Planetary Vagabond

The End of the Road

2009-06-02T00:03:00.000-07:00

Yeah, thats right, this 18 month experiment is done. The results? Inconclusive, which means I'll have to retest somewhere down the road. Don't worry, you'll be there along with me or at least will read about it.

Stay tuned for a wildly boring, psycho-analyzing summation of the trip followed by a long roll call of thanks. In a few hours I start the first of 5 flights totalling 46 hours of transit that will eventually put me home. Direct flight? Never heard of it. Officially I will be in June 3rd for 36 hours. The word "horrid" comes to mind at the moment.

I want to close my eyes and re-open them at The Lake.

Your boy,
Brian

The Land of Thai

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

As a self-professed Foodie, my last stop on this giant wander is most fittingly Thailand. Back home one of my favorite foods is Thai and when I discovered they had a country that actually specialized in this sumptuous food, a visit there was inevitable. Its like finding out there is a TacoBellLand or ChipotleLand. it is a mecca for people who get more excited for the next meal than what ancient artifact that may be looming in the background.
It was straight to Bangkok for me. I stayed not far from the infamous backpacker ghetto of Khao San Road and took went about the business of trying to eat 4 meals of Thai food a day. This is not a food blog (actually I have no idea what kind of blog this is) so I will spare you the probably boring-to-you details of what has been delicious other than it all has been. Luckily for me, I was able to meet up Jana Reid and her boyfriend Sean, with whom we both share many mutual friends back in our native Kansas City. They have been living and working in Bangkok for about 9 months and were nice enough to show the ropes and provide some insight into living in the craziness that is Bangkok. We did a bit of touring and they steered me towards some amazing Thai foods. They seemed to be thorougly enjoying their lives there I can see why as Bangkok possesses an allure and cool that swallows many people whole. Way up on the list of places to return to one day. I left Jana and Sean in Bangkok to head up north and then south, but I hope to rendevous with them to celebrate the end of this adventure before my flight back home.

The next stop was the northern city of Chiang Mai, where I spent the next two days exploring the area, with some friends Trilby and Emma, who I have run into at a couple points in the SE Asia circuit so far. By far the highlight of Chang Mai was the legendary Sunday Night Market, where the food stalls were endless and the goods stalls were all amazingly unique. A four hour walk didn't even cover the whole market. By far the best market I have seen in my life. Coming into a close second in the highlight department was the guesthouse pool that offered daily relief from the intense sun. It was all fun in games in the pool until the Kiwi grandfather I recruited to play Marco Polo with us hit his head on the side of the pool in an amazing display of tenacity and agility during the game. He is ok.

From Chiang Mai, the next stop was Pai, an old hippie town that has blossomed into a laid back home base for trekking trips around the region. For practically nothing my friends and I were able to rent motorbikes to explore the area. An activity I see as vital to seeing the best of SE Asia, although on this trip it would be the source of a bit of discomfort. Towards the end of the day yesterday, on a recon mission down a dirt and gravel road to find out about a place that supposedly had fishing opportunities, I found myself approaching two small dogs in the road immediately before me. Fortunately due to the terrible state of the road I was not going very fast, although it was fast enough to have to jam the brakes when the dogs did not scatter from the road, as in normal circumstances. It was all over from here. As I started to soar over the motorbikes handlebars, my first thought was that I had declined the $1 damage insurance on the bike and that that was probably a mistake. My next thought was that the gravel and skin are a terrible combination. I could have strangled those dogs....
Just like in the movies, it all came out OK. The roadrash was not pretty but my friends came to the rescue with the necessary bandages and beer. I also procured a hammer at my guesthouse to bang the bent bike parts back together enough to make no one the wiser.

Speaking of movies, I recently watched Taken and I am relieved my trip is almost done because I had no idea how much danger I am in of being kidnapped abroad and sold into prostitution by an Eastern European gang. Not only would be it scary but the health benefits and pay are atrocious. I'll take my chances back in the mean steets of Missouri.

Jumping on a bus and then a boat to the island of Kho Samet to ride this baby out. Maybe ya'll hear from me or maybe you won't.

Marco,
Polo

Angkor

2009-05-17T18:59:00.000-07:00

When booking my bus ticket from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap the ticket seller asked me if I had accommodation yet there and I said "no." He told me that he could arrange free transport to a recommended guesthouse and that the moto driver would be holding a sign with my name on it at the bus station. Immature thoughts flooded my brain and the temptation to have some fun with the moto driver was too much to resist.

The town of Siem Reap primarily serves as the base for visiting the famous Angkor Temples. Angkor Wat was the most stunning and somehow I managed to drag myself out of bed in time to view the 5:30am sunrise at it. The Angkor Wat temple is the largest religious building in the world, yada, yada, yada... To put the temples in more understandable layman's terms, its where they filmed Tomb Raider. Was able to take some good pics of the various temple sites, which I will try and upload today for parties interested. Sadly, the best pic of the day was not captured by me. At one site, I was easily coerced into standing with a group of about 50 Asian tourists for a picture. Gladly used as there token Westerner. But the weirdest part was the Buddhist monk who insisted on holding my hand in the picture. I would like to think he was just recognizing the awesome aura radiating from me, although I suspect it was his attempt to cast out the devil he saw lurking within. Hopefully the former.

The town of Siem Reap itself has been quite easy to get used to. On this whole trip, the cheapest accommodation has been found here for $1 a night. This leaves room in the budget to participate in things like having the dead skin on my feet and legs eaten off by fish. Yes, you heard right. There was a pool of fish in town where they charge you to stick your feet in. A bizarre but amazingly refreshing experience. I am mail-ordering 500 of these fish back home so everyone can do it. Keeping regular goldfish never has felt so foolish as now, knowing what these fishies can do. The proprietor even told me the secret to his success: starve the fish. Genius!

Life became random yesterday, almost to the point where I felt like in the Truman Show. In a period of a couple hours I ran into 3 groups of people all mentioned on the blog in one way or another in the last 6 months. One group was Trilby and Emma, of the Wanton Pub Crawl in Hoi An, Vietnam. Another, and really not as random was the Brit and Canadian couple who taught English with me back in Laos, and most bizarrely, ran into one of the Americans I crossed into Israel with 6 months back. I have been looking for fake clouds and cameras in the "sky" ever since.

Busing on over to Thailand tomorrow morning. Will be seeing the bright lights of Bangkok by tomorrow night if all goes well.

Yours,
Mr. Huginkiss

Sad But True

2009-05-17T00:34:00.001-07:00

Phnom Penh. Not the classiest place on earth but probably not the sketchiest either. The backpacker ghetto where most travellers stay was awash with overt propositions for sex and drugs. At least a quarter of the people at my guesthouse seemed to be either smuggler types or pleasure seekers, whatever the cost. The going rate on Life seemed a bit cheaper in this part of the world. However cheap it may be now, it is nowhere near its market level in 1975, when the ultra-communist leaderPol Pot and his Khmer Rouge staged one of the world's bloodiest revolutions. Cities were ordered empty, money abolished, and a total agrarian state was attempted. During the ensuing 4 year reign of terror, the Khmer Rouge managed to slaughter 1/4th of the population of Cambodia before the Vietnamese took control of the country in 1979. Justice has never been seen. Pol Pot fled and died in exile in 1998. Other leaders managed to live normally in Cambodia until natural death, except for the few who have finally been arrested. For current-eventers, you may have read that "Duch" the school teacher turned torture warden of the infamous S-21 is now finally on trial, although the proceeding is in danger of mistrial due to alleged corruption in the Cambodian judicial system. Not quite the story of justice one wants to hear about.

Anyways, the also infamous "Killing Fields" are located just outside Phnom Penh, so this in addition to the S-21 prison were necessary to visit while I was there. It was grim. The museum approach of the Killing Field is straightforward--Here is the field of mass graves and here are the bones to prove it happened.

The S-21 museum was alot more informative, containing chilling photos of alot of the 17,000 prisoners that came through there, of which only 7 survived. Interestingly they had documented interviews of many of the hundreds of S-21 guards now living back amongst the neighbors they formerly tortured. Most transcripts included the phrase "I was only following orders." A defense made popular by former Nazis on trial.

Think America is immune from such a inhumane mentality? Watch (or read up) on Yale's famous 1964 "Obedience Experiment" (remember it from Psych class?)in which the majority of Americans in the testing sample administered what they what they thought was a lethal dose of electricity to another audibly screaming person just because a person of authority told them to. Yikes.

What am I getting at? My usual nothing, but sometimes a dose of reality never hurts to penetrate the insular world we live in. For me, seeing places like the Killing Fields, the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem, the sectarian hate murals of Belfast, etc. represent the shedding away of adult layers of innocence. If I see evidence of another religious or idealogical inspired atrocity, I think I will puke. I used to think being aware of all this was a totally necessary process but now I am second guessing that opinion.

Cue that Don Henley song,
Brian

PS. Sorry to piss in your Monday coffee. I promise to keep the next blog a tad more upbeat.

A River Rat

2009-05-14T18:34:00.000-07:00

The 4,000 Islands. I don't really think it's an apt name for the area as only a handful of the Mekong river islands are inhabited but nonetheless it does paint the mental picture of tranquility. A place where people get aggressively idle. In general Laotians are already very laid back. Supposedly the French have a saying summing up the people of SE Asia--that the Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch it grow, and the Laotians listen to it grow. (Mysteriously the saying omits something about the French selling the rice for their profit). Well, I have never listened to rice grow so I thought I should investigate this phenomenon. And no better place to do this than the river island Don Det.
No bigger than a couple kilometers in length, Don Det has become a must-stop for many travellers heading south to the nearby Cambodian border. The activities list on this locale starts with a stroll around the island and ends with hammock durability testing, with not much else in between. Sadly, sporadic electricity has been introduced to the island, leaving one to look forward to the 10pm power shutoff that returns the island to the desired quietude.

For the second time since I entered Laos I had a bit of an internal plumbing problem. The first time I was in the town of Savannakhet where I was able to buy medicine from a man with a proper bricks and mortar shop, that at least included the word "Pharmacy" (although probably misspelled) on the sign. I was not so lucky on the island. On the advice of the lady I rented the bungalow from I walked over to the underneath of a stilted house, where an old Laotian lady was conducting her trade. I gave her the polite gesture of patting my tummy with a frown to convey my ailment. She in turn made the gesture of eating food and then waving her hand frantically near her behind to show its violent exit. Umm, yeah thats about right...
She then opened her bucket o'toxins and placed all these pills in my hand.

Staring at 12 pills, mostly varied and unmarked, I asked her which ones I was supposed to take and she indicated "all of them." This posed a delimma as I maintain a high personal safety standard, which only allows me to take mass quantities of unknown pills unless I am being paid handsomely by a medical research company. Also, ending up dead on Don Det would spoil what I foresee to be a really fun summer, so I declined to take them right then and there, but bought them as not to hurt the feelings of this aspiring pharmacist. Lucky for me some other travellers offered up some of their more recognizable stock.

Other breaks in idle lazing were a bike trip around the island and the neighboring one. I had been spending the days in the company of 5 Germans I initially met in the village of Tatlo. A hilarious group that made the stay on the island pretty enjoyable. They regularly spouted bits of their German wisdom (they avoid drinking cold water on hot days--with the reasoning that the body has to use energy to warm it up in your body. Not sure I buy it, but it has some merit I guess) and I tried to pass along some practical advice on what to do when residing next to a river. My Missouri-borne wisdom told me that daylight imbibing and jumping off the riverside bar's wooden plank was a suitable pastime. Surely risking fun but also blindness, Laotian brand whisky sells for $1 a bottle on the island and provided the necessary ingredient for a good time by all.

Crossed the Cambodian border yesterday and I now find myself in the capital city Phnom Pehn. If my guesthouse can serve as a microcosym from what awaits me in the rest of the city, its a sunny place for shady people.

Lots of history to ingest today, so I will update soon.
BQ

Laotian Living

2009-05-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

On my bus ride from Savannakhet to Pakse a friendly Laotian struck up a conversation with me containing much of the surface level-line of questioning that one can always expect from a local. "Where are you from? How do you like my country, etc.." The Laotian then abrubtly segued into "The U.S. dropped 100 million lbs of bombs in Laos. Killed many Laos people." It was said without an aire of condemnation but rather just a statement of fact of which I could only reply "yes, very sad" and think about how our fear of a failed political system (communism) has left a legacy of destruction in many parts of the world. A fews days later while trekking alone in the countryside I returned to the village to hear the caution about the unexploded mines and cluster bombs in the area. I only spent a little part of the trek off-trail, although enough that it did give me a momentary pause. The irony of an American stepping on an American dropped mine didn't escape my thoughts either. "Just desserts" is what I'm sure many would have thought, and who would've blamed them? Annually, these explosives kill and maim hundreds of Laotians 35 years after their intended use.

Once in Pakse I fortunate to be a guest of Bertrand and Lyne from France. Couchsurfers and true citizens of the world, Bertrand's work in the coffee industry had placed them in extended residency in Mexico, El Salvador, Dominican Republic and now they were gracefully gliding into middle age in Laos. They had been living in Pakse for over 3 years and were a wealth of information about all things Lao. With their experiences it was easy to sit back and soak in their advice and perspectives. Lyne talked of the linguistic benefits received by her children with their growing up abroad and Bertrand opined about the paradox that although Laotions are extremely good people, they are also hideously corrupt. Given his previous locales of residency this kind of statement held a lot weight.

The two were also able to provide some insight into the peculiar culinary habits of the Laotians. A market stroll highlighted their delicacies: beetles, frogs, chicken embryos--they eat just about everything Bertrand stated. Most revolting is the dish where they drain the contents of a cow's intestine into a soup. So, if someone says they had shit soup for breakfast, they are not making a metaphor for their terrible morning, they actually had it for breakfast. I however did not have shit for breakfast the next morning but instead parted with Bertrand and Lyne and followed their advice to head off to the Bolaven Plateau, where I was to end up spending 5 days in the village of Tadlo.

Set to the side of a waterfall and within walking distance to 2 others, the village was a nice place to assimilate into laid back Laotian living. The daily river-swim usually ended up with an elephant or two appearing out of the trees, ferrying people around the area.

I spent one of the days hiking to 3rd waterfall. I set out armed with it's name, "Tat-sung," which means "mighty wall." Well no, that's not actually what it means but I know you like information so just play along with it will ya? Although there is supposedly a trail all the way to the falls, a walkaround in a neighboring village threw me off it. No need to worry (I didn't hear of the mines until later), as I would occasionally stumble across farmers who would point me in the right direction when needed. Like the one I came across in an empty field, sickle in hand, spliff in mouth, and baby on his back. Tat-sung? That way.....

When I did reach it, its volume was significantly less than the other two falls, although it was several times higher. As the only one there it made for just about the most perfect jungle shower one could have.

Just when I thought I was wrapping up my time in the village an opportunity came up to do a bit of teaching. A Spaniard, who had been staying in the village for some time, hilariously announced at dinner one night that he had just realized that he had flight for home in 36 hours. In Bangkok. This presented a bit of an urgent problem as he and a teenage Buddhist monk had started an English language class for the village kids about a week earlier and now needed people to continue it as about 40 kids were eagerly showing up everyday. Myself, two Brits, and a German agreed to do it, although my motivation was more to counter the instruction of the Queen's English on the kids. "Listen kids, I know what their saying but its actually a trash can not a rubbish bin..."
The following day the Brits and German were leaving so I decided to stay another day to teach the class and hopefully rope some other travellers into carrying on the class. With an incredible guilt tripping ability acquired from my mother, I harassed all the other travellers in the village. "Oh the 4,000 Islands area sounds nice place to head to today..I guess the kids will just teach themselves English..."
With this I was able to get a Canadian and another Brit to assist the class that night and then I was off to the Islands myself.....

Hopefully the rumors are true and there is no electricity on the Mekong River island I am en-route to. If true, you'll hear from me next in Cambodia.

Cell phone turned off (if i had one),
Brian

Hanging a Left

2009-05-03T02:47:00.000-07:00

Due to time constraints my northernly progress was halted and I decided that I needed to take a left. Or a trip west into Laos if you want specifics.
Arranging transport across a border is always a crapshoot. Inevitably plans, people, and modes of travel become sketchier around a border. So when booking passage from Hoi An to Savannakhet, Laos from one of the many booking agents I was a bit surprised when she said that because the border was not open 24 hours, the group I was to be travelling with ("yes, yes, there will be other travellers on the bus" she stated) will be spending the night in the dormitory of a guesthouse in a town neighboring the border. This prospect sort of intrigued me. Mostly because I began to think how interesting it would be to take say the passsengers on a subway carriage or other public transport and force all the people spend the night somewhere. You know, find out what really makes that old man tick that is manically jabbering to himself, or what is really bothering that goth kid giving everyone the stare down. But really this was not NYC, and the bus passengers were probably going to be the regular backpacker crew that is more or less cut from the same cloth, so the concept actually isnt that cool.
Due to the ridiculous business manner in which this trips are usually done, you buy a ticket from a booking office and basically you are at the mercy of what company they outsource the actual transporting. On a given trip you may come under the "care" for about 5 different transport "companies." This was to be my case on this particular trip. In the game of cards I drew and 7/2 offsuit and started on on a crappy bus that became crappier as I was transferred continously from one to another. And yes I was the only one going to Laos. So the grand social experiment of the public bus dormitory lock-in consisted of me being told to get off of the bus in some non-descript town near the border and to ride on the back of a motor scooter to some family's house, where I was to sleep before being put back on a bus in the morning. The tally marks in the weird experiences column on this trip just reached 65 by the way.
So early the next morning with my mode of transport slowly digressing from a bus to inevitably a Fred Flinstone car, I reached the border. As as the only westerner there, the moneychangers were on me like the proverbial stink on shit. It was a pretty painless ordeal however and amazingly after a brief staredown and prodding my last bus driver ditched his initial plans of leaving me there and pocketing the rest of my fare and grudgingly paid another driver to drive me the rest of the route in Laos.
Refreshingly the people in Laos are very laid back and don't quite have the nose for the tourist dollar like the Vietnamese do. I spent my first two nights in the quiet Mekong rivertown Savannakhet. This morning I woke up and drew another bad card hand and had a 6 hour bus ride where they packed them in like sardines. I was lucky in the sense that I had a window seat as I was able to drape my shoulder and right arm out the window the entire journey. I was not worried about possible loss of limb during the trip as the blood had left my arm in the first hour and the severation would have been painless.
On a good note, I am currently Couchsurfing with a nice older French couple who have a nice pad and great info on what to do in the area.

Be Careful What You Wish For...

2009-04-30T01:28:00.000-07:00

Realizing that I needed to outrun this damn Swineflu that was bound to hit Vietnam at any moment, I decided the best thing to do would be get off the tourist trail for a couple days. Plus, I had been feeling a little too comfortable lately and felt the need to get away from the masses for a bit. Or so I thought.
In Hoi An, I decided to rent another motorbike and set off for a 3 day trip along the coast and eventually to Bach Ma National Park between Danang and Hue. I tried to explain this 300km trip to the lady that I was renting the moto from, stressing that I needed a quality bike that wouldn't go on the fritz in BFE. She first pointed to a motorbike and said "yeah good." I shook my head a little at the state of it and then she pointed to another bike and said "really good" and pointed back to the original bike and said "not good." With these words of confidence I set off out of Hoi An, past the Marble Mountains, China Beach (where U.S. soldiers used to take R&R), Danang, and finally through a series of mountain passes, one so enclosed in fog that many motorists stop and give alms for safe passage at one of the many roadside shrines that line the road. I clutched my lucky rabbit's foot and rode on. Once the fog cleared on the highest pass the views around this coastal road where pretty amazing. The highlight of the ride was definitely the peasant women who flagged down my bike from a far distance for a ride but when I stopped her terror stricken face at who she had waved down told me she was experiencing some deep regret. Through some hand gestures I convinced her that she would probably live through this ride and we were off. I dropped her off about 20km down the road and not long later I arrived at the entrance of Bach Ma. Formerly a mountain retreat for wealthy french colonists at the turn of the 20th century, the area later saw heavy fighting during the Vietnam War. Weapons, munitions, and human remains are still stumbled across and visitors are advised to stay on trails due to existence of unexploded mines that still litter the rain forest.

At the parks gate they informed me that for safety reasons I could not take my moto to the summit, where I was planning on spending the night. Basically an excuse to charge visitors. If I had to pinpoint a time where my love affair with Vietnam started to wane, I would say this was to be it. They said that my only option was to hire a car to take me up for about the price of a domestic flight in Vietnam. Or I could hike the 15 km up the mountain. Not one to voluntarily take a financial raping, I opted for the hike up. It was a pretty tiresome uphill climb, although my mental picture of a nice Vietnamese run guesthouse, with a friendly family offering me hot noodle soup at the top kept me going. 4 hours later I arrived at the top and found a manager who couldnt be bothered by the fact that the park authority had booked me into his "guesthouse." Apparently the free market benefits had yet to hit the national park circuit and because visitors are randomly placed in one of the 3 (overpriced) guesthouses on the summit, there is no incentive for cleanliness, friendliness, or just general care. Deekhead was able to confirm to me that I was the only person staying the night and was shown to an empty, derelict structure about half a kilometer from everything else.

My set up was mattress on the floor with the naked bulb in my room serving as the only illumination in this abandoned structure. Strong winds violently blew open and shut the doors and shutters all night in the 15 empty rooms around me. With heavy fog making visiblity zero around me it was probably one of the more eerie places I have laid my head. I went to bed wondering just what in the hell I was doing on top of this mountain.
Things did not get better. The next morning I woke early and started the 15km descent down. At the bottom the park guard tried to swindle a fee for "watching my bike" and I about lost it. I left him looking up "F-yourself" in his pocket English dictionary and jumped on the bike to head back south. Besides raining the whole descent down the moutain, it continued for about 3 of the 4 hours of the journey back. My cheap poncho provided little protection and the ride back was wet and cold. I tried to keep spirits up while riding throught the downpours by repeating the lines in Forrest Gump in the rain montage--"big ole' fat rain, rain that came in sideways...." Yes, wet deliruim had kicked in but it would pass. I arrived back in Hoi An a day early and decided to stay the night to dry out and head back out the next day.
The weather was a better the next day and I took the bike towards the ruins of My Son. It was a ride into the countryside that I wanted and was off track enough to see some genuine smiles and a sidestreet cockfight.

Weather and greedy bastards could not dampen the trip and overall it was good to get out and about. Sounds like a good time for a scenery change..

Dressing Like a Million Dong

2009-04-26T23:16:00.000-07:00

Yes the currency here in Vietnam is called the Dong. Quit snickering you gutterbrain. Anyways, here I am a millionaire in Dong (17,000=1 USD). And because so I decided I needed to look like it. Having heard as far back as before the start of this trip from many people that if I ever found myself in Vietnam to go to Hoi An and get myself some dirt-cheap tailored clothing. Now, as I sit here in 4 year-old khaki shorts and soon to be wearing swim trunks that have seen 5 summers, it is pretty easy to infer that I have little interest in the latest fashions but the chance to get a hand-tailored suit that start at $50, was an opportunity I could not pass up. I guess its an investment for returning to a life previously lived. A step closer to old Brian and a step back from vagabond Brian. The kind of progression that wakes me up in feverish sweating in recent nights.

So the deal here in Hoi An is that this quaint old trading village has turned itself into a mecca for backpackers and high-end shoppers alike to stop in and buy custom made western clothing for a fraction of the cost. And while orders are being sewn up in lightening speed, one can enjoy the scenic town and white sand beaches.
It was a bit of a ridiculous process actually. I went into a tailor shop, they gave me something similiar to a GQ Men's magazine and told me to point at anything I wanted and said they would make it for me in 24 hours. Now lets stop here and discuss just how I intended to pay for anything on my $12 a day budget that allows for little frivolousness. Credit card. They took it, I have one. Am I worried about credit card bills when I get back home? No, because I applied for a government bailout. And since everyone is getting one these days, why shouldn't I? I mean, this is a suit were talking about, not toxic assets.

With non-payment mentality in mind I got myself one suit, one pair of khaki pants, one button down shirt, and one pair of atrocious green "holiday pants" that I intend to wear every Paddys Day and Christmas for the rest of my life. I even had the tailors sew in some elastic into the waistband to ensure comfortable fitting during my more prosperous years. These were by far my favorite purchase. So the total for everything came to $150 and was done in 24 hours, followed by two quick adjustment try-ons. I posted them home so they should arrive around the time I will and just in time to serve as evidence to potential employers that I am am not afraid of stretching a buck with sweatshop labor.
Besides my brief foray into compulsive consumerism, I also rented a bike for a couple days ($0.60) to bike to the beaches and nearby fishing village. Amazingly, I had only pedaled 10 minutes outside of tourist populated Hoi An and came into a fishing village where most people seemed a bit surpised I was there. I was hanging out around the harbor and a group of fishermen were lounging on the bow of their boat and kept motioning for me to come out and join them. So I walked out on the bamboo gangway that led up to the boat and found myself in the midst of a little Sunday Funday celebration. I was immediately included in the continous passing of the communal beer cup and was strongly coaxed into eating the contents of a blackened skillet sitting on the floor of the boat. Another sample of unidentified animal that I will describe as not bad. Conversation was limited but not much was expected in the drinking ritual. The fisherman to my right was intrigued by the hair on my arms and legs compared to his hairless torso and petting them in wonderment. After repeated petting episodes I decided that this sailor had been out at sea a little too long and made a mental note to decline any invitations to head out to sea with them. I took a picture of the fishermen and they extracted a promise out of me that I would return the next day with a copy of the pic for each of them. Seeing as these 5 friends probably would never possess a picture of all of them, I agreed and brought this back to them today. I tracked down one of the fishermen and he was genuinely thrilled as was I.

Another great highlight of Hoi An and some other places in Vietnam is the Bia Hoi, which is essentially un-branded keg beer that they sell for about $0.20 a mug. Besides serving as evidence of God, these prices allow for a party even on my budget. Myself and some other travellers spent last night on a Fried Wonton and Bai Hoi crawl that probably only left me $4 lighter and gave me a renewed appreciation for the fun in activities that have "crawl" in the title.

