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Things That Make Me Go “Hummmmm”

Monday, October 4th, 2004

“You’re finally here! What took you so long?”

“Hey, I had some trouble catching “Manchas” and getting him on a leash. He’s not used to these things you know. What the heck are we doing here hiding behind this wall anyway? Who are you looking for? And why do you still have that kitten? Haven’t you gotten ridden of them all yet?”

*peeking around corner*

“SHHHHH! Here she comes out of her door! Look. She’s definitely on her way to the beach. This is perfect. She has to pass right by us…”

*also looking around corner*

“What are you going on about? Hey. That’s one of those nice gringa volunteers that’s planting trees with Planet Drum. Man. WHAT are you up to? Tell me or I’m out of this nonsense!”

“Shhhh! Just listen. Here’s the plan. I’m gonna set the kitten loose as soon as she gets to that lamppost. Now when I say, “go!” you let Manchas go, okay?”

“What! Manchas will sink that kitten in one swallow!”

“Sh! Sh! No. No. I guarantee that the girl will get to the kitten first. And once she’s got it in her hold, she’ll take it home, clean it, feed it, name it after a planet and then find it a new happy home. Listen. I’ve seen her do it twice already. She’s a total sucker for this stuff. Trust me. Wait. Shhhh. Here she comes! Okay. Are you ready? GO!”

*****

Yes. It’s a conspiracy theory. But I’m totally convinced that the whole town of Bahia de Caraquez has set up me as a personal kitten placement center. I’m under the impression that I even take orders because yesterday I was approached by a woman who put in a specific request for a new kitten, “Hembra. Y blanquita, blanquita, por favor!” (“Female and white. All white please!”)

Hummmm.

And so going with it, I’m adding to this week’s theme of, The Things That Make Me Go “hummmmm”…

*****

I walk into a grocery store and put pasta, raisins, green olives, tomato sauce and wheat bran into my cloth sack. The store clerk tells me that my total comes to $4.20. I pull out a five-dollar bill and he takes one glance at it and then frowns at me. I roll my eyes at myself because I should really know better having had this happen to me already a dozen times already.

But just to be clear I hold up my hands and surrender to the change-crisis in Ecuador…

“No change for a five dollar bill on a four dollar purchase?”

“Nope,” he nods.

And I walk out empty handed.

*****

I’m walking up a street in the city of Quito. A car has clumsily pulled up and parked awkwardly on the curb. I suspect that the middle-aged man and his wife are lost. The man hisses (as is customary in this country) to get my attention. I approach the car to offer what help I may. When I get to the passenger window, where the wife is frigidly sitting in the seat in front of me, the man leans across her and sleazily starts, “ESTAS bonita…” before I realize the slither in his statement and make my dismayed escape.

*****

Beam and I walk into a Mexican food restaurant. There are no other customers, but the boy attending to the place turns down the music and brings us menus. We order veggie burritos with extra guacamole and a couple margaritas. He writes down our orders, gives us his thanks, places chips and salsa on our table and retreats into the kitchen.

Over the sounds of chopping in the kitchen, we chat until the nacho plate is cleaned. Ten minutes later, the boy reappears from the kitchen and stands at our table with news:

“I’m sorry. We don’t have tortillas, or beans, or tomatoes. And we don’t have avocados for the guacamole. Or cheese.”

We are stunned into silence.

“Oh. And we don’t have limes for Margaritas either,” he finishes.

Finally I stutter out, “So you don’t have anything?”

“Nope. Sorry. That’ll be $1 for the chips.”

*****

There’s a beach that I retreat to almost every weekend where I can spend my Sundays suspended in a hammock. A few weeks ago, I put my Chaco sandals behind the beach bar for safeguard while I took a barefoot stroll on the sand. When I returned, the shoes had mysteriously disappeared. The staff, with whom I’m friends, seemed legitimately concerned. The searched the place, but with no find, presented to me a pair of flip-flops and told me that they’d keep an eye out for my sandals on the feet of the few inhabitants of the small town.

When I returned the next week and inquired as to if they had sighted my sandals, the bartender replied, “No we haven’t. But will you please be careful that Maria (a co-worker of his) doesn’t see you in those flip-flops that that we gave you? She’s been looking for them all week.”

Yes. I “hummed” then. And I “hummed” again when it was reported to me by my roommate that one of the bartenders had recently been spotted sporting blue and silver, womens’ size 7 Chacos.

I’m happy to report that the sandals were shyly returned to me today when I extended a “no-explanation-needed-just-smile-and-show-me-the-shoes” offer. When I explained my sentimental attachment to the sandals that had walked around the world with me, the “borrowing” bartender in turn explained that he was only doing me a favor, as they (the shoes) needed a vacation too.

*****

In conversation over coffee, an Ecuadorian girlfriend of mine was worrying again over my single status.

“Don’t you get lonely? How terrible it must be for you always to be travelling alone! You need a boyfriend! Yes. And one that is at least 25.”

I’ve heard the speech a thousand times, but not the age requirement and so questioned further…”Wait. Why must I have a boyfriend over the age of 25?”

“Ah. Because when they are in their early twenties they will constantly see other women behind your back. That’s the way it is with Latin men. And that’s what happened with my boyfriend, at least until I finally broke up with him. But then we got back together again last year. Things are much different now that we’re older.”

“Because he’s more mature now and has more respect for your relationship? And so you can trust him now?”

She stands up to go to the restroom, pushes her chair in and replies, “Oh God no. I still don’t trust him at all! But he’s not allowed to go out with his friends any more.”

“Hummmm.”

