringing a third incarnation of the temple back. While this has all kinds of prophetic ramifications which I will not go into here, it would definitely have the redult of detroying the Mosque where Muhammed dreamed of his ascent to heaven. This would, to say the least cause problems.

I love (eating in) Egypt

2008-10-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

OK, back in Cairo for a few hours on my way to Aswan, Luxor and the rest of upper (Southern) Egypt. It is the centerpiece of the typical 'Egypt Experience' and I have left it for last. I have liked or loved all of the places I have been in Egypt and I think I am unlikely to let down next.

But back to food. That is the reason for the post. We left Israel, and had it not been for our wonderful friends on the Kibbutz we visited, it would have been an extremely hungry affair. Prices on the falafel index are quite high:
Average Isaeli falafel- 10 NIS or ~$2.76
Average Egyptian Falafel- 1.5 LE or ~$.27

Now, to be fair to the Israeli falafel industry, theirs are about 2 times larger and 1 grade higher in quality. But even so, ruling this out, we still can see a falafel to falafel ratio of 5:1.

Seriously, for $3 you can literally buy enough to make yourself quite ill, and that is not taking into account the effects of untreated water!

Speaking of water, my engineer friends may like to know that I drank (in Israel) my first ever artificially desalinated water. It was at least as exciting as it sounds. ;)
Above: Higher quality, but much more expensive Israeli Hummus. Tasty, but pricey.

Exodus

2008-10-12T09:12:00.000-07:00

Today, or in the very near future, I will be leaving Israel for the Sinai, the promised land. Back to the land of pharoahs and the pyramids. What can I say, I don't follow directions very well, you know?

Resource Wars

2008-10-06T12:18:00.000-07:00

Just a quick thought- I noticed here in Israel, like basically everywhere else I have ever visited outside the US that everything is smaller. Refrigerators, cars, apartments, hotwater heaters, everything is smaller. Along with this comes less resource intensive use of everything. Smaller cars = less fuel. Small fridges = less electricity and less food spoilage. Etc...

America is the only country with this kind of largese and it is really out of step with everywhere else. Also, as a quick aside, every house here in Israel has solar thermal on it. 2 panels and a tank right there on the roof... I'll get pictures tomorrow.

One Hundred Sunsets

2008-10-06T07:57:00.000-07:00

Since I will be gone for such a long time, I decided to exercise my creative side a bit. I am making a project where at sunset (100 of them!) I take a photo of something. This is a limited edition piece- only 100 will be created and displayed so be sure to save the address and check back often!

My ongoing photoproject.

Recipe- Tahina

2008-10-06T07:42:00.000-07:00

If you are like me (god forbid), you probably at some point have found yourself with a large jar of tahina paste in the refrdgerator, having been told at some point that it was a needed ingredient for hummus. Then, you tried making the hummus and decided that it was not all that good and so the tahina just sat there! Well, I have news for you. That tahina- it's a gold mine of tastiness as long as you know how to tap that ore.

Tahina is a tasty treat in it's own right. Why not give that sad bottle in the back of your fridge a second look?

Tahina*
Tahina paste (ground sesame)
lemons
garlic
olive oil
water
salt

Anyone who has cooked with me knows that I am a little thin on exact measurements. please bear with me.

Put about a half cup or so of tahina paste into a mixing bowl. It will be pretty thick. Squeeze at least 1 lemon into the paste. Don't skimp on this! It needs to be tangy. When in doubt, use more to taste. dice a clove of garlic and throw it on top as well. Add 1 tablespoon of olive oil and a pinch of salt (kosher or sea salt is tastiest).

You will now have an unmixable pile of goop. That's ok because it's the time to add some warm water. Add it slowly and mix it in until you have created a smooth almost sauce consistency. Add more of the above ingredients to taste- it's really up to you. If you are making an arrangement in the hopes of getting laid or something, try sprinkling a bit of paprika on top to make it look extra good. If you use a sprig of cilantro, you are garanteed to get at least to third base!