Making a move soon. Check back to see what it is.

Yours,
Johnny Fashion

Operation Rolling Moto

2009-04-23T04:03:00.000-07:00

My last day in southern Vietnam was spent on a brief trip to the Mekong Delta. While there, I toured the waterways and small islands dotting the area. Also tasted some funky local concoctions including rice whiskey and some snake-juice that came from a bottle with a dead snake in it to drive the point home. It is supposed to be the Vietnamese natural Viagra, which must be consumed by them quite regularly as their population is expected to break 100 million in the near future.

Now I am checking in with you from the central coast in sunny Nha Trang, where backpackers go to get beachside and where 65 year-old creepsters come to marry teenagers. The former activity is in my budget so I spent the first 2 days taking advantage of the first swimmable waters in 6 months. Despite efforts not to, I also received the inaugural burn of the summer. Vain attempts at applying sunscreen were futile and I am begining to suspect there might some connection to the recent closing of the local toothpaste factory and the cheap sunscreen I bought. I thought the minty smell was just a novelty of the Vietnamese brand, not a result of clever re-labeling.

After a bit of relaxing, almost to the point where my pulse was undiscernable, I decided that I needed to give the old heart a workout. This involved joining the frenzied masses and renting a motorbike ($2.50/day) to explore the nearby countryside, where no matter the country, people are invariably friendlier. Having your own transport is such a great way to see foriegn places. It appeases the god of whimsicality, who has never failed to provide me with memorable experiences on this trip. And in this instance gave me the chance to randomly come across a Vietnamese who must have studied at the same sign language school as I because he was able to change my status from terribly lost to almost to the desired location in a quick series of comprehensive gestures.

Budget-wise things are rolling OK, although the cost of transportation is the X-factor I am worried about. It is ridiculously cheap here to get around, its just the distances I envision covering in the next 5 weeks are going to cut things close. I am trying to put off the thoughts now but a few drastic measures may be implemented to bring the budget back on the mark. I have heard the mail system is quite cheap so I may just post myself to the next country.

Heading on an onvernight bus to Hoi An tonight. And yes, I know about the draw of Hoi An so no need to email me. For those who don't know, I let you know when I get there.

Yours,
Cavity fighting SPF 45

History, Tragic and Inspiring.

2009-04-19T02:54:00.000-07:00

I first noticed the thin beads of sweat on my body welcoming the sun this morning around 6am. It was a hot one. Even the locals were bitching how hot is was. Got to get near water. Lake, river, ocean, I don't care just water to immerse myself in.

The first order of business today was the War Remnants Museum, which is a fairly large exhibition on all events surrounding the Vietnam War. The exhibits were predictably subjective, but so were the textbooks I grew up with. Interestingly, part of the museum was funded by the Commonwealth of Kentucky and some major U.S. corporate organizations. The stuff was pretty gruesome and I probably would've lost my breakfast, should I have eaten any. Its worth a visit if one were to mosey on over to Vietnam.

Also noticed today that it was the anniversary of Benjamin Franklin's death, which got me pondering just how in the hell that man had so many AND diversified achievements in one lifetime. All these thoughts were brought forth from a great biography of him that I read earlier this year. That man was amazing. So I was thinking that in order to be remotely as productive as he was, a person should get no more than 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night. Then I thought that this moment in my life would be good time to see if I could productively function on exactly 5 hours of sleep every night for the next few weeks. But then recent thoughts inspired from an Economics book my buddy Shane gave me made me realize that if I was awake that long during each day it would require one more meal, which is just not in the current budget. And so as quick as that idea came, it left.

As you can see its feast or famine with the internet, now currently feasting courtesy of free internet from the sweat lodge propertiers I am staying with. They are basically forced to provide it to stay competitive with the other guesthouse providers--a beneficial product of capitalism enhancing my stay in this socialist country.

Not sure what may unfold tomorrow, but at 17:17 right now my thoughts are leaning towards a day trip to the Mekong Delta followed by a train trip north to sandy beaches.

Tam Biet,
Brian

A Ride to Remember

2009-04-18T05:57:00.000-07:00

"Saigon...shit...." Goes the opening line uttered by Martin Sheen in Coppola's epic movie Apocalypse Now and was also spoken under my breath during my first 15 minutes in this tropical destination known now as Ho Chi Mihn City. Only this time it was spoken in wonderment and not in disdain. No bother that I had nowhere to stay nor was the airport bus running when I arrived. This old woman said she would take me on the back of her scooter and I was all in. I initially scoffed at the idea that her 80 lbs was going to take my 225 of body plus bags to the backpacker ghetto but she was dead serious and so was the next 25 minutes of sheer amazement. Motos, lots of them pack the streets. Crissing and crossing in a bizzare display of fluidity. I read someone before had described it as a massive school of fish that all know each others rythym. I saw no blinkers just intuition. An amazingly quiet spectacle as well. I couldn't have been happier to be introduced to the city this way. The oppressive heat gave way to the breezy ride and I think right there I fell in love with Vietnam. Like a 12 y/o boy smitten after his first kiss, I was in a trance. I'm sure its all downhill from here, but special all the same. You couldn't have wiped the smile from my face with a turpentine rag.
We'll see what holds true.

Your boy,
Brian

Hong Kong

2009-04-17T02:09:00.001-07:00

Even on the smallest of budget's, there is much to be done in Hong Kong. Yesterday, I took a class organized by the HK tourist board, in which a Hong Kong jeweller and gemologist gave a presentation on how to inspect the quality and genuineness of diamonds and jade. I can spot a zirconium a mile away now so if you gave you wife something a little less than precious, $50 keeps my mouth shut.

Also travelled to Lantau island and visited the giant bronze Buddha and the Po Lin monastary. They were not taking applications, so I strolled on through the Temple St. night market and had myself a little surpise soup. Ate nothing crazy this time, but my first night here I was 8 bites into my meal when I noticed I was gnawing on a chicken foot. Hmm.

Today I took a free Tai Chi lesson on the waterfront and took the necessary deep breaths that will get me through the craziness of upcoming Vietnam and SCambodia. Also have re-grown the eyes in the back of my head and my thong-sandal toe rash is ready for the weather. Its off to Ho Chi Minh City tomorrow, so we talk from there.

Q

Asian Touchdown

2009-04-15T06:13:00.000-07:00

Arrived in Hong Kong and managed to find myself sharing a bunkbed in a closet sized room in a concrete catastrophe magnet of a building. Sadly this is still above my budget but its about as low as you can go in HK. Their tourist board offers tons of free stuff so will check those out tomorrow.

Later
Q

One Last Leap

2009-04-13T13:22:00.000-07:00

You see it? You know what it means.

The other day I was walking in downtown Belfast and saw a man lightly tapping one finger on an electronic keyboard while the synthesizer played an actual tune and it occurred to me that like this man, I too was very soon going to have to come up with a genius way of making money.
Here are some realities:
I have been living more or less out of a backpack for 16 months.
Energies are vanishing.
So is money.
So is practicality.

But I have 300 British Pounds, 50 US Dollars, and 40 €uro. And a ticket to Southeast Asia leaving tomorrow. To return June 3. Do the math but I believe that is just under $12 a day, roughly half of what Lonely Planet advises shoestring budgets for the area. It is the challenge I want and need to finish this trip. Just the right circumstances for many good experiences to occur.

In perfect synchchronization my ATM card expired last week as well. Just the cash I have in my possession and nothing more.

I'm starting in Hong Kong, spending 3 days before flying to Ho Chi Minh city, Vietnam. From there my possibilities include Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, and Oceana before my flight out of Bangkok. As always, any contacts of these areas are greatly appreciated.

The drumbeat of normative living is getting louder but its not here just yet..

Road Trip Ireland

2009-04-07T07:39:00.000-07:00

The Crew

"Archibald Thatcher"
Logistics/General Voice of Reason

"The Mean"
Cook/The Decider

Cadbury Goodness & "Old Martha"
Choc treat & Motorhome Mother (we are still trying to get her back to the nursing home we stole her from)

"SleepyMonster"
Question Asker/Animal Whisperer

"Murdock"
Disgruntled RV Driver/Itinerant living consultant

The occasion? The arrival of 3 Chicagoan friends. As requested they landed bearing no formal plan, only the expectation of good times ahead. A bit of pre-departure talk among ourselves concluded that although we were all still mildy awesome, our prime of coolness had probably been declining since the glorious college years. Good thing our new buddy Keith, who was to rent us his motorhome, also possessed a Back To the Future DeLorean car completely fitted out with a Flux Capacitor. Ready to transport us back to our former glory.

Although Keith got high marks in street cred for his badass ride, he came up short in the judgement department when he handed me the keys to his motorhome.
Cause we were off like a pack of Banshees*!

*We found out during the trip that a Banshee is in fact a spirit in Irish mythology who appears to announce someone's death, which was a fact unknown to me and yet another revelation that I don't understand the meaning and origin of most of the expressions I use.

In my excitement I jumped ahead a bit. Before departing Belfast in the Party Palace, the crew and I rented a wee car and drove over to County Fermanagh to do a CouchSurf with the Whaley's, the family I initially surfed with back in February. The type of people that put you at ease within 10 minutes and feel thoroughly attached by day's end. They were kind enough to host us all and give Shane, Bridget, and Mary their first CS experience. Although we only had the afternoon and evening with them, it was enough time to see the nearby Necarne castle and drop in on my friend Niamh's uncle who runs the town's hotel/pub and is regionally famous for ruffling conventional feathers by organizing a parade of turkeys through the town and holding a wolf whistling competition soon with Miss Northern Ireland as the bait. I am sure he has some good stories to tell, should one be able to understand what he is saying.
And so after our stay with the Whaleys, we headed back to Belfast to return the car and pick up our home on wheels. For the first day our compass pointed North, with stops to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge and Ireland's only World Heritage Site--The Giant's Causeway before we found some of our brethren and parked the RV just outside the Northern city with 3 names--LondonDerry, Derry, and the postmodern Stroke City, for those who refuse to the passive political game.

The first couple nights of RV docking put us in coastal RV parks and out of the possiblity for town carousing. Lucky for us, the Party Palace was equipped with a Disco in the back of it. With a U-shaped lounge and 2x2ft dance floor, the Party Palace was an apt abode for spontaneous fun and hadn't a group of men so politely burrowed my last disco ball back in Turkey, the Da Club in the RV would have been fully fitted.

The next few days brought us through Donegal and down the west coast before we set us shop in Galway. Galway's charm kept us there for 2 nights, with highlights being the repeated telling of the legend of Billy Lawless in town pubs, the gathering and cooking of sea fare (probably tainted), and our consorting with a certain Galway Hooker--the beer that is.
After Galway we headed down to the Dingle Penninsula to check out the berries down there and also to experience the area that had been so widely recommended to us. Also met up with my friend Niamh D , who was there camping with a friend on their Easter Break. The last night saw us in Dublin and from there most of the crew stayed to await there flight while I sprinted back to Belfast to return the suprisingly intact RV and hastily pack up my life for the next departure. A great trip made memorable by the unique personalities hailing from Chitown. This blog is missing many pics and stories, so it will be continously updated for awhile. I just wanted to lay the base down before leaving.

And So It Begins...

2009-04-04T14:48:00.000-07:00

Picked up Shane, Mary, & Bridget from the airport today, all ready to commence and all-Ireland RV road trip. Should be an event or two to report on so stay tuned.

In a van down by the river,
BQ

Belfast Visitors & Another English Jaunt

2009-03-29T10:56:00.000-07:00

Despite worried emails from their respective mothers about the recent tumultuous happenings in Northern Ireland, I convinced my friends Nick and Amy Decenso to make a stroll up to Belfast to check the place out for themselves. As they were to be my first official visitors, I wanted to make their stay as pleasant as possible and decided to undertake the activity I hate the most: house cleaning. At this point in my life it has become apparent that I have to adapt to the concept of hosting married friends in my places of residence. Sadly, gone are the days when a case of beer, package of Bratwurst, and bare couches sufficed as hospitality to derelict friends. I guess the book of life turned a page unnoticed on old Brian awhile back and I am now finally catching up to the natural progression of life's formalities. Now don't take this as an indictment against the Decensos, as Nick and Amy are about as easy going as they come and would care little about the state my abode, rather I only raise this point to reflect where I am, or trying to be at in my life. So I divided the project into 3 phases, lasting as many days and got the flat in entertaining shape, or gave it my best at least. God help the poor soul who opens up the closet in the spare bedroom next.

Nick and Amy's arrival to Belfast for a couple nights brought the opportunity to visit a few of the pubs I have been wanting to see in Belfast and "officially" eat in the restaurant below my flat. It was good to spend some quality time with Nick and Amy as the last time I had seen them both together was at their wedding in September.

A few days after Nick and Amy left, I left Ireland again and went with my boss to call upon several auction houses in England and Wales. As the only visible person in the first half of life that I came across in all these auction houses, I was able to deduce the primary reason for buying and displaying antiques must have some to do with feeling younger. One has to feel at least a bit fresher in their days standing in front of a 200 year old bookshelf or desk. I have also concluded that the business of antiques is based on ridiculous perceptions of value and speculation. You mean that sloppy excuse for a water color painting is worth $10,000 but my prized Huey Lewis and the News record is worth nothing? Baloney. Also, the opportunity for unscrupulous behavior of buyers and sellers alike in the auctions is a enough to turn off a saint like myself from delving into its depths professionally.
While gone in England, two milestones passed: one was my half-birthday on the 27th. Yes, you missed it you bastards. And the next was the blog received its 20,000 page hit. What does this mean? Absoulutely nothing. But the site's board members thought I should acknowledge it.
Anyways, while in London during the trip, I got to do a little sightseeing. Expecting little satisfaction to come from a visit to a mall, I was shocked at what I saw in Harrods in London. Opera singing staff in the "food court" as well as serenading women as you ascend on the elevators made this place give the outlandishness of things in Dubai a run for its money. I got to further participate in this fantasy world when my boss decided to celebrate what I presume to be a wildly unprofitable antique expedition by treating us to a champagne luncheon in Harrods. An appropriate celebration of my half-bday I must say.

In unrelated news, I was tilting the Bacos canister into my mouth today when I noticed the label said Suitable for Vegetarians on it. I mean, its bad enough that Bacos bacon chips actually contain no real pork product, but do they have to shove it in my face that it soley consists of chemicals combined to give it that flavor. Is there a vegetarian out there eating Bacos? Correct me if I am wrong, but aren't there two types of vegetarians-- some for reasons of animal suffering, etc. and those who do it for health reasons. I cannot imagine that eating chemically altered Whoknowswhat is tempting to either group.

The level of excitement is heating up again. This upcoming Saturday a rigorously selected crew of Chicago misfits are landing in Ireland and pending their successful passage through Irish customs, will be joining me for a barnstorming tour of whats still unseen on this island. After that is a major geographical jump for me. But we can talk about that later.

Probably Not Suitable for Vegetarians,
BQ

Paddys Day with the O'Decensos

2009-03-28T03:10:00.000-07:00

Paddys Day needs no introduction nor any description of what occurred. You did it too, just somewhere else. I had the pleasure of spending Paddys Day with SLU friends Nick and Amy Decenso, who had flown over the day before from their European trip's first destination in Spain. We rendezvoused with my friends in Dublin and celebrated the Irish holiday in the Irish capital the American way: getting toxicly crocked.

Amy lamenting the fact that this Diet Coke bottle of Whiskey will soon render her husband totally nonsensical.

He is there now and I apparently am confused about many things at this point, most obviously that I believe to be in Compton.

Drink in Dublin on St. Patricks Day,

Check.

The Business of Livin'

2009-03-12T10:23:00.000-07:00

The past 6 months of has been some full living. 10 more countries, handfuls of incredible experiences, soles worn through, soul thoroughly exhausted. So when my fam proposed the idea of taking advantage of our relative proximity to return home for a week, I jumped on it. You see, I had become concerned. My niece Kate had begun to believe that I existed only in the computer as she was only seeing me every now and again through Skype VideoChat. As much as I would periodically like to make Wizard of Oz-like appearances in peoples lives to dispense wordly advice, the idea of being an interactive computer game didn't sit well with me. Time for Brian 3D to make the rounds.

The trip started in St. Louie, where I met up with Beth, the Tiehens, and some friends from college. Also snuck in a quick visit to my friends at my old office. Amazingly, Beth is still talking to me even though I have unsuccessfully tried several times to get her fired from work so she can meet back up for some more travel. During these attempts I did also find out that blackmail is in fact a criminal offense, not just a clever trick.

After a few days Beth and I drove to KC so I could eat some barbeque and see if my family wanted to say hi. Luckily they did, and the ensuing 5 days were filled with good times KC style. I would like to say we drove this motorcycle all the way to KC but that wasn't the case. Here is Beth with Warren from Something About Mary.

For those of you wondering, I am not quite ready to quit my living to dust off the old work suit just yet. But realistically it is coming sooner than later. I got one last hurrah in me, just need to figure out what in the tarnation it is going to be. Considering just disappearing somewhere and sending obscure picture clues for your guesses. I have some time to think though as I have another action packed month in Ireland. Paddys day next week with the Decensos, followed not long later with a sure to be epic road trip with Shane, Mary, and Bridget from Chitown.

While I was gone, Belfast and Northern Ireland managed to get itself back in world headlines. As you probably know, two dissident IRA groups stuck, first killing two British Army soldiers at a barracks followed two days later by a policemen being killed. The legitimate political party, Sinn Fein, run by many ex-IRA, condemmed the attacks along with the rest of the saner population. Haven't been able to get to any of the protests but it is pretty apparent that people from both sides are not going to tolerant a regression towards yesterdays Troubles. I will be your I-Reporter should things heat up more.

Thats all I got.

More when it hits me on the head,

Brian 2.0

The Aran Islands

2009-03-09T08:26:00.000-07:00

When I first landed in Ireland almost 2 months ago, my friends informed me that in late February they were taking me to a festival being held on the Aran island Inish Mor off the coast of Galway. They obviously promised that it would be a boozefest but not until later when I was more adequately informed did I realize that it would be one that was religious themed. As the product of Jesuit education and having a friend who is a Jesuit, I know that clergy and booze are usually not exclusive terms, so I guess I was not initially shocked by the itineriary.
TedFest, is a festival held by devout fans of a former sitcom in Ireland and the UK called Father Ted. A comedy about 3 disfunctional priests assigned to a parish on a practically uninhabited island, the show only ran for 3 seasons before the death of the show's main character Father Ted, although it still managed to garner a cult status and huge following. On its third year, the festival is run chalkfull of Father Ted themed parties taking place in one of the island's 4 or 5 pubs. With festival tickets limited at only 200, I tried to watch as many of the shows as I could prior to the weekend, lest I be revealed as an imposter at this gathering of followers whose zeal is a bit Star Trekkie combined with the imbibing eagerness of a frat pack. It takes alot to shock me these days, but my first taste of the coming experience occured at the dock prior to departing the Galway area for the island, when I passed a frocked "nun" carrying a case of beer who I overhead muttering "feckin' hell" apparently in reference to a forgotten item. She and the 200 people, myself and 3 friends included, dressed in clergy attire would soon descend on the island of around 850 people. Besides the benefiting merchants, I can only imagine how horriried much of the islanders are when their quiet island is taken over by 200 Guinness infused "clergypeople," who spend the day bicycling the island from bar to bar before converging on the one meeting hall for the nightly festivities. As probably the only non-Irish/British attendee, I managed to get myself interviewed by a film crew documenting the ridiculous affair. I may have told a little lie to the interviewer and stated that I came all the way from the States for this, but hey, I didn't have to look far for absolution for that tiny sin. Although I know Irish religious conservatism has relaxed a bit over the years, I was still surprised at the general acceptance of the mocking behavior occuring throughout the weekend. Enough for even this boy to blush a few times.

With the sparse accomodation available snathed up by attendees long ago, we were resigned to field camping, which in February in Ireland can be potentially dreadful. Luckily, besides a few rain showers, the weather and the festivities turned out well. The highlight of the weekend was probably watching the Ireland beat England in the Six Nations rugby match in a pub full of hysterical Irish fans.

Returned back to Belfast late Sunday night, just in time for my early morning flight home to the good old US of A. Between England and Inish Mor, I haven't slept well in the past week, but the promise of proper barbeque and endless reality TV show conversations will surely keep me chugging along.

Keep the faith,
Father Brian

A Stroll Through England

2009-03-09T07:40:00.000-07:00

trying to play catch up on the events of the past two weeks.

Not long ago my boss and I took the overnight ferry from Belfast to Liverpool, England with the goal of picking up much of his purchased antiques scattered in auction houses around the country. My primary function in this mission was to drive the van and to "motivate" any troublesome auctioneers, mostly by dangling their prized tweed jacket over a high ledge. The former task was a bit daunting as 1) I have not driven much in the last year 2) Fairly new to right-hand driving on the left side of the road. Throw in about 200 technically challenging "roundabout" intersections, a van load of irreaplaceable antiques, and a undiagnosed narcoleptic "navigator" and you have a disaster blogpost just begging to be written. But, as a champion of adverse situations, I managed to get around England and back to Belfast with the cargo more or less unscathed. The tour was brief and logged many miles but I was able get good roadside view of the stunning English countryside as well as some of the major cities: Liverpool, Nottingham, Birmingham, Bath, and Manchester. It was also a bit enjoyable to get an inside view of the antiquities underworld. I tried my best to fit in by staring approvingly at seemingly worthless pieces of crap and saying things like "Righto good chap." My attempt at faux snobbery was transparent and I was largely ignored at the auction houses until I started telling people I worked for Antique Roadshow. I then got them back by telling them their goods were worth nothing.

There is a chance I will be back in England/Scotland/Wales for some more this business, so I will try and record conversations for our enjoyment later.

Cheerio,
BQ

An American Sabbatical

2009-03-02T16:15:00.001-08:00

Just scooped a handful of American soil into my mouth and it doesnt taste quite as I hoped it would but nevertheless I'm the Motherland for a week. I owe you a few posts soon, just don't start holding your breath on me.

BRIAN

Life in The Big Smoke

2009-02-22T10:59:00.000-08:00

as Belfast is sometimes referred to. Well, I officially feel a bit settled here. My goal to familiarize myself with the whole city was more or less met when I finally hiked up the Cavehill yesterday and took in the panoramic views of the city and surrounding area. It was also clear enough that I could see all the way across the Irish Sea to Scotland.

Actually, I guess in my getting acquainted with the city I failed to notice until today the name of the Asian restaurant just down the road from my house. Those asians sure are funny.

Things have been going well on the employment side of things. Besides bringing in the bacon, work has been doubling as a continuing education. My daily work sidekick Malachy has been is a weath of good advice ("Never look a gift horse in the mouth; A blind man on a galloping horse couldn't see that mistake we just made")in addition to having been proven to be quite a source of information in regards to what life was growing up during "The Troubles" here in Belfast. Riots, bombings, knee-capping IRA men, and a divided city was all apart of normal life. The city is not that big, so more or less he can tell second to third-hand stories of just about every major event that occured here.

Beside the work Malachy and I are doing restoring an old Victorian room for use for private dining, I also occassionally fill in on the floor at the restaurant. The convenience of the restaurant's location beneath my flat keeps me fed well and occasionally entertained--either by the nightly Billy Joe-esque piano man or the chef and some regulars staying late night to sing and guitar Irish songs.

Tonight, I am heading with my boss over to England to do and quick lap around the country to pick up antiques he has purchased in online auctions. Will return friday only to immediately head for the Aran Islands for festival of sorts. I'll take take notes on the experience for you.

Unrelated, but equally important is the formation of a new website sure to revolutionize and de-stigmatize online gambling that cripples so many of our degenerate friends. Working within U.S. gaming laws, my friend Tim Reardon and his brother and some of his friends have created at sports gambling site, where ad revenue funds your gambling. You lose nothing but are mailed a check once your starting balance of a quarter reaches $20. On the top of my head, I can think of 30 people who could and will spend the majority of their work time on this site. You know who you are.
Check it out. QUARTERBETS.COM

Keep the milk money,
BQ

County Kerry

2009-02-16T13:37:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I was able to accept an invitation by my friend Niamh's family to spend a days with them on their vacation in Killarney, County Kerry. So effectively, I had to travel from the northeast part of the island to the southwest corner. It was quick weekend trip for me but I still was able to cram some amazing hikes around the countryside. Normally during peak tourism season, the Ring of Kerry area is log-jammed with people and coach tours but the place was pretty tame when we were there. It was also a big treat to be in the place with an Irish family who had been holidaying there for the last 30 years and knew the history of just about everything. The Grogan's are good craic (fun), and it was one of the best expeditions of the Ireland trip so far.

Without stealing to many Ireland travel description cliches, I just want to say the area is quite amazing. Rock roads lines with moss encased walls seperating vast stretches of green bog land. If there ever was such a thing as a majestic view (did I really just use majestic?), that was it.

On the train ride from Mallow to Dublin on Sunday night, I found myself riding in one of the more state of the art trains I have been on during this trip. Gleaned from my online reservation, my full name was displayed on a screen above my seat. At first I was a bit shocked at the public display of private information but then was delighted by the endless possibilities of mischievousness. Instantly I wished I entered something way more hilarious into my reservation name. You know, like Brad Quarnstrom!

On a good note, the weather has become a bit warmer laterly. Down to 2 duvets at night. Was in my favorite shop yesterday and that monster tin of nacho cheese is still eyeball'n me. Have resolved to buy the sucker if its still there next time I go in.

Yours,
Brian

Hooray For No FDA!