*****

(sol’s travel photos) (about sol) (some sol stories) (LeapNow.org) (travel disclaimer) (packing list) (photogallery guestbook)

Posted in culture, ecuador, story time | No Comments »

Past and Present Tense

Saturday, May 8th, 2004

“Okay. Let’s move on to conversation. Tell me what you did this morning before coming here. Try to use complete sentences that are in the past tense.”

He puts down the book of the “4 Noble Truths” that he’s been reading aloud from and nods his head in agreement. He looks out over the balcony to find his words.

“Um. Okay. Yes. This morning, I made prayers…”

“What is the past tense of “to pray” Sonam?”

“Hum. Um. Prayed. Yes. This morning I prayed. And then I went to houses in the villages and prayed with families. And then I learned English.”

“You studied English?”

“Um. Yes. I STUDIED English. And I did my homework so that my nice and pretty teacher will be happy and so that I learn good English.”

I giggle and he immediately throws his robe over his head, which sends me crashing on yet another wave of verbalized delight.

He peeks out from under the robe to see if the coast is clear. But I’m still giggling and so an arm protrudes from the mass of maroon robes and he pokes me in the arm, “Why do you laugh at me? Please teacher, don’t laugh! You stop, will you! Please stop!”

(On the first day that I arrived in McLeod Ganj *home of the exiled Tibetan Government* I met Sonam on the street, a 33-year-old refugee Tibetan monk. We started talking and I offered to teach him English every day in exchange for tea.)

He throws the robe over his head again and a muffled voice from underneath escapes and begs for me to stop. Everything about this image brings me pure joy. It’s so hard to repress the delight his every gesture brings me. But with determination, I tuck my smile away, clear my throat of chuckles, and encourage him to come out of his robes…

“I’m sorry Sonam. Please come out. Come on. Now tell me in the past tense some things about your life in Tibet.”

One squinted eye appears and then he slowly emerges from the cloak.

“Um. Okay. In Tibet I lived in monastery. I became monk when I had 15 years. In Tibet, I never go to school. The Chinese do not let Tibetans go to school. Many Chinese in Tibet. They don’t let us do many things. Not allowed to put a picture of the Dalai Lama on my wall. Even if I not have picture of Dalai Lama, if they think you make prayers for Dalai Lama, you get beating. Many people beatings. Many, MANY people die. The Chinese break my monastery. So I escaped.”

“You escaped?”

“Yes. Three years ago. I leave my family. We walked for many weeks. Over the mountains. In beginning we had food. But not carry much. Could not carry much. And then we had no food. Sometimes we get one hand of rice. I eat rice…not cooked, just rice…I eat out of my hand and then I walk until I fall down. No energy. Many times could not walk. We sleep during day and walk at night so Chinese don’t see us. Many weeks walking. Very, very hard. All our shoes rip. We use rope to tie together. Yes. Very, very, hard. But Chinese not to find me. I escaped.”

He looks up from his shoes and says, “Teacher. You want to see homework? I wrote questions for you!”

He opens up his notebook and proudly pushes it over to me.

I read his questions aloud;

“What do people do in your country?”

“What will you do in your life?”

“Why people not have compassion?”

I look up at him and he smiles with a warmness that melts my very being.

“These are good questions, Sonam. These are very good questions.”

*****

“In May 1949, the newly established communist government of China decided to “liberate” the downtrodden Tibetan masses by taking over the country. The Chinese People’s Army marched into Lhasa beginning a brutal regime which has left over 1.2 million Tibetans dead and countless others imprisoned in forced-labor camps. Since 1949, some 90% of the nation’s religious institutions have been destroyed in the name of the Revolution and any pro-independence spark has been snuffed out.

Fearing for his life and those of his people, the spiritual leader of Tibet, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, walked over the Himalayas to take refuge in Dharmasala (below McLeod Ganj) India where the Tibetan Government was granted political asylum.

China, to this day, has resisted all attempts at dialogue over the Tibet issue. With Western nations relaxing their attitudes towards China, many now fear for the future of the Free Tibet Movement.” – Lonely Planet India

(sol’s travel photos) (about sol) (some sol stories) (LeapNow.org)

Posted in getting political (warned), on tears & loss, story time, tibet | No Comments »

Curiosity & the Cat

Tuesday, March 2nd, 2004

Despite the standard sterile-ness and uniformity of airports, like a spot on a suit, something gives this one away as being…different.

Perhaps it is the stray cat that wanders its way through a maze of luggage being rescued from the mouth of the conveyor belt.

Or perhaps it is the fact that although we have spent considerable time at a desk composing a message to be sent over the loud speaker to page someone, having not yet heard it, I turn to an airport security guard who tells me, “this airport does not have a paging system.”

Perhaps it is the security check-point that ignores all those passengers that pass while the attendant is in the bathroom.

Or perhaps it is the large painted sign over the exit that requests customer feedback and asks for comments to be sent to a hotmail email address.

Perhaps it is the fact that, despite the dozen desks that cheerfully advertise “Delhi Information Desk,” the airport assistant says, “No. No information desk at this airport, Miss.”

And perhaps it is the fact that no phone cards are sold at the airport.

I inform my co-leader of this last learning and he smiles and says, “well, that would be because there are no payphones in this airport.”

“Ah. Yes.” I reply. This would be that whole “the only thing you can expect in India is the unexpected” idea in play, huh?”

We laugh and return to our group of students who are sitting on their luggage amusedly feeding crumbs of a leftover Chinese pastry to the stray cat.

We spread our arms and announce, “Welcome to India!”

