The power of language is undeniable. How evocative the act of arranging letters in a particular order can be. CIA. FBI. NSA. DIA. AIA. ASA. NRO. Betcha you’re not sure what all of those represent. Don’t beat yourself up. It doesn’t reflect poorly on your intelligence.

If what I am intimating has even a modicum of veracity, I’d be out of my fucking gourd to write about it… or would I? Everyone has a breaking point, a point when one can no longer swallow the bullshit and finds themselves compelled to speak. Perhaps I’d reached that stage… or did I?

Who likes timelines? From January to August 2009, I was in Indonesia. Curious timing, wouldn’t you say? On July 17th, 2009, two separate bombs…

Over the course of a week, we explored by car and on foot. By day, we’d explore the culture and geology of Goreme’s surrounding areas and beyond. By night, we ate delicious food, drank ridiculously sweet tea, and puffed on a hooka until nausea set in. Although there were a fair amount of tourists, most were of the tour bus lazy-ass variety, which meant for the most interesting hikes, we had the area to ourselves. I knew Cappadocia would be interesting, but I underestimated its magical quality. Get there while the weather is cool and before the hoards descend. You’ll not be disappointed. Crannies to inspect, caves to spelunk, and phallic “fairy” chimneys to ponder….

I defy you to visit Istanbul and not drink a shit ton of tea or smoke an assload of hookah. It’s a cultural hotbed of social interaction and almost feels like a requirement, though a pleasant one at that… until you make yourself nauseous from tobacco. Also, I’m surprised I have any teeth remaining after guzzling tea equal parts sugar and water.  

If Taksim Square is Istanbul’s heart, then Istiklal Avenue is its main artery. One can find anything and everything—shops, restaurants, cafes, bars, theaters, galleries, etc. I patrolled this thoroughfare no less than 1.32 million times. With Istanbul being the cosmopolitan “East meets West nexus,” anonymity is easy to attain, even for a 6’4” goofball American….

My feelings evolved. In the ensuing years, I experienced deep regrets and emotions that often threatened to overwhelm me in an instant. I wasn’t afraid she still had feelings for me, that she still needed me. I was afraid she didn’t, and I couldn’t bear the truth. 

I’d fallen down an abandoned well of despair, one I believed I’d never escape. I didn’t want to see Leslie again. I needed to see her again. My life came to a standstill, an existential limbo. I thought of her life. What are you doing right now? Who are you doing it with? Do you ever think of me? Of us? Do you still have a warm place in your heart for our time together? Such thoughts could and would send me into a downward spiral that took days to recover from…

Arrive a few weeks later and the torrent will be obscured by mist. I happen to think it was the perfect time, a compelling medium between peak thunder and relative dry-season trickle. Most prefer the dry season when the Zambian side withers and one can walk across the edge to Livingstone Island. Ideally, you’d visit twice to appreciate both perspectives, but if I had to choose, I’d go when the cascade is near full force and borderline deafening. Stupefying… that’s the word.

We forked over the dough for a boat trip to Livingston Island for a look-see and a private breakfast. (We’re worth it.) After donning rain gear, our guide brought us to the edge of madness for a peek into the abyss. Another word: awesome. My heart skipped several beats…

If you stay calm, make no sudden movements, and stay seated, everything is hunkey dorey. Do something stupid like stand up, and you’re no longer a part of the solid mass. You’re singular, distinct, and could be perceived as a threat. Not a good position near lion cubs. Stories were passed around later about an unfortunate soul who stood up in a similar vehicle near a leopard, instigating a vicious attack that left the occupants alive but severely injured. No one wants to be that asshole.

At the outset, two other vehicles shared the space, but we found ourselves alone after thirty minutes. This astonished me…

After some research, we went with Kwando Safaris, choosing a two-night affair at their Kwara Camp. The package includes flights in and out of the Delta… because we’re that fucking important. No better way to grasp the beauty and size of the Okavango than by air. During the wet season, the view is spectacular. We were supposed to land on an airstrip ten minutes from camp, but the rains made it unserviceable, so we were forced to start an hour and a half away. This was of no import, more of a feature than a bug. The ride turned into an extra safari in an area straight out of a postcard.

Kwara Camp is inside Kwando's private concession, which means they have exclusive rights to the area (i.e. no large tourist herds)…

Animals or not, the park is captivating, more so without the crowds. The first day we saw little, but our time wasn’t spent in vain. Just being there, looking out across the great Etosha Pan and drifting along the grass-lined dirt roads while attempting (once again) to avoid getting Sparky stuck in the mud, was exhilarating. Spotting a giraffe and rhino didn’t hurt.

Back at camp, we ate dinner and made our way to the floodlit waterhole to sip wine and, hopefully, meet local denizens. We sat for the better part of an hour, but no one came to drink. Then, Leslie and I thought we heard something from a dark corner just on the other side of the protective fence facing away from the floodlight.…

We considered exploring the Skeleton Coast but declined for a few reasons. We’d read conflicting reports about permit requirements and were unsure where to acquire one. Second, lodging was an issue. We had our tent but weren’t quite ready to take the training wheels off. Third, the locals we questioned all had the same answer, “Why would you want to do that?” And last but not least, it was reportedly not Spark-friendly terrain. We attempted to exchange the Spark for a 4WD Toyota Hilux, but Avis shit all over that notion. Besides setting us back two kidneys and a liver, it would’ve fomented confusion on a biblical scale. (For Avis, not us). And yet, I have the distinct feeling we missed something remarkable, an experience well worth the hassle. Poop…

Leslie and I loitered on the pile for the better part of three hours… The shadows. The colors. The wind. The air. All conspired to beguile, to captivate. I explored the far side, careful not to disturb the perfection that defined the dune’s wind-swept razor edge. I also did my best not to pass out from forging through the all that goddamned sand.

The best way to conclude your Dune 45 experience? By tearing ass down the side without going ass over teakettle. Psychological regression is unavoidable. I estimate my maturity level bottomed out somewhere between five and six years of age. Dune 45 is also a time machine. Yes, it is….

Am I dumb? Aye. Malicious? Nyet. And, as I saw nary a trace of foliage that could be damaged, I believed such deviations were permissible. Otherwise, I doubt we would’ve parked the car, erected a large multi-colored beach umbrella, and savored peanut butter and jelly sandwiches a few hundred meters from the road. Stupid? Yessir. Insolent? No way.

After all, do you think I wanted to honor the Asshole American stereotype? Negative, ghost rider. I have a deep-seated respect for nature and its preservation, so I can say honestly I thought my act innocuous. The Namibian couple employed by one of the lodges who approached us soon after…

We were mesmerized by the forlorn expansiveness, all the while crossing our fingers and hoping Sparky had the constitution to surmount any and all obstacles ahead. It performed admirably considering the terrain, but even Superman has his kryptonite. Some areas had become temporary streams in the recent past and had deposited a significant amount of sand in the road. One particularly large deposit proved too much. 

I was forced to access my bottomless database of off-roading experience (sarcasm alert) to extricate Sparky from the quagmire. If ensuring the car would never escape the sand under its own power was my aim, my efforts were an overwhelming success…

In the morning, we went for a drive to the canyon’s edge. This nearly ended in catastrophe. Instead of heading to the main viewpoint, we followed a road along the canyon rim that looked tantalizing. We didn’t realize how far the track led. First, we saw a sign reading eight kilometers, followed by another twelve-kilometer sign eight kilometers down the road. Um, right. It’s like we were being lured into disaster.

On the way in, neither of us noticed another sign with the words “4x4-ish” on it. 4x4-ish? The Spark didn’t qualify. I’d describe it as “4x2-ish.” On the way down an incline, I had a sinking feeling (pun intended). The gradient, although moderate at best, combined with an abundance of larger rocks began setting off alarm bells. Danger Will Robinson!…

1488 - Portuguese explorer Bartolomeu Dias visits.

1886-90 - Present international boundaries established by German treaties with Portugal and Britain. Germany annexes the territory as South West Africa.

1892-1905 - Suppression of uprisings against German colonial occupation by Herero and Nama peoples. Possibly 60,000, or 80% of the Herero population, are killed, leaving some 15,000 starving refugees in an act that independent Namibia has deemed an act of genocide.

South African occupation

1915 - South Africa takes over territory during First World War.

1920 - League of Nations grants South Africa mandate to govern South West Africa (SWA)…

After Gansbaai, we drove north to Hermanus, a city by the sea and premiere whale-watching hub. Tourists invade the town every year to get their fix. Luckily, ’twas not the season, so all was quiet. We spent an evening at Zoete Inval Travellers Lodge run by a quirky fella, if by “quirky” I mean unapologetically racist. He’d have to be to open up with strangers about the decay of Hermanus after being overrun by “them.” According to Mr. Purebred, “They think they own the place.” Wowie.

Why patronize such an establishment and not stomp off in protest? Well, let me tell you. It was all part of the experience, and in many ways, reflected South Africa’s enormous cultural challenges. And, frankly, I was intrigued….

Lesser men may have succumbed to the thirst for revenge or the perceived imperative for karmic “justice.” Mandela was a different breed, the rarest of rare. He was sure of one thing—the only way for South Africa to recover and move toward prosperity was through forgiveness and reconciliation. And he knew the eyes of the world were on him. It was up to him to lead the way. And that’s exactly what he did from the moment he became a free man.