*my Cairo recipe

Thou shalt

2008-10-05T09:20:00.001-07:00

We climbed Mt. Sinai the other day in Egypt. They charged us $3 to get into the area which is supposed to pay for cleaning the area, keeping up the roads, etc.

Climbing Mt. Sinai was cool. We did it at 2 in the morning as the mountain becomes an infero by about 10 am. I suspect the burning bush was a case of spontaneous combustion. I also question the judgement of the Israelites in hanging out in this area. I mean seriously, it is about as nice to be in as the black rock desert for the other 51 weeks of the year.

On the way back in the light, I noticed that the path was strewn with trash. This is nothing new for Egypt, which has the environmental protection of a 19th century lasissez-faire factory. what was curious is that I have not been to somewhere yet in Egypt where a fee was collected to clean and it was not at all done. The pyramids are kept up well even, in spite of the fantastic number of visitors.

Egypt: Thou shalt not steal (the money to clean with!)

Quick note of proof of aliveness

2008-10-05T09:15:00.000-07:00

I know that title is bad grammar, but damn it, I can poorly title if I want.

Quick status update- everything is fine, Pyramids are sweet, camel treks still not that fun and Israel=expensive.

Seriously, we just arrived in Israel and are en route to Tel Aviv. It is not a biblical city, so I hear, but it is where many people we know are based, so it's where we are going to stay. Fortunately, Israel is approximately the size of a large ashtray, so day trips to most places should be possible.

On the way through security, Israeli security correctly identified Paula as brown and as such detained us for an interminable period of time. Now we are at a bus station, hence the "en route" description. I am hoping things pick up soon, but so far, I actually miss Egypt a little.

Steam

2008-09-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

I just returned from Burning Man, and one of the most wonderful things there is a steam bath run by a guy named John. It may seem crazy at first, going to a hot dry dusty desert, then going inside an even hotter steam bath. However, it feels just perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I really want to build one of my own some day. Steaming is one of those age old traditions that should be brought back in a big way.

While at the bath, I met a professor of South Asian religions who had built his own steam bath. Here are the links to it on Flickr.

Murals

2008-08-24T12:13:00.000-07:00

This mural in San Francisco was done by Paula's sister and her boyfriend. Pretty sweet!

Mirrors

2008-08-24T09:12:00.000-07:00

Be prepared for the possibility that people around you are mirrors, and that observations you make about them are actually observations about yourself.

Anger in San Francisco

2008-08-21T11:29:00.000-07:00

Let me begin by saying this: I do not mind if people wish to be voluntarily homeless, traveling from one liberal center to the next, living in parks and smoking and drinking. I view that as a human right to do so, and we would not have many of the great spiritual traditions in the world that we do today if this were not the case.

Yesterday, I was walking along the famed Haight Street in San Francisco toward Golden Gate park. There were three young copies of the disaffected youth type ahead of, then next to, then behind, then next to me as I walked. I kept being near them, seemingly randomly. As we progressed down the street, I noticed them generally causing ruckus with middle aged tourists and so forth.
As one set of visitors moved away form them:

Hey look, she acts like I am gonna ask her for change!

Like that isn't exactly what he was going to do, being that he had a hand full of change.
And that he asked me for some not half a block later.
because he was short $.25 for a hit of acid.
And when I didn't respond, he said

Thanks for the compassion

And I thought, I would really like to pound on this kid.

Of course I didn't. He would have wanted that. Something to make his day interesting. Someone to bite at the bait. Not me, though.

I do not like is being hassled by people who choose this lifestyle. They are no modern day Jesus or Buddha, spurning society for free choice and authentic living. They are just three selfish assholes against the world, mad because of this or that. Maybe they were abused as small children. Maybe they were unloved. Maybe they ______ insert excuse; I don't really care. I have a saying that I think applies here well:

The circumstances of your life may not be your fault, but they are your responsiblity.