(sol’s travel photos) (about sol) (some sol stories) (LeapNow.org)

Posted in india, story time | No Comments »

Lost in Found

Thursday, March 27th, 2003

Spain Photogallery

There are times in my travels, when I simply stop and sink hard into the present moment. The world, for timeless seconds, spins around me — and in that dizziness, all I can do is smile and send my thanks to every single thing, person, place or event in my life that has led me up to that very moment.

And one of those precious moments came to me last night.

It’s 2 am and I sit on a stool in a small bar, drinking a white-wine Sevillian concoction with “compañeros” I met in the street the day before. I suddenly realize that I have been speaking only, and fully comprehending, Spanish for over six hours. This realization is enough to startle a solid smile. A song comes on the radio, and Alex disappears behind the bar and returns with a type of box drum, of which he sits upon and begins to bang out the pulse that resonates with the heart of life in Southern Spain; Flamenco. The rain beats outside on the street in unison. Juan pulls me up off my stool and demonstrates to me the “paseos basicos” de Flamenco. A few minutes later, my arms are in the air, and his chest is puffed out in the manner of the Matador. We “dar vueltos” and stride around each other in pace to the “feel” of the music. Juan, in a rusty and enchanting voice begins the song. The couple that owns the place kiss silently behind the bar.

Alex is lost in his beat. Juan is lost in his song. The couple are lost in their kiss. And I am lost in what I have found.

For this is it. This is one of the moments I’ve been seeking all my life. And finding such a moment is comparable to that high I receive on the salsa dance floor. It’s like I’ve grasped hands with life, followed its lead into six consecutive turns, and fallen into a dip. I watch the world turn upside down, come back up, and smile out loud in the dizziness that ensues.

For this moment alone, I have lived. And for this moment again, I pursue.

Posted in culture, gratitude, spain, story time | No Comments »

Foiled Fake Frenchie

Sunday, March 9th, 2003

I speak photo-French, which means I can give a variety of commands directing a person into any number of positions and poses — and then ask them, “how would you like to pay for that.” French that is not likely to be of use to me anywhere outside of Club Med or the Paris red light district.

And while I UNDERSTAND much of what people are asking and saying to me, I simply haven’t the vocabulary to respond. 50% of the time my response to French questions is “oui” (pronounced “we”) — which means “yes.” And the other 50% of the time my response is “ouais” (pronounced “whey”) — which means “yeah.” And for some reason, 90% of the time, the questioning Frenchie smiles, nods and walks away *seemingly* content. I, confident that my ruse has not been revealed, am similarly content.

But alas, sometimes the fake frenchie is foiled.

Yesterday, as often happens, a mini-frenchie of about seven years of age came up to me and tugged on my pant leg and rattled off a series of “coma la ley loo, la ley lou voo” questions to which I patted her on the head, gave her a confident smile and continuously answered each question with “ouais” or “oui.”

“Oh la la!” she pronounced and bounced off about her business, as I did mine.

Ten minutes later, the little French fry returned followed by a small crowd of French parental figures and a long line of questions, of which, even I, in my limited knowledge of the language, recognized as anything but “photo” related.

I tried out “oui ” a couple of times.

And then I tried out “ouais” a few times.

And exhausting my options, I finally sighed, and asked the group if anyone spoke English.

“Uh zittle bit, yes. My daughter…zee zays that you zold her that you are zee famous actress. That you have been in many movie. Iz diez true? Zhe zays zou told her all zhis.”

My explanation of myself was so disgraceful, I need not even describe it here, except to maybe note that more than one French nose was turned up at me.

Aw well. I guess it’s a good thing I’m out of here next week and on to countries where I won’t be so easily recognized as the famous French actress that I am. :)

And speaking of my Spanish Expedition…it has evolved!

After arrival and exploration of Madrid, I will be re-locating to Sevilla — where the sun is shining strongest on Spain at this time of year. And in May, I have decided to take the one month pilgrimage walking across Northern Spain known as “El Camino de Santiago.” More details coming, as they are discovered….

Posted in central america, story time, stupid me | No Comments »

a bad act

Sunday, October 13th, 2002

Me? Travel without a digital camera? Like a fish outta watter, I choked on the views until I got to Sydney and *re*purchased the Dimage X for a tidy $150 US more than I paid for it in the States. This is, specifically, the 9th digital camera I’ve owned in the last four years; 3 upgraded to better cams, 2 stolen from bandits, 1 returned to the company, 1 broken in a monsoon, 1 removed at gunpoint…..and a partriiidge iiiiiinn a peaaaar tree.

Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. A little love affair that I’ve promised my soul a return to. Just need a little patience to allow the universe to conspire to bring me back. And THEN I’ll give my full report.

Until then, I’ve posted some faces and places in the new Australia Album….

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Sydney, Byron Bay & Brisbane: The First Photo Round of the OZ Album

On the immigration entrance cards for every country there is a spot where you are to write in your “occupation.” Having had to fill out over 25 of these cards over the last two years, and in the name of boredom, creativity AND confusion (after all, what DO I do?), I’ve grown quite comfortable with writing in “magician” into that space. Of course, most immigration officials never call me on it. But…

…upon my entrance to Thailand, the attendant lifted his head and asked…”You’re in the entertainment industry?”

I, forgeting my mark, looked at him and replied, “excuse me?”

He held up the form and pointed to my hand written word “magician” in the occupation blank.

“It says here you are a magician. Are you a magician?” He repeated.

I smiled, tucked my right thumb into my fist and my left thumb under my forefinger, put them together and showed him my thumb splitting in half.

He looked at my thumb straightfaced, and then at me, shook his head, stamped my passport and called “NEXT!” to the person in line behind me.

Me and my thumbs made a quick exit.

The occupation blank on my Australian immigration form reads, “Alchemist.”