2009-02-11T13:49:00.000-08:00

Although this kid is enjoying his temporary settlement in Northern Ireland, cost cutting measures must be taken in daily life to save enough cheese to produce myself in unchartered ground in a couple months. We have already spoken of frigid sleeping conditions to cut down on the energy bills, now lets talk about food. Expired ones.
Some people religiously adhere to expiration dates. I have a certain brother in law that I am pretty sure wakes up at midnight to go downstairs to rid the fridge of any “danger” that is now 2 minutes over the recommended consumption date. Well actually to be honest I think he throws it out 2 days before expiration, but you get my drift. I mean really, is the "Best By" date just a friendly suggestion or does stuff really turn into inedible matter at the stroke of midnight?
For those who throw culinary caution into the wind, a wealth of savings can be had by developing an inability to read or care about mostly arbitrary expiration dates. Born a picky eater, it has only come to me recently to consume just about anything. This combined with having apprencticed under notorious deal finder Matt Kopp (I am pretty sure he used to bring his own price sticker gun to the store in addition to purposely denting cans one day to return to buy them in the damaged goods section the next day) has made pragmatic eating the trend as of recent. Ever see something at the grocery store that expires the next day and wonder what is to come of the food the next day? Well here in Belfast the good Arabic family that runs Bestsellers Grocery either nabs the stuff out of the dumpster at the regular stores or buys these goods for next to nothing and puts them on display in their own store. Either way, I don't really care as long as I can continue to be able to buy canned good for 15 cents and pounds of bacon for a Pound.

The place is freaking amazing. Name brands galore, all with varying lengths of dates past that I try not to look at. Obviously the meats, cheeses, and milk have to be consumed in a timely basis, but other than that whats 2 weeks on stuff that is expired by 20 months? See that yogurt? Well it wasn't pro-biotic before, but it certainly is now.

The biggest delimma of today was when I stumbled upon a commercial size tin of stadium-grade Nacho Cheese. Although it would have taken me a month of daily nacho eating to finish it, I sat and comtemplated how for £1.50, it may just be worth trying out.

Having a dinner party tomorrow with expired taco shells, enchilada sauce, and salsa. Will let you know if anyone dies.

Good for a long while,
Brian

County Fermanagh

2009-02-08T12:26:00.000-08:00

Feeling the need to get somewhere unfamiliar Saturday morning I managed to line up a ride on Gumtree (UK's version of Craigslist.com)from Belfast to County Fermanagh (A region known for its lakes about 2 hours away from Bfast). I had corresponded with the driver only with a few emails so when he picked me up and I said hello, he responded with a resounding "you're a f**ken Yank! I was hoping that it was a celebratory statement. It turned out that it was more of an exclamation of coincidence as the man's wife, who was riding in the back with their two kids was American as well. Richard and Megan were a younger couple that had just moved back to Ireland after spending 4 years living in the "ghettos of Boston." They were an entertaining ride out with their stories of Richard's time in the States, which admitted he spent mostly drunk and Megan's adjustment to life in Northern Ireland. They seemed to be struggling a bit as she could not work yet due to her residency status in limbo and he indicated that he hasn't been able to work since they returned months ago, which made me feel a bit guilty with my situation of employment.

They dropped me off in the center of the town of Enniskillen. I spent part of the day walking around the Enniskillen castle, Lough Erne, and a brief tour around the Clinton Center for Peace, which is located on the site of the 1987 Remembrance Day bomb by the IRA. Love him or hate him back home, Slick Willie is thought of highly by most on the Emerald Island due to his extensive involvement in the peace process here. Evidence of his notoriety was strengthened when the family where I was Couchsurfing, told me their 2 hens and 1 rooster they had were named Hillary, Monica, and Bill. In a twist of fate, Bill and Monica were mauled by a neighborhood dog, leaving only Hillary, which I am sure some could see some symbolism in.

Through Couchsurfing, I had lined up a stay with the Whaley's. An extremely charming and fun family. Karen and David had spent much of their youth travelling and wanted to help out other travelers as well as introduce their children to the cultures of others that may be passing through. After pre-dinner pints and soccer watching with David and oldest kid Joe at the nearby pub, we had a delicious feast of middle eastern food shared with some of their friends. The morning brought a few layers of snow and we took the two youngest on a trek to the nearby castle grounds for a sledding expedition. Although only a brief visit, I hope to see them again by bringing over visiting friends to experience life with such a interesting family. The youngest Grace even colored the sign that I used to hitch-hike from Enniskillen back to Belfast.
Something about polka dot lettering on a sign made me a bit nervous, but it must've worked as I was picked up on the edge of town within minutes by a older couple, Mary and Brendan, who graciously produced me back home. It was about as much fun in 24 hours that one could have.

Not sure what this week will bring, but you will hear about it.
BQ

Ode to Living in a Freezer

2009-02-03T09:08:00.000-08:00

Shite, it is freezing here! Well, actually it is just around freezing outside but this old flat I am residing in is about as far from heat efficient as possible. Gas to heat the boiler is not the cheapest so I have been trying to see exactly how much cold I can tolerate in the apartment. At what point does your core body temperature recede? A wise person once told me the ills that can occur if your body temperature drops, although I have forgotten all...
Living life in a cold state is not fun but it has definitely routinized my life. After hitting the snooze alarm 8 times, I emerge from the cocoon I have built out of 3 duvets to stay warm.
Then I make a bee-line to the radiator in the TV room and turn it on so I can sit on it while I manage to push Frosted Flakes through chattering teeth. After pouring half of my coffee on my feet to defrost them, I shut down the radiator and head to work. After work when back at the apartment, I perform the "see your breath test" and if it is positive, then I treat myself to a de-winterized TV room. Later I remake the cocoon and enter it for the nights hibernation. Unfortunately, I cannot take a shower as a source of warming up beacause for some goofy reason the water comes out of the shower head just at room temperature but out of the bottom spicket hot. So it's a regression to thrice weekly baths for me, which actually is not a bad plight. This all would not have happened if I received a heating bill like you do in the States. Otherwise right now I would running that sucker on High until I received my first bill 2 or 3 weeks from now, at which time it would have too late to freeze myself. But here, you use a credit card slotted gas meter that allows you to easily pay and track your spending and usage.

I tried my best to insulate the windows but I am ready to revert to Franklin County meth-head tactics and just throw some blankets over my windows. Funny how just about this time last year I was b*tching in a blogpost about the trying to sleep in 95 degree weather in Buenos Aires. I miss the heat.

Burrrrrian.

The Troubles

2009-01-27T13:41:00.000-08:00

Here in the North periodically in conversations you will hear a reference to in one way or another to "The Troubles." A casual and innocuous mention of the period of 30 years of bloodshed between Irish Catholics/Nationalists and Protestant/Unionists.
Need a little background?--being the ethnocentric Americans we are, I bet we could all use a brief and broad summation (I apologize in advance for the gross generalizations). Well, when Ireland gained its status as a "free state" in 1922, the compromise was that big bad colonial Great Britain would retain 6 counties in the north of Ireland, which to this day is considered part of the United Kingdom. Eventually, years later when Ireland became a Republic, many Irish wanted ALL of the island to be part of it, including some of the people in the UK controlled northern Ireland. They are called Republicans or Nationalists. For years, the para-military face of this sentiment was the Irish Republican Army or IRA. They have since partially broken off into splinter groups but in terms of violence have been relatively quiet for the last decade. Besides the distinction of being nationalists, they are predominately Catholic as well.
On the other side of the fence, literally, are the Protestants. Here is the "Peace Wall" in West Belfast seperating the Catholic and Prostestant working class neighborhoods.

Now these people would like to maintain their ties with Great Britain and are referred to as Loyalists or Unionists. Their para-military faces are many but the big ones are the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) and Ulster Defence Association (UDA). At the hands of "volunteers" of these groups and the IRA and its off-shoot organizations, many pretty grim atrocities have occured over the past years in Belfast and around Ireland.

Still with me? Well, if you are thirsty for a better understanding hit up Wikipedia.com. You know the drill.

Anyways, last Saturday my friends from Dublin and I decided to take a tour down Falls Road (Catholic) and the Shankill Road (Protestant). We went one of the ubiquitous black taxis, whose drivers often specialize in giving tourists the run-down on the conflict. Obviously for me it was all new information and sights. This also was the case with my two friends from Dublin, one of whom had only visited Belfast in her youth and recalled being terrified the whole time. My Belfast born friend June was a bit more up to speed with the past events. The Troubles narrowly missed tragically affecting her family in the 80's, when her mother was hurriedly ushered from her car after a car bomb exploded nearby, followed shortly after she left her car by a bomb in the car next to hers.
The taxi driver, was pleasant and informative during the 90 minute tour, but lost marks on subjectivity. His partiality to the IRA cause was most evident in the praising remarks of the IRA "volunteers", who according to him, died as matyrs for their cause. He seemed reluctant to take us to the Protestant part of town saying that his taxi company had only been travelling within the area for the last 18 months as they had received threats. Hearing the propaganda tour, I was not surpised by this. Although it would have been the same way had we gotten into a Protestant run taxi.
Located all around these two streets are political murals glorifying the murderers from both causes and spewing divisive religous material. Ugly scars of ignorance and intolerance. Is this really 2009 in Western Europe!. Just some good ol' church going folks hatin' on each other. A conflict, the same constant, a different country.

Luckily this type of foul shit is located in one part of Belfast and if you didn't seek it out, you would never see the likes of it. Although for some, sentiments still run high and I am always aware of my terminology when describing things. British, Irish, Ireland, United Kingdom.

Human,
Brian

Belfast 2

2009-01-26T23:39:00.001-08:00

Alright back to life here. I have been fortunate in my setup. Like I said, I live above one of the restaurants and occasionally my commute to work is 14 stairs. The flat is situated near a major university and in a neighborhood with most of Belfast's eateries and pubs. Most importantly is my proximity to a cheap but amazing Chinese Buffet. 154 paces. Pretty much like putting a glue-sniffer next to an Elmer's factory. After slowly weaning myself off before the trip and being without for most of it, I am back on buffet gorging wagon. Oh sweet Chinese.

Some thoughts on my adjustment here. Let's talk about language. Yes, we speak the same, which is sometimes unfortunate because it leaves me no excuse for miscomphrehension due to the distortion of some heavy accents. Sometimes the only cues I have for what my reaction should be to what was being said is the number of F-Bombs dropped in the sentence. Only 5, I usually nod approvingly. Upwards of 15, I usually feel that it was something that I should be angry/shocked/disbelieving, so I just shake my head with a frown and hope they don't realize that didn't pick up on what was actually said. What is nice here is being called "love" by someone you just met. In regular everyday conversations, having an old lady call "love" usually gives me the false impression that I have already succesfully integrated into life in the North.

Ok back to the flat for a moment. When I moved in the place contained a few food stores. Some horribly expired, but edible all the same. One of which is a Sam's Club type case of cheddar crackers. I have been doing my best to take advantage of the bounty, so if anyone has any good recipes that incorporate Ritz-esque crackers, please shoot them my way. This is your cue Matt Kopp.

Well crap, I need to wake up earlier as I just cant manage to get off more than a couple paragraphs before work. More when I can.

O'Brien

Oh and anyone fancying a chat up, my cell number here is (from the US): 00447546103258 (Dont forget about the time difference:) Mailing address available upon request (there are a few Blogstalkers I am afraid of).

Hiding Out in Belfast

2009-01-25T13:20:00.000-08:00

It used to be said in traveling that you should avoid the three B's--Beirut, Baghdad, and Belfast (Branson, MO should've probably been in there too). Well, only Baghdad is still left unexplored but dont think I will be getting to that anytime soon. As for Belfast, from what I have heard, even during the worst of what people here refer to at "The Troubles," or the 30 years of sectarian violence before the 1998 peace agreement and cease-fire between the IRA and the Protestant/Loyalist factions, the place was never anymore dangerous for foreigners than any other U.S. city. But lore and media hype will prevail and when I arrived to Belfast last week to meet the guy I will be working for, I can't say I wasn't a wondering what the hell, when he and his right hand man Malachy, showed me the flat I will be staying in and this AK-47 was sitting on the floor. A curiousity got over me pretty quickly you could say and I picked it up to examine, noticing its weight and metalic feel while doing so. Not until I pulled the slide on it did I notice that it was an airsoft BB gun--Ha!

Have been in Belfast for under a week and already really enjoying the place. As I this stay will be alot longer than my usual 3 day jaunt somewhere, I will try and give you a more descriptive picture of where I am at and what I am doing. Came up here to work for my friend's dad, who owns a couple restaurants. He has put me to work with his man Malachy and so far we have been mostly working on various projects needed between the two places. One restaurant is a popular cafe/diner type located in the heart of the city center. A 15 minute walk from there, located in what is called South Belfast, is the other restuarant is an up-scale eatery with a piano player crooning most nights. Above this lies the flat I now reside in. (got to finish this blog later today as I have to report to the old 925. Later BQ)

America's Day in Dublin

2009-01-21T22:49:00.000-08:00

Finally, 2 years worth of seeminly endless big talk and promises by both political parties has at last ceased, leaving only room for the impossible walk of one man. Can this man shoulder the weight? I don't know, but the kids of Balbriggan Elementary School sure think so.
Inauguration Day was spent with three different classes of 7 to 8 year-olds, explaining the trials and tribulations of being an American, focusing mostly on hamburgers and Obama. I mean, these kids could not hear enough of the man. They were more fanatical than the Japanese over Michael Jackson. I came to the school to instill a little curiousity about the U.S in the kids and instead left feeling like I had just attended a pep rally given by the kids for America. I guess from a PR standpoint, this bodes well for America, although I was bit disturbed about current perceptions coming from young minds abroad. When I asked the classes what did they think about when they thought of America, I swear my first 2 responses were "cash" and "limos," followed not long later by a "Guantanamo Bay." I gave a glance like to the teacher like What are you teaching these kids?and informed them that Gitmo was closing and we were sending all the prisoners to Ireland. After the teacher excused the 3 kids that wet their pants, we went on to talk more about the relationship between Ireland and America (there are 44 Million Irish-Americans and only 4 Million people in the Irish Republic itself). We also discussed the differences in English language usage and spelling, which resulted in an in-class argument between myself and teacher friend Niamh about which is the universally correct spelling of words like color (colour). I obviously won when I told the kids they couldn't come to America to get their cash and limos until they started dropping their "U"s.
The kids themselves were amazingly bright and inquisitive. Due to a recent immigration influx to Ireland, more than half the class hailed from Eastern Europe and Africa yet they were all learning to speak Irish (Gaelic) and all seemed to be assimilating well to their new life in Ireland. Although, after the rousing speach about America, I should probably notify US Immigration about a surge coming our way in about 10 years of so.

After my work at school was done, I put on a little America party at my friend's house just to drive home the point about how life in the U.S. is tops. After forcing down homemade hamburgers, chicken wings, and Budweiser on the very suspecting guests, I think it was apparent to all that life in America is the best. At least that's what I think and that's all that matters anyways.

Just moved up to Belfast yesterday and I think I am going to like it. More on that later.

BQ

Ireland

2009-01-19T01:07:00.000-08:00

I've been over here in the Republic of Ireland for over a week--seen alot, learned a bit, enjoyed it all. Upon arrival, I was put up by my friend Niamh Grogan's family in the northern suburb of Swords. Spent the next several days assimilating into Irish culture by developing a taste for stout beer, swearing up a fecking storm, and receiving an informal education on Irish history at the Grogan dinner table. Friend's Niamh G., Niamh D., and June have been doing a good job of showing me the ropes here in the Republic and I feel pretty comfortable in my new digs, although this is to change soon with my departure to Belfast this week.

Although a bit cost prohibitive, we have taken a few tours around Temble Bar and some other Dublin pubs. Made the mandatory tour of Guinness Brewery with Niamh's brother and a friend and while there interviewed by local TV. Made a bit of a fool of myself, but we negiotated a free round from the reporter so it was worth it.
After almost a week with the Grogan's, I traded families and moved in with the Delaney's, who live in Balbriggan. I am getting stuffed with great food and stories, which I will grudgingly leave when I head to Belfast.
Also, been slowly trying bring some normalcy back into my life. Literally shed a few pounds when I volunteered to be a haircut guinea pig, and received a free €60 cut at the Toni & Guy Saloon Academy. It took almost 2 hours to basically get myself a military cut, but hey, I'm pretty rich in time. Have also upgraded my wardrobe from the transient look to the local pauper look courtesy of some discount and thrift stores. This all in preparation for my new life in The North.

Heading up there on Wednesday to meet my friend June's dad, who supposedly is going to have me manage one of his restuarants there and some other miscellaneous tasks. I really hope this is the case, as my frequent sighting of Dublin's beggars wearing designer clothes has put a scary face onto this recession.
In Belfast, I will have my own apartment above the restuarant and probably a phone, so all can call and bother me. Will send the info on that when it comes.

In a bit of odd news here, the second night we were watching TV at the Grogan's house, an Irish travel channel did a special on Tom and Mariela's Lodge in Ecuador (can be seen by going here: The Lodge; and clicking on "No Frontiers: Quito--fast forwarded to the middle of it. Was also weird, because these friends were the ones who visited Petro and I while we were working at the Lodge. Then later on that same night, a show called "Tribal Wives" aired on the BBC, which was a special on the Huaorani. It was filmed in the village Bameno, which Joe and I visited for a few days during the our Amazon stay and showed some of Hauo that we were staying with there. It was a bit surreal to have my last year's major experiences broadcasted on TV. I Alhtough I wont start getting worried unless I see a special on bums hanging out at Syrian monastaries.

The inauguration hype has hit this island as well and I am posing as an ambassador of American goodwill tomorrow when I will be speaking about all things America to a few classes at the primary school Niamh teaches at. Those kids have no idea about the brainwashing they are going to receive. Will try and document some of it for you.

Your agent of progress,
Quarnstrom

PS. I broke down the blog posts into countries categories on the right side of the blog, for retro-reading with ease.

The Turkey Recap

2009-01-14T02:43:00.000-08:00

Hey all, just finishing up the business of Turkey today and when start updating you on life in Ireland as it is thrown at me. For those of you sick of my information and description deficent posts, here is another great play by play from Beth:
******
So I’ve been asked to describe the rest of the trip, not sure why b/c I’m not that great of a writer, but I assume it’s because of my extreme attention to detail (sorry so long again) that he doesn’t want to bother with.

I’ll try and pick up where we left off. However, I feel I should comment on the latest entry detailing the later parts of New Years Eve. Mom, Brian made this sound much worse. He was actually saved by me, but he used one of his mulligans (won during one of the many games of gin rummy we played) to refer to me as the “police” to save face. Even though the Blu Blockers were saved, my sunglasses (and the disco ball) did not make it home, small price to pay.

So we spent the good part of the day in the internet café last time I wrote, waiting for an overnight bus to Sulcuk, the town outside of Ephesus. This bus wasn’t as bad as the last one, but still was uncomfortably hot. We arrived in Sulcek around 9 welcomed by a downpour. We were quickly approached by a hostel worker recruiting us for a nights stay and agreed after taking a short tour of the place. We booked another 2-bedroom style room and played cards in the room to ride out the storm b/c what we were really there for were the ruins in Ephesus. Around noon the rain stopped and it turned out to be a really nice day. Our hostel worker dropped us off at the ruins site about 3km away. You are dropped in front of (big surprise) a string of market shops that sold genuine fake watches and you have to make your way to the entrance. Once inside there are tons of ruins and pillars scattered about. Not having any real idea of what we were looking at and me wanting to be the best research assistant I could be, I rented an audio guide and got map.

So areas are just labeled with numbers and you just hit the corresponding number on your guide and it’s supposed to explain what you’re looking at. It wasn’t too incredibly informative, but did offer some insight. Although after a while though I think Brian was sick of me saying “600BC, ancient theater, Hellenistic period, blah, blah, blah” so we tried to share the headset. It was pretty neat at the beginning of the tour there were sheep grazing on the mountain in the distance and you could hear the constant sound of their bells. So you basically walk through the ruins and along the pathways and come to the entrance or what use to be to The Roman Celsus Library built 125AD. However, due to the frequent earthquakes in the area it’s been rebuilt several times. I think this was the neatest thing there, but maybe because I kept seeing pictures of this thing in books, and it was very bizarre to actually be standing in front of it. With the help of Wikipedia, I’ve learned that it used to hold 12,000 scrolls and was built with an exaggerated entrance as to enhance its perceived size. The theater just past the library was also pretty neat. The audio guide says it sat 24K people, but Wikipedia says 44K. Either way is was a pretty huge theater still relatively intact. Of what I can remember it’s one of the largest, if not the largest, outdoor theater from the ancient times. What was probably most amazing were the acoustics. Brian would be on the stage and I would be sitting half way up and could hear him perfectly with him speaking in a normal voice. So that was about it for the ruins, then we thought since it was such a nice day we wanted to walk back to Sulcek. This idea did not last long as we were walking on a highway with little shoulder space and not much of a view. Next thing I know Brian is encouraging me to hop on the back of a (still moving) tractor. Putting the total hitch-hike count to 2.

The rest of the day we wandered around town, got a closer look at the castle, had an amazing salami cheese sandwich, and we headed back to the hostel. That night we headed out to some of the same streets we had walked earlier in search for some dinner. It was still relatively early in the night so we decided it wouldn’t hurt to start with a beer somewhere. I suggested a place I saw earlier in the day on our way to the ruins so we made our way over to that bar. It looked like a normal bar on the outside with neon lights and a beer sign. However, within seconds of entering we figured out I had lead us to the town whorehouse, literally. It was pretty dark inside and there were probably only a couple of other guys in there and then a table of 4 skimpily dressed ladies all eying what would walk into the door next. The waiter brought us our drinks and we people watched for a little bit and made our way out. I guess I can check that off my bucket list. So we found a place for dinner and met a nice British couple that just bought a house in Turkey. We got talking and they offered to drive us to Meryeamana (house of Mary) the next day. So the next day we hopped in with them and then they took us on a scenic drive through-out the mountains and farming villages in the area. During our drive we stumbled upon the coast of the Aegean Sea. It was so beautiful. The colors of the water were comparable to the colors in Bahamas, which for some reason was surprising to me. Anyway, after this we were headed to another bus to Bursa, though this one was only about 6 hours and not so hot. When we got there we had to take a bus and then a mini-bus to get to our couchsurfer’s apartment and arrived about 11. Brian had explained the couchsurfing thing to me but I was waiting to see it for myself. Our hosts turned out to be so welcoming and friendly. They met us at our stop and walked us back home, stopping for some food to make at their house b/c we hadn’t eaten dinner. It was a young couple still in college and during exam week. So that night we basically talked with them a little, got to know them, ate and went to bed. The next day we ventured into the city taking again a series of mini-buses and trams to get downtown. We were using an elaborate hand drawn map our hosts provided for us the night before, even labeling things as unimportant as trees. We again wandered around a little before deciding we wanted to take a cable car up the nearby mountain. After that we headed to the bath house. So I know Brian already described this a little, but as requested I’ll do some of my own. I walk in and no one immediately greats me so I have to figure out which woman hanging out in the lounge works here. I try for about 5 min (which doesn’t sound long but trust me it was) to explain that I want a massage. I was imagining Brian whizzing right through this first step with ease, so was happy to hear I was not the only one who had troubles. When that was straightened out she lead me to a small shower sized room with a little bed to change into (what I thought I was supposed to), my swimsuit. Keep in mind this room looks into the lounge I was just in, with an open door, with all old women walking around topless. So after changing into my polka dot swimsuit I’m lead to another room with a large heated marble stone table in the middle. Around the edges are ‘personal sinks’ low to the ground for people waiting to be massaged/scrubbed on the stone. The lady takes me through this room (where I get weird stares from all others, I assume b/c I had my top on) to a sauna. So in the 15 minutes that I’m sitting in the sauna, about to pass out waiting to be retrieved, I get enough courage to take my top off. Kinda like Charlotte in that one episode on Sex in the City. I’ll assume most guy readers wont get this, but I’ll just say kinda freeing. I eventually determine it’s up to me to leave the sauna when I want and I go and wait by one of the ‘personal sinks’ in the large room. I was the third person to go, so I sat there for what felt like forever just watching the other people get massaged and used a Tupperware thing provided to dump hot water over myself while waiting. I felt like a little kid in the tub. Then it’s my turn, I’m directed to lay face down on the stone while the lady using a hand glove as a scrubber and she takes an embarrassing number of layers of skin off. Just want to remind you this lady is probably in her 50s, in an old underwear-ish looking thong, and that’s it. She doesn’t speak English, but slaps my butt when she wants me to flip over, grabs the sides of my swimsuits bottoms to slide me around on the marble for me to move, and ‘re-arranges’ my swimsuit bottoms to get all areas. At one point, my head was in this ladies lap while her boobs are pretty much draped over my face while she is scrubbing my chest. When done scrubbing she rinses you. Then massages you again this time using soap and washes your hair, and then another rinse. Pure heaven! We made our way back to our ‘house’ where we met the other 2 couchsurfers that were staying the night with us. All 6 of us headed out to hang with some of our hosts friends at a local café where we just talked and had tea. The next morning Brian and I woke early to catch the bus/ferry back to Istanbul for our last night in Turkey. Upon our return we checked into the same hostel we had previously stayed and headed back to the bazaar for some last minute gifts. Brian stopped for a shave and I picked up some beers and we hung out at the hostel for a bit before we headed out for the last supper. We decided to hit a different area for dinner this night, one around Taxsim Square, a trendier and very busy area with tons of shops and restaurants. After dinner while walking back to our side of the town, we came across a Turkish soccer bar that was erupting in the final minutes of a game. So we stopped in to take in the atmosphere. Finally we made our way back to the bar we wanted to get to, the same one we went to our first night. We hung out with our hostel owner, Jon, who showed up and some other travelers while listening to some great American music. Brian also talked me into taking some sort of shot that was lit on fire in my mouth, another first for me.

All in all, it was a great trip, one of the best for me. Thanks to Brian for letting me tag along on part of his trip. He makes traveling look so easy and definitely so much fun. Hopefully, I can make another leg for more great adventures and experiences. I would highly recommend anybody thinking about doing it, to just go for it!

Cheers!

~BW
*************************************************

Ya see,another friend meets up and returns relatively unscathed. Whose next?