The sweetest place ever- Panama

2008-07-21T10:37:00.001-07:00

On a bit of a lark, we decided to come down to Panama for the end of this little Costa Rica adventure. Upon arrival, Megan, Liz and I all had the "why didn't we just come here" moment. We are on an island in the Bocas del Toro archipelago that has no roads and wonderful hang out cabanas built out over the ocean. You can walk over the island and go to the beach through the forest, with streaming trails of leaf cutter ants all along the path. The ants are carrying the leaves to their nest where they will cultivate fungus on them, which they eat. Pretty awesome.
There is surfing, diving, sea turtles, whatever you want, and it is crazy cheap. Everything is in dollars (Panama uses dollars, gallons and feet), and the people here speak a weird Bislama-style creole of english and who knows what. Actually, I feel a lot like I am in the peace corps right now and I frequently wonder if Naked Ben would recognize this place as being a little piece of Vanuatu.
My one, ok, fine, two complaints are that I got bitten by something nasty and now my leg is swollen and that a previously friendly crackhead tried to break into our room last night. The guy had actually been the one who brought us to the island and we figured he was just a tout. However, there was really not a commission paid and the dude kept hanging around us. He isn't scary, or at least wasn't until he came to our room at 1 am with his crackhead friend and tried to get money from us. Fortunately, the bars on the window are good and our door was locked, but the girls were shaken up so I became very firm with the guy and sent him away while preparing to use more force should it have come to it (which I doubted). In the morning, the Argentinian who runs the place, Manu, went to tell the police to be on the lookout for him, but I think there is not really any danger.
That said, Panama is sweet. I hope it is not just a matter of time until it gets overrun with tourists such as myself.

The Carribean Cost

2008-07-19T14:19:00.000-07:00

We arrived yesterday on the Carribean Cost of Costa Rica. It has been a nice reprieve from the Catholic dominated Latin culture of the Pacific side. In general, things here in Puerto Viejo are much more laid back and there are certainly more dreadlocks and reggae. Also, these are for the locals as much for the tourists, so it is mas authentico. It rains, we eat ice cream and hang out in hammocks then go to the beach and do capoeira or stretch or just hang out.

I guess I don't have any real revelations for this post. I like hanging out and kicking back a little, learning my Nepali alphabet and living a little of the much promised good life. Some people come here from America or other countries with a lot of money. Most decide to spend their couple of weeks here and go home. They think: I like this very well, but I need to get back home to do all these important things. I wonder what would happen if we took the vacation mentalitly home with us? Certainly we would be less "productive" but would that really be so bad?

Bob Marley, "No dreadlock no cry"

2008-07-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

I am taking a brief 2 week vacation with my friend Megan in Costa Rica. I just got here, which, it turns out, might have been contentious.
Frontier Airlines has direct service from Denver to San Jose, CR. It´s pretty darned convenient, dumping you here at 5:30 in the morning with a whole day to get the hell out of the concrete capital. However, when I was checking in to the flight, the young agent asked me if I had been there before. I told her yes, I had a few years ago. "Because you might not be granted entry into the country," she said, "because of the dreadlocks. I´m sorry- I am not trying to offend you, it´s just that Costa Rica has issued us this warning that people displaying Hippie-style clothing, hairstyles and paraphenalia will be denied access."
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah, we laughed when we read that a year and a half ago. But it says here (looking at the computer screen) that things like tie dye shirts and dreadlocks are grounds for refusal of entry into the country. Do you have a hair tie or something? You can have mine if you need it so you can put your hair back." A sweet offer, indeed!

Still, I was a bit confounded about the whole deal. I breezed through immigration (with my locks hidden under a straw hat) and have seen no fewer than 6 other dreadies in the 4 hours that I have been doing anything here. So I guess their screening process is a little less than perfect? WTF, Costa Rica, you overpriced bigotfest of a country- I can see that all those hippies are really doing way more damage to the place than the fat ass geezer americans who are destroying the shores building gated communities where the only Ticos allowed are the servants. Maybe you might reasses your priorities...