Posted in south pacific islands, story time, stupid me | No Comments »

universal language: cartoons

Thursday, August 15th, 2002

Ever given your food order to a waitress like this?

Posted in south korea, story time | No Comments »

Excerpt from My Korean-English Translation Dictionary

Wednesday, July 31st, 2002

Excerpt from My Korean-English Translation Dictionary

American Dream Academy: Actual name of a camp in South Korea that recruits naive American college graduates to create, organize and facilitate the activities and academic curriculum of 200-500 eleven thru thirteen year-olds. In-the-dark-recruitees quickly realize that if they don¡¯t run the camp – no one will. In the case that there are hard-working, creative and initiative-taking individuals within the group, these persons will conceptualize and create all camp activities, buy all sports equipment, plan and prepare all art projects, write up all academic curriculum and organize the general rotation of activities/classes of the camp for 14 hours a day, six days a week. Although initial frustration is unavoidable on the part of the recruitees, the satisfaction of successfully attacking and completing the mission is like a glass of icy lemonade in the shade of a heat wave.

(Site of the American Dream Academy)

Nap Time: In the wake of a S. Korean heat wave, 200 hot kids become 200 sleepy kids. When the little darlings failed to lift their heavy heads after ¡°heads up 7 up¡± was called, suspicion arose. When they remained in such comatose positioning after repeated shaking and whistle blowing, the ¡°big wigs¡± (see definition below) were shocked into action at such an atrocious act of disrespect in Asian classroom culture. 1.5 hours of ¡°nap time¡± were instantly incorporated into the schedule – and it is only in thanks to this blessed break that this blog comes to you.

(My Kids….*that are napping as I type.*)

Big Wigs: Any Korean male on campus, over the age of 50, who lacks the ability to mumble a single syllable of English, and who¡¯s only evident job (according to American teachers) is that of spending hours hunting down and swatting flies. In their *24 hours of* free time, their favorite hobby appears to be lurking over the shoulder of female American teachers using the computer in their office where all their *fly-swatting* duties are carried out. Based on the observed head-to-floor bowing that is made in their presence, it is safe to assume that these men have obnoxious amounts of money and authority.

Whistle: The difference between 20 unruly, rambunctious Korean kids and 20 seated and silent Korean kids.

¡°Millhouse¡±: 1. The next-door neighbor of fictional anime character Bart Simpson. 2. One of many unlucky ¡°English names¡± bestowed upon an 11-year old Korean boy who happens to be a student in the class of two 25-year old American boys.

Sleeping Subway Guard: See Illustration

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Dirty DARE Accepted (and Successfully Completed): See Illustration

Kim Chi: Cabbage (and sometimes other mixed raw veggies) marinated or pickled in a Korean chili paste. Absolute staple of the Korean diet. Served at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Nominated as ¡°favorite food¡± by over 30% of Korean kids. The subject of 60% of jokes made by American teachers. After a week of camp, it is highly likely that starvation will become preferable to another serving of sticky rice and ¡°Camp Style¡± Kim Chi.

Breakfast: The one meal a day teachers are provided with in ¡°American style.¡±

Cereal: 1. Staple of American style breakfast. 2. Staple of American Teachers¡¯ Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner diet.

Kindness: Taken to mind boggling levels by the Korean people. The following three examples all took place within the same three hours on an outing to Seoul (tied for the 3rd largest city in the world): 1. While lost, trying to find our hostel, pulling out maps and looking confused, a Korean woman who spoke English approached us and insisted on helping. She looked at our directions, found a phone number for the hostel, called the owner, got directions and actually tried to walk us ALL the way there. 2. After we insisted that we could walk the blocks alone and progressed in the correction direction, a man stopped us. He was the owner of the hostel and was looking for us to make sure we were on the right track. 3. Upon slicing her foot after a courageous escape from a dare (see above definition) a man who noticed the blood on our companion, escorted us to a drug store, insisted on bandaging the faulty foot and paying for the supplies. He then took us to a restaurant, bought us a round of beer and appetizers, told us stories for an hour, paid the bill, gave us his phone number, took a bow and disappeared.

Hooker Hill: Perhaps the dirtiest and most dangerous street in Intaewon, Seoul. Location of the LAST room available to travelers who arrive in town at 10pm on a Saturday night. Lined with young and old Korean girls making propositions in limited and well rehearsed English to American military personnel.

(Me & Nick Hookering on Hooker Hill)

American Military Personnel on Hooker Hill: Gangs of highly intoxicated men in American flag t-shirts and cowboy hats, slurring return propositions at the hookers while throwing empty glass beer bottles down the hill. The only time I feared for my immediate safely in S. Korea. The most horrendous ¡°Ugly American¡± spectacle I have ever witnessed. Possible the most embarrassed I¡¯ve ever felt to be an ¡°American.¡±

Chlorine: Undefined in the Korean dictionary until the swimming pool turned unnatural shades of green and had to be drained and refilled TWICE. After repeated and adamant requests on the part of the American counselors, the chemical was admitted into both the dictionary AND the pool. (yea!)

Karaoke: An absolute undying passion of the Korean young folk. So much that a machine (TV & Microphone) is located in the hotel, in the gym and EVEN in the school BUS. An important note is that Koreans are considerable better at this activity. It took 15 minutes for 200 kids to pull 20 chair-hugging English counselors onto the stage. Strangely enough, after only one performance of ¡°I¡¯m a Barbie Girl Living in a Barbie World¡± there was no encore or additional musical requests of the Americans.

*** New pictures were added to the KOREA Photogallery this week.***

Posted in south korea, story time | 2 Comments »

adventure incognito

Friday, April 12th, 2002

Adventure Incognito

“Everything will work out.”