Just to add the last of my Turkey business.

After Beth flew off in the morning, I spent the rest of the day killing time before my flight--mostly discarding extra crap outta my bag in an attempt to make the ridiculous baggage weight requirement for my flight. Was partially successful in bartering a few things off. I'll trade you two mismatched socks for your granola bar....
On my tram ride to the airport I was thinking about the two amazingly cheap flights I had found to get me to Dublin (both under $100). Then I started to contemplate why these budget airlines (RyanAir & EasyJet) are able to offer practically free flights and still be profitable. Less frills. Pay for checked luggage. No lifejackets or rafts in case of a water landing as God knows no-one survives a water landing (*authors note-I was just sharing this sentiment with the Irish family I am staying with last night when not one hour later, news broke of US Airways successful landing on the Hudson River, thus confirming for the Irish family that Americans really do know nothing), and the fact that these budget airlines using fly out of obscure airports. Then I started to think about how I was heading to the Istanbul International Aiport, which was not obscure. Then I started to sweat realizing that I had not even verified that the flight was leaving from there. My suspicions were confirmed when I got there and there was no EasyJet check in. The unhelpful information desk worker stated that the other airport was in ASIA! No joke, one and a half hours away on the Asian side of Istanbul lies the other airport. With barely any time to spare I had to cab it. A ride that almost induced vomiting in said idiot, who was trying not to think about how his ride to Asia was more expensive than his ride to Ireland.
After spending a ridiculously cold night trying to catch Z's on the tiled floor of London's Luton airport, I took the 6am flight to Dublin. When I arrived in the UK the night before I was given a 6 month visa with almost no questions asked. When I arrived in Dublin, the immigration officer sized me up and sent a barrage of questions at me. After inflating my bank account to him by 95% and a few other white lies, I was given only a 3 week visa. Although, not really a problem as I will be spending most of my time in the UK side of Ireland, it does limit where I can fly out of when do leave. Not quite the kiss and hug from Ireland I was expecting, but times are tough here and I guess they dont want any riff-raff coming in and trying to work, as if someone would try and do that.
Anyways, two of my friends Niamh Grogan and Niamh Donnellan were kind enough to pick me up from the airport and take me back to the Grogan's house for an Irish fry-up. And thats were I am stopping today as my fingers hurt. More on Ireland tomorrow.

Top of Morning to you,
Bri N

New Year's Eve Revisited

2009-01-14T01:06:00.000-08:00

Some stories need a delayed telling and this one certainly qualified for that designation. For reasons of family worry, I held onto this one until Beth was back in the U.S. and I was in a country that doesn't normally conjure up irrational CNN inspired fear. But there is a lesson learned in everything, so I feel that I must pass this one on.
I have alreadly hinted at the amazing New Year's Eve that was had in Istanbul--costumes, moustaches, disco-ball, blah, blah, blah. Well the end of the night is something that will be etched a little more deeply into my head.
Once Beth, Martha, Pete, and I were ready to leave the bar where we rocked out the New Years, we asked for our tab, which should have been fairly small as we only had a couple beers between us due to the prices there. With the revelry going on, the bar staff felt safe in adding a couple dozen beers to the tab. Some distant acquantices we briefly shared a table with were on the tab too, although they had left and paid for what they had, the bar would use this to add further confusion to their bogus bill.
We paid for the alreadly over-priced beers that we drank and told them thats all we were paying. I told the manager to call the cops as we wanted this resolved. Knowing that the ruling would be in our favor, the bartenders and managers got pretty aggressive in their shouting with me and knowing that they would not call the cops nor did we have the means to, things would not end well. I told Beth and the gang to head back to the hostel and that I would meet them there soon. After some more non-cordial coercion attempts by the bar staff, I resolved that a runner was the only way I was getting out of this situation. I bolted, and in my state, I felt I was running like the wind--Steve Prefontaine meets Jeff Foxworthy. Only stopping when I felt I was a safe distance away, I turned to see three men come out of nowhere. They were pissed and started to forcefully drag me back to the bar, although I convinced them that I would walk on my own. Knowing full well that once back, the extortion would resume, just as we got close, I turned and set off again, only this time one man had a grasp on my favorite hoodie and I had to run out of it. This time, I ran as long as my lungs would allow, which sadly turned out not to be enough. Right as I stopped to turn around and say "just kidding" I was met with a fist in the back of the head followed by the next 5 guys following suit, with their newfound courage due to their numbers. I would like to tell you that I made a few pay, but this blog speaks only in full and half-truths, and that would not fall into either. Luckily, none of these punches really had much behind them, although I did feel a little like Glass Joe in Tyson's Punch Out. Lesson #1: Contrary to popular belief, a moustache does not give you super-human strength.
After doing the old dance and dodge for the better part of a minute the police thankfully rolled up, scattered the the group and took myself and the leader of the pack into the car. Contemplating the fact that I was wearing a criminal looking upper lip accessory and a slightly vulgar T-shirt, I was wondering how this play out. This is where a language barrier really puts you at a disadvantage. But to the police's professional credit they took us both to a nearby (and fortunately impartial) shop owner to translate. Realizing the facts would soon come out about what we already paid for our bill and the 6 on 1 free for all, the lead perpetrator talked to me in a more pleading tone in the back of the police car. Although pissed about the inhumanity of their actions and the soreness of my jar, I was for whatever was going get me back to the hostel the quickest. The shop owner translated the ordeal and the police, not wanting to deal with the mess, said that if we shook hands, all parties could go home. It was done.
I declined the police's offer of a ride home and the shop owner invited me in for tea and to rehash the events. He and his friend laughed knowlingly of the events and stated that I was lucky that the police arrived when they did. He cautioned that this is not the way of Turkish men to fight 6 on 1, but rather weak men trying to feel strong. I agreed, and that is why I have not described these people as Turkish, although they were. Like the wise old sage that he was, the shopowner provided clarity and recounted his own youthful story of meeting some foreign women and being stuck with their tab at the end of the night. His advice, Lesson #2: In dealings in unfamiliar places/people, never establish a tab or credit.
Fortunately, this ordeal cost me very little (soreness aside, I did not suffer any injuries at all) and paid me well (life lessons, excitement, impromptu work-out, story to greatly exaggerate later on). I would not have such a positive outlook on the night however, if I had not, unknowingly at the time, given my Blu Blocker sunglasses to Beth for safekeeping prior to the episode. If those would have been a casualty of the night, I would never have forgiven myself or anyone else.
So, when you are doing your cardio work-out this week, do an extra 5 minutes, as you never know when you'll have an angry mob nipping at your heels.

Everyone needs a beating every now and again,
Brian

Turkish Delights

2009-01-09T02:24:00.000-08:00

Alrıght, I just plugged myself ınto thıs contraptıon and ready to bust out a few lınes whıle I waıt to board a flıght for my overnıght sleepıng tour of London's Luton aıport followed by my arrıval ın Dublın the followıng day. I am just goıng to elaborate on a few thıngs drawn from the last couple days as Beth as promısed to provıde me wıth another detaıled laden post updatıng you on our trıp through Turkey.

After departıng the stunnıng Capadocıa regıon we headed for the town of Selcuk so we could vısıt the nearby Roman ruıns of Ephesus. Our vısıt ın low season made the sıghts there especıally nıce as we dıdn't have to shove any old ladıes or Japanese people out of our way to get the good pıcs. Later ın the evenıng we met up an older Brıtısh couple at dınner who offered to tour us around the next mornıng ın theır car. Sınce I never get ın the car wıth strangers, Beth had to convınce me that everythıng was goıng to be OK. Our fırst destınatıon wıth the Brıts was the alleged fınal home of Mary, mother of Jesus. Since my Grammy has told me that she and Mary are ın cohoots keepıng me safe on thıs trıp, I thought ıt only fıttıng that I stop by and pay my respects. The old house had been converted ınto a church, whıch was ın sessıon when we arrıved so we dıdn't get to see much other than the 'wıshıng wall' where tourısts had wrıtten theır earthly or heavenly desıres on strıps of paper, cloth, fıngernaıls, etc. and attached ıt to thıs long wall near the church. I guess sort of as a backup ın case the prayers they saıd ınsıde the church dıdn't get patched through. Always the humanıtarıan, I posted my wısh for global betterment ın two wıshes: world peace & 1 mıllıon tax free dollars. Stay tuned to see ıf that happens.

After Secuk, we bussed ıt to the mountaınous cıty of Bursa, where we were to spend 2 nıghts couchsurfıng wıth a young Turkısh couple. The second nıght, we were joıned there by two hıtchhıkıng Canadıans, brıngıng the total of people sharıng the student-sızed apartment to 6, whıch made for an ınterestıng tıme. If Beth had any doubts about the weırdness of some Couchsurfıng experıences, they were confırmed then. Besıdes the stranger slumber party, the hıghtlıght of our tıme ın Bursa was easıly our vısıt to a Hamam (Turkısh Bathhouse). Although, I hope Beth wıll delve a lıttle more deeply ın descrıbıng thıs, I would also lıke to add my thoughts. Freakıng Amazıng. Beth and I each ventured ınto the gender segregated bathhouses, where we soon tackled awkward sıgn-languaged conversatıon tryıng to lıne up the experıence. Tryıng to convey to a man, who ıs not accustomed to tourısts, that you would lıke hım to scrub and massage you ıs a real treat let me tell you.
Thıs ıs how ıt all went down. I was gıven a room to prepare myself for entry ınto the actual bathhouse. Wıthout any ınstructıons to go by, I was a bıt unsure of the proper level of nudıty requıred for thıs experıence. But I followed the rule of thumb that for almost all sıtuatıons ın lıfe, ıt ıs always better to err on the sıde of total nudıty, whıch thankfully (for ıssues of awkwardness of course) proved to be protocal there.
Fırst was the suana sessıon, followed by a confused me tryıng to ımıtate the others there by repeatedly scoopıng and pourıng water over myself. Thıs was not necessarıly correct, but soon enough a fortunately toweled old man who worked there took me over for the scrubbıng rıtual. Lıttle dıd I know thıs man and I was soon to have lıttle secrets. He furıously scrubbed me down usıng somethıng sımılıar to a loufa that you would have ın the shower, except that hıs had been used on 1,000 people before me and felt more lıke sandpaper. I wıll omıt most detaıls. After effectıvely scrubbıng the last 10 years of skın and fılth off my body, he lathered me up heavıly. Due to the nature of the experıence you may be ınclıned to pıcture thıs man as more ballet dancer ın nature, although I assure you he was all truck drıver. After about 30 mınutes bathıng and massage ın whıch, I achıeved a clean not seen on me sınce I decıded to wander ınto the neıgborhood carwash as a chıld. If thıs experıence ıs anythıng lıke beıng sponge-bathed ın an old folks home, then I am changıng my mınd about beıng sent to one later ın lıfe and wıll now null my Smother Pact* wıth Petro.

*A recommended pact that one makes wıth a good frıend agreeıng to pıllow smother the other to death, should one succumb to the ıll-effects of old age--such as bed wettıng or regular bıngo playıng.

Anyways, ıf you are ever ın Turkey or a dodgy neıghborhood elsewhere that advertıses sımılıar such experıences, I hıghly recommend a Turkısh Bath.

And now, I fınd myself ın Istanbul, mınus the recently US bound Beth, myself waıtıng on a flıght. Beth proved herself a extremely fun and enthusıastıc traveler. She dıdn't get frazzled at the roughıng up I receıved on New Years Eve (a story for later), she eagerly jumped at opportunıtıes on thıs trıp to get after all thıngs fun, and even took our mısadventure to a bar where the other women were there professıonally as opposed to socıally, wıth strıde (for the record ıt was her ıdea to venture ınto the bar). A blast to hang wıth, her comıng and goıng exemplıfıes the revolvıng door my lıfe has unfortunately become. New places, new people, new experıences. Rınse. repeat. I am ready for a lıttle routıne, whıch makes the ıdea of a few months ın one place ın Ireland all the better.

As a typıcal Ethnıcal Mutt, the better part of me ıs of Irısh herıtage, whıch makes me all the more eager to get there. As Dublın ıs one of the more expensıve cıtıes ın the world, I have caluculated that I can exıst there approxımately 73 mınutes before thıngs dıp ınto the red. Luckıly, I have been assured employment by frıends there. And when I mean
'assured' I mean theır last emaıl saıd that somethıng wıll be worked out when I arrıve....I guess you'll hear about ıt when I blog from the unemployment offıce.

Rınse. Repeat.
Q

Cappadocia

2009-01-04T02:32:00.000-08:00

Beth has so gracıously allowed me just to post to the blog an emaıl she sent out to summarıze our tıme ın Istanbul and Cappadocıa. She asked me to convey a dısclaımer on any spellıng/grammar as she fıred ıt off quıck. I would also lıke to add a dısclaımer that the part about me cryıng ın the cave ıs absolutely not true. Enjoy.
Brıan

hey all just wanted check ın agaın and keep you all posted on our travels. not sure where ı left off but ıll start wıth new years eve. whıch was the best one ever!! ıt ıncluded wrıtıng on tshırts, party hats, home made sangrıa out of an ancıent tea pot, a dısco ball on a stıck, and fıreworks roman candle lookıng thıngs< all ınsıde the bar. we dıd some shoppıng durıng the day and wanted to get some funny outfıts bc my bag stıll hadnt arrıved. so we went to teh grand bazzar whıch ıs mıles and mıles of dıfferent type shops. people ınvıte you ınto theır shop for tea and a look around. ı got some really neat turkısh tıles, a turquıose rıng, a scarf. then we headed back to our hostel that was throwıng a pre-party. some of brıans frıends hes met from the peace corps were vısıtıng ıstanbul also from bulgarıa. so they and a few others came to party. my bag arrıved ın the meantıme. we mıxed vodka, wıne, juıce, and coke ın an old metal tea pot and started the nıght wıth cards and left rıght center and a home made versıon of catch phrase thats really fun. we had about 30 travelers sıttıng ın a tıny room but ıt was so much fun. then after the pasta dınner they served to all we headed to meet up wıth some other frıends a lıttle ways from our hostel wıth the dısco ball. our group was a hıt and got everyone there dancıng and havıng a great tıme. beers were rather expensıve 10 lyra whıch ıs about 7 bucks. usually bıg beers of Efes local beer ıs around 5. but we had so much fun and ı was thınkıng all of you were probably stıll at work at that tıme. when everyone started countıng down ıt was ın turkısh so ı had no ıdea of what number we were on but fıgured ıt out when the huge sparklers started goıng off. amazıng nıght and wıth some great people. then the next day we met up wıth the couple from bulgarıa who were sooo awesome and so fun one from detroıt and the other from new jersey pete and martha. we went to an out of the path restaurant for lunch. we got lentıl soup that came wıth the endless amount of bread people serve here wıth a spıcy salsa type dıppıng sause. and we also shared a turkısh pızza whıch ıs so good. ıts lıke a flat beat down bread ın a long football shape wıth eggs, cheese, sauce, and sausage. ıt was amazıng, all the food here has been so tasty. lots of spıced chıcken wıth tomatoes and bread. then we spend the rest of the day tourıng hagıa sofıa huge mosque from 6 or 7th century. then the rest people watchıng at a square and then at the local great bar we found called backpackers playıng cards and havıng some apple tea and beers. pete and martha met up wıth us one last tıme and then we parted ways whıch was actually kınd of hard bc ı really lıke them. then we took a hellısh overnıght bus to cappadocıa. ıt was about 12hours and for some reason about 100 degrees. got about 30 mın of sleep and arrıved here at about 7AM. then we searched for a hostel and found a cave one that was really cool. ıts a small room wıth 2 beds and a dresser that dıdnt open. but we dıd have the most amazıng shower wıth hot hot water and great pressure. ıt seems the heaters dont really work here or thats bc ıts about -16C but ıf someone would lıke to translate that to faherheıt that would be great bc we stıll havnt fıgured ıt out. so ıts pretty cold here durıng the nıght. then we took a 15 kılometer walk around town. we headed to a huge rock formatıon wıth a church ınsıde.the day was beautıful and the sky was so blue and the vıew was spectaular overlookıng several local towns. then hıked to another town wıth a small market. we bought some fresh green olıves, tomatoes, red peppers, apples, and cheese and bread for sandwhıches the next day whıch were so awesome. then actually hıtchhıked back to town. mom ıts okay thats very typcıal and safe around these parts. then we went to a local resturant for more soup and pızza. at nıght we just buy a few beers and play cards ın teh room next to the heater whıle playıng ıpods. yesterday ı woke early around 6 to get pıcked up for my hot aır balloon rıde. the next 2 days were pretty grey so ı was worrıed the vıew wouldnt be as good but when the sun came up ıt was much better. packed ın wıth 20 people and just lookıng at some breathtakıng vıews of the huge mountaıns and rock formatıons that are the essence of thıs regıon. then had a chamange toast at the end and went back to meet brıan. we rented a car and drove around about 100km to look at vıewpoınts and castles, and took a tour of one of the many underground cıtıes thıs place has to offer. brıan ıs actually pretty klosterphobıc but ı made hım go anyway so ıt was a short run for hım but ıt was so cool to walk around 7 storıes underground and see how people used to lıve. we pulled over on a mountaın to eat our sandwhıches and headed back to our hotel bc ıt had started to snow a lot. we dıd see the funnıest tourıst stop though. a small turk had a camel tıded to a rope and you could pay to clımb the ladder and get on to have your pıc taken. ıf he lıked you he walked you ın a small cırcle then you got off. so kevın yes camels are here ın the frozen wınter. the lıne was too long wıth japanese tourısts to waıt so ı dıdnt get to do ıt but we have pıcs of the whole sıtuatıon. we showered up and drove to the town we had walked to yesterday for a local dınner. we found a small place off the road and had adana kabobs whıch are lıke spıcy sausage wıth tomatoes peppers and onıons wıth french frıes all over the top. and also we had the house specıal whıch was beef cuts ın a sause wıth peppers agaın covered wıth frıes. then back to the hostel agaın for cards, cookıes, beer, and musıc by the heater. a great pastıme. thıs mornıng we packed up and had some breakfast provıded by our hostel before we headed out. a tradıtıonal turkısh breakfısh ıs cucumber and tomato slıces, wıth a hard boıled egg and bread wıth butter, jam, and thıs amazıng cream cheese but more of a cheesy taste spread. however ın thıs hostel weve been orderıng cheese and tomoto omlets, french toast, and a sort of egg mıxed that comes ın a steamıng rock mıxed wıth tomatoes agaın and pepper. served wıth tea or coffee. then we headed to a castle we dıdnt hıt yesterday bc of the weather for some more great vıews of the town. cappadocıa ıs more of a regıon and there are several small towns ın and out of the valleys. then returned the car and tryıng to spend some tıme waıtıng for our overnıght bus to efes or ephuses. sorry thıs ıs so long but just tryıng to document ıt for myself as well. hope all had a great weekend!! wısh all of you could come to share thıs experıence but hope the pıcs do half the justıce thıs place deserves.
love and mıss ya!!cheers,beth

Creeping Into 2009

2009-01-03T05:53:00.000-08:00

Spent an ıncredıble couple days sıghtseeıng around Istanbul. East meets West in a fascınatıng dısplay of culture and archıtecture. A story better told wıth the pıcs uploaded to the album. Unfortunately, that story wıll only be partıally told as thıs half-brain accıdently re-formatted hıs camera memory card. Luckıly, Beth ıs not gun-shy wıth the camera and took about 300 more than I would have anyways. Uploaded and ready for framıng on your wall.

I am goıng to cut a paste the chronıcles as descrıbed by Beth of the fırst few days ın the next post but really, the most ımportant tale needıng to be told ınvolves a New Years for the books. After a full day of scavengıng, we dıscovered the perferct recıpe for a decadent NYE--one kettle of a wıne and vodka mıxture, one un-groomed moustache, some homemade shırts and accessorıes, and a dısco ball attached to a stıck. I could tell a story of how we walked ınto a low-key bar and motıvated ıt ınto a frenzy of dancıng bodıes, all worshıppıng the magıcal dısco ball seemıngly floatıng above everyone's head. But words wıll faıl me. All I have to say ıs that I am serıously contemplatıng dıtchıng my backpack and only travelıng wıth the clothes on my body and that dısco ball on a stıck...

May you gain a fortune this new year or at least a fortunate fate. As for me, I'll take both.

Yours,

A Little Bit of Missouri in Turkey

2008-12-31T05:41:00.000-08:00

Well, Beth arrived meaning that the Missourı delegatıon is now ready to kıck some ass here ın Istanbul. Sharıng the mutual frıend Jen Tıehen, the only tıme we had met prıor to thıs trıp was when she vısıted Jen at SLU and went to our fratenıty's Pigtaıls & Pedophıles party (a classy bunch we were). Naturally durıng that ıntroductıon back ın 2004 I was sportıng the old 'stache so I thought ıt was quıte proper that I gıve her a famılıar face at the aırport and sport one agaın. Here's a pıc dug up by Jenny T of the frat party cırca 2004: http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dc4mzqcc_12dzrdpjhd&hl=en

And here's a pıc of us gettıng back to our Missouri roots ın some park ın İstanbul. Yes, some homeless man was rentıng hıs pellet gun for people to shoot ıt ın the park. Ingenıous.

Beth's arrıvals was not wıthout a lıttle mısfortune however. Wıth the cancellatıon of her fırst flıght, her baggage has stıll not arrıved 2 days later. We are told ıt ıs ın France. She has taken a page from my book and worn the same clothes for days--personally I thınk ıt ıs better to do thıs as ıt gıves your travel pıcture album a consıstent look.

Accomodatıon wıse we have one of the best vıews of the Aya Sophıa--that ıs ıf you actually lıve throught the nıght ın the frıgıd tent room we share wıth 15 people. Luxury lıvın!

Rıngıng ın NYE tonıght and headıng to the Cappadocıa regıon tomorrow. Talk later.

Kıckıng ass and takıng names,

Your boy

İstanbul

2008-12-28T00:29:00.001-08:00

Ok, after almost 26 hours of continous traın travel, I fınally arrıved back ın Istanbul. I took a bıg gamble and booked the cheapest optıon, whıch was a 6 person sleeper car. Dreadıng beıng trapped ın a 5x8 traın car wıth 5 other people for such an extended perıod, I practıcally screamed when I found out I would have the whole damn car to myself. I dıdn't even have to grease the palm of the attendant. Spent the next 20 hours hangıng wıth some Romanıans ın the neıghborıng car and startıng and fınıshıng a book wrıtten by the author who wrote How Stella Got Her Groove Back and Waıtıng to Exhale. Yeah, the book selectıon at the last hostel was a bıt weak and although it ıs not quite my genre, it was stıll a tear-jerker all the same.
By luck, the Peace Corp crew I was hangıng wıth ın Bulgarıa was on a traın car that was eventually hooked to mıne somewhere on the journey and we arrıved ın Istanbul together. The cıty ıs packed wıth students and holıday makers enjoyıng theır break, so ıt should be a good place to rıde out the last of 08. Beth arrıves tomorrow and I wıll keep you updated on our adventures.

Pıcs have been updated ın the album!

Keeping it real,
Brosef

A Christmas Miracle

2008-12-25T09:50:00.000-08:00

Santa is a man of many talents--giver, inspirer, jolly-maker, and now he can add one more to his repertoire: resurrector. Let me give you the backdrop. Two days before Christmas Eve, while already not happy about my solitary predicament in the town of Sibiu, I took out my IPOD to listen to tunes while I sent some emails. It failed to show any signs of life, even after I put it on a charge. Having seen my girl come back from the dead before (after a rainsoaking in the Amazon) I put her aside and tried to think happy thoughts instead of the proverbial kick in the nuts that the situation was giving me. I checked her absent pulse periodically over the next two days and slowly began to realize that she was gone forever and that my overnight train or bus to Istanbul the following day was going to be way more of a nightmare now and that crazy self sing-songing was going to be the new norm. It was all planned out--write a eulogy on the blog and tuck her into the backpack to wait for a proper burial down in the 'Zarks--what she would have wanted. Just as I was headed to the computer to write it, I thought I owed her one last try and Voila! She kicks back on. Oh sweet goodness you are back...Apparently Santa does know who has been good this year....

Alright, on to another news. Christmas Eve turned out suprisingly pleasant. In search of a decent place to treat myself to dinner I came across something so perfect and cliche that I had to do it--a Chinese restaurant. I have a deep level of respect for Chinese restauranteers for several reasons. One, is that they will be open hell or high water, holiday or hurricane. Two, is that they are the inventors (unresearched fact) of my favorite Sunday afternoon past-time: The All You Can Eat Buffet. Tell me that we are going to a Chinese buffet and later retract the promise and you will have lost a friend. Many people will attest to this fact. Lastly, my respect for Chinese restauranteers reached a pinnacle a few years ago when I was the guest of friend attending a woman's 30th birthday party in which the owner of the Chinese restaruant where event was held, allowed (and encouraged) a midget lap dance peformance DURING normal business hours, with John Q. Public and family gasping on in horror. These people just know business. Anways, while there I ended up being invited to sit with a young English couple that had stopped in the town--specifically searching out a Chinese restaurant as well. Needless to say we got along great. After dinner I returned to a hostel finally with some atmosphere--the local staff was distributing wine and beer and we had ourselves a merry little time. Woke up Christmas morning to more snow and lots of sunshine, which made hiking when some Finnish travelers around the nearby skiing mountain all the better. To top it off, we finished the day with some old-fashioned snow tubing.

Barnstorming it tomorrow outta Romanai, through Bulgaria, and hopefully eventually back into Turkey by the following day. I'm sure there will be some mishap along the way.

Creciun Ferecit!