(Please note that the above post was written by a person with dreadlocks. Do not believe anything that this hippie is saying!)

Dating, Nepali American Style

2008-06-26T23:37:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend, Paula's parents are in town this week to do some visiting and also to meet me. Normally, meeting someone's parents who you are dating (at least for me) isn't a big deal. However, in this case, my girlfriend is a Nepali American Hindu and there are, well, let's say cultural differences. First off, she had already established long ago with her parents that she would not be engaging in an arranged marriage. The alternative, in Hindu culture, is the relatively recently popularizing (i don't think it's popular yet) 'love marriage.' However, with a cultural background of being in an arranged marriage themselves when they were 13, her parents conceive of a love marriage as one where 'you arrange it yourself,' but is otherwise like a traditional arranged marriage. Normally, an arranged marriage would go a little something like this:

A matchmaker identifies a young person who is in the age of marriage. Nowadays, this can be as old as early 20s, but can often be in the teens still. I am sure that out in the country in Nepal there are very young weddings. (as young as 10 or so. I guess it means something different than in America!) Well, I am 28 and Paula is 24, so relatively speaking, we are both well over the hill. To my credit, I did meet her when she was 18. That has to count for something, right? The matchmaker is time, fate and Burning Man, though.
The matchmaker identifies another young person of the appropriate gender, caste, upbringing, etc. ...Let's see how we would stack up on the matchmaker list. Brahman vs. N/A, Gender is correct, Hindu and, um, generally spiritual, she grew up in Ohio and I was born in Idaho- sometimes people confuse the two states, I guess. So, we have 1 out of 4. Not bad, I would say.
The matchmaker then contacts the families and attempts to arrange a meeting of the parents. In the internet age, this can happen by an email which may describe the suitor, but mostly describes the suitor's family, caste, etc. Much attention is paid to the lineage. In our case, Paula's dad asked Paula to ask me to provide one to him. I did with as much detail as I could because I wanted them to feel like they had good data coming into us meeting- the expectation for an arranged meeting! I also sent along a picture which is really advanced, but again, it helped them conceptualize me more in their minds.
If the mothers agree to meet and like each other, it's time for the papas to meet. This is going to happen, but it will be a dinner with both of her parents, my mom and my sister and the two of us.
Finally, if all goes well, by this stage, the couple might get to meet over a quick lunch or something like that. It is supervised. We have had many lunches, most of them unsupervised, though. And usually they last longer than 30 minutes.
Wedding! Ok, hold up! I'm only 28! We aren't ready to tie the not yet as individuals or as a couple. Still, at least the way seems to be paved for us to openly be together.

Obviously, these steps aren't happening like this in our case. For one thing, there is no matchmaker (I guess this depends on how you look at it.) For another, the steps are all out of order. In fact, it's almost totally reversed compared with the traditional way.

Fortunately, Paula's parents are cool people and open to new things. This is very good for us.

I have been hanging out with them and the atmosphere feels casual. I was actually quite nervous when I met them as compared with other girlfriend parent encounters. Really, there was no need to be, as it always turns out, but I started thinking that maybe they felt similarly. This is a big deal for them because, in their conception of the situation, we are essentially arranging a marriage right now, except that no one knows what the rules are for it!

At first, I thought that Paula and I were bending to the old tradition. However, when I consider it further, I guess it is the other way around, or maybe a little of both. For instance, certain things aren't openly discussed yet, such as the very notion that we are dating. This much is obvious to everyone- they are staying at my dad's house after all- yet it is an unspoken thing.

The unspoken things are the undefined ones. It's funny because we all relate well as people and have a surprisingly number of things and ideas in common. It is just the artificially created distinctions like 'normal courtship procedure' where it feel strange. It's an interesting experience so far, and I am glad to be having it.

This is important to Paula because she obviously wants to share her life with her family, and that includes me. I am happy for her coming out of the closet as a dater.