A simple mantra chanted regularly by travelers around the world.

“Everything will work out.”

Easy to advice, more challenging to receive, and sometimes downright impossible to believe.

Easy to advice — when it’s not YOU who has just had your only credit card (and only form of monetary funds) rejected at the third bank due to “inadequate funds.” Challenging to receive — when you find YOUR backpack slashed and your passport missing. Impossible to believe — when you find YOURSELF stranded on an island because of bad weather, with a flight to catch the next morning.

But it happens to all of us. Very few travelers are spared at least a few fearful, panicked, nerve-wrecking or adrenaline-pumping moments while on the road. And it doesn’t matter how many credit cards you bring, or how many locks you put on your pack, or how many days you left yourself to get to the airport because The Travel Gods of Misfortune and Accident care little for those details. But maybe we are making judgments too quickly? Maybe, if we look closer at our most memorable travel tales, we will see that it is exactly that element of insecurity, mistake or hazard that made those excursions so remarkable and memorable. And maybe we will recognize that it is actually the Goddess of Adventure, spreading her magic in the GUISE of the God of Misfortune and the RUSE of the God of Accident, but simply traveling incognito.

Maybe.

Amsterdam, Netherlands (August 1999)

The last day on my two-month tour of Europe and I found that in addition to overdrawing my two bank accounts, I had somehow lost my emergency fund of forty dollars that I was relying on to get me through the night and to the airport. After having run across town to three different full hostels, I found myself at the counter of The Flying Pig hostel in downtown Amsterdam. Exhaustion, trepidation, and apprehension were only a few of the feelings wrenching my gut as I dropped my heavy pack to the floor and with begging eyes, inquired as to if a single cot in the dorm was available. The attendant, without looking up, apologized and said no. My panic must have taken form, jumped up on the desk, let out a yelp and collapsed on the booking sheet he was studying, because he looked up, into my eyes, and said, “Um. Well, wait here. Let me see.” An hour later I was settled into a cot paid for at the discounted rate of “whatever you can dig up in your pack” (which actually included money in three different currencies). Somehow, the rumor of my moneyless-ness had spread, and as I collapsed into the pillows in the living room, I found myself approached by three different strangers. One dropped me off a sandwich, one passed me a beer, and one offered me herb; Three kings with offerings better than frankincense and myrrh. I was even offered the train fare to get to the airport. And they expected nothing in return. “Everything worked out,” thanks to the astounding generosity of these favors from complete strangers.

Isla Grande, Brazil (March 2000)

We had hired a boat and captain to take us to the other side of the island on a three-hour tour (…a threeeee-hour tour). Our “mistake” was not checking out the quality and speed of his boat. It took us five hours just to get to our destination on the other side of the island. Our captain informed us that it would take at least as long to get back, but now it was getting dark, the water was rough and we were going against the wind and waves. I had to get back by the next afternoon in order to catch a ferry to the mainland to get back to Rio, where I was to catch my return flight to the US. But the four Australians we had just spent a fantastic day with on the boat invited us to flip off that fate and, instead, camp out the night on that side of the island with them. We asked the captain if he could return and pick us up first thing in the morning. He told us he couldn’t assure anything, but he’d “try.” “Will any other boats come by?” we inquired. He told us the chances were very slim.

“To hell with it! Drop us off at the next village!”

The next village was a small stretch of beach with a few houses — all home to related families of fishermen. We waved goodbye to the captain *wondering if we’d ever see him again* and hopped onto the beach with nothing but our bikinis. That night, the six of us toasted Caipirinhas on the open deck of a house owned by one of the fisherman. He cooked for us a splendid supper of the fish and squid he had caught that day and proudly showed me a picture of a “brother who’s best friend had a son that lived in California.” Another local made his way up to the deck playing a tambourine and singing in Portuguese. He played, laughed and danced until we had pushed all the dinner tables out of the way and were ALL dancing, laughing and singing with him. It went on like this for hours. Eventually a swim was suggested. Having never heard of phosphorescence in science class, I could only conclude that the trail of glowing light that followed each underwater movement was NOTHING less than pure magic. Our enthrallment and pure delight with the underwater fire works made even the blood dripping down our legs (from crashing up on the coral) only laughable. “Enchanted” is the only word I can use to describe that night. And the next day the captain DID show up….two hours late. On the ride back home, we caught up to a speed boat, hailed it down, jumped boats and raced back to the port. We made our scheduled ferry by about five minutes — and, *surprise* — “everything worked out” just perfectly.

Tortugero, Costa Rica (October 2000)

Tortugero is a small town in Costa Rica that is ONLY accessible by boat through canals or by plane. Opting for a day longer on the island instead of a day traveling by boat and bus, my best travel mate Kim, and I, had purchased plane tickets to get us back to San Jose in time for our return flights to the States. We showed up at the “airport” promptly at 7:30 for our 8:00 flight. I put the word “airport” in quotes because the “airport”, in this case, was simply a sand landing patch. A plane landed and we loaded our luggage and boarded the small craft. After take off, I inquired as to why we were heading North instead of West. I was told that we were picking up a few more passengers in a small town called Yamaha. This I noted as peculiar as I looked around and saw that there was only ONE seat left vacant on the plane.

I nudged Kim and laughed nervously, “We ARE on the right plane aren’t we? Cause we didn’t give that guy our tickets did we?”

A man across the isle interjected, “You’re going to San Jose right? Yep! This is the right plane!”

As the plane came down for landing, Kim and I laughed at such a silly idea. Ha! Busses and trains, sure…but now really, who could actually get on the wrong plane?

