5 Weeks in a Nutshell

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,

BQ

Transplant to the Real World

After several months of only looking after #1, I think I may have forgotten the feeling of having to be responsible for someone other than myself. How does one re-acquaint himself with external responsibilities? Solution: Rent a baby for a day and try and keep both you and it happy and fed. Lucky for me, my sister Erin happily volunteered my 8 month old niece Kate for this experiment on my current mental psyche and its reaction to the rigors of what hypothetically could be in store for me later in life.*

*hopefully a lot later in life.

And so, Kate and I set out trying complete several errands around Kansas City before our family jaunt down to the Lake of the Ozarks. Fully aware that carrying around a cute baby immediately dissolves any personal deficiencies I may have in the looks & personality department, I set off in anticipation of shooting fish in a barrel around town. Although scouring for chicas was not the primary goal of the day, earlier, Kate and I came to the mutual agreement that I would not leave her for another girl that day as long as she behaved. The only thing that would void this agreement was if she went #2 in her diaper, in which case all bets were off and she could be left anywhere. The day of errands went fairly well--Kate kept the part of her promise about behaving and we managed to get everything done that we set off to accomplish. Although, even with her impeccable behavior I still was mentally and physically spent by the end of the day and completely reaffirmed in my belief that I am still ill-equipped for the responsibilities of taking care of anyone but myself. Lucky for me, I still have many months left of only self-preservation to worry about and am in no danger (virtual fingers crossing) of placing myself in a similar type situation.

Other than spending time catching up with family, mass consuming has been the theme of the return back to the States. I have succesfully eaten all types of foods that had been absent from my S.A. diet and now am going through round two on the checklist. Also, I have completed round one of two weddings, with Mike and Lindsay Tiehen's fun-filled May 17 wedding in KC. The next few days will be maxed out with me scrambling to get all my gear in order for my Wednesday departure to Naples, Florida for the Clarkson wedding followed by my international departure on Tuesday the 27th back to Bogota, Colombia.

Just to keep you'all in the loop, I'll let you in on what appears to be the tentative schedule of the next 3 months of travel. Once arriving in Colombia, I plan on spending about 2 weeks there to do a little more travelling around the country. After that I am going to head back into Ecuador to spend about 2 weeks preparing for entry into the Amazon. Basically, while staying at the lodge in Ecuador, Petro and I were introduced by owner Tom to his friend, Otobo, who is somewhat of an unofficial leader among the Huaorani tribe (wikipedia link for info), which is an indigenous group living in a remote area of the Ecuadorian Amazon. This tribe, which was recently "contacted" by civilization about 50 years ago, is currently at a major junction in the direction of their future existence. With foreign oil companies itching to get at the liquid gold they live above, some Huaorani leaders are trying to protect their land and people from the bum-rush that has been put in motion by these companies and the government. Once such person is Otobo, who is trying to create an income outside of selling out to the oil companies, by introducing eco-tourism to the area. He needs help doing this, and the opportunity exists for me to go in with him and spend up to 2 months living with him and providing any assistance I can in establishing facilities for future adventure eco-tourism that can monetarily benefit his people. The logistics are a little disconcerting--living amongst a tribe in which most people are prancing around in their birthday suits, hunt with spears and blow guns,and speak a language few outsiders have mastered. To cap it off, the location is a three day canoe trip up several rivers. Having never fully recovered from some college induced injuries, I have concluded that these circumstances are appealing to me and have tentatively agreed with Otobo for a July 1st entry date. The opportunity seems to be too great and exciting to pass up and I am starting to come to the reality of the magnitude of this trip. A little pre-trip prep is needed and I am still trying to decide if I will be purchasing the supplies here in the U.S. or back in Quito. One cause of concern is the lack of communication I will have once I go in. As much as I want this story told while deep in the bush, it appears the only way this is possible is through a phone or computer with a satellite connection. Not educated in the ways or logistics of this kind of technology (nor probably having the means for it), if anyone has any good suggestions or solutions to this hang-up please give me a shout soon. Any lucrative funding ideas are always welcomed....
Also, as it appears I may be going in solo, if this type of experience is something that greatly appeals to you, please let me know, as a comrade on this adventure would do wonders in the way of keeping sane.

Monkey is the new goat,
BQ

PS. I don't have my old cellphone so if anyone gets a one ring call and hangup--please call the number on the Caller ID as it is me using a payphone and trying to save the quarters.

Xmas etc.