I could point to any number of actions, not the least of which was Mandela’s establishment of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission after becoming president, to underscore his commitment to forgiveness and the progress he believed would result therefrom, but I think the following anecdote says it all…

The next morning, we drove to the Cape of Good Hope with a breakfast picnic on a spectacular beach along the way.  Even the three lumps of sand in our coffee, courtesy of the wind, weren’t enough to spoil that scene. If I had to recommend a “must do,” it would be renting a car and driving out to the Cape with plenty of stops. Take it slow. Take it in.  Stand upon the cliffs near Cape Point and let the breeze envelop you, the shimmering azure sea mesmerize you, and try to imagine being the first human to lay eyes upon it. Yessir, ma’am.

Your only problem will be tearing yourself away. Get there as early as possible, and do your best to beat the crowds.…

I’d read you could frolic with cheetahs, tigers, lions, and even cage dive with crocs. I knew the potential for cheesiness was high, but I couldn’t resist the urge to touch those majestic furballs. So, when I read about Cango, I thought it might be worth a shot. They created a Cheetah Preservation Foundation in 1988 and seemed to have their shit together. Most of the big cats on hand were all rescues and unable to survive in the wild, though a select number of cheetahs were eligible for rehabilitation and release. I knew it was a glorified zoo, but still thought spending a few moments up close would make the setting tolerable. Wish in one hand, shit in the other… plop.

Though hesitant, we signed up for a guided tour of Cango

So annoyed by this was I (how dare you hog the lions), I turned down a road marked “No Entry” alongside the “camp.” I quickly realized the path wasn’t designed with a VW Polo (Safari Edition) in mind. Retreat! We discovered later the clearing forms part of a “hide” (i.e. a place where you can sit behind a wall and peek through special viewing slots designed for the purpose). There’s a waterhole in front to attract animals. I mistook the structure for a private camp. Oopsie-doopsie.

Imagine viewing a pride of lions when you spot a silver Volkswagen…

We left the Sani Pass area and began our foray through the back roads of central Drakensberg. Although we had a map and some vague idea of where we were, it felt a like we’d entered East Jesus. Small villages and large swaths of farmland were all we encountered for hours—beautiful and unsettling at the same time. Perhaps beautiful because it was unsettling…

Driving a VW Polo along an empty dirt road (we did pass what appeared to be two other tourists in a small red car at one point) can leave one lingering on thoughts of a breakdown. Sure, Avis provides twenty-four-hour roadside assistance, but service is contingent on them finding you… duh. Can you hear me now…

People started pouring in. Germans, Scandinavians, and Frenchies all found reasons to explore. Prospective farmers came to farm and supply the Dutch East India Company. Operations expanded, leading to an inevitable labor shortage. They needed cheap labor and they found it… but not where you’d think. The vast number of slaves that flooded the Cape Colony didn’t come from South Africa or even Africa. Most were imported from Indonesia, Madagascar, Sri Lanka, and other areas far away.

Racial co-mingling ensued. The Europeans humped other Europeans. They also humped the slaves. The diverse slave population humped each other. And everybody humped the local Khoekhoe tribes…

We decided to find another place to hang our hat and soon moved to a backpacker-oriented hostel named Gemini. Let's just say it was less than impressive. I understand it was the slow season and standards may slip a bit, but this place was unpleasant. I’ll use the word “shithole.” Our room was dark, depressing, and full of insect life. The communal kitchen felt neglected, and the rest of the facilities adhered to a similar decorum. After spotting a rat in the kitchen while cooking dinner, we chose to vacate the following day. Don't get me wrong, I love rats, just not in the kitchen. 

While being driven from one guesthouse to the next...

1795 - British forces seize Cape Colony from the Netherlands. Territory is returned to the Dutch in 1803; ceded to the British in 1806.

1816-1826 - Shaka Zulu founds and expands the Zulu empire, creates a formidable fighting force.

1835-1840 - Boers leave Cape Colony in the 'Great Trek' and found the Orange Free State and the Transvaal.

1852 - British grant limited self-government to the Transvaal.

1856 - Natal separates from the Cape Colony.

Late 1850s - Boers proclaim the Transvaal a republic…

Now all we had to do was get the hell out of Mali. Easier said than done, grasshopper. We considered exploring other parts of West Africa but faced roadblocks. In Guinea, political and ethnic violence marred elections, resulting in closed borders. By the time we were ready to leave, it was possible to fly in, but we weren’t sure if the land borders would be passable, which might preclude us from crossing into adjacent countries. With Guinea as an impediment to onward travel, Senegal, Sierra Leone, and Liberia were out. Fiddlesticks.

We'd just come from Mauritania. Niger had Al Qaeda issues and isn’t such an easy place to breeze around in. How about Cote d’Ivoire, you say?…

We landed in Yaba-Talu on Christmas Eve. We’d gained elevation and were skirting the edge of the escarpment overlooking the vast plain extending into Burkina Faso. I went for a stroll to the cliff’s edge to have a look. I’d hoped there might be a place to camp nearby, but it turned out to be less than ideal. On the way, I walked through a burial site. I only found this out later when Leslie walked into the area and was enlightened by young girls pantomiming the “cutthroat” motion to indicate the site's significance. That's what I get for exploring solo. Dummy.

The next morning, the small village was awash with activity. It was Christmas day…

When we disembarked in Mopti, neither of us was in the mood for the fusillade of touts (Taxi? Pinnace? Dogon? Hotel?) that began their assault the moment our feet touched the ground. I felt like tearing out a gob of hair and screaming. Leslie, a mild-mannered female, appeared as if she might start swinging. We managed to negotiate the onslaught and make our way to a hotel with the help of a local guide… that gave us his card… and offered to guide us to Dogon. (Days later, when I ran into this gentleman again, he demanded I return his card.) After getting a room, I loitered in the lobby area talking with another Malian gentleman… that gave me his card… and offered to guide me to Dogon….

Leslie and I sat back, drank tea, and watched two men craft ours. All you need is goat leather and a verse from the Koran, at least in that village. Sori told me much care goes into choosing the verse… unless you’re a tourist. Then, I guess, any old verse will do… or a blank piece of paper, a hex, a knock-knock joke, a recipe for dolma, or a naughty poem for that matter. What was in ours? Who the hells knows? One mustn't forget the Juju Golden Rule: Juju onto others as wish them to juju onto you. 

The paper is folded and encased in leather (rectangular), covered with a curing concoction, and fastened to the end of a strap, then tied to a belt or the like and worn underneath the clothes near the waist. We “consecrated” our juju by joining hands while the craftsman uttered phrases in Fulani.…

Djenne is dominated by the central square containing the Great Mosque of Djenne, composed almost entirely of mud bricks and wooden spars. The mosque is the largest adobe building in the world. The current structure dates from 1907. It’s a wonder to behold, although “supremely elegant” might be pushing it. When I hear “supremely elegant,” I think of a high-priced hooker, not a sacred UNESCO site. “Elegance” comes at a price. Mud brick isn’t known for longevity, so every year after the rains, the mosque must be repaired. People from the surrounding area come together to assist with improvements. The wooden spars you see jutting from the structure not only provide support but also aid in reconstruction efforts, serving as a scaffolding. Mosque repair has taken on a pilgrimage quality…

On the way back to Segou, we spent time at a couple of Bozo fishing villages. And no, these are not carnival enclaves filled with fishing clowns (although the temptation to utter things like “Hey, look at those Bozos” or “What's that Bozo doing” was overwhelming). The first was a market village where folks gather once a week to sell their catch across the river in Segou. The second was an actual fishing village where we saw nets being hand-made and piles of fish traps ready to be deployed along the coast. Our guide showed us his modest home and introduced us to a nearby family that graciously offered us tea.

While strolling through the village, we soon attracted an entourage of small children, some of which clasped our hands and shadowed us for the duration...

Mali isn’t cheap. As one might expect, there are two economies: local and tourist. Accommodation? Overpriced. Food? Overpriced. Cultural tour? Overpriced. Everything related to tourists? Overpriced. If you’re an affluent French tourist with limited world travel experience on a package vacation, you might disagree. Many seemed to be enjoying their time. 

Our first outing brought us thirty kilometers downstream from Bamako on the Niger River, a quirky side trip that proved to be fascinating. When our guide (Ibrahim) described it, I had no idea what we were in for. His accent was difficult to decipher. We were going on an afternoon boat trip to see some people engage in some activity somewhere. Sign me up…

11th century - Empire of Mali becomes dominant force in the upper Niger basin, its period of greatness beginning under King Sundiata in 1235 and peaking under Mansa Musa who ruled between 1312 and 1337 and extended empire to the Atlantic.

14th-15th centuries - Decline of the Empire of Mali, which loses dominance of the gold trade to the Songhai Empire, which makes its base in Timbuktu - historically important as a focal point of Islamic culture and a trading post on the trans-Saharan caravan route.

Late 16th century - Moroccans defeat the Songhai, make Timbuktu their capital and rule until their decline in the 18th century.

19th century - French colonial advance, and Islamic religious wars which lead to creation of theocratic states….

Although the journey took forty hours, we spent eleven sitting at the border of Mauritania and Mali with our thumbs securely up our asses. We arrived around 1 a.m. groggy and bleary-eyed. Before I knew what the hell was happening, I'd handed someone my passport and was shuffled off into darkness. After I regained my senses, I realized we were standing on the Mauritanian side with nary a clue. Two minutes after kicking us out, the doors closed and the lights went out. Allow passengers to sleep on the bus? Are you mental? Let them sleep in the filth, I say!

Outside, I found a long line of voyagers sleeping on the ground. This included my group and another from Mali that had been waiting since 4:00 p.m. Misery loves company. We had a lot of company.