While we all waited patiently, I observed outside two awaiting passengers talking with the pilots. I watched as the passengers hand gestures became more animated and angry, and as the pilots pulled out papers and scratched their heads.

And then I knew it. A shit-eating grin was all I could manage as one of the pilots boarded the plane and announced, “I’m going to read off a roster of names. If you could please raise your hand if your name is NOT called, I would appreciate it.”

He didn’t need to read the roster. We raised our hands and I choked back on my giggles.

He looked us directly in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry. But one of you will have to stay here.”

I could stifle no longer. Laughing, I asked, “And where are we sir? And are there any busses or boats we can catch to get to San Jose?”

“I’m sorry. But one of you will have to stay,” he repeated. “You can only leave this town by plane. I will try to contact the plane that you were SUPPOSED to be on, and maybe they can come and pick you up here.”

THAT was certainly an idea worthy of more laughs.

Five minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on our backpacks, in the middle of the runway, in a town in the middle of NOWHERE, waving goodbye to our plane…. and laughing hysterically about these facts.

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When the laughing fit finally subsided, we smiled and exchanged “Now what?” glances at each other.

“Everything will work out. It always does,” we agreed.

As if on cue, a man, out of nowhere appeared and said, “Hear you guys have a problem. I know a guy. I’ll send him over.” And he walked away. Five more minutes later, we met Mr. Brown. He shook our hands firmly and said, “Ya know? It JUST so happens that I have a flight of guys coming in for a fishing expedition in half an hour. My plane is going to San Jose afterwards. I’ll let you jump on board for half of whatever you paid for that other flight.” My mate flashed me a “Shit! Do we have enough money?” look that Mr. Brown caught faster than I did. He grinned. “Hey…how ‘bout you guys just pay me back the next time you’re in Costa Rica, okay? Deal?!” He flashed us a huge and happy smile, handed me his card and wished us blessings. We were in San Jose less than two hours later.

I could tell a few dozen more stories, but I have faith that the reader is recognizing a pattern. The story problems differ, but the conclusion is always the same; “Everything always works out.” And once this is recognized, the equation can be simplified and the factors of “stress” and “worry” crossed out. Life has this endearing quality of constantly moving forward…and like pulling out the knots on a roll of rope, if you just keeping moving forward, focusing on one inch at a time, things seem to have a way of simply pulling themselves out straight.

“Everything works itself out.”

And the favors that I received from those strangers never go unappreciated. That day in Amsterdam, I happily vowed to be forever in travel-favor-debt. Now I regularly invite homeless travelers to crash on my couch and take opportunities to slip some cash into the book of someone who’s credit card was eaten in an ATM or offer a beer to a traveler on his or her last and penny-less day of adventure abroad; All in aspiration of having the opportunity to offer a Mr.Brown-type-blessing one day. It came around and I will make sure it continues to go around, taking my turn, and playing MY role in “making everything work out” for others.

Many travelers have learned, as I have, that some of the best adventures are found off the planned path. It’s important not to label those turns in the road as trouble or misfortune, for really, they are not so much “turns” in the road, as they are forks. Adventures are never lost, but they can change. And that change might be instigated by something originally perceived as “less-than-lucky.” But if not for lost money, how would I have found a new faith in the goodness of strangers in a hostel in Holland? But if not for a misleading captain, a slow boat and some rough water, how else would I have found the magic in the music of a tambourine and fireworks in the water of a fishing village in Brazil? And if not for sand-patch airports and poor check-in procedures, how else would I have witnessed an angel in action and received the blessing of Mr. Brown? It is in thanks to “misfortune” and “mistake” that today I can raise my hand and proclaim, “Yes! Actually, I HAVE gotten on the wrong plane before!”

Watch events unfold and stay open to a possibility of a happy, even IF alternative, conclusion. For Adventure travels incognito. And recognizing and receiving her as such — are what put both the fun AND freedom into traveling.

Posted in central america, mis-adventures, story time, stupid me, travel (uncategorized), travel philosophy | No Comments »

defining Utila

Monday, April 1st, 2002

Defining Utila

Oh Utila.

The first time thy name graced my ears was whilst bartending in Antigua, Guatemala…

*****

A riley group of international backpackers on their third round of Cuba Libres were getting into animated conversation at the bar…

Mate #1: “…oh yeah…I completely got narked. I couldn’t add 4 + 6 on the wet board!”

Mate #2: “…and did you do that thing with the eggs? How cool was that?!”

Mate #3: “I didn’t see any egg thing. Why didn’t my instructor show us that?”

Mate #1: “Well that’s because YOU are only Open Water Certified, and WE are “Advanced.” They only do the egg trick in the Advanced Course.”

Mate #3 then proceeds in making the following ordered hand motions:

1. first spreading his arms wide

2. then sticking one finger into the enclosed circle of an “okay” sign

3. and finally making the motions of dealing out a deck of cards.

All three bust out in hysterics and high fives.

This is where I serve them their 4th round of Cubas and interject:

“What did that mean?” (referring to the hand motions).

Mate #3 laughs, repeats the hand motions, and says, “It’s the underwater signal for; “Big Fucking Deal.”

*****

Defined: Utila

Utila is part of the Caribbean Bay Islands, 50km (31mi) off the North coast of Honduras and world renowned as one of the cheapest places in the world to learn how to dive.

Utila, in a dozen more animated backpacker-bar-conversations, was described to me as: “a backpackers paradise”; “a gringo-trail legend”; and even “a divers wet dream.”

*****

“Well we will see about that!”, I said to myself as I hopped over the bar one Friday, told my boss I’d be back in a week, and grabbed my rucksack.

I didn’t return for three months.

*****

I left Antigua at 4 a.m. on Saturday and arrived the next day on the daily morning ferry into Utila at 10 a.m.