As my job of a humanitarian affords me much free time these days, I was able to spend a couple of weeks prior to Christmas hanging with my new buddies at the Mosaic Shop in KC. I initially sought out the place when making a homemade wedding gift for friends Andy and Jen Tiehen. I ended up getting hooked to the art of mosaicing and decided to dive into a major job of mosaicing the top of a toy chest for my new niece Kate. For those of you unfamiliar with the settings of a working art shop, they are largely populated with the female middle-aged to grandmotherly types, who, when not making lemonade and baking pies, dedicate the rest of their lives to arts and crafts. And so, during the daytime hours of much of the two weeks preceding the holidays, I was a comrade in arms with these fine women. And since all other respectable males in their mid-twenties are gainfully employed and probably have no desire to hang with this demographic, I became quite an anomaly around the shop. Have you ever wondered about being a fly on the wall in a room full of gossipy women from all over town? Well, I was that fly and could probably write a book about the experience. Not to mention that when I return from this trip I have dates with about 15 of their granddaughters. In all seriousness, I had a great time at the Mosaic Shop and want to thank all the very pleasant and talented women that I met there. If you up to speed on the blog, you will notice that this experience combined with my “bingo experience” definitely shows a pattern in my recent associations. My only defense of this, if one is needed, would be to say that my delving into the American elder-underworld may be an attempt to gain a little insight into their lives before I am absent from it for a long time. And aside from bedpans and voice homogulation problems, I think I definitely prefer the company of our wiser generation.

School Trip

In keeping with my unofficial Kansas City job title of humanitarian, I spent the week before Christmas imparting some knowledge on the youth of America. First, I visited my little sis’ 5th grade classroom at Chapel Lakes School to discuss my impending trip, while making a promise to correspond with them throughout its duration. My “presentation” was littered with covert and subliminal messages advocating their withdrawal from school to do their own traveling. Yes, I did feel slightly guilty corrupting the minds of middle-schoolers, however, I didn’t learn much after 5th grade anyway so don’t worry about them. Next, I met with my friend Micah’s 4th grade classroom at Robinson Elementary and went through much of the same shenanigans. Reflecting back on those visits, I have decided that a good way to gauge your ability to be politically correct is to speak for an hour in front of a middle school classroom. Apart from the obvious avoidance of swearing, I felt like I was trying to critically analyze every statement prior to uttering it in the hopes that I wouldn’t say something that would get my sister fired. Perhaps my PC paranoia stems from a prior incident a couple years ago when I substitute taught a 7th grade classroom at an unnamed Catholic grade school in KC and I told the kids that if they didn’t behave, I was going to “give them a homework assigns that would really suck.” Well, apparently since I was in grade school the word “suck” has since attained the same status as the F bomb because when I said that the kids looked appalled and I saw a few jott down a reminder to tell their parents. Later I consulted my aunt, who at the time was the school’s principal, who verified the word’s severity in middle school swear vernacular and recommended that I clean up my vocab prior to having any conversations with anyone under the age of 18. And so, there went my storied career in substitute teaching….

Hiding out in the 'Zarks (Nov 07)