Off to the appropriate office (Surete) to get an extension. Our visa expired on the 30th. We went on the 21st. We asked for two weeks. We paid $17 US. Upon receiving our passports, we discovered our extension began on the 21st, not the 30th. Muchas gracias. So, we paid $17 for an extra five days. In the immortal words of Homer Simpson, "Doh!” 

We returned the next morning and, after explaining our situation, were met with a smile and a quick fix. Mr. Visa Man drew a “1” through the “0” to turn “Dec. 05” into “Dec. 15.” Et viola! Doesn't get any more official than that…

We had the brilliant idea to capture our exercise in futility (i.e. negotiations) on video… without telling Ahmed. We wanted him relaxed and natural, not tense and artificial. Why would we commit such a colossally stupid and insensitive act? I can assure you there was no malicious intent. We figured trying to capture the essence of our constant skirmishes would be a unique souvenir and something we’d cherish viewing for years to come. 

He caught on and was extremely displeased. For twenty minutes, he went off, using the word “espionage” with a demeanor more appropriate for a spy film. He was angry. We understood. We apologized repeatedly. He kept firing away, highlighting a lack of respect. He had a point. No one could argue….

Ahmed resisted. First, he said something about insurance, claiming if something happened to Joris, he’ d be liable. Um, ‘kay. Liable to who? Was he not already liable for us? What if he’d been with us from the start? What’s the difference? I mustered all my powers of empathy to see his point of view. He wasn’t helping.

He mentioned phoning his sister in Nouakchott and asking her to speak with somebody for some reason to accomplish something. (She was chummy with someone important.) Then he highlighted a tax that had to be paid. As I tried to…

In Atar, we settled at Bab Sahara, a quaint auberge catering to overland traffic. Ahmed was beginning to grind on us. His prevarications, equivocations, and bullshitations became less and less amusing. A cold, harsh reality set in—Leslie would not be his bride (insert link). This, we suspect, was his primary motivation for agreeing to guide us. Now that this was off the table, he couldn’t bother to give a shit. The world had become that much bleaker.

I did the only thing I could—I ordered Leslie to give him a little sugar, put some extra sass in her step, string him along just enough to feed his motivation… um, no. If he thought he had a shot, he might have strangled me in my sleep.,.,.

After a circuit of Aisha, we paused in the shade beneath an outcrop protrusion for the all-important tea interval. It was then Ahmed laid out his future business plan and intent to open an auberge (inn) in Nouadhibou. He needed someone to run it. Thus began a not-so-subtle pitch directed at a certain redhead in our party. This was the second time he lobbed hints at Leslie. And, just like the first, his spiel began while I was out of earshot (taking pictures on this occasion). When I entered the conversation, it didn’t occur to me only one of us was qualified for the position (i.e. possessed birthing hips and a comely appearance.) I briefly entertained the idea of working for Ahmed and engaging in a…

If “nowhere” is on your bucket list, northwest Mauritania is, at the very least, on the way—a land of enchanting desolation where the “nothingness” surrounding you still has a “somethingness” quality. This explains why I wasn’t the slightest bit bored sitting in a vehicle for hours staring into the void. Mesmerizing, captivating, and a whole slew of other adjectives can’t do it justice.

At one point, we pulled off the sand track for a short respite. Ahmed wanted a break. It was teatime. Tea, for Mauritanians, is only slightly less important than breathing and procreation. Watching locals pour tea back and forth from their miniature pot into minuscule shot glasses…

We liked flexibility, but Ahmed couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the fact we weren’t sure how many days we might require his services. We wanted freedom. He wanted specifics. His personality contradictions were too numerous to track, and we couldn't decide if he was deliberately evasive or if cultural and language barriers were to blame. A week after returning from the sandbox, we still didn't know. He would turn out to be an indecipherable enigma, as well as a bit of a conniver.

After throwing around possible itineraries and itemizing costs, we told Ahmed we had to mull it over. So, we mulled and mulled…

After some signature indecisiveness, we settled on an auberge (French for “inn”), but not before our taxi driver ferried us around town longer than he might’ve hoped. My sympathy evaporated when I discovered he’d screwed us bounteously before parting. He was “kind” enough to exchange our dirhams (Morocco) for ouguiya (Mauritania) at, unbeknownst to me, a preposterously low rate. Wait, a random taxi driver isn't the best place to exchange money? Who’d a thunk it? 

No excuses. We were tired and stupid and couldn't be bothered to give a shit. Not knowing the exchange rate and arriving on a weekend did nothing to assist our cause…

3rd-7th centuries AD - Berber and Arab migrants arrive in present-day Mauritania.

9-10th centuries - Empire of Ghana has its capital in present-day south-west Mauritania.

1076 - Berber Almoravid warriors defeat the Empire of Ghana.

1500s - European mariners and traders establish settlements.

1644-74 - Mauritanian Thirty-Year War: Berbers unsuccessful in repelling Arab warriors.

1850s-60s - French forces gain control of southern Mauritania. In 1898 France wins the allegiance of Moors in the region.

1904 - France establishes Mauritania as a colonial territory.

Off we went. My visa anecdote sent tremors of foreboding across the Tweedles' faces. They were lost in a flurry of circumspection. Meanwhile, poor Leslie was the proverbial meat in the Tweedle sandwich, squashed between the big-boned dynamic duo. As for me, I sat shotgun and let my thoughts wander along the desolate landscape characterizing Western Sahara.

Every so often, we’d stop at a Moroccan security checkpoint where our driver would conduct high-level talks that always resulted in a bribe. I only had his word, but this is the modus operandi in those parts…

We filled out the forms littered with ridiculous questions (e.g. the last ten countries visited), paid the fee (340 dirhams), and were told to return at 2:00 pm that day. Although we'd requested six weeks, we received the standard one-month tourist visa. Our visa began the day of our application, instead of the day we entered Mauritania. I guess they assumed we all possessed the power of teleportation. We didn't. Bastards.

Nothing titillates my tits more than the prospect of thirty hours on a bus from Casablanca to Dakhla in the Western Sahara. We could’ve split the journey into legs…

DON QUIXOTE HAD WINDMILLS. WE HAD THE MAURITANIAN EMBASSY. Decision time. Go east or west? Our first choice was Libya, but the embassy wouldn’t see fit to grant anything greater than a three-day transit visa. (Keep in mind, this was when Libya had an actual government and before someone sodomized Gaddafi with a bayonet.) This would not do. We wanted to experience Libya, not blast though like contestants on the Amazing Race. The ideal plan was to spend weeks there, confirming or dispelling our limited (and likely biased) misconceptions of a world pariah.  After that, we’d take Egypt, the land of the pharaohs, by storm, going neck-deep in all kinds of archeological and anthropological nerd shit…Read More

fter parking, Mr. Mos-KAY caught up and led us in the opposite direction of the mos-KAY. (I discovered this later). He was, no doubt, trying to steer us to his or a friend's shop. He also tried to tantalize us with the prospect of visiting a shitload of mos-KAYs throughout the medina. His plan fell through when two cops showed up on a motorcycle, forcing him into the shadows, ninja-style. The nice policemen pointed in the right direction but not before warning us (in French) about seedy types like Mr. Mos-KAY.

I regret to report the Great Mos-KAY of Kairouan was underwhelming. The prayer-mat-littered, slightly unkempt condition…Read More

Following dinner, we spent the evening frolicking in the dunes under a waxing, wobbling moon. Enter two bottles of wine, two gin and tonics, and a smidgen of vodka. Wobbling moon, you say? I’m sure getting smashed was a factor, but that, combined with atmospheric idiosyncrasies, made the moon vibrate ever so in the black of night sky. It was fucking mesmerizing, made more so by passing clouds. I had to remind myself I hadn’t swallowed psychedelic mushrooms… had I?

And then there was the goddamn lightning. Off to the north, just above the horizon, was a silent, thunderless light show courtesy of Mother Nature. It was magnificent to behold…

Chebika, Tamerza, and Mides. What are three ancient Berber villages nestle inside mountain oases north of Tozeur? The original settlements were abandoned after torrential flooding in 1969. New villages were established nearby, but these are fairly modern and bland. I thought we might have to rely on Punto Power but the road is excellent all the way to Mides. 

First up: Chebika. We drove right past. The road through the palm grove seemed promising but the parking area outside the village looked like a used Land Crruiser sales lot. I estimated more tourists than palm trees. Buh-bye..

“Frogger[a] is a 1981 arcade action game developed by Konami and manufactured by Sega. In North America, it was released by Sega/Gremlin. The object of the game is to direct a series of frogs to their homes by crossing a busy road and a hazardous river.” (Wikipedia)

You're not the frog. You’re the asshole the frog is trying (marginally, as it were) to avoid. There’s a shitload of frogs, a chaotic frenzy of frogs modulating both speed and direction in ways impossible to predict.

Why the hubbub? We assumed it was related to the area's proximity to the Algerian border and illicit smuggling operations. This, coupled with a “tourist safety priority”, might explain Big Brother’s nose up our cabooses. I’m guessing the local authorities (national guard and police) were wary of two Americans wandering alone. If I were a secret agent, I’d have to admit a cute redhead and a Fiat Punto make for one hell of a disguise/cover story. Bond… James Bond.