Brian

Christmas in Transylvania

2008-12-24T00:43:00.000-08:00

Took a painfully slow train from Veliko Tarnovo across the border into Romania. Luckily the only other passengers in the whole train carriage were Americans--mid-westerners at that. So the ride was spent in good company and I was fortunate to have fellow Couchsurfer picking me up that the station in the capital city Bucharest when I arrived. Spent the next two days crashing a couch and touring Bucharest. A definite highlight of the city was a late night out in downtown Bucharest in a situation that has become so familiar in my Balkan tour--a genre confused young generation dancing as enthusiastly to death metal as they do to music from the Little Mermaid. Ever see a long-haired metal head go from thrashing to forming a conga line around the bar? It happened, I saw it and loved it--it was about the 300th time I wished I had a videocamera on me at all times on this trip. Their lack of pretentions when it comes to musical enjoyment was appealing although I suspect their openness to all music comes not from eclectic tastes but rather a taste for anyone who will do a concert tour through Romania.

I soon found myself departing Bucharest on the 23rd for the Transylvanian town of Sibiu. No, this is not a Dracula-mania inspired tour, rather I heard the area is supposed to be beautiful, more so in wintertime. The bus ride there was pretty scenic, especially with the recent dusting of snow. I arrived to find the hostels vacant but the center city packed with ice-skating youths and strolling familys. It would have been a bit of a depressing place to ride out Christmas so I decided to skip town the next day and head to the city of Brasov. Just arrived via train and found a hostel with some other travelers and a bit of Christmas cheer.
Being away from home from during the holidays has not been ideal, especially when I know the fun I am missing with friends and family, which is only compounded when I get drunken emails from buddies like Robby Arthur telling me of the all great gatherings going on. Oh well, how can your ever know the sweetness of something unless you go without it?

And so, a very Merry Christmas to all and a safe holiday season--especially my boy Dave Tiehen in Iraq!

Woooaahhhh!
Count Quarnstrom

At Home in Veliko Tarnovo

2008-12-23T13:20:00.001-08:00

Alright, trying to squeeze a few posts out here in the next couple days to get us all caught up. Recently spent 4 days in the beautiful Bulgarian town of Veliko Tarnovo. Spent my stay living in a guesthouse with a trio of genuine and interesting people--the ever-hospitable owners, Nick and Cathy, and the one other guest, Alejandro, a young Spanish traveler making his way around the country. Evenings were spent eating the sumptuous food Cathy prepared and drinking their stock of homemade Rakia, essentially moonshine. Alejandro would bust out the flamenco guitar and Nick and I would spin tales from the road. One big hippie family we were. Having taken on Alejandro as a protege (he would probably say the opposite), we would hit the town late night to see what we could fall into. Our first venture out proved fruitful when we extended invitiation for lunch and dinner the next day by seperate local parties. Although the former would later be unspokenly retracted, most likely when our half-truthing antics got out of hand. We did however spend the next evening's dinner in the company of a fun and diverse group of people, all except one being foreign to Veliko Tarnovo. 9 people, 6 different countries (none but me were native English speakers although all spoke it well, thankfully) and amazingly it seemed normal. The party could've lasted until Christmas but others were dispersing home for the holidays, Alejandro had to see about a girl, and I had to see about Romania.

Bulgaria proved to be a good decision to venture into. I'm gonna miss the plastic 2 Liters of beer that sell as cheap as water, the "Balken Red" hairdo's the old ladys wear and the dark clothed, crimped hair, knee-high boot look sported by the younger class that so reminds me of the Russian Barbie that I had er..my sisters had growing up. But, the road calls as it so often does and I was off.

More soon,
BQ

Crunch Time

2008-12-16T03:02:00.000-08:00

The looming clouds of destitution have started to creep up on the sunshine that usually glows over my life. An almost year long outward flow of funds has created a situation forcing me to "get serious," at least temporarily and settle somewhere soon to help staunch the hemorrhaging finances. This revelation came to me when I realized that the only thing that seperates me from a homeless man is a passport. And I hear that even homeless men in Europe have passports so effectively there is no difference.

Now, I know there will be scant crocodile tears for my terrible misfortune, as a lot of people are feeling the squeeze, especially during this time of crisis in the U.S. A crisis I feel personally responsible for because I spent my "economic stimulus package" in foriegn markets. You can do as I like to do and contemplate the fact that as one of the most credit reliant countries in the world you would think that the mechanics of credit and lending would be a mandatory course in U.S. school curriculum. In place of courses on say, Trigonometry that we use so much? Personally, between preposterous abstinence-only sex education and the absence of a core class on lending finance, the conspiracy theorist in me smells something fishy between the baby formula selling and credit card companies and our dear Uncle Sam.....

Ok, back to the situation on hand. As much as I would like to shut-down this little experiment on the psychological effects of endless wandering on the sensitive soul, it must go on. At least for your sake. And so, I have decided to plant some roots, albeit very shallow ones, in Mother Ireland. Right after the tour with Beth through Turkey I am making the cross European jump to the greener and more inebriated pastures of Ireland. I will be meeting up with the Irish friends June, Niamh, & Niamh that Petro and I met in S.A. and I have been assured possible employment in Belfast or Dublin (nothing is set in stone so all ludicrous suggestions/opportunities are welcomed**keep in mind my working legal status may be a bit gray. Well, actually black). In my travels I have gathered that the two most universally in-demand jobs are grave digger and satellite dish installer, neither of which I currently aspire to. If all goes well I will be slinging pints and heavily accented profanity there for about 2 months before dusting off the pack and hitting the road again. South East Asia is on the spring radar, so put it on yours.

Well, the last week or so has been pretty stimulating. I more or less have been making the Peace Corp loop around Bulgaria and been hanging with some very fun and interesting characters. Overall, these volunteers are the face of a conscientious and intelligent America abroad and I hope the new govenment makes good a promise to increase funding for the organization. A big role call of thanks for letting me crash into their lives and couches:

Gergana, Tsveti, & Zach in Sofia

Martha in Silistra

Pete in General Toshevo

Theresa in Devnia

& James in Goliamo Gradishte (who let me make a guest appearance in his classroom so that I could lecture on the joys of sign languaging your way through life).

"now, the universal signal for 'eat shit' is...."

I am currently staying in the picturesque town of Veliko Tarnovo in a guest house run by a charming British couple who remind me alot of my Ecuadorian parents Tom and Mariela. Would love to stay and ring in Xmas with them but I want to dip into Romania for at least a week before high-tailing it back to Istanbul to meet up with Beth.

There has been a bit of noise on the Comments sections for a replay of the 2008 Numbers, so lets see if that can be addressed in a forthcoming post.

Your Tramp,

Brian

PS The long awaited resurgence of the Blog O' Petro has occurred. Check out the trials and tribulations of setting up shop in sunny San Diego, CA: www.whereispetro.blogspot.com

Sofia

2008-12-11T09:48:00.000-08:00

Just checking in, although I have to admit I have been a bit lazy lately and procrastinating talking with you. I am off the hook a little though as some of it was illness induced, as there was about 24 hours of a mass exodus, inspired by a cause yet to be determined. A bit weird as I spent the last 2 months eating shady street food only to get sick on possibly something homemade.

The week in Sofia was spent with some touring, some internet catching up, and some hanging out with other Couchsurfers in Sofia. Just trying to get used to some of the idiosyncrasies of the Bulgarian people---their impossible to read Cyrillic writing, our mutual love of ketchup (they have Ketchup flavored Ruffles), their more serious facades, their fascination for Niagara Falls, and their nodding for "no" and shaking their head for "yes"--a communication crippling difference for a boy that relies oh so heavily on sign language and head signals for direction in his everyday life. Have resorted to holding a cardboard sign that says "yes" and "no" and having them point to it.....

Shaking things up a bit and jumping on a bus tomorrow for the town of Silistra, where I am to meet up with friend of my buddy Pat Crotty. She is a Peace Corp volunteer, so lets see if I can get myself involved in something altruistic for a change.

Yours,
BQ

The Train to Bulgaria

2008-12-07T03:27:00.000-08:00

Alas, a border jump made fairly painless and uneventful with the benefit of a sleeper train. After spending the day in Istanbul, I boarded the train around 10pm and was ready to crash. This was not to happen without fielding a string of well-meaning but annoying questions from the Malaysian traveler I was sharing the cabin with. I tried to deter this seemingly endless game of "where have you been/what have you seen" by muttering something about my in a my recent stay in a Turkish psych ward.
After managing to fall asleep in a train teteering side to side so much I was sure it was going to derail, I got about 4 solid before spending 2 early morning hours getting processed out of Turkey and into Bulgaria. No exit tax and no visa fee--hooray!
When I arrived at the station in Sofia, Bulgaria I was shocked to see a pair of uncovered breasts staring out at me from the magazine rack in the station. Quicky, I took cover behind a column and waited for the morality police to come out, burn the kiosk and hang the vendor. After a few scared moments of anticipation, it dawned on me that I had made the geographic and cultural cross from the Middle East into Eastern Europe, where cheap vodka, casinos, and smut filled magazine racks would probably be more the norm. Along with these supposed luxuries, I was also gaining to need to start worrying about petty theft and scams, what neighborhoods I wandered into, and the frigid weather. No worries just yet however, as I was being taken under the wing of my old roommate Gergana, who lives and works in Sofia. I am currently crashing at the pad of her and her two roommates, and enjoying the domestic comforts of stable accomodations, being able to grocery shop and eat decent meals, and receive an immersion into Bulgarian life. As always hanging with Gergana is great and my residency with the trio of Bulgarians has produced almost more of a nightlife in my few nights here than in my whole Middle East trek. My personal highlight so far is when we attended a birthday celebration of a girl, whose party was made up entirely of Bulgarians and Romanians, save your favorite odd man out. At the height of the party a long pondered question was answered--can System of a Down's heavy metal anthem "Chop Suey" be socially danced to. Witnessing the answer made me appreciate my newly acquired presence in Eastern Europe and eager to get home to try out the hilarious dancing chops I saw at the party.

Well, weather wise, it is freckin' cold here. Somehow my eternal summer wanderings took a major wrong turn. Heavy apparrel and a liquid jacket are pretty much required before setting out here and I finally managed to get my hands on some suitable clothing today. Hashing out future plans at the moment. As always, you'll be informed.

Nazdrave,

BQ

Syria and Beyond

2008-12-04T03:42:00.000-08:00

Spent the last few days in the northern Syrian cıty of Aleppo. The cıty ıtself was fairly interestıng but the couchsurfıng experience ıs what made the tıme worthwhıle (I apolıgıze ın advance for thıs post's grammar and typıng ırregularıtıes, especıally the lack of the dots ın the ''i''s as the Turkısh keyboards are kıllıng me!!) OK, where was I? Anyways, I ended up crashıng at the apartment of two young Syrıan doctors, who found tıme ın theır resıdencıes to show me some ıns and outs of Aleppo as well as provıde me wıth some ınsıght ınto daıly lıfe of Syrıans. I wıll defer on acknowledgıng theır names as durıng my stay they both spoke candıdly about the theır thoughts on the present Syrıan government, whıch accordıng to them does not hesısıtate to jaıl and torture those who do speak agaınst ıt (both of theır fathers had been tortured ın the past--one almost to death). Despıte the lack of many cıvıl lıbertıes, they ındıcated that lıfe there ıs stıll pretty comfortable for them, although both are plannıng on movıng abroad as soon as vısas are acquıred.

One of the more memorable days, myself and one of the two ventured up to hıs old unıversıty so he could pıck up some transcrıpts. The excursıon provıded us wıth the excuse to engage ın the unıversal past-tıme of scopıng babes on campus and dıscussıng the datıng rıtuals of our respectıve cultures. As Aleppo ıs a faırly conservatıve cıty, about half of the campus women were scarved and some were fully covered. I told hım I thought that the success rate of pursuıng of these type of gırls would be comparable to fıshıng wıthout a hook but he ındıcated to the contrary. He stated that ın the past, he has ''made ıt'' wıth far more ''covered gırls'' than the more pretentıous, western dressıng women. He ındıcated however, that the relatıonshıps were always ın utmost secrecy as most of the gırls would rather skıp straıght to the fun stuff, than be publıcly vıewed doıng relatıonshıp type actıvıtıes lıke dınıng or walkıng together, whıch would tarnısh theır reputatıon and jeopardıze theır marrıage hopes. I know what you are thınkıng, all fun and no work--the perfect scenarıo rıght? Well, don't book your tıcket to Syrıa just yet as the pıcture they paınted of the Syrıan matıng/datıng rıtual seems perpetually stuck ın the 5th grade. I dıd thınk ıt was funny however the the two guys, one Chrıstıan and one Muslım, both ın seperate ınstances, told me that the other's relıgıous group had the more morally casual gırls...

After two nıghts of Syrıan meals prepared by them, I decıded a lıttle ınjectıon of the fruıts of Amerıca was ın order and whıpped up some stovetop-made hamburgers (the fırst for one of them), taught them the drınkıng game ''Quarters'' and screened the pırated Wıll Ferrell movıe ''Stepbrothers.'' Both are now movıng to the States.

Reluctantly I departed theır company, I went ınto town to buy a bus tıcket for the journey ınto Turkey. At the offıce of one of the bus companıes, they offered me a spot ın a taxı across the border for the same prıce as the bus, whıch I eagerly agreed to. Wıth just me and the taxı drıver ın the car, we set off ımmedıately after he brıbed hıs way out of a parkıng tıcket. Wonderıng ıf we were goıng to pıck up other passengers as a ''prıvate taxı'' costs abot 7 tımes more than what I had paıd, I told hım I was not goıng to pay more than I already had. He acted ındıfferent about the money I began to wonder what the deal was. As ınsurance, I secretly copıed hıs passport ınfo and was plannıng to counter-threaten hım wıth a bluff about callıng the Syrıan polıce about the wıtnessed brıbe ıf he trıed to scam me when we arrıved. At the Syrıan sıde of the border, he bought three cartons of cıgarettes (he dıdnt smoke) at the Duty-Free and asked me to put them ın my bag. I refused but allowed hım to at least set them near me fıgurıng Syrıans weren't allowed to export cıgs ınto Turkey and that he was probably buyıng them for a relatıve (hence why he was takıng me wıth hım for so cheap). Although I began thınkıng of less benıgn reasons for why I was the ''token'' passenger as I saw money exchange hands wıth Syrıan offıcıals more than once ın unoffıcıals ways. Havıng the benefıt of prevıously readıng Mıdnıght Express and knowıng the accounts of the joys of Turkısh prısons, I made decısıon that ıf pressed by customs about them I was goıng to rısk pıssıng off the drıver and the almost free rıde by dısownıng the cartons of cıgs (or whatever was ınsıde). At the Turkısh border, the offıcers were extremely thorough ın the searches and seemed ınterested ın the cıgs, but luckıly I was too busy assıstıng another offıcer ın dumpıng out my backpack, and was able to avoıd the verbally statıng they were mıne. Once thru the border, the drıver dropped me at my desıred town and dıdnt charge me anthıng more. After thıs, I swore that from here on out I was goıng to take more conventıonal means of transport across borders ın the future. And wıth that promıse, I arrıved after a 15 hour bus rıde to Istanbul and booked passage on a sleeper traın for the overnıght journey to Sofıa, Bulgarıa set for tonıght. Only been ın Istanbul a couple hours but already know I am gonna love ıt when I return ın a few weeks.

Too old for thıs shıt,

Brıan

Lone Travelin'

2008-12-01T02:13:00.000-08:00

Awoke early in Beirut with the goal of get north back into Syria and to the city of Aleppo before darkness fell. Although it happens often, there is a certain heightened level of stress associated with arriving to a new city in the nighttime, therefore I try to avoid it when possible. I set out early but the X Factor of the day was how long I was going to have to sit at the Syrian border for a new visa. Logically, you would think they could bypass the whole process of verifying with Damascus that I wasn't a spook, because they just did it less than 10 days ago when I crossed from Jordan. But alas, logical thinking has no place in many things I have encountered while traveling and this day was no exception. Expecting this, I had to arrive at the border using shared taxis, which would leave me there to my fate, as opposed to an ongoing bus that would not want to wait on me during the visa debacle. After experiencing the hassle of getting the exit stamp in Lebanon, I walked about a mile in the no-man's land between the borders and arrived to a mob scene in the arrival station of the Syrian side. It was chaos--a clash of anxious people and bureaucratic baloney. I was still feeling a bit sick and didn't want to cope with this predicament. Although aware that my status as the only Westerner at the border could probably bring me preferential treatment, I still attempted to join the so-called line in front of the immigration desk and act like a lunatic like all the other Tom, Dick, and Harrys there. With no end to the madness in sight, I thought about sitting on the ground and giving up, but I was keenly aware that all these guys would forever associate Americans with being puss*es, so I decided to tough it. Coping, I started repeating the line from Forrest Gump: Please God, make me a bird, to fly far far away from here..... I would have taken some pıcs of thıs pandemonıum but photos at mılıtary ınstallments are a bıg no no around here.
Luckily the guards, after repeatedly shouting menacing reprimands at the surging mass, pulled me aside and told me that they would fax my visa application to Damsacus and that, again, in 1,2, or 7 hours, they would probably approve my entry. After 3 hours they did, and I jumped on a bus to Aleppo, now to arrive well after dark. Luckily, a cool Syrian couchsurfer found time between his doctoral residency and exam studying to accomodate my last minute request and I now find myself comfortably situated in the city.

Recently I have fielded questions from family and a few friends about any possible incidents of lonliness while traveling on my own. I thought about this question while in Lebanon, sitting in the fetal position under the lone naked lightbulb in a sparsely furnished hotel room and after a good 10 minutes of conversely loudly with myself came out with the answer of, not in the least. But let me explain a few things. Yes, obviously I do miss family/friends back home and usually wish that they were here to experience some of these events with me. As a shared experience is far better than an experience on your own, however one on your own is better than none at all. I am also aware that from the outside it may seem a bit weird to travel alone but since my preceptions of what exactly is considered weird have been thrown off a bit since I started thinking sleeping and living in stranger's apartments is normal, I usually don't worry much about the issue. There is nothing wrong with that fact that your most trusted travel companion just happens to be the auto-timer on your camera...
Fortunately, most of this trip has been filled with shared experiences had with Petro, The Q's, The Schloegels, Amy Smith, Joe Clifford, and a host of other memorable people met along the way. And just after Xmas, Jen Tiehen's friend Beth Winkelmann, who has decided that she too wants a bit of adventure of her own, will be joining up with me for some travel in Turkey. Are you also hearing the call? You know how to reach me.

Pending I don't get side-tracked on a far flung idea, I am planning on transiting briefly through Turkey in the next few days and heading into Bulgaria to visit my old STL roommate, Gergana, who lives in Sofia, Bulgaria.

Flying solo,
BQ

Lebanon

2008-11-29T06:48:00.000-08:00

Upon arriving to the coastal city of Tripoli, I scurried around to find whatever there was to be had for cheap accommodation. All the cheap places in my guidebook surprisingly had no vacancies, which at the one that had Saddam Hussein's portrait prominantly displayed--I was a bit glad anyways. Finally found a room at my last option and was relieved at the prospect that I was not left to the fate my new and unwelcome climatic situation: freezing cold nights. Having bought a second-hand sweater in Damascus, that and a hoodie are my only winter clothing. A situation that needs rectifying pronto.

Before starting off in the morning for the mountain town of Bcharre, I stopped at a shawarma shop for a bite of breakfast/lunch and was bestowed another gesture of middle eastern hospitality, when a muslim cleric insisted on paying for my food. Will it ever end? I hope not.

Bcharre, a moutain town reminiscent of something you might find in Europe, had an old world charm that made it a pleasant place to spend two days. Home of the famous poet/writer/painter Khalil Gibran, I was the lone visitor at his musuem & resting place. Previously unaware of his famous works, the visit definitely sparked an interest. After spending my Thanksgiving eating a home-cooked Lebanese meal of fish with spinach and rice, I awoke the next morning to make the 1.5hour hike up to place called The Cedars (for the reason that it is a small tract of land forested with, you guessed it: cedars--famous for reasons I never came to understand). After hiking up and briefly touring around the less than 3 acre area containing cedar trees, I began cursing myself for spending so much time in pursuit of something displayed in far more magnifigance in the U.S. My self loathing would only deepen as on the walk back, freezing rain began to fall. My hoodie was not adequate protection against the winter storm that was rolling in and I was wondering how a local villager was going to receive a foreigner knocking on their door asking to ride out the storm inside. Luckily, a few minutes into what would turn into a frozen downpour, a car came down the road and answered the frantic wave of the wandering idiot.

After the morning's ill-fated cedar trek, I took a bus to the capital city Beirut. After years of civil war and most recently, the 2006 war with Israel, downtown has been rebuilt with many of the posh attributes of any western country. Despite these modernisms, a huge urban military presence squelches any disillusions about where exactly your are. A tank parked next to the supermarket is a life I have never known, but unfortunately it it appears to be life as usual for the Lebanese.

Feeling a bit under the weather, I spent most of my first night holed up in the dorm room. The only other person present in the room during the veg session was an older Arabic man, an uncharacteristic customer for a backpacker place, but not necessarily rare. After quite awhile of silence, we made an attempt at conversation, which was immediately stone-walled by both of our mono-lingual abilities. Finally I was able to extract that he was from Iraq, Mosul to be exact. The conversation, or lack thereof, was a shame as I had many questions for this man about Mosul as this is where my cousin Dave Tiehen is to be deployed to in the coming month. A good opportunity lost to language again.

The next morning I set out to do what I perceive is the best way to get to know an urban area--walk it. And do it primarily using side streets. This is where I usually find the friendly shopkeepers, cheap local grub, and best encounters. And in the Middle East, unlike South America, you can venture just about anywhere without the fear of stumbling into a neighborhood that wıll welcome you with a screw-driver in the gut. An almost total absence of crime and/or worry of, is was I have come to love most about these countries.

Kipling famously wrote that "the first condition for understanding a foreign country is to smell it." For me the most authentic and impacting "smells" come from experiences had off the main drag. This particular walk in Beirut was going to net me two particularly interesting encounters. The first was stumbled upon when I seeking out breakfast. Although maybe hard to see in the picture below, there are two falafel shops next to each other, both bearing the same name and logo. The decor also matched up more or less. Having entered one of the shops thinking that they must be two shops of the same owner to accommodate for booming business, I was suprised when I ordered a sandwhich that the shopkeeper told me to wait a few minutes so he could finish the food prep work and did not send me to the adjoining shop to get the sandwhich, where I knew for a fact the prep work was already done. Because of this peculiarity, I inquired about the shop next door and the keeper responded that the name on the signs was his fathers and that he and his brother had the shop together "and then we made divorce." And so, two brothers, presumably not speaking together anymore, were operating identical falafel shops right next to each other. I can only imagine that their rift contributed to more issues within the community as they too had to decide what shop they would show patronage to. Talk about living with the past everyday....

During my walking tour, I was more or less trying to walk to the south of Beirut, where the hostel owner had stated I could find the Palestinian refugee camps, not really elaborating on what I would see other than the obvious. Sounded like a good idea so I set off. Eventually, I got to the part of town, that he said I would find them. While taking a picture of some graffiti on the wall written in English, a man passing on a motorbike made the gesture of taking a picture and shook his figure in a discouraging way. I was a bit confused but didn't make anything of the matter and kept on walking. Not far off I came across an barbwire enclosed junkyard that contained a sea of broken motorbikes. So big was the pile, that I decided that it would make for a nice picture and walked in to ask the junker if I could take one. Thinking they could probably care less with the request I was surprised when the man and his young son (who was translating) gave me a quick no and explained that if I wanted to take pictures of this or anything in the neighboring area, I would need permission of the police. I pondered the reasoning for this in combination with the situation I was seeing at the junkard. In addition to some junkyard workers and the boy, the boy's father and another man were in military fatigues but neither bore the formal insignas of the Lebanese army. They all invited me to drink tea and eat some bread in their small building on the premises and I accepted, still trying to make sense of where exactly I was and why there a restriction on photography. Again with the boy translating and doing almost all of the talking for the group, we discussed all things USA--sports, Angelina Jolie, but mostly U.S. foreign policy. This 12 year-old kid talked of Condileeza Rice and U.S. policy with knowledge that would put most American adults to shame. Made me think they should up the embarrassment anty on U.S. reality shows by making one called Do you know more than a third-world fifth-grader.

The conversation was generally light-hearted although the boy did ask me what I thought about Bush providing Isreal with the military capabilities that were killing children like him in Lebanon. Pretty sad to hear such heavy questions from someone so young. And when the boy showed me his necklace with a picture of Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah, were my questions of why I couldn't take photos and with whom I was probably in the company of, answered. When leaving, the father told me in not so many words that there was nothing more to see in the direction I was previously heading and that I should walk back towards downtown Beirut. I wondered if his advice was more in the interest of safety or just touristy advice, but I didn't care to find out.

Strolled to into a internet cafe to bring myself up to speed on Hezzbollah and finally read the U.S. State Department's warning about not traveling to Lebanon. Probably not the time to do such research but I am sticking with the philosphy that if Starbucks is somewhere, I can be there too.

Heading to back to Syria tomorrow to visit the northern city of Aleppo.

Warmly,

To be closer to God, be closer to people---Khalil Gibran

Monastery Soup for the Wandering Soul

2008-11-26T11:12:00.000-08:00

Well, I found it. Tucked into a wind-swept Syrian mountainside lies the Deir Mar Musa monastery. I was largely unaware of what was waiting for me at the monastery as I only had heard of it through word of mouth by another traveler. Not having voluntarily gone on a spiritual retreat since the sleep deprived mental tampering I received at KAIROS in high school, I was anxious to get off the grid for a few days and do some inner reflecting, however scary that may be. After a half-day of bus traveling, I was placed at the bottom of a hill by a taxi, with the monastery looming quite a bit higher. The hike up with a full pack was a bit much and I was wondering how they would react to unannounced visitors, especially those hoping to stay a few days. I was fully planning on using the line that I overhead an Evangelical traveler tell another in Jerusalem: "I was SENT." By the Man, I presume.