On Drugs

2008-06-13T00:20:00.000-07:00

I am getting lasers shot into my eyes tomorrow. It should be fun. The ultimate goal is to have nearly perfect, or even better than perfect vision afterward. If not, life as a blind beggar doesn't seem all that bad.

Anyway, I was picking up a prescription at the drugstore for some standard antibiotics to go in my eyes during the recovery phase. Ahead of me in line was a woman who was extremely frustrated because she was trying to get medicine of some sort on her insurance. Apparently, she has been randomly denied coverage on the insurance for a certain prescription that she uses regularly. I guess one of the tricks the insurance companies use is changing their coverage plans on a frequent basis. Presumably, they hedge their need to pay for something by just driving people to confusion and discouragement, hoping they will just give up after trying to navigate their way through the mess of regulation, paperwork and red tape called the claims department. This woman ahead of me had certainly done her due diligence- she had called and gotten pre-approval from the company only to be told by the pharmacist that it wasn't covered after all. Eventually, through some 24 hour support phone calls, she got her way, but I could just tell that is an ongoing struggle that just is wearing her down.

We talked for a little while about it and I empathised with her struggles to get what was agreed to. Why do people have such a hard time keeping agreements now? And why has it become common and even accepted to just renege on what you promise someone, even after they have upheld their end of the bargain. Shame on you, insurance industry! You will be your own ruin. All of your red tape will come back to choke you to death, and as you gasp for your last pathetic breath, know that you were the one that drove prices up so high that you couldn't afford the payments that you promised.

As she left, victorious but somehow drained, the woman smiled for the first time that I had seen and thanked me for talking with her.

In the Valley

2008-06-12T17:20:00.000-07:00

In the valley, every heel clacking pavement has purpose
stop signs direct and design
cars flowing by
and the course of our lives
and for all that infinite potential
at some point you must choose
up the alley, or down the hill
as if it really was a choice
as though you could ever know the difference

In the valley, life drones at a sixty hertz buzz
the coffee machine metronome
counts down to restless leg weekends
and empty glass cocktail events

Standing high on the hills,
wind clutches your shirt like an Indian beggar
and you can see all of this
and it scares me like hell
In the valley, nobody asks
what is it all for

The Inverse Square Law

2008-06-03T15:01:00.000-07:00

Here is a really good example of the 'inverse square law.' Really more of a principle, this rule states that the intensity of wave from a point source diminishes exponentially with the distance.

Also, to a certain degree, plants will photosynthesize at a more or less proportional rate to the light intensity. That said, here is a cool picture illustrating this in a series of basil seedlings on Zeke's desk.

Why?

2008-05-27T23:49:00.000-07:00

If you ever want to really get someone pissed at you, ask them the question of why.

Who, what, when, where and even how are pretty nominally safe questions to ask.

But why is a different situation. It is, in a sense the ultimate question to ask, especially of someone else. It questions their assumptions about what they are doing, and often, their worldview as a result. Many people have a definite plan of what they think is going to happen. An interjection of 'why' can be a jarring inclusion of reality into their story they have crafted in their heads.

And they usually don't appreciate that.

Most people strongly identify with their crafted stories, confusing it with themselves. Questioning the story can be very painful for them- indeed many have built it up over a lifetime. Questioning it essentially forces a miniature existential crisis- question the story and your are questioning the facade, which is fragile and must be protected.

ok, it is really late right now. Goodnight.

I can't believe I saw this happen

2008-05-26T20:15:00.000-07:00

Today, Ben and I went to a state park outside of New Orleans. It's in the bayou, which is like a big wetland that serves to buffer the area between land, sea and river. Being a sort of triple frontier, it hosts tons of wildlife. We walked around on a boardwalk through the life there, eating blackberries that have just come into season and spying the occasional frog or anole lizard. Eventually we came to a bridge above a 1890s era canal that had been dredged through the area in hopes of draining lands upstream to grow sugar. We had seen a number of small alligators in the area, most no more than 1-2 feet long.