“The Tableland is a geologic feature known as an inverted relief. Millions of years ago, the hard limestone top of the mesa was actually the bottom of a valley…

Come the morning, we mounted the Punto and set out for Doooo-GA, hailed as “the best preserved Roman small town in North Africa” by UNESCO. (It designated the area a World Heritage Site in 1997.) It was a highlight of my Tunisian sojourn, as “enchanting” as the Lonely Planet describes it. The weather was optimal (mild temperatures and a refreshing breeze), the panorama pleasing to behold, the tourist population tolerable (notwithstanding the large group of obstreperous Chinese tourists), and our archaeologist-guide was knowledgeable and coherent…

MANUAL TRANSMISSION? NO PROBLEM. OR IS IT? In ideal circumstances, my skills are passable, though the streets of Tunis are far from ideal. Between driving in a foreign country and nebulous road etiquette, I was a teensy bit anxious. I clenched my ass cheeks and rode into the breach. Tunis is madness from behind the wheel for those uninitiated. I’m sure rules exist but didn’t seem to apply from my precarious vantage point. Drive anywhere, walk anywhere, do anything, as long as you can get away with it. I only stalled the engine a few times on the way out of Tunis. Not killing pedestrians or totaling the Fiat Punto was an added bonus. Super…

HAN SOLO NO MORE. I met Leslie in cyberspace, so to speak. By some freak algorithmic anomaly, she found my blog online. And she liked it. She really liked it. Our correspondence escalated to friendship and then a mutual desire to put a three-dimensional face to the name. In a nutshell, she put her life on hold and forayed into the unknown. For better or worse, I believe my counsel pushed her across the Rubicon. Our chance encounter enriched my life immeasurably, as I hope it did hers. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

Her first stop was Istanbul, Turkey. She spent a month exploring the ‘bul and then the island of Bozcaada before we connected in Tunis…

Negotiating was more cumbersome than normal. The problem? We were Americans. Full stop. Djerba has been so jaded by cash-flaunting tourists on short blowout vacations, any attempt at bargaining was seen as a clear insult. Merchants loved pointing out that prices are fixed in America. The fact Northern Africa and the whole of the Middle East are renowned for bargaining culture was lost on them. We were filthy rich and should’ve ceased being whiny little bitchbags. Touché.

After blast off, we didn't get far. My spark plug cable kept separating from the engine. Upon return to the shop, an employee showed me how to screw in the cable to avoid constant breakdown. Super. Off we went…

The Berbers who settled this region took environmental adaptation to another level, constructing underground homes as an escape from the desert inferno. These dwellings resemble manicured bomb craters from above, and many are invisible from ground level until you’re right on them. Just outside Matmata, we stopped at one for tea and a look around. A certain “human zoo” atmosphere permeates the vibe, but it’s still worth a visit. Also, it provides a needed source of income for locals. 

If a visit won’t suffice, you can stay at one of many hotels built on the same design. You'd be a complete asshole not to. We bid a not-so-fond farewell to our driver …

We wanted more than a taste of the Sahara (pronounced “sa-HA-ra!” with a violent crotch grab). We wanted a heaping mouthful. Our fantasy was thus: An oasis tent camp surrounded by an ocean of dunes, simmering desert sunsets, peaceful star-filled nights, crackling campfires, and an inescapable feeling of desolation that would echo through our dreams. Perhaps a short camel diversion led by a desert-hardened Berber man with one eye and a scorpion forehead tattoo would be in the cards. Ever heard the expression “wish in one hand, shit in the other”? 

Rent a 4WD drive? Not a chance. Nobody was interested, though we found many a tour operator willing to charge the going rate…

Sooooooo… you’re allowed to be a non-Muslim. Muslims can convert, but it must be organic certified. Non-Muslims can practice their faith, but not allowed to proselytize. Non-Muslim foreigners can enter the country but not allowed to conduct missionary activities with those outside their faith. Gray areas and blurred lines, ya heard. See where I'm headed with this?

Ashraf, a Tunisian comrade I met via Couchsurfing.com, invited me to an English club established by a group of young Americans from Texas. The club’s professed aim was to accelerate a cultural exchange and give Tunisians studying English a chance to practice with native speakers. Super. The group met in a courtyard inside Tunis' medina.…

I recognized the rich potential for mass dissent, but to say it was palpable in any sense in the course of my everyday dealings would be a massive stretch. Most tourists shuffling through the medina were blissfully unaware of the circumstances. Causal observation and light banter with the locals revealed nothing. No overt indications implied impending revolution. This held through the entirety of my two-month sojourn. Most of what I knew came via the internet. My research put me in a better position to notice bubbling unrest, but nothing stuck out. In fact, Tunis’ atmosphere was downright tranquil, bordering on sleepy at times. Ignorance is bliss, and I was all stocked up on it

I’d read about a worsening economy and high unemployment. (This put my pickpocket incident in context. Stories of desperate young men risking their lives…

My ancient cultural exploration put me in a pleasant mood, a mood smothered once I’d boarded a Tunis trolley car. A sardine can has nothing on the local tram system. People pack themselves inside like they’re trying to win a contest. My first attempt failed when it became a physical impossibility. You’d think, given the circumstances, I’d taken pains to secure my wallet (and by wallet, I mean a black paper binding clip). Nuh-uh. Somewhere in the scrum, a thieving assface purloined my minimalist wallet, which held my ATM card, credit card, driver's license, and more money than I should have been carrying. By the time I recognized my vulnerability, it was too late… poof! 

I couldn’t be sure where it happened, on the platform or the trolley. I remember right after snapping the photo below…

My next installment of “Talk to Random Strangers on the Street” took more than one comical turn. Enter Semy and his nephew. Not sure how it started, but before I knew it, I was discussing everything from motorcycle tires to Issac Hayes. Maintaining composure throughout deliciously random discussions punctuated in broken English was none too easy. I’ll make this as disjointed as possible out of respect for accuracy. 

Semy had an old motorcycle he wished to maintain, but couldn’t for lack of parts, specifically tires. He’d recently purchased one that didn’t cut the mustard. Why? Not the right model. And the only place he knew to find one? The good ole US of A. He asked me if I could…

I revived one of my favorite pastimes: talking to shifty-looking strangers on the street. Enter Rashid. I was in search of grub when he approached and struck up a conversation. One thing led to another, and he offered to chaperone me to a local haunt for some traditional Tunisian fare. And yes, I know it sounds sketchy, but there was little to fear in broad daylight with so many around.

Rashid brought me to a veritable hole in the wall and was kind enough to present me with some delicious Tunisian food (spaghetti with the signature chili paste, tomato/cucumber salad, and chicken). Not far into our conversation, my Spidey-sense began to tingle. He had some interesting body scars he was none too shy about showcasing.…

circa 1100 BC - Phoenicians settle the north African coast. The city of Carthage, near the site of present-day Tunis, becomes a naval power.

146 BC - Carthage falls to the Romans.

439 AD - Vandals invade; Roman buildings and artefacts are destroyed.

600s - Arabs conquer the territory of present-day Tunisia.

909 - Berbers wrest the region from the Arabs. 1600s - Tunisia becomes part of the Turkish Ottoman empire, but has a high degree of autonomy.

1800s - French and Turkish designs on Tunisia force it to tread a careful path…

Want to love Prague? Stand on St. Charles Bridge at 6:30 a.m. on a clear morning. Want to hate Prague? Stand on St. Charles Bridge on a warm sunny day around noon. It felt a rock concert where the band’s a no-show, the general theme at all points of interest. After 10:00 a.m. you'll pretty much be dry-humping the person next to you while savoring the view. 

The “adventure factor” continued to wane the longer I loitered in Europe. I’d become sluggish and soft, unduly influenced by all that civilization and convenience. I didn’t have to carry around my own shit tickets (i.e. toilet paper), people generally understood what I said, and I was only bewildered 30% of the time…

No one else seemed to be on my wavelength, which led me to question the validity of my perception. Signs on the ground along the memorial’s edge did encourage quiet within the columns and cautioned visitors against leap-frogging the stelae. Security personnel reprimanded a few hoppers, but admonitions almost seemed half-hearted at best, related more to safety than respect. 

While sipping coffee at a rooftop café overlooking the memorial, I asked a waitress (from England) her opinion. My viewpoint never occurred to her. Another friend told me the “tombstone” interpretation is one of many. Sure, but it’s still a Holocaust memorial, right? I suppose it is in a public square open to all twenty-four hours a day, and…

Be who you want. Do what you want. Don't judge. Don't fret about being judged. Fascinating history. Well-maintained public areas. Plenty of attractions for Johnny Tourist and his clan. Exotic nightlife.

Still, one could get the sense Berlin is almost too cool for itself. A bit of xenophobia lurks in the shadows, which, I suppose, is unavoidable when folks from all over the world come to express their individualism. Throw a rock and, chances are, you won't hit a native Berliner. It was (is?) a city transforming itself, although no one seemed to know what it was transforming into.

On the subway, I saw a woman with the left side of her head sporting a short green hairdo, while the right sprouted a dreadlock Medusa-esque ensemble. Tattoos abounded, and if it was possible…

I needed some psychological R&R. With a place to crash and a borrowed bicycle, I had free rein in this quaint city at the mouth of the Weser River. My chosen form of sloth was sipping coffee in Marktplatz to the tune of accordion/guitar street music while engaging in a favorite past-time: people watching. In between appointments at Starbucks (I justified my visits to this paradigm of American capitalistic globalism by free Wi-Fi), I did a bit of shopping (it was time for new Underoos) and some aimless cycling through the town center. Relaxation and rejuvenation. Thank you, sir, I’ll have another. The frequent rain did little to blunt my blissful existence. Kim’s prowess in the kitchen made for a delightful end-of-day punctuation, a delicious repast between friends…

On to Denmark. Why Denmark, you ask? Who wouldn’t want to see the happiest place on Earth? Year after year, the Danes sit atop the happiness index. I’d been there before and could attest to its congeniality, though my exposure was superficial at best. And when you’re visiting your five-foot-ten-inch blonde Danish girlfriend, what’s not to love? Though our affections fizzled, we kept in touch. I was in the throes of an existential crisis (insert link) and reached out for a sympathetic ear. She invited me to visit. I was hesitant and thought I could sense the same in her voice. My gut advised against it. My hormones overruled. I’m a moron. Thankfully, I had a backup plan…

I left Abkhazia and returned to Georgia. I needed more time in the 'khaz,’ but the language barrier, money issues (no ATMs, no credit cards), and a slight tingle of foreboding pushed me onward and upward. Always heed the tingle.