Once arrived, they first person I saw was a dreadlocked Frenchman playing a guitar on the rock path by the monastery. He welcomed me and told me to make myself at home. And so started my monastic existence that would last for the next 4 days.
Run by an Italian Jesuit, the monastery has become quite a famous place as it has evolved into a globally known center for inter-faith dialogue between Christains and Muslims. It allows all visitors to stay as long as they wish, with only the expectation that they occasionally help out in the kitchen or in projects around the grounds. During my stay, there was a good mix of Europeans, mostly French, who were all there for various reasons. The only other native English speaker was an Aussie, whose intentions there was on par with mine--a bit of reflective relaxing and most importantly, living cheaply. Meals were a social affair and broke up the monotony of the endless hours of reading, writing, or however you chose to spend your time. The food was basic but varied and nourishing and provided a nice change to my subsistence only diet of recent. The hiking around the monastery was nice and there were a series of caves in the mountainside for praying, meditating, animal sacrificing--whatever you needed to tap that inner spirit. As for me, I got my read on, about three books in as many days. The monastary had an incredible cave-like library, where amazingly enough I found an autobiography written by one of Mick Jagger's conquests, Marianne Faithful. Man, that women got around. It was funny because whoever left the book in the library inscribed it with a warning to all female sinners...

A stand-out character at the monastery was my Russian roomate, whose monosyllable answers/replies kept me cracking up. "Eat." "Pray." "Smoke." In a rare moment of articulation he stated one of the more profound things I heard spoken at the monastery: "In Russia, we say that someone who doesn't smoke or drink is dead person with good body." I am pretty sure he said this after meditating for 12 hours solid, so you know it was divinely inspired.
After 4 days, I felt enough was enough and heard my inner voice calling me back to the road. So I packed up, hiked an hour to the road and hitched a ride to the main highway. A fellow Syrian hitcher helped me navigate the next series of buses, adamantly paying for all. So kind, that it tripped my radar and made me contemplate any possibility for dubious intentions. Turned out to be just another gesture of good-will to a foreign guest, which seems to be an emerging theme of my middle eastern trek.
Made a pit stop at the famous Crac Des Chevalier, a crusader castle, that has inspired writers like Paul Theroux to write about its magnificence and boyhood fantasy charm. Ran around its cave-like tunnels for an hour, took pictures for you and darted. I had a date with the border.
Hopped in a mini-bus packed with people and made the cross into Lebanon. It made geographic sense (i will return to Syria to visit more and then head to Turkey). Plus Lebanese food is just what the doctor ordered for me. I am also trying to find any truth to the reply made by my good friend, Chris Clarkson (who is also half-Lebanese), who said when I told him about my visit to his motherland: "I think they now call it 'Don't go there land'." Well, only one way to find out.

Oh yeah, and have a great Thanksgiving.

Missing the tryptophan coma,

Brian

Damascus & Palmyra

2008-11-22T05:00:00.000-08:00

Enjoying a peaceful existence here in Syria. Damascus is an incredible city and as part our dim leader's "Axis of Evil," it lacks many tourists, allowing one to be free to stroll leisurely with little hassle from touts and shopkeepers. As such, I have actually been doing a bit of window and store gazing, not because I intend to buy anything, although I probably should as Damascene markets contain some amazing handicrafts. I took some pics for parties interested (uploaded to album--Blogger in Syria is partially blocked therefore I am not sure if pics are uploading to the blog). Things are cheap. Could potentially be ground zero for the formation of the What Fell Off the Back of the Truck import company.
There has been a good cast of interesting characters at the guest house I was staying at. Like most Islamic cities, there is a serious absence of Western-styled night activities, forcing one to routinely engage in an oxymoron called "sober fun." Or meaningful conversations, whatever you prefer to call it. There was two German guys, sporting beards that put Joe and I's post-Amazon ones to shame, who had bicycled for 7 months from Germany all the way to Syria. When I spoke to them it was actually their last few hours before they flew home. They spoke of some incredible experiences along the way--most notably their stay in Georgia, when the Russians started shelling the town they were staying in. We also were contemplating the fact that they had been traveling to this point for 7 months only to return back home on a 7 hour flight. Also spent some time discussing importing logistics with a french girl named Sev (yes, I told her she shared the same name with a football god back in KC) who had been spending the previous two weeks scouring the markets for textiles and fabrics to send back to France. More interestingly, we discussed the finer points of the colloquial differences of descriptions of coitus in French and English. Their romanticism of even brief liaisons confused me.

Just took a bus to the Syrian desert oasis of Palmyra. Was able to be alone amongst Roman ruins for the first time in my life. Boy they are old. I think I may have hit my "old things" quota for the month.

It may be time for a brief societal and financial sabbatical, so if you don't hear from me for 4 or 5 days, I apparently have found the supposed Syrian monastary Mar Musa, which is tucked into the mountians. Yes I know, me and the monastic life go together like whisky and milk, but hey, I hear they take free boarders.

Contemplating the phenomenon that is belly button lint,
BQ

Riding an Emotional Wave to Syria

2008-11-19T09:10:00.000-08:00

After missing the last shuttle to the Israel/Jordan border, my exit out of Jerusalem was delayed. Not wanting to hike with my pack all the way back to the hostel I was staying at, I chose instead to bunk up at politically charged hostel near the shuttles. Run by Palestinians and occupied mostly by journalists and sympathizers to the cause, I soon found myself accepting an invitation from an English girl to go "hang out at a tent" with her and some of her friends. Fully aware that such a cryptic invite would most likely result in something out of the ordinary, and without a good excuse not to, I found myself walking to the outskirts of Jerusalem to a squatters camp, where several Palestinians families, whose homes were recently demolished by the Israeli Police to make way for Jewish settlers, were living. I asked another guy exactly what was going on and why we were going there and he replied that there was already some people (international volunteers) hanging out there with the families in case the Police were to show up and execute the eviction notices. Which was set for tonight, he added. Great. Knowing my luck, all these kids have international organizations to bail them out of jail, while I would rot in jail as an unwitting spectator. At the camp, they were cooking food, watching footage of violent clashes between these volunteers and the police, and waiting out whatever was to transpire. We stuck around for awhile chatting up some of the volunteers. There was just a couple of them. Young and European, they had been doing this in the West Bank for several months now and I had to give it to them--they had some balls. They had been beat and shot at while sticking up for the Palestinians. There seems to be a pretty small but passionate and courageous group of them doing it although to my knowledge they haven't really made the U.S. news since American Rachel Corrie was run over by a Israeli bulldozer in 2003. We left the scene before midnight and as I left Jerasulem early today, I didn't hear what ended up happening.
It was a full day of transit. Took the shuttle to the Isreali border and managed to avoid both stamping by them and the Jordinians. Then while sharing a taxi back to Amman with a girl from New Zealand, she was telling me how she witnessed a bad accident while visiting the Dead Sea, and added that she feels that this sort of stuff seems to happen to her alot. Just as my inner monolouge was going something like I need to get away from her, I saw a delivery truck veer off the road and flip over. We stopped to help the occupants trapped inside, whom luckily seemed frazzled but not seriously harmed. Also, fought the urge to run away from the girl, before her aura would taint my lucky rabbits foot, that has kept things oh so well.
My day of excitement wasn't even half over. Technically, Syria requires a visa submitted from the Syrian embassy in Wash D.C. But I have heard that some Americans have been able to get it after waiting at the border for hours on end. I was gonna give it a try, due to lack of other options.
Negotiated a driver to take me from Amman, Jordan through the border procedure and then onto Damascus, Syria. I had to pay him a fairly large sum, due to the fact that he would need to wait many hours to see if I received the visa. He requested the payment up front, which normally I would almost always refuse, but this withholding recently resulted in a shouting match with a deeply offended man in Egypt and not wanting to repeat this episode, I took a chance and paid it forward. Halfway to the border I was getting bad vibes about his trustworthiness, so I decided to concoct a story that I had 3 friends wanting to make the same trip next week, and would he be the driver for them also? Hoping that the promise of future money would dissuade any funny business. As I suspected, after the border officials castigated me for showing up without a visa and told me to wait for 1,2, or 7 hours for a possible visa, the driver started to complain that he didnt have time to wait. I replied that he could leave but that he needed to refund half the money. He adamantly refused this idea, thus starting what would become a very heated exchange. Things advanced to the point where we were trading F-Us and he waved his cigarette in face saying "you do not F with me." Then feeling that I was in a losing battle, I tried my risky trump card, an appeal to his piety. I told him that he could leave but that his dishonesty was known by me and Allah (pointing upwards). This had a momentary effect until his moral relativism put him back on his spiel of leaving me to my own fate. Things got heated again and we managed to draw a crowd of Arabic men, always eager watch a show. Alas, I tried to diffuse the situation and stall his presence there by breaking out my deck of cards and showing him my one and only card trick. Amazingly, we started laughing and patting each other on the back. Such a dramatic range of emotions that I suspected schizophrenia in both of us. Finally after a quick 2 hour wait, my visa was approved and the driver, who would not drive me to Damascus but would pay someone else to do it, gave me an extended handshake while we exchanged unspoken apologies.
My new driver (Syrian) and the two other occupants (Jordinians) provided me a heartwarming welcome and through rudimentary conversation, explained their desire to see peace in the world. They, like all others I have spoken with in the Middle East, see a disconnect between government and people and harbor only ill will towards Booosh. Additionally for about the 100th time, they expressed their optimism for the future.
Finally arrived in Damascus and was pleasantly suprised to find a clean city with a nice mixture of modernity and antiquity. Spent the night strolling through the endless markets and treated myself to a much needed shave.
In the course of 24 hours, I have been inspired by the passion and courage of the foreign volunteers in Palestine, witnessed a terrible accident, narrowly avoided a fistfight with a taxi driver, participated in heartfelt political dialogue, and succesfully produced myself through 2 borders. Feeling more alive than ever.

Only scared of what we don't now,

Brian

Guns & God; The Holy Land

2008-11-18T03:39:00.000-08:00

A seemingly contradiction of terms, but both are ever so present in this highly revered land. Also, they are the two main ingredients for a dish called Apocalypse Stew. Whose preparing this dish? Everyone. The religious sects provide the ingredients and governmental mettling is eventually gonna let this pot boil over. Fatalistic thinking? Probably, but until people start thinking more logically and less theologically, I don't see a happy ending to the conflict that I think will probably be the title of the chapter on 21st century history.

Alright, enough of playing Nostrodamus. As you can gather, I crossed the border from Jordan into Israel and managed to do so without being stamped by either border station. It wasn't without a bit of drama however. First, while passing through Israeli security control, which makes the TSA look like a Boy Scout Troop, my 3 inch knife that I use for buttering bread and carving up roadkill was discovered in my bag. After a quick questioning of my nationality, the official told me to put it back "deep in my bag," prompting me to replace it exactly where they pulled it out. This intial encounter gave me the false impression that my nationality was going to streamline my entry into Israel. I was wrong. Crossing with two American girls that I met at my hostel the night before, we were all initially questioned regarding our past travel, why we were trying to avoid the stamp, and were we planning on visiting the West Bank or any othe Palestinian territories. After this round, we were told to wait while one of the girls, who had recently passed through Syria, was put through 2 other rounds of demanding but amatuerish questioning about her intentions. Possibly thinking we may be Palestinian sympathizers and therefore agitators, they tried to trick her into saying she would be visiting the West Bank, an admission that would probably result in her entry denial or at least a punitive stamp her passport. What makes these formalities so aggravating is that they are largely done by the Israeli military, which, since it is obligatory for all youth, is made of mostly of 17-18 year olds. Justifiably, there is a security paranoia that warrants such a force, but the result is a mass of newly powerful kids, spending their formative years bossing around foreigners and Palestinians. Gucci glasses, designer jeans, and a shoulder slung assault rifle exemplifies the mixing of maturity. Our final encounter of the day planted the seed for my tone, when our taxi van to Jerusalem was pulled over at a check point and a military youth questioned our nationality, to which we replied American. When he checked our passports, he then accused us of saying we were Bulgarians (WTF???) and demanded to know why are passports were missing a visa. Only after our older and wiser taxi driver gave a dressing down to the youth about visa protocol for those avoiding the stamp did he let us go. Hopefully for good measure the driver threw in there what country provides the military technology and money to keep his country on the map.
Spent the next day touring the Old City part of Jerusalem including the Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Armenian quarters of the city. So much history has happened in this city that I I probably ingested more knowledge on the tour than in all my years of schooling.

Spent today at the newly opened Holocaust Museum. Aside from seeing the Dachua concentration camp years ago, I don't think I have seen such horrendous evidence of recent evil. A wrenching must see, especially if you are having trouble comprehending the possibility of inhumanity committed by the masses.

Trying to do a double border jump tomorrow. Leaving early tomorrow to cross back into Jordan, clear my pockets of Israeli evidence, and try and make the cross into Syria.

Yours,

BAQ

The Desert, The Palace, & a Border Sneak

2008-11-15T08:48:00.000-08:00

Boy do we have some catching up to do. I guess when I left you I was getting ready to make a move out of Petra. A decision made easy by a fun young couple from the Netherlands, Chris and Micah, who offered me a spot in their car, Uncle Benz, to the nearby desert oasis of Wadi Rum. They had been driving Uncle Benz all the way from Holland and our little journey to the desert got me jonesin' for a road trip of my own real soon. Just need to learn how to hotwire a car.

Once we arrived to the town of Wadi Rum, we arranged to spend the night in the desert, traveling to a Beduoin camp via camel. Although the budget left room for only an overnight visit, it was a pretty amazing place and quite a mystical experience. Got enough of a taste to respect the harsh but tranquil nature of desert living.

Determined to get off the beaten path a bit, I decided the following day that would try and hitch rides from Wadi Rum (south part of Jordan) to the northern capital city of Amman. Luckily, I snagged my first ride with Omar, a yorgurt deliveryman, who after a few deliveries along the way, would take me about 300 kilometers to the outskirts of Amman. Although our language barrier was extreme, Omar plied me with coffee and snacks the whole way and in true Jordinian custom said "welcome" about 10 times. Omar was not alone in this show of hospitality as I have found about 85% of encountered Jordanians saying the same thing. Trying to recall if I have ever said this to a visitor in the U.S...........

After being dropped off on the side of the highway by an onward travelling Omar, a series of friendly Jordianian bus drivers (one refusing payment) coordinated my desposit in the city center of Amman. Having concentrated the whole day on just making it there, I was unsure of what to do or where to stay when I arrived. I went to a cafe and checked my email to find that a Couchsurfer in Amman had responded that I would in fact have a place to crash. I met up with the CSer, Murielle, not long later and enroute back to her pad she informed me that I would need to surrender my passport to the guards at the entrance of her apartment--as she lived on the grounds of the Jordanian Royal Palace. She is allowed this residence as the personal stylist of the Queen of Jordan. So, such is the dichotomy of things in my life lately--hitchinghiking by day and palatial sleeping by night.

And so I spent the next two days with Murielle, who is actually Lebanese, touring the nearby town of Jerash, eating tables full of Lebanese food, and doing what presumably all Jordinians do on a good Saturday--shooting guns at a gun range. After turning in my work-issued gun over a year ago, I was wondering if I still had what it takes to win a Duck Hunt tournament and was pleasantly surprised to see that if I fired 10 rounds at something/one I would hit them at least once. I left the shot-out target for Murielle to hang in her apartment to warn off any creepy CSers.

Tonight, I am back to my old routine--just checked into a "hotel" downtown that actually charges to use the showers. Always exploiting the loopholes, I plan on sponge bathing in the sink later.
Tomorrow is a big day for me. I am going to make the overland border crossing into Israel, which normally would be fairly routine, although the trick is that since I want to travel through Syria and Lebanon (and other countries un-friendly to Israel), I cannot receive the dreaded Israel stamp in my passport nor can I receive an Exit or Entry stamp from Jordanian officials at the border-- as this is tell-all evidence to many countries' immigrations officials who would refuse my entry or would kick me out if discovered later. Essentially I have to go through a total of 2 check points tomorrow and 2 on the way out, making sure both the Jordinian and Israeli officials defer on the stamping. If I get stamped, my fate will be sealed as I will have to ditch much of my middle east plans and fly straight to Turkey. Leaving this one to the travel gods.

Risking banishment,

deParting the Red Sea; Petra

2008-11-11T08:07:00.000-08:00

The infamous ferry between Nuweiba, Egypt and Aqaba, Jordan lived up to much of its dread. At a ridiculous cost, officials manage to turn a 1 hour puddle skip into an all day ordeal. Even the always for show X-ray machine at the port was quite comicial--you put your bag in an enclosed black box and I am pretty sure a little man in the box opened your bag looked inside and then pushed it out the other end. Once sailing things weren't bad. Luckily, the 2nd Class compartment was in need of an entertainment director and I was able to pass a little time by showing an audience of 20 Jordinians/Egyptians how to play Solitaire. Something is not quite right playing a loner's game like Solitiare with that many people looking over your shoulder.

Arrived at the port in Jordan to a mob of money-hungry taxi drivers, who tried to convince our recently put together group of 5 travelers into one compact car for the 2 hour trip to Wadi Musa/Petra. Arrived late in the night and crashed hard.

Woke early in the morning and toured Petra, the Nabatean ruins cut into the desert hills, made famous by Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and its new placement as one of the new 7 Wonders of the World. Including the honorary Wonder the Giza Pyrmaids, I am halfway on track to seeing all of these. If you count Party Cove at the Lake, I am over half.

Was undecided about what to do next until I met a Dutch couple who are traveling through with their own car. They have made up my mind by offering me a lift to Wadi Rum--famous for its picturesque desert surroundings. Planning on riding some camels, camping with the Beduoins, and digging for water.

Following the sun,

B. Quarnstrom of Arabia

Budgets and Beachtime

2008-11-10T00:48:00.000-08:00

As the topic of how financially you can swing a trip like this is often brought up by inquiring souls, usually with the expression "you must be rich." Well, for those in the know, that obviously is not the case, and depending on whether or not I have the care-all, I usually explain that independent backpack touring can be done in many parts of the world for somewhere around $25 a day--everything included. For explanatory purposes I will give you an example of my average spending while in Egypt.

$4 a night--Usually a basic room with fan and a shared bathroom

$1--breakfast of coffee and rolls

$2--lunch of sharwma or falafel

$1.75--Snorkel gear rental

$3--taxi fares

$1--Sheesha (popular flavored tabacco waterpipe)

$2--baksheesh (tips)

$5--seafood pizza for dinner

$3--a couple beers

$2--internet time so I can check in with you

And whatever is left over in the budget is used to try and pay people to talk to me. So, as you can see it is quite easy to stretch the old greenback quite a few ways. If by chance I felt like I have gone over a daily budget by a large amount, I usually try skip expenses I have deemed not vital the following day. Like shelter. Always having an eye for a good nook and cranny, I was able to sleep at a hotel the other night. Although it actually was on the roof of it and the staff wasnt aware I was there. In the morning, while waking, I was thinking of how it would be interesting if I could get away with this hotel camping for a month or so, when I noticed one of the staff curiously examining my sleeping bag & throw pillow setup. I scurried off without having to give my planned excuse of "the girlfriend kicked me out of the room."

My arrival at the small town of Nuweiba has been pleasant on the old budget--which is sure not to last as Egypt is the cheapest country of the middle-eastern tour. Through the advice of a resident Couchsurfer I acquired a reed hut on the beach for a whopping $2.75 a night. My "living room' is about 5 ft. from the water. Although, I do have to share this grand paradise with the 10 other people that are staying along the 2 mile beach front.

Finally, after 4 days I got myself to leave with the promise that someday I will return to this place. Inshallah.

Bought a ticket for the ferry this afternoon to Jordan. In Petra by tomorrow.

Peace out,

Crusoe

Shouting from the Moutain Top

2008-11-06T05:53:00.000-08:00

Known locally as Gebel Musa, but more widely known to Muslims, Jews, and Christians, for whom it holds an equally important significance, as Mt. Sinai. The location that the Bible states is where Moses produced the 10 commandments to his band of exiling Jews. At the base of the mountian also holds the 1,500 year-old St. Katherines Monastary.

The sunrise on the mountain top draws religious pilgrims from all around the world and their daily mass convergance to the summit in the early morning hours is reputed to be one amazing and bizzare sight to see. As you were too busy again, I took one for the team and showed up to bear witness to just what in the world people are doing on this mountaintop.

From below, the flashlit trail of ascending people zig-zaging to the top of the mountain looked like something out of a movie. It is a technically easy ascent with the greatest hazard being getting trampled by one of the many camels that are conveying the physically unable or lazy up. There was also a staggering amount of elderly climbers, I suppose feeling spiritually invigorated enough to make the hike, although I believe I saw a few Bedouin guides slipping amphetamines into their coffee to keep them on the move.

With me were an middle-aged couple from San Fransisco, a German girl, who was my busmate and snorkelling buddy in Dahab, and a young Bedouin guide who was more of a nuisance than a help. We were amazed at the amount of people traversing up the mountain (1,000+) as well as the flurry of different langauges being spoken around us (30+). Expectations of the experience were varied. As for me, I was anticipating two scenarios: either I would be struck down by lightening before reaching the summit by The Man or I would return from the top white-bearded and bearing the 11th Commandment of Keep Holy the Monday After a Crazy Weekend.

After about 2 hours of hiking up, we reached the summit about 15 minutes before sunrise. I found a rock ledge to sit and wait out whatever was to transpire. Not long later the sun began to poke over the desolate mountain range. A group began singing my favorite church hymn "How Great Thou Art" in a language I did not know, a group of ever-enthused Japanese pilgrims began clapping, and another Asian man stood howling at the sun from a rock ledge. Both absurd and spectacular, it truely was one of the more unique social gatherings I have ever seen.

Before leaving the rock ledge to descend the mountain, I planted the copy paper flag bearing the initials of Schloegel Design and Remodel into the ground, thus ensuring continued prosperous growth for the company, whose sponsorship of the Mt Sinai experience is greatly appreciated. Although I suspect the "flag" was probably swiped by a Beduoin not long later and made for toilet paper, its placement is sure to inspire a few hits on their website from pilgrims who were wondering just what in the hell I was doing.

This is probably one of a few Biblically inspired treks that I'll do while in this region of the world--all good chances for The Man to give me a piece of his mind.

Taking off today up the Red Sea coast to the town of Nuweiba for a couple day hang before departing via ferry to Jordan. If all goes well I will be in Petra before the weeks end.

Shalom,

Brother Brian

FYI-pic album updated

Red Sea Snorkelling

2008-11-05T00:50:00.000-08:00

After days of temple & tomb exploring and tout avoiding, I decided an exodus to the Red Sea coast was probably a good idea. With friends made on the arduous 18 hour bus ride here, I have been relaxing and partaking in some water sports for the last 2 days. Although the Red Sea is world renowned for its scuba diving, I have primarily been spending my time conditioning myself to be a championship caliber snorkeller. For a $1.75 daily rental fee, I put on my snorkel equipment and set out in a quest to bring the sport of snorkelling from the shallows of the kid's area of the city pool to the forefront of extreme aquatic activities. Part of this quest involves diving down deep near the reef and trying to shame the scuba divers paying 50 Euros by seeing the exact same things as them. Fools. They may be able to go deeper but just wait and see when I employ the rope & cement bucket technique...

Snorkelling the "Blue Hole" today and then getting right with Yaweh tonight by ascending Mt. Sinai. After a quick mental replay, I may have to spend a few nights up there to achieve this goal, but that's between me and Him.

Yours,

Cousteau

Luxor and a Tout Rant

2008-11-01T07:48:00.000-07:00

After a 10 hour train ride into the Nile Valley I found myself in the historically rich city of Luxor. Often referred to as one of the world's greatest open air musuems, Luxor possesses the tombs, temples, and knowledgeable guides to back up this claim. The ruins draw the archeologically addicted as well as adventurous families, making it a hub for international tourism for the last 200 years. Where there are tourists, inevitably, there are "touts." You know, the overly friendly locals employing age-old gimmicks to try and get you to see and buy their wares. They're everywhere and they're unavoidable--hell, they were even in the Amazon! Anyways, here in Luxor they have their schtick down to a science. It typically starts (about every 2 minutes) with the soon-to-be antagonizer politely welcoming you to Egypt and following up with a "where are you from." And it continues on to "come to my shop for a welcoming drink," "my family's store is having a sale today," "special price for you my friend." My friend this, my friend that. I have not been this popular since I started giving my friends tours of the girl's bathroom in 3rd grade. The tout's whole routine played out over 100 times a day is mentally grating and exhausting. One must find ways to deal with this before things boil over and you end up slugging one of these guys, who are just trying to make a living--albeit a very annoying one.

For me, its the lying game. For many years I operated under the false knowledge that honesty is the best policy. Not until later in life did I realize that whoever made up the phrase was a moron. Either that or she forgot to leave the ending in most cases. Yes, you noticed I used she, I was just speculating. Anyways, these frequent and routinized encounters provide opportunity for otherwise Honest Brian to try out his lying chops. New name, new birthplace, new story, whatever. After one particularly brutal stroll down a tourist market, I was running low on an alreadly underequipped patience ability, when I tried to abrubtly halt the barrage by telling the obvious lie that I was Brian from Japan. While I was smiling at my clever cynicism, the young tout started speaking to me in Japanese. Touche. A wise friend once told me that when encountering the solicitous type on the street that the best defense is a good offense--"Can I have a dollar?; do You want to buy this backpack?" Not purposely, I have also found that I am hassled less when I put my shades on. Nothing screams "this boy doesn't spend money on himself" like my BluBlocker shades.

Today I toured the Valley of the Kings, which is the location of the burial chambers of many of Egypts famous Pharaohs--the Ramses, King Tut, etc. Surrounded by an enclosing barren and arid mountainside, it is not hard to picture life as it was thousands of years ago. Protected by the absence of humidity, the heiroglyphic lined chambers provide all the evidence you need for realizing your small place in the history of the world.

Also visited the Tomb of Hapshetsut, which is considered one of Egypt's "must-see" monuments. I did not think it was all that great although I was more intrigued by its recent notoriety-- almost 11 years ago, 6 fundalmentalist hoping to cripple Egypt's tourism market (they briefly did), methodically shot and butcherknifed 60 unsuspecting tourists. Google the news--its scary. And don't worry, there are alot more sleeping police on site.