As we stood on the timbered bridge overlooking the waters 15 feet below us, we noticed a snake, probably a cottonmouth or water moccasin struggling with a catfish that it had snagged. The snake dragged the catfish up onto a little floating patch of water plants and the two writhed around until the fish was mostly still. The snake then began positioning its mouth over the head of the fish and unhooking its jaw to begin swallowing the prey. To our left, 20 feet away, we saw a large alligator trolling around. The occasional movement caught the alligator's ancient eye and it began paying attention. In rapt silence, we looked on as the snake struggled with the fish, wondering if the alligator saw the scene unfolding. Another splash, and the alligator moved totally silently to the edge of the vegetation flotilla. Now the alligator was within 6 feet of the struggling pair. In a motion that was almost too quick agile and perfect to describe, the alligator snatched up the fish and snake in one gulp before returning to a stony, perfectly calm state. We realized that our jaws had dropped and our mouths hung open during the drama that had just unfolded below. If I had seen the very same event happen on TV I would have thought for sure the event was staged, but it was superbly real.

I must be Indian

2008-05-22T18:27:00.000-07:00

Readers of the blog may have noticed that I have a small om symbol on the title block. It is a physical manifestation of my union with the infinite.

That, and I think it looks cool.

Anyway, Blogger, having now determined that I am not a spammer (finally!) has determined that I am Kashmiri, which is not a great improvement.

California

2008-05-22T18:23:00.000-07:00

I am a tourist visiting the homeland
watts, thousand oaks, sepulveda
stories of my grandmother playing in orange grove irrigation ditches
laid out before me
in grinding, choking boulevards
Bombay with BMWs

these are the streets built with stolen water
infrastructure made possible by Mulholland
roads my mother rode horses on
a fantasy out of step
with six lanes of tinted glass

regrets and promises blend seamlessly
on the ramp, glancing over my left shoulder into the future

into the enormity of the 405 laid out beyond
and when I think it is all concrete and tarmac
unrealistically pink azalea blossoms

explode to cream stucco backdrop and Spanish clay
shattering the stories of nineteen forties monochrome

The Prophet

2008-05-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

I was at the bus stop in Broomfield a couple days ago with four large grocery bags filled with supplies for Thai Tuesday night at chaos. At the shelter, there was a shortish black man with graying hair and a little cart. The cart was expertly packed, but it was impossible for me to discern its contents or function. It reminded me of the kind of thing one would make over time for a specific function, like a custom-built noodle bike cart in Vietnam that has been expertly re-crafted over years of experience, made from discarded remains of society.

At first, I thought he might have been homeless, but I detected a sense of awareness in him that most people who don’t live anywhere are usually lacking.

Being in a curious mood, I asked him what is rig was for and he replied that it was a window washing set. He further explained that he is a professional window washer- however, the washing was only to support his ministry. “yes sir, I am the Prophet Elijah,” he said in a manner so lacking of overstatement that I could do nothing but accepted his assertion, “and I am pleased to meet you- I don’t believe there are accidents or coincidences when you meet someone. Do you consider yourself a Christian?”

I told him no.

We had a brief discussion in which I revealed that I was spiritual but not dogmatic or religious and I did follow some of the eastern traditions of Hinduism and Buddhism.

He extended his hand to me and I took it. With excitement in his eyes and voice, he exclaimed,

on behalf of our good lord Jesus Christ, I claim you for him and welcome you into his eternal kingdom!

Thanks, I said.

“Let me tell you how much Jesus cares about you. Now, I don’t know how many hairs I have on my head,” gesturing to the graying curls beneath his baseball cap. “But Jesus, he knows how many hairs are on my head- and yours too.”

He looked at me with a smile, as if he was about to really drive a point home. Sure enough, “well, imagine for a minute that if he knows that about you, what else he knows about you.” I did imagine Jesus thinking about counting my hair, but for me, the effect seemed more like he was a cosmic voyeur looking through my sock drawer. “He knows a lot of things about us that we don’t even know about ourselves,” clearly pleased with himself for making this straw man argument.