I crossed the border back to Zugdidi, then hopped a mini-bus to Mestia in northwest Georgia near the Russian border. Mestia lies in Svaneti, the land of the Svans. The landscape is breathtaking, the people friendly, and the history long and varied. It was eight days well spent, a highlight of my Georgian exploration. Without the time or inclination to update my journal, I went with whimsical bullet points. Go…

The institute began as a Soviet project to create a race of hybrid super humans with the strength to carry out the laborious work of industrialization without the mental capacity to complain about it. Scientists injected sperm into female chimpanzees without success. Allegedly, they took it a step further, inseminating human females with monkey sperm, though no one has ever admitted this publicly. I’m guessing, if you’re willing to do the former, the latter ain’t so much of a reach. (For more info, see Stalin's space monkeys)…

As I wandered the streets, I tried to imagine the horror. No small task when confronted with the throngs of Russian tourists plying the beach and surrounding area. Yet, there were still monuments to war strewn about the city, not the least of which was the Council of Ministers building gutted during the conflict. Many members of the deposed Abkhazian government refused to flee, a decision that led to their not-so-glorious deaths.

The ruin still stands, serving as a grim reminder. I wondered if it remained as a testament to independence and victory over the Georgians. The “Alley of Glory” monument dedicated to Abkhazia's fallen war heroes…

The causes of the 1992-93 Abkhazian War are complex and too numerous to expand upon here. A lot of very bad people did a lot of very bad shit on both sides. All the mayhem and bloodshed led to the ethnic cleansing of about 250,000 Georgians. Russian government actors, or various rogue elements therein, were (allegedly) behind much of the instability in the former soviets after the Soviet Union’s dissolution. Chaos reigned supreme, and it’s unlikely we’ll ever have a full accounting…

I had my first peek at a marani (Georgian wine cellar) where Shota's family produced its own wine with grapes plucked from vines hanging over the courtyard. It was also my first taste of Georgian chacha (brandy), the local firewater stored in large glass jugs containing sticks of oak to add color and flavor. It’s their version of vodka, ranging from 50-80% alcohol. To me, it resembles an unholy combination of vodka and tequila. In the immortal words of Ralph Wiggum, “It tastes like burning.” Shota, being the…

Drugs. Alcohol. Gambling. Money. Fame. (Insert personal vice here.) We all have a path to self-destruction, a dependency waiting to be realized. We’re all addicted to something. Some compulsions are more acceptable than others, but all can lead to perdition. My obsession was a feature, not a bug, of a quest to live unencumbered by convention… right? I’ll go out there, paint myself into a corner, and force a reckoning. I’ll figure it out. Fuck yeah. I’m a not-so-recovered travel-holic. My addiction was (is) wanderlust. (Or is it novel encounters?) It consumed me. Had I channeled it…

The myths and legends associated with this extinct volcano are as thick as the mist we encountered on the way up. A cave near Betlemi Hut was the prison of choice for Amirani (Georgia's version of Prometheus), the insolent son of a goddess who dared to share fire with mortals. The cave is also reputed to have housed Christ's manger, Abraham's tent, a golden cradle, a monkey paw, Merlin's cap, and Excalibur. (I may have added the last three out of a childish sense of blasphemy.) Only the pure of heart may view these objects. All others perish or go blind. I had no desire to do either, so I postponed my visit until I could purify my sins…

Want to make a statement in Georgia? Go on a hunger strike. In a land where the supra reigns supreme and counting plates after an obnoxious celebratory feast is considered a barometer for familial wealth, refusing to eat is like refusing to breathe. Tsotne Gamsakhurdia, a man arrested for espionage and the son of the former president Zviad Gamsakhurdia, gave it a go. He claimed to eat or drink nothing for 120 days. Sure, that’s impossible (at least as far as water goes), but he got his point across… I think. Not sure what his point was. I can lie about eating? People are serious about food. And drinking. Burp…

Under Tsarist Russia, and later the U.S.S.R, religious services were banned, though it remained a popular tourist attraction. Evidence of Russian control remains on the outer walls a la Russian language graffiti. I found dates as far back as 1887 carved into the stone. After the fall of the Soviet Union, the locals dismantled a cable car that once ferried lazy day-trippers to the church, deeming the contraption a sacrilegious emblem of oppression. I wondered how they felt about the military helicopter filled with what appeared to be tourists that landed nearby. Somebody knew somebody important… heathens….

Mtskheta, the one-time capital of the eastern Georgian kingdom of Iberia, sits thirteen miles north of Tbilisi at the junction of the Mtkvari and Aragvi rivers, a once bustling trading port. At the center, you’ll find one of the most sacred churches in Georgia, the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral (Church of the Life-Giving Pillar). The church’s history is rife with religious intrigue.

There once was a Jew from Mtskheta. Elias the Jew decided, for reasons unknown, to become Elias the Christian and just happened to be in Jerusalem during Christ's crucifixion…

Roei was three years into a four-year, 66,000 km, bicycle expedition across the globe. He began in Alaska, heading to the tip of Patagonia where he hopped a plane to South Africa, made his way to Europe via East Africa, and then onto Asia. He concluded his trip in Australia before returning to Israel. As the only Israeli to attempt such a thing, he was a celebrity back in the homeland and had been featured on news broadcasts worldwide. He made the local news in San Diego when he was robbed at gunpoint in Baja California and then given a lift back to the US by American surfers to replenish his stolen equipment…

May 26th is Georgia's Independence Day celebration, though it doesn’t commemorate the event you might think, i.e. the country's liberation from the Soviet Union on April 9th, 1991. Instead, it celebrates the first liberation from Russia in 1918, a result of the Russian Civil War. Freedom was short-lived. The Red Army marched on Tbilisi in 1921. The U.S.S.R is no more. The Cold War is dead. Someone should’ve told the Kremlin.

I’m no geopolitical wonk, but allow me to summarize. After the U.S.S.R fell, Georgia, along with the Soviet republics under Russia’s control, declared independence in 1991…

I spent the next nine days exploring Georgia’s capital, Tbilisi, a street photographer’s wet dream. I clocked a good fifty miles on foot, met a hostel owner named Dodo, ate a shit ton of pork and cheese pie (Khachapuri), had a few alcoholic dalliances, was denied casino entry for wearing “sporting clothes and slippers,” instigated another heated altercation, and was mesmerized by the Georgian National Ballet.

Georgia likes tourists. A lot. U.S. and E.U. citizens don’t require a visa to reside, work, or study for 365 days…

1801-04 - Most of present-day Georgia becomes part of the Russian Empire.

1879 - History's best-known Georgian, future Soviet leader Iosif Dzhugashvili (Joseph Stalin), is born in the town of Gori.

1918 - Independent Georgian state declared in wake of Russian Revolution.

1921 - Red Army invades, Georgia absorbed into emerging Soviet Union.

1956 March - Protests against Soviet leader Nikita Krushchev's de-Stalinisation policy…

We strolled to his humble abode through an actual ghost town. Most houses were abandoned, unsuitable even for phantoms. I tried to imagine the palpable eeriness of the wee hours, deciding the scene was the perfect setting for a horror film. At Arif's home, his cousin , Letif, ushered us up the ladder stairs to the second floor. They were downright giddy, falling over themselves in the name of hospitality, literally in Letif's case. He tumbled down the stairs…

And then came our run-in with the authorities. At a village stop, Colonel Azerbaijan entered the A.A.V and interviewed us. El Jefe started with me but veered towards Amy when presented with my vapid “I’m-with-her” smile. He examined our passports, then informed her we needed permission to be in the area a la some registration form. She, politely and with diplomatic deftness, gave him the “What-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about' routine. Registration?…

Donkey? It all started with a revelation the government had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to import donkeys from Germany, a testament to rampant corruption. To underscore the absurdity, one of these golden asses held a presser to sing the praises of his new homeland and extol blessings for attaining donkeyhood in Azerbaijan.

Not long after posting the video, Adnan and Emin were accosted by “two well-built men” in…

Though given directions by my Peace Corps sherpas, I managed to miss the mark and bypass the trailhead. I could see my target from afar, so this was of little import. For my insolence, I was forced to cross a river, cut through someone’s backyard, and surmount the steepest hill I could find. Thankfully, the journey was the destination. The forests of northwest Azerbaijan resemble my conception of Robin Hood’s stomping ground. Elfin villages wouldn’t be misplaced, and a “Smurf Crossing” sign would certainly blend…

Adherents circle the building three times before entering, kissing each corner as they pass. Chicken heads adorned a ledge near one corner, a mystery that remains unsolved, at least for me. I inquired, but no one seemed to have the answer. My ignorance made the experience all the more exhilarating.