More ruins tomorrow and then a move,

Tom from Sudan

Brianandria

2008-10-30T07:18:00.000-07:00

When Alexander the Great founded the Mediterranean port city of Alexandria, he had a vision of creating a culturally diverse and powerful center of trade between Europe and the Near East. Alexandria is also the former location of one of the 7 Wonders of the Ancient World--The Lighthouse of Alexandria. I did not see evidence of either of these assertations. However, my daytrip from Cairo served as a nice health retreat from the atmospheric ills of Cairo. A pleasant walk along the port's coast inspired thoughts on what the future of Brianandria might be described as. Forget the whens and wheres, lets focus on the important stuff:

One ruler. Everyone is sick of all this election drama 24/7 right? Never again. Brianandria would have a self-appointed dictator who serves a lifetime appointment. I will volunteer for that job.

The National Anthem is written and sung by Journey.

All official business transactions and deals must be sealed with a hi-five.

Drinking lunches are no longer stigmatized--in fact they are national policy.

OK, well I already ran out of stuff.....this should be more of a collaborative project. Constitutions take time you know. I am encouraging comments for what _____Andria will contain for you?

In other news, Planetary Vagabond has come across an opportunity to go semi-legit. My couchsurfing host Adham Bakry introduced me a to local editor for a new English language magazine that is being produced here in Cairo. She has seen the blog and would like me to write a monthly column on some of my adventure travel episodes (little does she know I have been writing these fabrications in my parents basement in Kansas City) The magazine is called Pleasure (no, it is not a porno mag. Although don't think that I am above doing work for one) with its first edition in December. Maybe an excuse for you to come and visit Egypt--to read the magazine.

Working for the weekend,
BrianQ

2008-10-29T11:57:00.000-07:00

So much has been written on the Pyramids of Giza that I don't even want to put my hat into the ring. However, I will say that I enjoyed the overall experience, despite having feelings prior that it would be a major let down. This will just have to be a photo blog today.

Write your own story,

You Better Walk Like an Egyptian

2008-10-28T06:08:00.000-07:00

Because failure to do so will surely lead to your likely demise on the anarchic streets of Cairo. Having previously read up on the hazards of crossing streets in Cairo, I was still shocked to see the choatic and reckless nature of drivers here. Fully aware of the daily fatality count of pedestrians in his home city, Backry did me the service of teaching me the art of street crossing. A street typically consists of space that normally would allow for 2 lanes of traffic in a law abiding country, although Cairenes somehow are able to squeeze 4 "lanes" and countless swerving techniques into this space. The apparent disregard for human life by the drivers compounds the danger in venturing out. A total street cross without stopping is usually unlikely, therefore one must mentally visualize the traffic pattern and alternate walking an stopping at the appropriate parts in the road, with cars wizzing by at hairslength. There is something almost scientific about the undertaking as one must continously calculate the ebb and flow of the the river of cars rushing past. After several occasions of me shadowing Bakry's movements in order to cross the street, I finally received a baptize by fire when I was heading solo to the Egyptian Musuem. Facing a street with about 5 lanes of moving traffic I stood curbside for several minutes and stared, wondering just how in the hell crossing the street is physically possible. A real life game of Frogger, where the stakes are more than a quarter. I noticed one of the ever present Cairo policemen who was not far from where I was standing. I gave him a look that said "can you help with this" and he gave me the finger point and shoo motion that said "go on and give it a try sonny, you might make it." Much to his disappointment I made it and was able to enjoy the ancient exhibits in the Egyptian Musuem.
With more practice, the art of street crossing has turned into a fun bit to get the juices flowing. With the hope that it doesnt result in juices flowing outside your body.

Spent most of the day strolling around the backalleys of Cairo to get the local vibe and to inhale all the toxic wonder that Cairo's airspace holds. Smog and pollution abounds but not enough to kill interest in this historic city.

Heading to see history's most famous evidence tomorrow.

If not now, when?

Brian

A Day in the Life of a Couchsurfer

2008-10-27T00:39:00.000-07:00

So I thought I would revisit a topic previously discussed several months back when Petro and I couchsurfed with a Chilean family back in February. A social networking website for travelers exists called Couchsurfing.com, where travelers can connect with "hosts" in cities around the world for just a chat and even possibly crash on their couch for a few nights. Crazy, right? Well, people are doing this with increasing frequency around the world and I feel that somebody has to shed some more light on this phenomenon for you. Here's my recent experience so far:

Wake up at the Berner's place in Dubai and get ready to head to the airport. Check email and see that a Couchsurfing host has replied back saying she has a friend who is new to CS and able to host. Send email to him inquiring about possibility.

Head to Airport.

On layover in Qatar, I check my email and see that the Couchsurfing host, Adham Bakry, replies that he does have a couch to crash and gives me directions to tell the taxi once I arrive in Cairo.

Arrive in Cairo negotiate a taxi to his place and hope like hell that this whole thing works out as if not, I will find myself SOL and away from the city center and all the hostels would be used as Plan B.

I get dropped off by the taxi and wander around the neighborhood a bit before finding the apartment building. Find the apartment, where there is no answer at the door and resolve to wait for awhile in the assumption that he is still at work.

Bakry's mother walks out of the adjoining apartment and intoduces herself and says that Backry will be home shortly and to make myself at home in his apartment.

He arrives not long later and after a bit of Q & A we head next door to eat a meal at his mother's place. Much like my mother would be if I had strangers showing up to crash at my place, she thinks we are both crazy but is also fascinated by the concept.

Backry is Egyptian, but through various experiences of living abroad including the States, his English is flawless--almost to the point that I forget that he is Egyptian. A photographer and graphic designer by trade, his spacious and eclectic apartment reflects his life in the arts. What is most exciting about the place is the U-Shaped couch, which is to be my sleeping quarters for the next few days. Upon seeing this grand facilitator of good conversations and sleep, I vow a U-shaped couch will grace my first permanant abode.

Bakry turns out to be super cool, relaxed, and a hospitable host. He is new to CS but already embodies the attitude that'll make him popular within the small Cairo network.

We head out to downtown Cairo on a walking tour of some of the city's drinking haunts. We later meet up with several of his friends, which allows me to be a participant/observer in a hip Egyptian hang. They primarily speak in English for my benefit although I find their Arabic exchanges to be more intriguing as it makes me cognizant of my presence in an authentic experience in North Africa.

In conversation, one of the Egpytian women spoke candidly about her mother's recent de-veiling (she no longer wears the Islamic veil). This strikes me as probably comparative in American culture to when someone's mother creates a Facebook profile.

Finally, my long day ends and I crash on the couch wondering what Cairo is going to throw at me tomorrow.

These sort of experiences are happening all over the world.

Maybe you should host?

Departing Dubai

2008-10-27T00:15:00.000-07:00

The last few days in Dubai were spent on the beach by day and out on the town by night. Spent the last night with Rich and Jen along with my new friends from Cerner, Rhae and Jeni. After an amazing dinner at the sushi restaurant Nobu we partied at the artificial peninsula'd bar 360 under the Burj Al Arab. A fitting last night for capturing the essence of Dubai.

A big thanks to the Berner family for permitting me to crash their lives for the last 3 weeks and allowing me to see such a fabled locale, that normally would not have been afforded on my travels.

A hour before I left for the airport, I got a positive lead on a Couchsurfing experience in Cairo so we will see what works out.

From new to old empires,

Brian

A Hundredaire in the Land of Millionaires

2008-10-21T21:38:00.000-07:00

Things are still gravy over here in Dubai. Janey's last couple days here were spent trying to enjoy the beach and giving her some assurances that I will not take any unnecessary risks in this next leg of the trip, which may be the longest yet. These fell short with her with her knowledge of my quest to get an Iranian visa. She did me a solid by coming over and helping me out with the kids, proving once again that she is the best mother you could ask for. Love ya Janey!
With Janey gone as of last Friday, I held down the fort until Rich and Jen arrived back from Italy on Saturday night. I have gotten the whole childcare thing down pat--I just write reminders all over my hands to get me through the day-"take kids to school," "pick up at 12," "naps at 3pm," "locking children in the closet is no longer an acceptable disciplinary practice," etc, etc. Probably my best talent as a Manny is the long-winded bedtime stories that are occasionally required. With the memory capability of a pasta strainer, I usually have to think hard to pull up a story suitable for children under 9. Quickly running out of appropriate material, I started telling G-rated adaptations of movie story lines that are fresh in my head. I was halfway through the Caddyshack story, when Emma the 8 year-old called me on the ruse and said that my story sounded exactly a movie she has seen. I sure hope that she was referring to similar storyline of The Legend of Bagger Vance with Will Smith.....
As usual, once being in a spot for a lengthy amount of time, I start to get the itch to press on. Just bought a ticket for Cairo for this Sunday. Got any travel advice for the region? Friends there I should know about? Loving words? Shoot me them.
Have the rest of the week to soak in the last of Dubai and hang with Rich and Jen. Will give you the last scoop before I depart.

Yours,
BQ

Desert Skiing

2008-10-18T00:51:00.000-07:00

Wanna go snow skiing but are faced with the tiny hang-up that you live in an arid desert? Well, in "Make it Happen" Dubai, they do not see this as a problem and have built the largest indoor ski facility in the world. As seeking out these kind of over the top attractions are part of the Dubai experience, Janey and I spent an afternoon hitting the indoor slopes of Ski Dubai located inside the shopping mall, Mall of the Emirates. There is basically one run with different routes down with varying degrees of inclination. The most difficult route being somewhere equaled to maybe an average blue run on Colorado's ski slopes. Just too make things a bit more surreal, they have built a log cabin lodge/cafe in the middle so you can rest with hot chocolate in between runs. After a while you actually forget that you are indoors and start adjusting to the concept that you are in an below zero degree environment. Taking your skis off and walking outside to blast the A/C in your car is also a new concept in after-skiing routines.

What will they think of next?

Brian

PS. Pics uploaded in the album.

A Lesson in Islam

2008-10-15T22:33:00.000-07:00

After a few days of getting settled into our task of watching the girls, Janey and I decided to take a morning road trip the neighboring Emirate of Abu Dhabi to visit the Sheik Zayed Grand Mosque, newly finished and considered one of the biggest in the world (go figure). It also is only one of three mosques in all the Emirates that allows infidels like my mother and myself to enter.

Here is what she had to wear to enter:

(the convert leaving, maybe never to be seen again)

Constructed with materials and artistic influence from around the world, the mosque's size and white grandiose exterior was enough to awe even the most secular minded. The inside of the mosque contained a 47 ton Persian carpet that allowed room for 20,000 worshippers, with room for 20,000 more outside. During a 3 hour period between prayer sessions, Janey and I, along with about 75 other visitors were allowed to view the mosque in its entirety with the accompaniment of a female muslim tour guide, who, interesting enough, appeared to be a British expat. It was one of the more informative tours I have been on and lended me a great deal of information on Islam that I did not know. Leading groups of visitors comprising mostly of educated Westerners, the guide had the difficult task of espousing Islam's supposedly progressive stance on gender equality without running into the minefield of contradictions; providing weak explanations for why women are required to worship in a seperate area of the mosque, why men are allowed several wives and not vice-versa, and why women must remain covered. But, like a female tour guide at a Catholic Cathedral trying to justify why she can't be a priest, minor issues like being a second-class member of an institution didn't seem to faze the devotion.
Need more proof of the inherently unequal standards?--check out the phallic symbol pictured below:)

Back in Dubai, things are going well. My main function in the daytime revolves mostly around driving the girls to and from school. A lot of car time. Lets just say that I now know the new Miley Cyrus album like the back of my hand. Although, when it's just Ava (the infant) and I in the car, I have been trying to introduce her to the wonders of Steve Winwood and all his 80's glory.

The one road block experienced so far that is sure to be a mainstay of my middle eastern tour is the access to liquid spirits. Although alcohol is forbidden in Muslim societies, Dubai has partially relaxed the doctrine, to allow their foriegn residents to imbibe (money has a funny way of doing such things). Even with this "relaxed" law, all alcohol serving establishments have to be part of a hotel or resort, keeping the average price of a brewskie around $9 (ouch!) or the alternative being that you need a liqour license to buy alcohol at the local sin dens or liqour stores in Dubai. Not in possession of a liqour license, I pulled a stunt reminiscent of the early high school years and did some old fashioned shoulder-tapping outside of the liqour store. Buying wine never felt so clandestine.

Distilling some bathtub gin,

Brian

Sim City: Dubai

2008-10-13T06:24:00.000-07:00

At this point I feel that something has to be bit extreme to be worth doing, so it only seemed prudent that the comfort pendulum should swing from the utmost isolation and deprivation of Amazon living to the opulent and swank life of Dubai in the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Flush full of oil money, the city of Dubai seems to be trying to invent ways to try and spend it. Artificial islands, skyscrapers, and an unchecked lust for bigger and grander has made this desert oasis synonymous with excess. Everything seems to be described with superlatives; the biggest hotel, the tallest building, etc. The street beggars even wear three piece suits (rumor has it as I have not seen one yet). And I think I actually saw a money growing tree yesterday.

How can the Planetary Vagabond afford to even step foot on such an extravagant locale? He can't. But lucky for him, his cousin Jennifer Berner and her husband Rich have recently relocated here due to his position as a VP with Cerner. In need of a babysitter for 10 days for their girls Emma, Lily, & Ava (ages 8, 4, and 16 months) they offered to fly me over do the job. Habitually putting myself in situations way over my head, I was lucky that my mother signed on to come too.

Viewing the cityscape is a surreal experience with buildings jutting upward into the perpetual haze of dust and sand clouding the skies. Continual construction is a way of life around this burgeoning metropolis and the city is reputed to contain 25% of the worlds cranes. An architect and engineer's playground, all hellbent on making in name in manufactured elegance. A must see for even the most uneasily awestruck. Dubai's central location between Asia and the West has made it a commerical capital of the Middle East and a center for trade. Inundating this growing commerce is a flood of foriegners, mostly from Great Britain, the U.S., and Europe. Indians and Asians make up the much of the laboring class and with all these together, I don't think I could pick a true Emirati out of a line-up. English is widely spoken along with everyone else's native tongue. Probably the only place in the world where the pizza deliveryman is tri-lingual.

Fortunately, we had a few days to spend with Rich and Jennifer and they were able to show us the ins and outs of their daily life in Dubai. Rich is busy inking deals to secure Cerner's growth in the region and Jen is busy tackling the chore of trying to adjust to raising the girls in a new environment and culture. After a few days, they were off to Italy to meet up with the rest of the Carey family, and Janey and I along with the housekeeper/nanny Gemma, were holding down the fort. With a pool and beach outside of the complex, life should be easy, breezy.

Trying to find a morsel of old culture in this rapidly growing city, Janey and I spent a morning touring the various Souks, or markets specializing in jewellery, spices, and Persian rugs. A maze of backalleys and canopied stands, all the stores were basically selling exactly the same wares as their neighbor, making it hard to conceive just how anybody made any money. We perfected a pretty good haggling routine and came away with a few souvenirs.

More to add later.

Until then,

The Manny

Here is a video taken from the balcony of Rich and Jen's penthouse on the artifial island, Palm Jumierah. The sailboat looking building in the backgrond is the Burj Al Arab, the supposed biggest and nicest hotel in the world.

5 Weeks in a Nutshell

2008-10-11T04:08:00.000-07:00

There were two objectives for my 5 week jaunt back to the States: 1. To get some quality family time. 2. To watch three of my friends ceremoniously and publicy hand over all future decision making abilities to another person. In all honestly, looking back on any given past encounter with all of them, none of these fellas should be making decisions for themselves anyways. Plus, all of their betters halves are exactly that. These weddings took me first to Chicago, back to Kansas City and finally Raleigh, North Carolina. All were fun and storied affairs and provided good excuses to act like we were in college again.

(on a hunt a bit different than in the Amazon)

Also, I was able to sneak a quick trip down to my favorite place on this planet--the Lake of the Ozarks for some wakeboarding with good ol' Petro. The weekend was made memorable by impromptu "suprise parties" for both Petro and I by our parents. The first at my favorite eatery en route to the lake (The Wheel) and the other at the bowling alley by the Lake. Complete with paper hats and cake. Yes, I have regressed significantly in maturity.

Amazingly enough between all these wedding and birthday cakes, I did manage to get myself some semi-responsible employment. A big thanks to Kim White, who hooked me up with a sweet gig being a warm body to answer the one odd question per day as the software help desk at Childrens Mercy South. This allowed me to get caught up on the blog and lose money in a weak attempt to day trade the stock market crash. If AIG doesn't rebound, my trip will be over in two weeks.

Another thanks to my Aunt Nan Bone and St. Teresa's Academy for allowing me to come and substitute teach World Geography for one week. The "just quit school and travel" brainwashing propaganda was so slyly interwoven to the lesson plan that I don't think any parents will complain. While teaching the girls about South America and life in the jungle I discovered the art of what I like to call "Wiki-teaching." Although I consider myself to know decent amount of teachable info about S.A., you would be amazed at what a 15 minute perusal of various subjects related to South America on Wikidpedia would do to enhance your teaching creds. With this in mind, I would feel completely comfortable teaching say, Physics, even though I can hardly multiply and divide.

Lastly, a big thanks to my sis and her husband Powell for hiring the only handy man in town that likes to eat every meal at the house he is working at. Also, thanks for paying the 5 days of Workman's Comp I earned when I stubbed my toe. You guys are the greatest!

I also would like to give a shout out to my Godmother Barb Flynn for being such a wonderful supporter of the Planetary Vagabond cause.

For those of you looking to give yourself a warm fuzzy feeling, travel bonds are for sale on the "Donate" link, which is now located on the right side of the blog. Just in case Warren Buffet or just a sympathetic soul stumbles upon the site. Neither likely.

Alright, onto new things and new wanderings. Departed KC for Dubai on October 4th and plan on getting you up to speed on this bit real soon. I promise.

You are loved,

Dancing on the Margins

2008-10-09T05:48:00.000-07:00

After another around of South American adventuring I found myself heading back to the States to reassure my family that indeed I am still alive and more importantly to be a participant in several friends weddings. Since I have been away the financial market has taken yet another dive, gas has continued to skyrocket, and most affecting me--airline fares have increased. In an attempt to not allow the airlines to stick me from behind, I opted for the cheapest and most foolishly indirect route. This decision turned what could have been a 6 hour trip into a marathon of mind-numbing transit: over 30 hours, gracing the soils (or at least airport carpeting) of Peru, Costa Rica, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, Tampa, and finally good ol' Kansas City.
While making this arduous trip, the uncultivated and dishelved look about me did myself no favors. I was THAT guy that everyone prays doesnt take the seat next to him. If I was harboring any doubts about how exactly I appeared to everyone else, they vanished quickly when I asked a seemingly innocent old woman in Miami what time it was and she shouted "No you cannot have my purse!" and ran off to summon the airport security. Not having fully re-assimilated socially and hygenically since the Amazon, I felt that my societal inadequacies just needed some tuning up. Then again, this has more or less been the preferred and convenient look since I started this expedition back in January. I have always seen something romantic in wayward and unrefined travel, but I was begining to wonder if I had fallen a little to far out there. Was the mercury on my respectability meter dipping below 0?
Who knows, who cares. Home with family and friends.

Cocktails & Cockfights

2008-10-08T03:05:00.000-07:00

After Banos, Joe and I decided to head back to our home away from home: The Lodge with Tom and Mariela. Returning to the place really does give me a sense of regularity and comfort that is usually absent from my travels. Being with Tom and Mariela there adds a familial feeling that too is missing on the road.
The days are spent doing much of the same stuff that I have been doing on/off since I was first here with Pete in April: entertaining guests, relaxing, and doing a bit of work on the various projects around the lodge. One highlight being a night that Joe & I were holding down the fort and had a long chat over dinner with the Israeli Ambassador to Ecuador and his wife, who along with one other person, were the only guests for the night. Interestingly enough, he did not reveal his prestigous position to us until the end of the dinner--most likely due to the fact that Joe looks like he is running with Al Qaeda.
We also had some good times with some of the Ecuadorians, whom we work with at the lodge. Javier, who is a guide there had a surprise party thrown for him by his mother, Carmen, who also works at the lodge. As an invited guest, I showed up to his house and was fortunate enough to be an active participant in a b-day party Ecuatoriana-style. Tons of great home cooked food, and a beer fueled dance off in the family room. Salsa and other latin beats blared through the sound system: the TV speakers. Normally fancying myself as a decent dancer, I definitely looked the part of the lone rhythmless whiteboy in the presence of these booty shaking Ecuadorians. I hadn't sweated out like this to music in someone's family room since I realized that celebrating New Years Eve with your parents at home wasn't trendy anymore, last year.

Nothing picques my interest quite like a shady underground activity in South America and so when one of our worker friends at the lodge invited Joe and I to attend a cockfight held just outside of town, we readily agreed. Although feeling a bit guilty about going to an event that many would not appreciate its nature (especially Tom and Mariela), I still felt that I couldn't pass up the opportunity to witness such a fabled Latin American pastime.

The event was held in the backyard of a house near town, where the owner had built a minature colisseum to host these monthly events. It was everything and a little more of what you would expect to see at something like this--cock weigh-ins, pre-fight trash talking, and serious betting going on. Oddly the event seemed to be quite the family affair with many children and old women enjoying the fun. We were also surprised to see many of the worker's from the lodge present at what we thought would draw a seedier crowd.
All I have left on my Latin American checklist is a Mexican donkey show and I can consider myself a cultured man.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dear PV Readers,

I am trying to wrap the last of retroactive posts, which should only be one or two more before I get to my real time accounts of life in my newly acquired location: the Middle East.
Talk soon,

Sheik Brian

Banos

2008-10-02T09:57:00.000-07:00

After a week at the beach, we decided to mix things up a bit and head to the popular tourist town of Banos. Situated below a currently active volcano, the town is known for its natural thermal baths and assortment of adventure sport activities. Still riding the lazy wave from the beach, we did some minor touring but mostly just relished in the wonderous invention called the remote control, since we had ponied up an extra buck and sprang for a room with a TV. The newly opened Olypmic games provided the justification for prolonged relaxation. After a couple of low key days, we felt we were starting to lose our edge so we decided to jump off the local bridge. Its called Puenting.

Reintegration and Normalization

2008-10-02T08:33:00.001-07:00

At the urging of an Ecuadorian psychiatrist, after we emerged from the jungle we quickly headed to the coast to "get normal." On the recommendation of Tom and Mariela we headed to the growing beachtown of Canoa, where we rented a small house from a family for $10 a day. Factor in $1 beers and $2.50 seafood meals, even our attempts at excessive indulgence failed to produce daily tabs higher than $15 a piece. Our first official night out after our release, ended like any free for all should, with Joe shaking me awake around 6am on the neighboring house's porch. Quickly, we became known around town for several reasons. Opting to keep our wild look, we stuck out in town like a sore thumb--even amongst the other gringo travelers. While out one night, we actually had a backpacker come up and chat nonsense with us for a few minutes before asking us flat-out why we looked the way we did. He later confided that his friends dared him to go up and ask. Tom, who had a friend who lived in a nearby town, directed the guy to seek out the "terrorist looking white guy" on the beach and lo' and behold Joe was stopped by the guy while walking on the beach. "You must be the guy" he exclaimed.

The beach party never ended and only seemed to be growing. We noticed that land was cheap and had major potential for development so our curiousity had us asking around on sale prices and we even toured a few lots. Eventually, word had spread around town that "the bearded gringos" were big real estate monguls looking to buy up all the land." I first noticed something was up when the old lady who we were renting the house from started addressing me by "mi hijo" or her son. I was a bit surprised how quickly I earned this endearment until she started insisting that we buy up her beach lots. Other people started saying things like "I've heard about you guys." No exactly wanting to dispell the belief that we rich moguls, we played along and enjoyed our week on the beach. Gettin' normal never was so fun.

2008-10-02T06:20:00.000-07:00

Facing the grim reality of no motor, not much food, and a possible 2 day float back to our original campsite, the gringos in the group looked at each other with unspoken worry. The Huaorani however seemed unfazed by this calamity and within 10 minutes of the motor sinking, Otobo's brother Bartolo jumped in the river with a rope, swam to the bottom, tied the rope around the sunken motor and re-emerged. Hurrah for Huaorani resoucesfulness. While we are all contemplating our horrendous fate, they are non-chalantly rectifying the situation. After they lug the motor ashore, they strip it down and proceed to drain the water out of the engine. After a tense hour of the engine not starting, it finally fired up, prompting one big collective sigh of relief. Back on our way.

The rest of the day is spent spotting wildlife, with the highlight being a tree filled with about 30 macaws. The rest of teh time is spent navigating around the all the downed logs. At several points during the day we were sidetracked for varying periods by trees totally blocking the river.

(trying to cut our way through)

(now trying to meditate our way out of this mess)

We had hoped on making it to the Shiripuno Lodge to spend the night in relative confort although the many setbacks during the day has made reaching there before nightfall impossible. Our only option is to set up camp along the river. With the the possibility, abeit remote, of running into the uncontacted tribes, Tom half-jokingly states that if someone says says "run to the river," believe them and run to the river. Haha. I nervously laugh and start staring around at the forest. Joe and I don't have our tents so we sleep under a piece of plastic thrown over a tree. A rain shower in the middle of the night makes us oh so happy.

The next day is spent doing much of the same, motoring towards The Outside. Finally, after another 10 hours in the canoe, we reach the bridge. We unload the canoe and wait for the bus while Tom and Otobo smooth over the issue of the warrant.

On the bus ride to the city of Coca Joe and I feast on several chicken-on-a-sticks and drink cold Coca Cola with child-like glee. Arrive in town and start to feel as scummy as I look. Take the first shower in five weeks and finally see my reflection. Scream.