At this point, the reader may be thinking that the prophet Elijah is a typical whack job. Indeed, I will not discount this possibility. Nonetheless, I must say that I admire the Prophet Elijah, and not just for his ability to declare himself a prophet while holding a hodgepodge window cleaning cart with a straight face. No, in this age of yogis with entourages, ministers with private jets and politicians with private ministers with private jets, here is a guy who is just going around by bus washing windows and presumably living a simple life in the face of all the pointlessness around him.

In India, he could be a Sadhu with long dreadlocks, prayer beads and only an orange kurta longhi to his name. Here, he is a guy with a bucket full of cleaning supplies and squeegees stacked and strapped to a discarded baggage cart. So while I don’t feel any closer to Jesus as my personal savior (I still don’t think I require that) I do feel closer to the world in general.

Here’s to you, Prophet Elijah.

Daily Challenge

2008-05-19T11:17:00.000-07:00

I was talking with my friend Jon the other day, and he told me he had been undertaking an effort to smile at as many people as possible, just to see what happens. I thought this was a good idea, and so, I have decided to have periodic challenges of my own.

Today's daily challenge is to tell people what I think or feel and not what I think they want to hear. I am hoping that this will lead to more honesty and perhaps even some surprising revelations that I didn't know before. We'll see how it goes.

A day of No

2008-05-17T16:16:00.000-07:00

Today, I found myself getting told ‘no’ by way more people than normally. Usually, I find that if someone tells you no, you might be on the track to something good. Today, however, it was mostly a track to getting security on my case.

I was working at the Denver Convention Center, representing green power at an orthodontist’s convention. Don’t ask me why that is a logical choice; I am still trying to figure it out myself. But what I did figure out is that security doesn’t like bikes being there, even if you are an exhibitor promoting green and sustainability. They also don’t want you using internet terminals there, even though literally no one has used them all day. It is worth their time, apparently, to employ someone to stand around waiting for a non-conference goer to try to use one and kick them off.

Finally, Denver made the rather unfortunate plan of not having bike lanes pretty much anywhere. Simultaneously, the city doesn't actually let you use bikes on the non-car portion of the 16th Street Mall. The exception to this rule is on Sundays of course, when bikes are allowed and there isn’t any traffic anyway. I know all of this because a semi-employed man with the title of 'greeter' stopped me and told me so. He was nice enough about it, though he did emphasize that "there are signs on every block about this."

Like I read signs.

Maybe I should try telling people no more to see what it is like. Then, I might know better what to do when I get another day of 'no'.

I'm soooo famous now

2008-05-16T16:24:00.001-07:00

Today I found out that I got appointed to the board of directors for TREIA, the Texas Renewable Energy Industry Association.

I was the last to hear that I was getting nominated for the position, I had no campaigning to do, and I was elected in absentia.

All in all, it was a pretty effective campaign that I didn't know I was running.

It's pretty random, but a good resume stuffer, not that I need one....

This Blog is Spam! Humans vs. Robots

2008-05-15T14:41:00.000-07:00

Funny story about me selling viagra... oh wait, I never did that... but apparently google didn't agree!

Blogger thought that this page is spam, and as a result, I have not been able to add anything for several days.

Cute.

Ironically, they sent me a spam-like message informing me to jump through a bunch of hoops, the culmination of which was nothing. At least at the time. They purportedly had a human look my page over to determine I wasn't a robot.

It does beg the question, I suppose, what pray tell was it they thought I was spamming? Like trying to get people into a cult that emphasizes less resource consumption?

According to Blogger's help site, possible reasons for spam flagging include:

Blogs engaged in this behavior are called spam blogs, and can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text, along with a large number of links, usually all pointing to a single site.

I know my writing is bad, but I didn't know it was that bad.