The church’s sorry condition surprised me. If not for the line of folks stuffing themselves in like the proverbial clown car, I’d have assumed it abandoned.…

The turnout was modest, a consequence of relentless rain (the likely explanation for Mr. Judo Master's absence). Folks, as in a few males of varying ages, showed up in the belief a martial arts expert would share his story followed by a demonstration. One volunteer wanted me to impersonate said Judo master, performing my own creative martial arts exhibition. Although intrigued by the thought of such comical subterfuge, I wasn’t comfortable with it. Besides the threat of destroying the credibility of the volunteers…

The farther south you go, the more it feels like the land the Soviets forgot. (And everyone else, for that matter). As we drove, I wondered if these folks even noticed the Soviet Union’s collapse and Azerbaijan’s independence. Our next intended destination was the petroglyphs of Gobustan, but a wrong turn led to the boulder-strewn lower slopes of Mt. Kichik Dash. Although we didn’t realize it, we’d found Qara-Atli Baba Pir or “Cave of the Black Horse Grandpa” (according to the all-knowing guidebook). It’s reputed to be a place of miracles, a pilgrimage site for…

Starting a business (especially for foreigners) is like becoming a prostitute. To make money, you have to get screwed. Doing well? Business a success? Don't let it show. Before you know it, you’ll have regulators performing the proverbial colorectal exam. I met a gentleman working for the World Bank who said his office tried to acquire a list of safety code regulations to ensure compliance. The relevant regulatory ministry told them they don’t give out that information. More compliance. Fewer bribes. I heard stories of business owners in the outlying regions coming to their shops in the morning only to find doors padlocked. One unfortunate soul was forced to pony up $3000 to facilitate removal…

I spent days wandering the streets with no particular aim or destination. It all fascinated me, nothing more so than the fact almost every male citizen looked like a mafia don or hitman. I snapped dozens of photos, added absurd biographic details. It entertained me to no end. Turns out, it’s illegal to take photos without permission. Whoopsie. In the recent past, journalists took compromising shots of government officials sleeping on the job. Their response was to pass an absurd regulation forbidding such scandalous behavior…

1828 - Turkmanchay treaty between Russia, Persia divides Azerbaijan. Territory of present-day Azerbaijan becomes part of Russian empire while southern Azerbaijan is part of Persia.

1848-49 - World's first oil well is drilled south of Baku.

1879 - Nobel brothers set up oil-production company.

1918 - Independent Azerbaijani Republic declared.

1920 - Red Army invades; Azerbaijan is declared a Soviet Socialist Republic

Soviet rule

1922 - Azerbaijan, part of Transcaucasian Soviet Federative Republic…

Although Dubai is one of the more “liberal” emirates, discretion is key. Decency laws are strict. Just ask the couple from the UK that received a one-month prison sentence for kissing in a restaurant. Whoopsie.

Shopping and I go together like peanut butter and asparagus. Malls are not my thing. And yet, I spent an inordinate amount of time inside two. Why? Well, I adjusted my perspective, choosing to view this urban “exploration” through the lens of cultural anthropology…

And we (as in two rangers carrying AKs and a guide) were off. No one spoke English, only a tribal dialect and French. I was told the weapons were in case we encountered elephants. Uh-huh. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the other species of guerrilla. After two hours of hiking through the jungle, we found our target, a gorilla gang presided over by a single silverback.

Two words: F***ing. Amazing. Just me, the guide, and gentle giants. This group was habituated, so they paid us little mind…

After breakfast, Gokyo Ri was the order of the day. The challenge was more than I’d anticipated for two reasons: 1) the aforementioned snow; and 2) the intensity of solar radiation. The snow and ice were no picnic, but nothing compared to the heat. The days’ haze and thin cloud cover intensified the ultraviolet energy. Slow, steady movements mitigated overheating potential. Pants were a mistake. I wouldn’t have been uncomfortable in a speedo (only ashamed). Such a maneuver would’ve required gobs and gobs of sun cream. The temp on the mountain might well have topped 60℉ (15℃)…

The beginning wasn’t so auspicious for Double Rich. The snow led to deviations, but the valley narrows as you progress, forcing even the most moronic of morons in the right direction. It was swell to have a partner in ineptitude for a change. Other Rich did enough worrying for both of us. The weather was beautiful, the scenery epic. I relaxed somewhat, knowing if the shit hit the fan, at least we had each other.

Other Rich was super friendly and personable. He was also about as exciting as a dry donut. I believe exhaustion and dehydration…

You can’t actually see Mt. Everest from Everest Base Camp. Kala Pattar is the designated viewpoint, though it’s not ideal either. Anybody who’s somebody goes there for their panoramic fix. I’m somebody, right? Yes, yes, I am.

See the sunrise. See that fucking sunrise, ya heard? Everywhere you go, the sunrise is king. See it or else. It's cloudy? You're sick? Nuclear winter? Doesn't matter. Don’t be an asshole. Behold the sunrise. Notwithstanding brilliant matutinal reflections…

My expectations concerning EBC weren’t grandiose. I'd heard mixed reviews. The Lonely Planet recommended doing Kala Pattar or EBC, warning both might be too much for most. I considered skipping base camp in favor of a longer stay on Kala Pattar and the immediate area. I sensed a tourist trap in EBC, a trip undertaken only to obtain the signature rubber stamp of “been there, done that” feel good emotion about standing at the gateway to the highest mountain on earth. Many people do it for the sake of doing it, but, as I learned over and over, don’t believe everything you read and “many people” are often idiots…

I can’t deny it. Going it alone made me nervous. It also adrenalized the shit out of me. Would I get lost? Be eaten by a yeti? Hit by a meteorite? Those were the obvious risks, but my trepidation centered on the mundane—altitude sickness, broken ankle, cuts, scrapes, tooth decay, painful gas, etc. In tandem with a fellow adventurer, the risk was mitigated, but alone, a minor obstacle could turn deadly, especially if I were the only person to cross that day. It’s wise to bring a buddy. Really. I had no buddy. Me, myself, and I. Would I prefer a compadre and/or guide? You bet your ass. But we work with what we have…

Back at the guesthouse, the sunroom was overrun by mature Irish tourists who looked as if someone had just mowed them down with a submachine gun. They were shattered. All appeared to be passed out. First time in the Himalayas? The day before, it was a Japanese entourage enjoying the valley views from the sun room’s relative comfort. When they departed, I noticed a man being carried on the back of the Japanese liaison/guide they'd brought from Japan. Yes, stereotypes are offensive, but for the love of everything holy! That’s so “Japanese tourist” trope, it’s almost beyond belief. Almost.

What dreams may come? Mine were bonkerballs bananas…

Back at my lodge, I experienced what was to become a familiar sentiment from guides along the trail. There’s an undercurrent of resentment toward lone wolves hitting the trail without a guide who choose to carry their belongings. They view it as depriving a Nepali guide or porter of much-needed income while leeching off the well-tread paths established by years of Sherpa diligence. There’s merit to this, which is why I made every effort to hire a guide before leaving Kathmandu, visiting a dizzying number of trekking agencies.

No one would consider my needs, damn it. (Therapy, anyone?) They were all hell-bent on standard itineraries with zero room…

A funny thing happened en route to Tengboche, something difficult to describe. I think it only happens when you’re alone and somewhat unguarded. Per usual, I took a less-traveled route, which led back to the Hotel Everest View and then along a ridge that was more of a yak trail than a trekking path. I was struck by an odd awareness, a presence that gripped hold and wouldn’t let go.

It’s safe to say there’s an underlying energy or force pervading the universe and everything in it. The source. The terminus. The beginning. The end. It has a thousand different names ascribed by a thousand different peoples…

People celebrate by dousing one another with water and plastering friends and strangers alike with a shitload of colored powders, especially red—a massive water fight in Technicolor. It lasts for a night and a day, beginning on the last full moon during the Hindu calendar’s lunar month at winter’s end. Thamel’s streets were jovial chaos on the 1st of March.

I had no clue and hadn’t bothered to check for upcoming festivals. I only learned of the impending celebrations after a bag of water narrowly missed my noggin on a casual stroll the evening before everything kicked off. The assassins attacked from a nearby balcony. I was not amused…

Dumbo was a no-show. We did, however, meet some wild bison (gaur). Weighing in at around 2,500 lbs, they’re not to be trifled with. The two we saw were angry, but not with us. Mating issue? Territorial dispute? Both? There was a moment of tension when, as we passed the area where they'd entered the tall grass, we heard a sudden crash and scream (a cross between a pissed-off wookie and a cow in heat) of a fast-moving beast. Not knowing their destination, we hauled ass toward a nearby hill. I nearly soiled myself but had to laugh when I spotted Denis halfway up a tree. They proceeded in the opposite direction and were content with kicking each other’s asses…

So, Chandu (seasoned guide), Denis (personable assistant), and I (inept Caucasian) boarded a dugout canoe and shoved off. Patches of human activity soon faded behind us. Birdlife abounded. Denizens included Siberian ducks (a.k.a common eider… I think?). Chandu claimed these ducks inhabit the plains of the Terai to escape bitter Siberian winters. They mate for life and are often found in pairs… allegedly. He also said when a mate dies, the other commits suicide. Romeo and Juliet ain't got shit on these birds. I can confirm none of this and believe Chandu was pulling stories from his ass. By 9 a.m., he was drunk, so this wasn’t unthinkable. The question “how do ducks commit suicide” is right up there with…

My strident aim was to avoid the Disneyland package tour everyone and their mother was hell-bent on participating in, a three-day/two-night extravaganza with a cursory jungle walk and an elephant ride. I wasn’t against riding elephants in theory, assuming they’re cared for, but it would feel less asshole-ish if it was a necessity rather than a tourist dalliance. In Thailand, I gave Dumbo a spin. Admittedly, it was fun, but every time I rest on the memory, I have an uncontrollable desire to kick my own ass.