Arriving at the port the first day, most newcomers haven’t any idea of their “fresh meat” status. Divemasters and instructors from every dive shop line up the docks scouting out perspective students for a course in diving….or in bed.

But I had been warned. Somehow, on my ferry ride to the island, I found myself sitting at a table of divemasters who were living on Utila but returning from a weekend “breather” in La Ceiba.

They eyed me up and down carefully…

“Ah. You’re new. One week? Yeah right. You’ll be here for months. So let me offer you some advice. There are three lies that sum up life on this island which you will encounter regularly:

1. “I’m not drinking tonight”

2. “I love you.”

3. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“For many, in that order. You’ve been warned.”

*****

My story begins here. But not only are there hidden “lies” and “rules” to life on the island Utila, but also a list of lingo that it takes two months of trodding the island barefoot to comprehend. Therefore, throughout the story, I pause to define such terms that might be in need of explanation. And thus we proceed…

*****

Upon disembarkment, I broke off from the herd and explored the island a bit.

“Hum. No real beach to speak of. Not even many palm trees. *ouch* The locals all speak English. The water is full of trash. Is that a refrigerator door jutting out from the sand? The bathrooms on the docks all drop directly into the water. *ouch!* *ouch!* And WHAT is biting me?!”

*****

Defined: Sandfly

Minuscule insects that visit the bay islands in waves of blood-thirsty destruction. Visits are unpredictable and always untimely. Known for their passionate addiction to sweet backpackers-blood. DEET resistant, but famously rumored to “drown” in coconut oil. May leave as many as 50 bites per square inch of skin.

*****

“Not a chance I’ll stay on this island for more than three days,” I said as I slammed my mental fist down.

I “wandered” down the only road on the island to the dive shop “Underwater Vision” and signed up for a three-day Open Water certification course for an a brilliant $130 dollars (INCLUDING my room for three nights).

The next day I began my PADI Open Water Course in scuba diving.

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Before &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp After

*****

Defined: Scuba Diving

Skin diving with scuba apparatus where one *who is comfortable* is very likely to fall head-over-heals in love with the underwater world. Love for sea turtles and Spotted Eagle Rays, Queen Angel fish and Green Moray Eels. Love for sea fans and jellyfish, for the iridescent squid and octopus, and for lobster and shrimp hidden under coral and in sponges. Love for firework shows of bioluminescence, for schools of squealing dolphins racing the boat and for the chance that one might actually meet acquaintance with the legendary Whale Shark one day. The kind of love that could make a person call his or her ticket agent to postpone a date of departure a few days, weeks…or months.

*****

My love for daily diving, sunsets and stars in combination with my sudden distaste for shoes festered together into a new passion for this so-called “island life.” But my “week plan”, and my boss’s emails inquiring as to my return date to bar-work, still dug their fingernails into my agenda.

And then something happened. Something VERY small happened, with monumental consequences.

I caught Amoebas.

*****

Defined: Amoebas

Naked freshwater, marine or parasitic protozoa that form temporary pseudopods for feeding and locomotion.

Parasites..*grimaces*..that live in your stomach… *cringes*… and mass reproduce… *shudders*… and force you to lay in your bed in gut wrenching pain until your roommate, tired of your constant moaning, drags your in-denial-ass to the doctor *which in Utila, inspires a terror of its own* to get antibiotics. The drugs essentially nuke the little bastards, as well as everything else in your digestive and immunity systems. Not pretty. But if you´re young, you´ll survive.

*****

And how specifically did this terrible infection conspire to re-route my entire travel itinerary into staying on this island for 2.5 months?

A week of “down time” with mild sickness allowed Utila just enough flirting time for me to successfully and completely “fall” for island and diving life.

And what exactly did I fall for? Barefootedness. Constant sunshine. Coconut bread. Walls of beautiful ocean. Baleadas (local “cuisine”). Bars on docks. Frothy coconut drinks. Skinny dips. Fresh fish BB-Qs every night. No cars. No phones. No TV. No air conditioning. AND passionate and interesting people from every corner of the world who all shared a love for the former, as well as a love of lacking the latter.

But most importantly: Diving. Days dedicated to diving and constant discussion about diving with people passionate about diving.

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And thus, I found myself enrolled in a two month course to become a PADI certified Divemaster.

*****

Defined: Divemaster

Rigorous training course in which one becomes a certified and professional scuba diver. Course normally includes about 6-8 weeks of daily diving in coordination with physical tests and intensive study of the Physics, Physiology, Mechanics, Equipment, Instruction and Safety of underwater diving. At successful completion of the course, trainee receives a pretty little card and the very “cool” title of “Divemaster” — which legally allows a person to work professionally in the dive industry. Certification makes world travel suspiciously easy, usually completely neglects all former years of formal education and has caused more than one “spat” between diver and his/her parents who have higher aspirations for their child that becoming a “dive-bum.”

*****

Life became gloriously simple.

Two dives in the morning. Lunch with fellow divemasters discussing what we saw on our morning dives and laughing over silly student stories. Two dives in the afternoon. Dinner (often times guiltily eating what we saw during our afternoon dives) with fellow divemasters discussing what we saw on our afternoon dives and laughing over silly student stories. In the evening, drinks on the docks watching sunsets, discussing what we saw on our afternoon dives and laughing over…

You get the point.

Diving, food, diving, fish, diving, drinking, diving, BB-Qs, diving, swimming, diving, snorkeling, diving, stargazing, diving, sunsets, diving.

It doesn’t take long to wade deep into the wave of island life in Utila. Before you know it, your skin is the shade of the coconuts burning in your campfire, your feet are tough enough to walk on glass, and your tolerance for CocoLoco’s pina coladas is in the double digits.