Maybe I can take it as a compliment. My ideas are so fresh and new, that at first glance, they may seem unconnected! Or, Google just thinks I'm a huckster...

grabbing the brass ring

2008-05-11T18:00:00.001-07:00

If you are like me, you may have wondered where this term comes from. (I spend a perhaps unhealthy amount of time wondering about things like this!)

Turns out, there is an interesting parable hiding here. Like so many sayings, the original meaning seemed to have been lost in its essence, at least as I interpret it.

from Michael Quinion's Wold Wide Words:
(note that the bold emphasis at the bottom is mine)

[Q] From Liam: "When people go for the brass ring, what exactly are they going for? Why is a brass ring a symbol of success? Wouldn't a platinum ring be even better?"

[A] This one stumped me, as my cultural background doesn't include grabbing a brass ring as a measure of success. But even a cursory glance at American newspaper archives shows that the expression is common; a recent example is in Ebony for 1 April 2004: "If you're like the millions of women who are on the go — grabbing for the brass ring, focusing on the family or trying to shatter that glass ceiling — it's past time for you to take a step back and concentrate on finding the real you." In response to a plea for help, John Baker of the American Dialect Society made the key connection and from then on it was plain sailing.

We are in the fairground, specifically on a carousel or merry-go-round. At one time, the riders on the outside row of horses were often given a little challenge. Once the ride started moving, a metal arm was swung out — on some rides this held a single brass ring, which riders could try to grab as they passed. Anyone who managed to retrieve it could redeem it for a free ride. Another system had a dispenser of rings, most of which were steel and had no value, but one per ride was the brass one that won the prize.

Brass ring came to have the figurative sense of a prize, in particular one that was hard to gain. Grabbing the brass ring, going for the brass ring or reaching for the brass ring were all used to refer to the opportunity to compete for a grand prize.

Quite when it started to be used in this way isn't clear. The earliest example of the expression I can find, and that already an elliptical one that shows the writer expected everybody to know what was meant, appeared in the Daily Northwestern of Oshkosh, Wisconsin, on 3 August 1931: "The current anonymous volume 'The Merry-Go-Round' ... pokes fun — not nice gentle fun — at our supposed mad round of reaching-for-the-brass-ring-existence."

But references to a literal brass ring go back into the 1890s, as in this from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle of 24 September 1899 about the famous Coney Island amusement park: "This big place has been the rendezvous for thousands of children who have spent their nickels and have enjoyed a ride on the ponies, besides trying their best to capture the brass ring, which the boy drops in the big iron arm that is swung out at the side of the merry-go-round."

Several fairground history sites online suggest that the game fell out of favour in this more careful and litigious age because of the number of young people who hurt themselves reaching for the rings. Though the expression is still common, as time passes the knowledge of where it comes from is falling out of public memory.

The edge of the petri dish

2008-05-11T15:54:00.000-07:00

Today, I was having a little snack with my friend Jon after scamming a $25 gift card for a new organic market. He is a biologist doctorate candidate who spends a lot of time in the lab, watching and experimenting with exponential growth. He mentioned that most of what he does is trying to beat his particular biological culture to the edge of the petri dish. When that occurs, growth stops of course, but more importantly, decline begins. He needs to get the recklessly growing culture to a new home to repeat the process.

I hope we can be smarter than the algae or bacteria. We have no watchful scientist to give us a new petri dish.

The simple act of eating a simple food and watching all the world go by put me into a state of nostalgia for a time where there is less to do. When you get right down to it, there isn't all that much that is important anyway.

At least not the things most people will tell you are important.

I trained as a civil engineer, so I think a lot about the niceties of our society. Things like paved roads, clean drinking water, access to education and information, and so forth. I appreciate these a lot and don't take them for granted. But, let's face it: There is a whole lot of shit that is a huge distraction and does nothing but take away from the things you will cherish most.

There are things that have been commented upon at length by others about our consumer culture- I will not repeat them here and you probably know them anyway. But every once in a while, look around you, and ask yourself: 'What here would I just be unhappy without, and what would I not miss at all?' Do with the results of that as you wish.