I’d read the pachyderm express was ideal for circumnavigating the freakishly tall and surprisingly sharp elephant grass covering areas of Chitwan.

I discovered a second GMG office in the terminal. Trust but verify, no? I inquired within and was told the decision was made the night before. Of course, it had. I asked if it were possible to check-in, so I could enter the gate area and enjoy the luxury of internet. They agreed. I then paid to access the executive lounge (I'm worth it) where I watched television and surfed the web with impunity. You haven’t lived until you’ve spent eight hours in the executive lounge at Dhaka International Airport.

A final punch in the balls came when the flight was delayed an additional half-hour, which in Bengali translates as two hours. This time it was a VIP departure. All runways were shut down until liftoff…

Enter Mindfuck 101. Am I sweating? Yes, I’m sweating. Did my heart just skip a beat? Two beats? Would I win a Darwin Award for this? Am I dizzy or just hungry? Do I have an ulcer? Canker sore? Am I a moron? Yes, I’m a moron. No, no, I’m outstanding. Super cool… the coolest dead tourist in Bangladesh. Mama, I’m coming home.

Before then, I would’ve deemed swallowing snake venom suicidal. Expert reassurance and logic propelled me into the breach. There were children present. They wouldn’t slay Johnny Adventure in front of the kids, would they? I let myself believe the village elders wouldn’t invite the shitstorm that might result from a negligent tourist death… um, right…

I stood in the mire trying to digest this alternate reality. Any way you slice it, the scene was a constant tragedy unfolding. Children without a childhood? Men without a choice? A government without a conscience? No, that's too easy. Nothing is black and white. Nothing is ever that simple. Child labor is horrible, but what other options are there? Take away their jobs, and where does that leave them? Their families? Is dangerous work better than no work at all? Increase oversight. Increase safety standards. Lower profits. Lower wages. Choices. Terrible, terrible choices. You could blame the government, I suppose, but before pulling that trigger, delve into the history of this star-crossed nation…

At the river, I was speechless. Men and boys paraded frantically from small ships to weight scales with baskets of white grainy material atop their heads. I soon realized this was salt and that this patch of riverfront was where it was unloaded, weighed, and initially processed. Nobody was screwing around. It was like watching leaf-cutter ants moving with military speed, discipline, and precision. I had to watch my step to avoid being trampled.

There’s one surefire way to gum up the works—take out a camera and start firing away. Everyone wanted in, much to the dismay of those on a tight schedule. Men hauling salt. Men weighing salt. Men bathing in the filthiest water you could imagine…

We made a pit stop for food and potty at 3:30 a.m. What I saw in the bathroom left me awestruck—men at every sink primping like contestants on the Dating Game. Not a hair out of place. The efforts were almost surgical. Did I mention it was 3:30 a.m.? And me with my single pair of black pants, dusty hiking shoes, and generalized untidy disheveledness. People often sized me up and down as if I were wearing a spacesuit. I could never tell if it was curiosity, mild contempt, or both.

I loitered in the restaurant where a barefoot waiter offered to bring me something. I went with coffee. It soon followed with my receipt…

I had a better chance of seeing Pegasus than I did a tiger. Were they bored? Annoyed? Scared? All the above? A local I spoke with the day before speculated the threat of pirates might explain my permission difficulties, though nobody I dealt with said anything. After repeated entreaties to turn around, I relented.

On the way back, we stopped at a forest station, which boasted a nature trail into the mangrove. I assumed (emphasis on ass) a jungle walk would ensue. Nope. Too dangerous. A tiger was afoot. Tiger, you say? Too dangerous? According to the resident ranger…

I wandered inside only to be greeted with ‘what the hell do you want’ expressions by Forest Guy One and Forest Guy Two. Confusion reigned. Motorcycle Guy tried to help but fostered, albeit unintentionally, a comedy of errors. When they did grasp my intent, I was asked for a copy of my passport, which I did not have with me. Forest Guy One and Forest Guy Two were not amused. It appeared I’d have to return to the hotel to retrieve it. But then, as if to brush this aside, I was given a price quote—$17 for permit, camera fee, and some other vague tax. Super duper. But then, Forest Guy Two changed his mind. I would have to go to Khulna (two hours away) to get permission…

Still, there’s something about wandering a city or small town with my head up my confused ass while trying to navigate a foreign culture that adds spice and variety to the experience. I can’t deny the pros may well outweigh the cons, especially in a pinch, but I will mourn the loss of bemusing ambiguity.

So, guesthouse it was. First hurdle surmounted. After agreeing on a label, I had to discuss availability. More confusion. A man called a relevant somebody. I was led to believe (or was I?) a decision-maker would turn up, then invited to secure my pack in an office for safekeeping and provided a chair outside. I sat. I waited. I waited some more…

I inadvertently discovered an effective way of capturing Dhaka’s street chaos—sit in the front of a first-class bus. Seats are elevated above the driver and the windshield is enormous, providing a unique vantage point.

There’s a downside. Had we stopped abruptly or, god forbid, collided with another vehicle, I would’ve done a Superman impression through the windshield. No seatbelts assured this outcome. Just watching events unfold up close was stress-inducing. Much safer (psychologically) to let your mind wander through a window in the rear. It might have been the most exhilarating bus ride I’ve ever had…

Don’t forget. Remember, remember, and remember. I lamented often my failure to keep a diary on the road to adulthood. (Not sure I ever arrived, but that’s a rabbit for another hole.) What a treasure trove that would’ve yielded years later, much like this blog has done. And it’s not just about nostalgia. A record would contain wisdom only your former self can impart. What have I missed? What have I forgotten? What lessons have I had to learn and relearn? What’s the point of a journey if there’s no documentation, no after-action review? It pains me to consider all the lost memories from trips abroad before this ultimate fandango. I was determined not to make that mistake again…

The boatman's oar lapping at the water was the only constant. Heeeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty, kitty. We ducked beneath protruding vegetation. The channel narrowed. The tension accrued. Animal tracks decorated the mud banks, especially those of spotted deer and wild boar. Game trails crisscrossed the swamp, weaving between trees and through the underbrush. Every time we rounded a bend, the brush cleared, or the grass parted, I held my breath.

Heeeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty, kitty. Five tigers were reputed to live on the small island, including a mother and three cubs. Yes, we wanted to see the family, but how close…

For the second night in a row, we slept on the top platform of the watchtower near the Katka forest station. The results were much the same, though we saw an unidentifiable shape move through the full-moon twilight. Tiger? Maybe. It could’ve been a unicorn for all we knew (probably easier to find one). Had it shown itself again, we would’ve illuminated the area. One more night all along the watchtower with only a blissful night’s sleep in our favor. There are worse tragedies.

We awoke to discover yet another large group of Bengali men making their way along the trail…

The Bangladesh Forest Department has neither the will nor the ability to thwart operations. As they are understaffed, underpaid, and ill-equipped, they find themselves at the mercy of Raju and his band of misfits. The group is too big to nail, and if Mr. Forid was correct, members sought refuge at ranger stations throughout the park. If you can’t beat ‘em or join ‘em, accept the “supplemental” salary.

He spoke of a tacit agreement between pirates and government. Keep it reasonable, don’t get greedy, and avoid extreme behavior…

I arrived in Dhaka a week before meeting my safari pal, Alex. I had but one mission: find a boat and book passage to and throughout the Sundarbans with an emphasis on tiger tracking. There were obstacles. The first was a lack of robust tourist infrastructure. I mentioned previously a poster in the embassy in Kathmandu that read, “Come to Bangladesh before the tourists do.” Well, I beat them there. Now what?

The archetypical outing for tourists and ex-pats alike was a 12-40 person/4-day boat excursion with a set itinerary…

i had a run at Sundarbans

that mangrove treasure trove

watched a croc a slithering

swam where dolphins dove

i walked among the halophytes

whose misguided roots abound

froze amidst the fertile calm

absorbing every sound

i stood beside the fishermen…

Yep, this was he. Here’s the thing—when she called, the number came up as 'Shaiful,’ so I didn’t answer… like an asshole. I didn’t have the bandwidth for explanations, clarifications, and prevarications. Two minutes later, she called me from a different phone (different stranger). Whoopsie. I shudder to think what Shaiful thought when I answered straight away. Like I said, asshole.

But, alas, it gets worse. Alex (my co-conspirator) and I brought her (yes, I’ve forgotten her name…

Buses, cars, motorcycles, rickshaws, and baby taxis swerve every which way while jockeying for position. Negative space is anathema. Fill it all. Gratuitous horn use is mandatory. Buses resemble recent contestants in a demolition derby—dents, chips, scratches, and missing parts provide ornamentation. I’ve read the accident rate is the statistical equivalent of “not if, but when.”

The taxi dropped me off at the Swiss Park Hotel, which would’ve been perfect if that was my intended destination. A friend recommended the Sky Park Guesthouse. I considered the possibility of a clerical error, so I went inside to investigate, only to discover…

1947 - British colonial rule over India ends. A largely Muslim state comprising East and West Pakistan is established, either side of India. The two provinces are separated from each other by more than 1,500 km of Indian territory.

1949 - The Awami League is established to campaign for East Pakistan's autonomy from West Pakistan.

1970 - The Awami League wins an overwhelming election victory in East Pakistan. The government in West Pakistan refuses to recognise the results, leading to rioting.