*****

Defined: CocoLocos

CocoLocos is the most famous bar-on-a-dock in Utila. It hosts regular theme nights including, but not limited to; Toga Night, Cross-dressing Night and Body Paint Night. A large square hole is centered in the dock (just down flow from the drop-into-the-ocean toilet). An average of five persons per night will undoubtedly pass through this hole before the night ends (promptly at 1:00 a.m., when ALL the electricity on the island abruptly turns off).

*****

Directly related to the fact that there is severely limited access to television, radio, phones and, in general, ANY form of communication with the outside world (even slower-than-frozen-molasses internet costs a budget-crushing $15 US per hour) — most temporary habitants of the island are happily forced to find other productive uses of their non-diving time.

One such activity includes laying your body at the end of the sand airplane landing strip and then screaming mad profanities whilst the plane comes in for landing within an green-moray-eel’s-length from your head.

Another fashion of island entertainment comes in the form of monthly full moon parties, and of course, the infamous bi-annual “SunJam.”

*****

Defined: SunJam

Ingredients for “SunJam”

1 Deserted Island a boat ride away from Utila

125 Palm Trees

2 Fresh Fish Fry Tables

30 Kegs

1 Generator

2 Palm Leaf Thatched Huts

1 Space Cake Stand

500 International Travelers

200 Hammocks

7 Imported DJs

1 Whopping Sound System

2 Dozen Tiki Torches

1 Sunrise

1 Sunset

Instructions for making SunJam:

Place deserted island in a body of turquoise blue water and sprinkle the edges with soft, white sand and surround with the world’s second largest coral reef. One boat at a time, slowing churn in the 500 browned travelers. Turn on the party around 12:00 in the afternoon, add the space cake and let simmer for six hours. Then slowly turn the music up and congregate the people into the sand dance floor. The DJs will naturally bring the crowd to a full boil. Maintain this temperature for twelve hours, or until the sun has risen. When the screaming and whistling turns to “ohhhing” and “ahhhhing”, it’s time to lay the people out in hammocks under palm trees to cool. Let rest for 24 hours. Savor the sweet memories and repeat twice a year.

*****

Other forms of island entertainment include: “Bunkering Down for Hurricanes”, “Nitrogen Narcosis”, “Watching or Participation in Snorkel Tests” and “Pursuit of the Mythical Whale Shark” — all of which are defined below.

*****

Defined: Hurricane

Severe, tropical cyclones occasionally crash the Utila party. Hurricane Chantal did so during my own stay on the island. The emergency plan for hurricanes usually consists of bunkering down with the beer and waiting. My dive shop was the ONLY on the island to send our boat out on the last day of the storm. Our mild fear turned into laughing hysterics when, like a picture page from a Dr. Suess book, we saw a full sized COUCH float by us…in the middle of the ocean.

Defined: Nitrogen Narcosis

The intoxicating effect nitrogen produces when you breath it underwater (of which the exact cause still eludes physiologists). Symptoms include: stuporous and/or inappropriate behavior, impaired attention, slow thinking, euphoria and elation, poor judgment and short term memory loss. Divers are likely to first notice narcosis around 80 feet and are always anxious to feel it on their first deep dive. “Did you get narked?!” is a question that you will over hear at 90% of “Advanced Course” dinner table circles. The effect is equal to about one CocoLoco pina colada.

Defined: Snorkel Test

Initiation rite of passage for becoming a certified Divemaster. Consists of a snorkel, large crowd on a bar on the beach, and the nastiest, most despicable concoction of spirits your best and most un-trustworthy mates can dream up (who, of course, are determined to “up” the nastiness scale at least 10 notches from their OWN *unmemorable – only because they blacked out* snorkel test). Escape from this date with liver death is impossible; One must simply succumb to the stool in the center of the circle and accepted his/her soon-to-be-faced fate. Frightenly similar to a scene from “Animal House” or some equally terrible American, 80′s, frat-house-flick.

Defined: Whale Shark

The largest fish in the world, the Whale Shark is a plankton-eating Rhincodon typus shark, sizing up to 50 ft (15 m) in length. Holds legendary, and almost mythical status on Utila. Boat captains (despite “sighting bonuses”) go madd *-er than they already are* at constant requests to follow flocks of birds that “supposedly” fly over roaming whale sharks who are stirring up plankton that the birds like to feed on. Everyone knows “someone” who saw one.

*****

And so it was in this manner that 2.5 months of dive and island life waved in and out of my life like that couch in the ocean; A comical, colorful, fiction-like and purely delightful episode of my life that I sometimes wonder if really happened at all.

The magic of Utila is in it’s unique island and diver culture. And some may say that Utila is only a petty backpackers’ party, but for me, Utila was, and continues to be, simply a gathering place for people passionate about life. We were called from all parts of the world, to share the same daydream, under the same palm tree, in the same aqua waters, for the same magical moment. And although not a single player in my Utilian adventures remains on the island today, it brings me many silent smiles knowing that THIS morning, someone was surely lying at the end of the airstrip waiting for the plane to land. And that THIS afternoon, someone certainly told the story of a near-death escape from a barracuda over lunch. And, TONIGHT, without a doubt, someone will jump through the hole in CocoLoco’s dock.

So the legend lives on.

And my feet may be soft again, but my memories will forever walk on glass.

*puts regulator in mouth*

*deflates her BCD*

*gives the underwater ‘OK’ sign*

*head disappears underwater*

*****

See the Entire Utila PhotoGallery

Posted in daily life on the road, honduras, on nature, story time | No Comments »

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