The quintessential elderly American pastime: Bingo. While in self-imposed seclusion at my family’s lake house in rural mid-Missouri working on a graduate school research paper, I found myself craving a little human interaction with a bit of local flavor. A gentlemen’s club you say?-No. I was thinking of something a little more scandalous and a lot less expensive. I remembered seeing about a half dozen signs on my way through the various small towns surrounding the area all advertising Bingo sponsored by one of the many “clubs” in the community. I quick Google search provided the Bingo schedule for the week—The Lion’s Club not far from where I was staying was hosting tonight and a quick call there produced the start time: 6pm. “Do you have to be there right at the start?” I asked hoping to see if I could show up later and still play. “Oh no, you can come as early as 4:30pm if you like,” the sweet old lady on the phone responded, clearly misinterpreting my request. Or was it I who was mistaken about what exactly I was beginning to get myself involved in. Not having a clue about whom or what the Lion’s Club was or stood for, I took a chance that they weren’t the local fundamentalist group and headed to their hall. Hell, they might even have beer!
I arrived there at approximately a quarter ‘til 6pm and was immediately greeted by one of my soon to be new friends, Bob. “How you doing neighbor?” he chimed. He must have sensed that I was lost among the sea of people (ok, maybe 40). Or was it that he saw a 25 year old man walk into the Bingo hall filled with no one under 55 years old? He probably remembered that the last time this scenario played out, the till was robbed and Betty Lou fainted at the sight of a gun. No, I wasn’t there to rob the place I assured and proceeded to tell him that I was here to get in on the hot Bingo action. Seeing that his club was now in the running for having one of the nation’s youngest Lion’s Club recruits, he eagerly helped explain the rules for Bingo. “Rules,” I thought? 5 in a row---down, across, or diagonal—this isn’t rocket science, right?” Wrong. He then proceeded to list the 150 types a Bingo that were to be played that night along the numerous and incomprehensible rules for each game. My head started to spin and I looked around the room wondering how NASA had managed to have its retired employees all living in one small town. Just as I was about to bolt for the door, Bob said “Oh, and the progressive pot for game #12 has reached $1,700 and someone is sure to win it tonight.” “Bingo!” I thought (pun intended) as visions of Vegas danced in my head. So, still not knowing even a quarter of the rules, I decided to buy several of the various Bingo sheets required to play and Bob and his cronies assured me that they would help me along if I became confused during the games. A female Lion’s Club member asked if I had a Bingo marker and I replied “no..” while looking around and seeing every player in possession of at least 2 of each of the 15 different colors of ink marking sticks that were sold at the hall (used to blot out the number called). I would later surmise that this had to be some sort of status indicator in the Bingo hierarchy as only one marker was needed to play but almost everyone (or mostly the ladies) had at least 20 along with their glittery marker carrying case.
Right before the commencement of the games, a Lion’s Club member made an announcement that anyone under 16 years old was not allowed to play or be in the hall in accordance with Missouri gaming laws. I stared around in disbelief at the notion that someone of that age would be caught dead here anyway. Maybe the announcement meant anyone with less than 16 years of AARP membership was not allowed to play? If that was the case, they made an exception for me, probably due my prospective status as a Lion’s Club pledge (I heard they haze terribly). And so the games began and I began to scramble to scan my one sheet, which consisted of 6 Bingo cards. It was nearly impossible to scan and mark accurately before the next number was called. I had one sheet while most of the nearby players were playing at least 3sheets at time. I saw several look my way with smirks and I swear I saw one older lady with a beau font hairdo laugh and mutter “rookie…” “Oh, it’s on now,” I thought while picturing myself walking out of the hall with their precious $1,700 progressive pot. This bubble burst when I vaguely recalled a news article I had previously read that described the brutal beating a Bingo newcomer received by disgruntled regulars after he won the highly desired jackpot. This scenario seemed even more plausible in my head after I recalled a conversation I had minutes before with Bob when he explained or should I say stressed that if I win a game I should not yell “Bingo” until after the number is called, even though it is displayed 30 seconds earlier on the TV monitor (yes, there is a TV monitor for those hard of hearing—which incidentally was everyone but me). I then realized that I should have asked Bob about the penalty for such an infraction of Bingo rules, although it was inferred later on when I saw more than one player with an arm amputated at the wrist. Seeing my overwhelmed and frustrated look as I tried to keep up with the game, another new friend, Joan, sat down next to me to play and help me out. Joan and her husband were regulars on the Bingo circuit and she stated boastfully that her husband “called” Bingo 6 nights a week. And speaking of which, the bingo caller is like the alpha male of the group or the king in the Bingo hierarchy. It is said in elderly circles that this coveted position is obtained either with the death of the present caller or with the challenge of a duel (with canes that is) by a prospective player. And at the hall that night, the caller was relishing his position of power and seemed to use an exaggeratedly deep voice as if he was trying to beckon the female players and convey the vibe “hey ladies, the best parts of me still work.” An elderly mating call if you will.
As the different games rolled on, none of which I won, I noticed that one lady had already won several games. Joan, who up until now carried the face of a saint and was a sweet as apple pie, snidely said “that’s because she plays 6 Bingo sheets at once.” “There’s no way she wins as much money as she spends buying all those cards,” a nearby white-haired lady concurred. “Ladies, ladies,” I thought while contemplating about how this avid Bingo player was just playing the odds. I briefly considered defending Crazy Bingo Lady’s strategy but decided against it lest I fall into the ill graces of Joan and the gang. The competitive nature of the players was evident in the silence that accompanied the games. Been thinking that your dear old grandmother has been going to the Rotary Club to socialize and fundraise? No, she has been most likely involved in high stakes Bingo, where cutthroat play and threats of violence is the norm. Well, that may be overstating it, but regardless this hall carried a vibe that made me wary to win. Even the lady playing near me kept chastising the Bingo caller to “shake it up, shake it up!” whenever he called the same number twice in a short amount of time. As if this mattered in this competitive but glorified game of chance. During another game, I noticed a gentleman come up to my sweet Joanie and whisper (which in the elderly world is more like a softened yell) “do you have any L-120’s?” I was beginning to wonder if Joan was involved in some sort of back alley contraband dealing (I later found out this was a hearing aid battery type). Man, this place had everything I liked in a night out on the town: fun, excitable women, shady dealings, and a shot at unearned money. The only thing the place was missing was booze. I later found out that not long ago the Lion’s Club sold beer at their Bingo Night, but all that ended when Mary Helen and Betty slugged it out over a simultaneous Bingo win and Old Creepy John earned his nickname. Unfortunately, the night ended without a win and I found myself about $45 lighter. I definitely think the FBI should look into Bingo halls as the number one launderer of Social Security money as I’m positive that the regulars dropped around $75-$100 that night. All in all, I felt lucky to be part of the elderly gambling underworld and my new friends were sure to have my back in future encounters around town—should say I need advice on which stores take double coupons or which restaurants give unlimited coffee refills. I’m not sure if I will be back on the Bingo circuit soon, but for the money and for the preview of what the last 20 years of my life has in store for it, it was well worth it.