Motoring Up Sh*tcreek Without a Paddle (The Exit)

2008-10-01T06:30:00.000-07:00

After several days of toiling around on the cabins and lodge, our crew decides to call this jungle experience over and face the what's now only a figment of our imagination: The Outside. Will we react like the some of the past Huaorani, who upon seeing a car for the first start screaming and hiding? Probably not. Will our long beards and wild eyes scare aware every female that comes upon our thirsty stares? Most definitely. I suspect that Tom and Mariela are a bit concerned about releasing us out into the wilds of the city--as they should be.

We depart early for the 20 hour journey with anticipation of running into many downed logs because of the low water level. Our canoe trip in was torturous, so we expect nothing less for the journey out. This time we plan better and stack two air mattresses on the canoe floor and take turns lounging on it. Our crew consists of myself, Joe, Tom, Mariela, Otobo, Conan, Carmen, the 2 year-old Wicama, and the newborn, Briana--yes, you heard right, after much persistence I convinced Otobo to give his newborn girl a variation of my name. This naming all but guarantees that this girl will grow up with my flawless personality although Tom has informed me that by custom I now will be responsible for her education when she grows up. This somehow fulfills the prophecy that this trip would spawn children all over the world...

The canoe trip upriver is going well quite well and after 5 hours we are starting to enter into the part of the Amazon were the two uncontacted tribes have been known to live, which is not of much worry as we continue to motor upstream. Everthing's gravy until I hear a loud thud and turn around in time to see our outboard motor pop off the canoe and sink to the bottom of the river........(cont'd later today).

Our Last Days Adentro (Inside) (Days 32-34)

2008-09-30T06:06:00.000-07:00

I couldn't be happier when I awake this morning as redemption is here in the presence of Tom and Mariela, that and the vast quantity of delicious food that they brought in with them. The amount brought in with them for consumption in the next 4 or 5 days easily totals more than the amount Joe and I brought in for 5 weeks, which makes me wonder how we have survived this agonizing absence of taste.

Tom and Mariela confirm one of our worst fears: there is no jet fuel and we will have to canoe out instead of taking a bush plane. A rough revelation but the knowledge that we will be seeing The Outside within a week keeps spirits high. Another interesting bit of knowledge that they inform us is that supposedly Otobo has a warrant for arrest issued by the Ecuadorian military. Apparently not long before we arrived, Otobo was at the Shiripuno Bridge (last outpost before entering Huao territory) when he became enraged at what he perceives as the Ecuadorian governments recent initiatives to take over Huao land. He ended up using a spear to smash all the military outpost's windows. All while the heaviliy armed guards inside were scared out of their minds. Not wanted to provoke hostility with the Huaorani, they deferred any action at that point but have issued a warrant and a government liaison has spoken with Tom and Mariela about convicing him to come out and apologize to smooth things over. According to Tom, the liaison and some military apparently first tried to talk with Otobo by traveling into their territory by canoe but were rebuffed from even leaving their canoe by a confrontive Omallave. Given the apparently well known fact that Otobo has threatened to "cut off the head and put it on a stick" to whoever tries to infringe upon their land, they did not get off the canoe and opted to wait him out at entry/exit point of the territory. It makes me feel good to know we were living under the protection of such a badass yet slightly worried about fact that his fierce opposition to most outsiders has made him enemies of whom would probably not lose sleep about any gringo collateral damage while getting at Otobo. Tom indicates that he is going to discuss this matter with Otobo and hopefully have him accompany us to the Outside to settle the matter.

The next few days are spent on some finishing touches with the complex. We are pretty relieved that Tom and Mariela are impressed with what has been accomplished since we have came. Pictures are taken by them with Joe and I posing like tourists to be put on the soon to be developed website. We protest the rationale of the pics as our entirely disheveled and barbaric appearance is bound to scare away most potential visitors. Please check out the website and pass on to any friends or family interested in experiencing an amazing trip like this: www.rainforestcamping.com

Ever crazy and fun-loving, Tom and Mariela convince all of us to swim the 500 yard distance between the Huao compound and our campsite. Even with the knowlege that Omallave states he saw an anaconda hanging around the area the day before, we nervously agree. My decision is based soley on the fact that if we encounter something, Omallave and his Chuck Norris like abilities will surely save the day.

All in all, the few days are fairly busy ironing out the last details to prepare the cabins for tourists, but I am content in the presence of two people who I have come to consider my parents in South America.

Salvation (Day 31)

2008-09-25T06:14:00.000-07:00

The air was thick with probably ill-placed anticipation. Per second-hand information received from the untrustworthy Repeater, our saviors Tom and Mariela are supposed to be arriving today via canoe from The Outside. Not wanted to risk the mental toll a no-show would inflict on me, I unsucessfully tried not to think about their possible arrival that day. Joe and I kept ourselves busy stripping bark off the bamboo flooring and frequently experiencing something like an audio mirage. With the perception of salvation so close we can almost taste it, several times during the day we would abruptly cease working at the sound of a distant motor. And everytime the noise ended up being some nearby buzzing insect or just some mental conjuring.
We take a break from work later that day to head up to the main compound to investigate the arrival of 3 Dutch travelers. They have stopped with their guide to meet Omallave and his family. We try chicha, a traditional Huao drink fermented with the saliva of the women. It is made with river water so we didn't drink much, although the process of production sounds savory.
By late afternoon it was getting dark and by this time Joe and I's disappointment at the non-arrival was pretty heavy. The only conversation that was uttered was that if they didn't show within the next week, we were going to try to get out without them.
At sunset, I walked down to the beach area near the river entrance to our camp. I needed them to show as I felt I was close to some sort of tipping point in my trip, where it was best to have some certainty in our exit strategy. Right there on the beach I made a deal with the devil and for all you naysayers who have said that the devil and I are in cohoots--you must be right because practically at the moment of sundown, I started to hear a distant motor. This was initially took as another mental trick but it became louder and Joe eventually came down to the beach and we smiled wide as if we had just escaped a grim fate.
Tom and Mariela arrived and I swear there was a white light surrounding their canoe. We have much to discuss but that will have to wait until the morning.

If Mr. Rogers Ate Monkey (Day 30)

2008-09-24T07:29:00.000-07:00

I have been in The Inside for one month but it feels like three. The reoccurring daily activities have me settled into a Mr. Rogers-esque routine, which has made the experience physically managable although the slow chipping away of the mental stamina is sure to hit a tipping point if things don't change up soon.
Discuss with Joe that fact that we may be setting some sort of world record for most time consecutively spent within 15 ft. of another person. We work together, travel around the forest together, and otherwise exist in our Huaorani hut during all other times. Are we finishing each others sentences? Yes. Have we discussed every possible conversational topic known to man? Yes. Has Joe been contemplating ridding me from his life? Most definitely.

Witnessed another Huaorani super human feat of strength today. We were in the in forest cutting down large trees for the bamboo flooring with Otobo, Omallave, and Lenny. One of the cut trees was held up in the air by a large vine about 75ft up in the air. Lenny, definitely the strongest Huao among them, ties a machete around his ankle and bear-hug shimmies up the tree and while holding onto the trunk of the tree with one hand, hacks away at the vine holding the tree upright. All this about 75 feet above the forest floor. While Joe and I are nearly crapping ourselves in wonder, the other Huao are not even watching nor even caring that a slip up by Lenny would surely cost him his life. Just another day in the woods for them. I'm guessing that all the bad tree climbers don't make it to their 14th birthday.

A Jungle Mentality (Days 27-29)

2008-09-23T07:12:00.000-07:00

Day 27
In the morning we discovered that something had been gnawing on some of our food during the night. The bites look small-ish so our concern lies strictly with our food disappearing in the night rather than us being eaten in our tents. Our daily routine has become exactly that: routine. And this monotony combined with the isolation is starting to wear us down. Joe seems startled when he catches me talking to myself although both Brian and I have been having great discussions about how we are going to get ourselves out of the jungle.

Day 28
Wake up early before sun-up to an low rumbling practically shaking the ground around our tents. Sounds something like a low-flying jet but the hows and the whys of that theory don't work out. Later at breakfast Joe comments on waking and hearing the same noise.

While working on the cabins with Otobo we discusse some of the conversations he had with the other Huaorani in Bameno. He stated that some of the other men were asking why there were two gringos living with him and his family. He explained that word has gotten around about our continued presence and indicated that some of the other Huaos are jealous about the help he is receiving with his eco-tourism project. Others are just curious about what is afflicting us that makes us want to live in such isolation.

Heavy afternoon rains halt work and Joe and I spend the next several hours playing cards in the house. Daylight seems to extend hours longer than usual and this seemingly bizarre fact coupled with the low rumbling earlier this morning makes my imagination run wild about something going on in The Outside. These weird occurences highlight how out of touch we are with everything that is going on in the world outside of our little sanctuary in the forest.

Right before heading to sleep we hear a rustling near our food table. We investigate with our headlamps and discover a little mouse in the oatmeal, who scurries off. Joe vows to dispatch this mouse on their next meeting.

Day 29
Hardest day of work in awhile--dig all the post-holes for cabin three and cut down and strip all wood for the flooring. The Repeator shows up to the worksite with no intention of helping out. His avoidance of work disgusts Joe and I and I feel sorry for Otobo, who is working so hard to establish something that will benefit his family and although he knows of the leeching his brother does, his hands are tied for familial reasons. Mine are not however, I my restraint hits its limit. I more or less let the Repeator know that WE are working today and that his presence is not welcome if he is not. He leaves not long later and we resume with our labor intensive day.

That night Joe makes good on is blood oath and catches the food thief (the mouse) in the act. He stabs it with his knife and amazingly pins it to table. Joe's teeth bearing and lick lipping during this process unsettles me and I go and hide in my tent to avoid catching the jungle rabies I am convinced he has.

A Stranding Averted (Day 26)

2008-09-22T07:58:00.000-07:00

Our last day of "vacation" and I am ready to head back upriver to the luxury of my tent and air mattress as straight ground sleeping here in Bameno is getting a little rough. Any notion of an early departure was exstinguished early when we discovered the river had dropped significantly in the night, leaving the huge canoe beached in the mud. Have to wait for river to rise so can depart.
Finally are able to leave Bameno around 2pm and our three hour trip upriver takes a turn for the uncomfortable when a cold downpour mercilessly drenches us in the canoe. First we try and hide from it, then try to embrace the ironically hypothermic feeling the rain is giving us by doing push ups and jumping jacks in the canoe. Otobo and his wife look at us with conviction that their suspicions of our craziness have been justified. These attempts to stave off the cold aren't quite successful and because the rain never stops the ride back is miserable. Problems compound as we run out of gas still a couple miles from home. Our predicament is a bit stark as sundown is not far off and the likely scenario would be Otobo hiking a couple miles back to camp through the forest while Joe and I stay near the river with his wife, newborn baby, and 2 year old child! More or less meaning that his wife Carmen would have to look after her children AND Joe and I. Luckily, Otobo found about 12 ounces of gas that took us within 500 yards of our camp. We then cut long branches and hand-poled are way upriver to the camp. Arrive wet, cold, and tired but we are excited to break open a packet of Thai spice mix that Sean gave us in Bameno. A good ending to a potentially disasterous day.

Day 25

2008-09-22T06:18:00.000-07:00

Wake up with an aching body as sleeping on the ground has taken its toll. We stroll into the "house" that the Huao slept in the night before and Conan makes some pankake-ish cakes over the open fire. With nothing on the itinerary for the day, we decide to go see if we can pitch in over at the Huao women's craft expo. Susan, the Peace Corp volunteer puts us to work drilling holes into the seeds the women have gathered to make necklaces and other jewelry. The work is a little monotonous but it allows us to chat up Susan and trade stories about the Huaorani--she has many as her involvement in the PC has given her about a year and a half of experience living/working with them. Also talk to a North Cal man by the name of Sean, who with his wife is currently traveling along with their daughter (one of the Duke students). In talking with him, he had an activistic rhetoric that would normally motivate the devil's advocate harboring inside of me, although in his case his passion came off as genuine and original. His community-minded investments had led to him and another person purchasing and developing a whole main street in a small town called Lolito in Northern Californing. His descriptions of the Utopian-styled town inspired me to visit the place some day.
Later that day, the group of Duke students along some Huao who had departed to do some GPS mapping early in the morning had still not returned to the settlement by the approaching sundown even though they were supposed to have around noon. Their absence drew a bit of worry from many although I was surprised how calm Sean seemed to be with the fact that his wife and 19 year old daughter were potentially stranded/lost in the rainforest. Eventually as darkness had almost fully fell, the group showed up and attributed the problem to engine trouble or something like that.
Had another vegetable-rich meal for dinner and retired early to the sound of group of Huaorani laughing and chattering.

Day 24 (cont'd)

2008-09-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

(my fraternity had this exact type of party when I was back in college)

Otobo has been strutting around Bameno with a bit of a confident step, which is not surprising as from the info gathered by us before and during this trip, apparently he is considering a leader amongst the Huaorani and many of the men actually fear him. Another possible reason that he is displaying some alpha-male behavior is that he recently informed me that he is currently on the look-out for another wife (polygamy was traditionally practiced by the Huaorani). When I asked him why, he explained that his wife Carmen does not do any cooking or other household activities. I tried to rationalize with him saying that many cultures are afflicted with these types of women—in fact it has become sort of a world-wide epidemic. I advised him not to pursue another wife, lest he fall victim to possessing two with the same disease.
The Repeator shows up in Bameno, fresh from his recent trip to The Outside. For the first time we are actually anxious to talk to him as we know he probably bears news from Tom and Mariela about when they are coming to The Inside to take us out of here. The Repeator’s news is a bit startling—he claims to have spoken with them and they stated that they are arriving on July 25th, which is a week earlier than their previously stated date of Aug 2. The Repeator is notoriously unreliable so we take this news with a grain of salt.

Later in the day Joe and I along with some of the Hauo men prepare food that has been brought in with the Huao women’s group—courtesy of them and the Peace Corps. We feel the need to lend a major hand in this preparation as we fully expect to consume and continue consuming the assortment of vegetables that they brought from The Outside. Joe and I have become more than adept in the art of scavenging.
That night after dinner, a group of Huaorani put on a show of their traditional dancing and singing. We have seen a bit of this before but the display is still quite interesting. After the show, non-tradition techno music is fired up on the generator run boom box and many of the Huao men are asking the gringo female visitors present to dance. Joe and I sense that it will be not long before we are forced to entertain on the dance floor, so we creep out the back of hut and head for out tent. While falling asleep in the tent we had two surprise visitors—the first was Otobo, who had purchased (at a high mark-up) three beers (of about 20 that were transported from the Outside to Bameno by other groups) and gave them to Joe and I, rewarding his faithful laborers. We excitedly polished off the beers in our tent, mostly with the thought they would help the process of sleeping straight on the hard ground. Our next visitor was a large monkey, who was seeking shelter from the drizzling rain in our tent flaps. At first we were resolved to let him hang there until he started to try and open the zippers to get in. As Joe and I had been with
without a female companion in some time, that monkey was in some serious danger so I decided to shoo him off before he fell for Joe's sweet-talking ability.

A Jungle Vacation--Bameno (Day 24)

2008-09-12T07:56:00.000-07:00

Where do you go on vacation when you are living in the wilds of the Amazon?--the nearest settlement of course. Which for us is the Huaoarani community of Bameno (population 100), located about 2 hours downriver from us. When I say downriver, I mean that they are further away from the Outside in the geographical sense although they are closer to civilization figuratively, because they possess a landing strip for light aircraft and thus receive news/visitors often. This is to be where we will eventually fly out at the end of our stay although word from the Peace Corp volunteer Susan is that there is no jet-fuel for the bush planes due to current government restrictions---meaning two disturbing things. One--no plane=we may have make the horrendous 20 hour canoe ride out in a couple weeks. Two--if something should happen to us during our stay (snakebite, unrelenting crying espisode, etc) the possibility of rescue by plane is not possible. We hope this dirty rumor of no fuel turns out to be a jungle myth.
We do a little work on the cabins in the morning before Otobo arrives. When he does we know he too is excited about our trip to Bameno because he is dressed up Huaorani-style--cut-off collared shirt and Converse All-Star type shoes. Like country folks heading into town, we excitedly load up the canoe and Otobo, Carmen with the newborn and 2 year-old, Conan, Joe and I set off towards Bameno. On the ride down Otobo points out the head of a crocodile in the water, whose length he estimates at about 6 ft.
We arrive to a quite happening Bameno. People are everywhere--the Huao Women's group has set up a crafts workshop under the supervision of the Susan, there is a couple Duke students who came in with that group to start an GPS mapping project and there is a couple of tourists that are visiting the settlement. Almost immediately Otobo, Joe, and I get involved in a heated Ecua-Volley game (volleyball with more lax rules). The game is slightly comical, besides the fact that we are playing on a dirt court in the jungle there is a young Huaorani boy who emerges during the game with a whistle and starts officiating. He's got some guts as he immediately starts calling foot faults and other minor infractions. Joe is so impressed with is officiating abilities he talks of bringing the boy back to the States and grooming him to be the first Ecuadorian Major League Umpire.
The plus side of all the gringos present is there is bound to have some meat and possibly fresh veggies and other non-rice options. At lunch Joe and I do our best to get invited to eat with the other groups by hanging around the mess area. Joe summed up our situation poignantly when he said "it is pretty bad when we are begging for monkey soup."

(cont'd Day 23) THE HUNT

2008-09-11T12:05:00.000-07:00

Although our B-movie-esque fantasy of a campsite full of girls was unfulfilled, the day took a turn for the exciting when Otobo stated that Joe and I were going to accompany his father, Omallave, on a hunt--something we had been jonesing to do since we arrived Inside. We are heading to one of the nearby salt licks, deep in the woods where much of the peccaries and birds feast and probably our greatest chance to encounter a jaguar. But for me, the main draw is just seeing Omallave in his element. Just him and his the tradition weapons of choice: the spear and blow-gun, which will hopefully not be used on me.

The trip inside the forest is to be just Joe and I with the Old Man as Otobo states that he is going to stay with the canoe along the river. As the Old Man only speaks Huao this marks the first time that Joe and I will be without at least a marginal means of communication, totally trusting Omallave to not lose us or get us killed by god knows what. During the course of the 1.5 hour hike in Omallave frequently stops, listening to sounds unheard to us, occassionaly smells the ground and leads us to what we hope will be the craziest thing our eyes have seen. His tracking skills remind me alot of my old roommate Matt Kopp in the midst of a buffet--smell, lick, and attack.

Eventually we reach the salt lick and the Old Man conveys in his best pantomiming that the pack of peccaries (sometimes numbering 200+) has left, which is a big disappointment to us but there is still a ton of macaws and other exotic birds that Omallave has his sights on.
Right before he advances on the birds with his blow-gun the Old Man strips off his BVDs and stalks around in only his Komi (a string around the waist which holds Mr. Johnson upright), which the Huao believe give them strength. I make a mental note to myself about this year's Halloween costume.

Omallave is using the poisen tipped darts, which once shot into the bird, take about a minute or two before it's effects fell the bird. While watching him silently creep around in search of a good shot, it is apparent that we are witnessing an activity largely unchanged in more than a thousand years of history. This feeling of awe is followed by the tinge of disappointment knowing that this type of primitive behavior may very well die with the Old Man.

While Omallave is shooting away, he is indicating that his eyesight is failing him and Joe and I act as spotters for him. In the back of my head, I am wondering if Otobo sent us out in the middle of nowhere with a blind man...

Eventually, Omallave makes a direct hit and we wait for the bird to fall, which it does with a load bang. It would have taken Joe and I hours to locate the fallen bird but the Old Man, using his 6th jungle sense finds it immediately.

On the way out of the jungle we encounter and briefly follow a group of monkeys, although we lose them before the Old Man can get close enough for a shot. Also hear what sounds like a freight train but is a pack of peccaries far off in the distance.

On the way out, it occurs to me that we have just had one of those experiences that will never be accurately conveyed with words, written or told. The weeks of fly swatting, ant attacks, and isolated existing has been made worth it in one single experience.

Here are two videos of Omallave stalking around the forest:

Days Twenty One, Two and Three

2008-09-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

Great news!-I have been given a new lease on life, or to put it another way my IPOD is now working again. After spending the night caressing its metallic body and whispering desperate pleas in its ear, it came alive this afternoon after a small solar charge. My faith in a merciful Being has been restored--as to snatch away such a vital companion surely has to be the work of the devil.
Other signs from above---the tour company that had brought the German visitors last week has returned and their promise has been fulfilled--the guides showed up with two beers for us. Joe and I jumped up and down and praised Grerman reliability. Then we try our best at prolonging the experience by taking quarter sips of the beers. To enhance the euphoria we bring out some salsa we have been hoarding in the "bag-o-fun" only to discover a layer of mold inside the jar. After about a half-second of hesistation, Joe scoops out the mold and we proceed to finish off the precious substance. Never in my life has mold seemed such a non-factor.
After the days work, I convince Otobo to set up a rope swing near the "beach" area of our camp site. He easily scales an overhanging tree, ties the rope and we spend about 30 minutes horsing around. After each fall-in, I scramble out of the water with record speed to avoid the water monsters I perceive chasing me. My fear of underwater lurkers has to be further cast aside later when I jump in to try and salvage the two spoons I dropped in while washing the dishes from the safety of the canoe. My underwater rescue attempt is unsuccessful and I feel slightly guilty about potentially losing 2 of 10 eating utensils available.
At night, Joe and I stay up chatting with Otobo and his wife along with Conan. The three-languaged conversation proves pretty entertaining, mostly spent making fun of one another. Trash talking is a universally loved past-time.

Day Twenty two

When Conan returned the day before from his work stint with a tour group he had some pretty infected eyes. Today they seem worse and we are a little weary of picking up this mysterious ailment. Word on the street (or river) is that this problem is now going around at Bameno, the nearest settlement 2 hours downriver.
There was some good eating today as Conan made some flour cakes using the Ramen-noodle type seasoning. I also found two smooshed Fun-Size Snickers in the bottom of my backpack, which Joe and I devoured.
Later in the night, while already in our tents, a canoe goes by and we assume it to be the rumored boat of "gringo girls" that Otobo and Conan have been clamoring about the past week. They have explained that the group is coming as part of a traditional handicraft expo or something of the like. I fight the urge to tear out of my tent and try and latch onto their canoe.

Day Twenty-Three

Otobo and Conan show up early in a canoe from the main compound and excitedly exclaim that there is "30 gringo girls" up at the main compound and that we are postponing work so Joe and I can go gawk. The story sounds fishy but the remote possibility of such great fortune is worth investigating. We can't get to the canoe fast enought to get up there. After arriving, Joe and I notice the main lodge teeming with other Huao women, with no gringas in sight. It is painfully apparent that we have been had by Otobo and Conan but we still wait around for signs of any Western phermonal presence. Our stake-out results in meeting a Peace Corp volunteer, who is traveling with Huao women down to the Bameno settlement. She appears to speak some of the language and our brief chat with her nets little info on what exactly is going on other than their canoe arrived late last night and that they were lucky to have a full moon to guide them downriver.
Otobo scores a 3 liter of orange soda from the group and we head back to our worksite chugging it down. Otobo also announces that we will be heading to Bameno in a couple days to attend a festival there. I am excited by the prospect of a "vacation."

Day Twenty

2008-09-05T13:27:00.000-07:00

Invasion! Woke up to ants everywhere--all over the floor around our tents, around the food, and on the clothes. Joe the Insect Assassin goes after them with a vengeance while we both wonder how this happened. Conan's absence and therefore lack of housecleaning (yes, even a dirt hut needs cleaning) must have led to the ant infiltration.

Otobo and the Pescadero show up, thankfully without the Repeator. The thatch roof on cabin #1 is getting wrapped up by those two, while Joe and I cut the site for cabin #2. Workday ends in a torrential downpour.

The dishwashing routine is finally breaking me. Today, after spending about 15 minutes scrubbing the pots and dishes in the river I tried to walk back up the muddy embankment, only to slip and re-dirty the dishes. My mental well-being further slackened when the roof leaked onto my ipod, which now appears to no longer work. I feel as if someone just shot my dog. I'm going to wait until after tomorrow's dose of solar power before I start officially grieving.

At night, I try to awaken my almost totally defunct sweet-tooth by attempting to make some skillet cookies. A sugar-rich solution somewhat resembling a batter is concocted and partially cooked, although Joe and I later ditch the cooking part and basically start eating the batter.

I go to bed with a sugar high that could rival a 7 year-olds after discovering the delicious bliss of Fun Dip.

Day Nineteen

2008-09-02T07:07:00.000-07:00

Another Sunday-Funday---well, kindof. We worked on cabin #1 sans the Repeator and built the entry stairs and roof structure. For lunch we had some veggies that the German couple left us. After lunch, we cut out of work and floated down river with Otobo so he could show us one of the nearby salt licks--an area where many of the nearby animals congregate. Entering at the river's edge, we began a walk into the forest that ultimately produced us so far in that if we were to become seperated from Otobo it would surely result in our being lost--most likely for forever. For the first time I realize the feeling agoraphobes experience as we could essentially walk for days in any direction, ecountering the same looking trees and landscape, without emerging from the jungle or seeing any difference in topographic pattern. In other words, we would probably die. Otobo further drives this point home on the return hike to the river he asks Joe and I to see if we could find the path out, which solely consisted of the broken branches that we snapped on the way in for this very purpose. We were able to start in the right direction but after 15 steps or so, total disorientation prevailed. Luckily, Otobo's innate sense of direction would eventually provide our compass out.
While at the salt lick, we didnt have much luck with any animal sightings although we do hear a distant monkey howl and Otobo responds with his own call, which suprisingly the monkey responded to. We set out in search of him without any success of locating him.
Once back at the river, on a canoe without a motor, we painstakingly use 10 poles to push ourselves a mile upriver back to the worksite. At the worksite, Otobo's 2 year-old daughter Weecama, who up until now has been terrified of the bearded white giants that have been with her father, has started to slowly warm to our continued presence. This change of heart only occurred since we have taught her the game "Throw the stick at the gringo's head," which she does with amazing accuracy.