Cyclone hits East Pakistan - up to 500,000 people are killed…

Magnificence multiplied with elevation. The trees disappeared, revealing a rocky, shrub-strewn expanse spotted with snow and ice. By the time I reached Laurebina La Pass (4610 m, 15213 ft), I was e2—exhausted and exhilarated. The wind bit my face, the moonscape watered my eyes. I was cold, tired, and dreaming of lemon tea and dal bhat. And yet, I lingered. No more ascent. Thank ya, Jee-sus. The Gosainkund region is known for its frozen lakes and desolate allure. It does not disappoint. The short time I stood on the pass made it impossible to regret…

Bad press is better than no press? Don’t think so. Slaughtering a couple hundred thousand animals in the name of religion is going to turn a few heads, along with more than a few stomachs.

I’ve read the numbers dropped drastically in 2014, but, again, sources are questionable at best. Organizers insisted only about 5,000 animals were sacrificed. Humane Society International (HSI) reported 30,000. BBC reported over 200,000. In 2015, Motilal Prasad (secretary of the Gadhimai Temple Trust) touted an indefinite ban on animal sacrifice. Ram Chandra Shah (temple chairman) said no such agreement had been made…

According to Miss Manners, visiting random strangers in lockup without bearing gifts is bullshit. We went with old faithful—Marlboro Reds. At check-in, all are required to surrender cameras, cell phones, and just about everything else. Then, it’s a quick pat-down followed by a short stroll to a room containing a list of foreign inmates. Malaysia, China, Holland, France, Germany, Poland, and America made the cut. Offenses included fraud, murder, rape, immigration violations (passport, visa, etc.), and drug possession. Pick name. Start party.

Yes, the situation was downright surreal. Inmates as a tourist attraction? There’s a lot wrong there. Was I ambivalent? You bet your ass I was…

Nine days without a wash left me marinating in my own juice. And then there was Ghami village—the promised land. When I learned gas-powered hot water was available at the guesthouse, I considered smooching the women in charge. Sublime. That’s how I’d describe my shower experience. I nearly dissolved.

On day nine, I confronted Mustang’s version of a traffic jam. Herds of sheep, pack horses, and seasonal migrants hindered progress on a narrow stretch of uphill climb. Speed wasn’t the issue, it was the clouds of dust that left those in its wake subject to mild asphyxiation. And the incessant whistling and grunting of shepherds can needle one psychologically after about hour three…

Nothing like horsey-pretend time and a spelunking diversion to build an appetite for body and soul. As luck would have it, lunch in a nearby village would nourish both. I dined in what I believe was a private residence and served a repast in the host’s prayer room, a mini-monastery. Not long after we arrived, an elderly gentleman entered and sat cross-legged on a padded bench. A young male I presumed to be his grandson informed us it was prayer day. He apologized for the interruption and offered to relocate us to another room. I did what you might expect, I told them to get the fuck out posthaste. Well, no. Apologize for engaging in sacred acts in one’s own home? Seriously?…

Companions are good. We should have them. I left for Indonesia solo and remained so, more or less, for most of the sojourn. Until Mustang, I’d had travel chums a few days here, a week there with a romantic interlude thrown in for good measure. Maybe what I needed on the sun-drenched dusty Tibetan plateau wasn’t a companion, but the right companion. (If nothing else, a partner would’ve offset the organizational burden.) I wonder if we need witnesses along the way to validate life’s beauty, its overarching magnificence. Maybe we need a notary to consecrate our internal musings and jubilations in the face of natural incomprehensibility. Or should we hog a discrete portion for ourselves?…

I remember skies so goddamn blue, it’s like an amateur filmmaker went hog-wild with the color grading, though I suspect altitude plus landscape-contrast heightened the effect. Without the dynamic range of the human eye, no camera could do it justice. I was in awe and, looking back, compare it to a psilocybin flashback. I wanted to stare into the firmament until going blind, appreciate the shit out of everything without letting it slip through my fingers… but it always does.

Imagine a northern Arizona Grand Canyon-ish scenario, throw in a Himalayan backdrop, add the crisp coolness of an upstate New York autumn, sprinkle in sporadic donkey bells…

The region didn’t open to tourism until 1992. Access doesn’t come cheap and there’s an annual quota of a thousand visitors. A permit runs $500 a person but requires at least two per permit. Otherwise, it’s a cool grand for solo endeavors. (Sadly, locals see little of this money.) This explains my dawdling in Thamel an extra week. I was waiting for an elder German couple to arrive for a permit ménage à trois. No one gave them a heads up on the third-wheel scenario. Hansel and Gretel were none too pleased Team America would be joining their love adventure.

Was I willing to drop a $1000? Rationally, no, but I was light years from rational. The seed had been planted. No way to reign in my giddiness…

Wrestling (or is it steering?) was an issue. I couldn’t do it. It pulled to one side. It had a bit of a pulling problem. Rotate pedals. Sheer left… hard. Struggle. Swear. Repeat. One rotation sent me to the curb where I narrowly missed knocking over a parked motorcycle. Nepali word for “douchebag,” anyone? Steering was hard. Breaking was harder. I couldn’t do that either. People stared. Horns honked. Heart pounded. My co-pilot kept a palm on the handlebars and one on the break, forestalling tragedy.

After too much adrenaline and too many close calls, I relented. My respect for the craft ballooned exponentially. I took my rightful place in the rear… for about twenty seconds. My struggle ended where his began—at a slight incline…

Armid took us to his favorite hangout, a distinctly male vibe. Local women work in such places (waitstaff and performers) but cultural norms discourage similar cavorting. Instead of stock music stored on a computer with a TV for follow along, it was a staff of musicians and singers operating synthesized instruments and providing vocals. Fill out a slip. Wait your turn. Participants come prepared, memorizing words and beats beforehand. (This feeds my single-track theory.)

You haven’t lived until you’ve spent a night watching sloshed Nepali males sing and dance their hearts out. It was an ebb and flow of energy ending only between songs, long songs…

Day One was an easy float to our first campsite, Night One an inauspicious drunk fest fueled by not-so-premium liquor. Darkness fell. Mayhem ensued. I had zero wish to start hungover, so I forbore after a few drinks, retiring to the sand for a snooze beneath a spectacular night sky peppered with stars, painted by the Milky Way. The outfit provided tents, but I slept al fresco. Initially, I had company, but Ashrak the kayaker coaxed Kirstin to his tent. Ah, well, all’s fair in love and war on the waterfront. No smoochie-grabass por moi.

The events following my dismissal were the subject of vigorous debate. No one had all the pieces. The Brothers England and Sonkor deemed shit-faced skinny dipping a worthy pursuit…

I met Gopal (my guide) in the morning. We hopped in a car from Kathmandu to the trailhead in Sundarijal and set out for the day’s goal—Chisapani. At a reasonable pace, you can reach it in a few hours or less. We took over half a day. Gopal was an amiable, laid-back fella with serious motivation issues, a “stop and smell the roses” type. And by “smell the roses,” I mean “smoke the pot.” A lot of pot. He was unpleasantly surprised to discover I was more interested in the journey than a slo-mo marijuana-infused jaunt. Previous hikers set a precedent. He assumed a young-ish American would be on board. His disappointment was palpable. Lunch was a two-hour affair cooked from scratch. Slow season? Dunno, but the holdup was borderline excruciating. I was ready to forge ahead solo…

Upon arrival, two things became abundantly clear: I was going to like it there; I would probably go bankrupt. What happens when two planes of Gore-Tex toting tourists disembark simultaneously? You wait two hours for a visa. This did not dampen my fervor. That was impossible. Namaste and all that shit, ya know? Though I was itching to get the party started, I tempered my enthusiasm in the interest of prudence. Rest, relaxation, investigation, and invigoration. So, I took a few personal days.

Kathmandu is barely controlled chaos in a sprawling cityscape of brick and concrete multi-storied buildings rising and falling like an ill-conceived Lego megalopolis. Not so pretty to look at and air pollution doesn’t quite gel with the Himalayan flavor…

1768 - Gurkha ruler Prithvi Narayan Shah conquers Kathmandu and lays foundations for unified kingdom.

1792 - Nepalese expansion halted by defeat at hands of Chinese in Tibet.

1814-16 - Anglo-Nepalese War; culminates in treaty which establishes Nepal's current boundaries.

1846 - Nepal falls under sway of hereditary chief ministers known as Ranas, who dominate the monarchy and cut off country from outside world.

1923 - Treaty with Britain affirms Nepal's sovereignty.

Absolute monarchy

1950 - Anti-Rana forces based in India form alliance with monarch.

Vietnam was our carpe diem. Feet first. Eyes open. Take a chance. Have a fling. Threw our hats in the ring. Lewis Carroll said it best, “In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take, the relationships we were afraid to have, and the decisions we waited too long to make. There comes a time in your life when you realize who matters, who doesn’t, who never did and who always will. So don’t worry about the people in your past, there’s a reason they didn’t make it to your future.”

All did not go as hoped. First off, time wasn’t on our side. I felt pressure (self-induced) to organize the perfect getaway for my Irish lass. No doubt this compromised my laid-back disposition. My pre-reunion Hanoian social exchanges…

Package tours don’t tickle my fancy but became a necessary evil given time constraints. So, it was a tour bus to Ha Lang followed by a two-night junk run in Ha Long Bay capped off by three days of leisure on Cat Ba Island. The bus was, well, odd. Our tour guide had a microphone and a powerful desire to share interesting factoids about Hanoi and Vietnam. Context, history, and background? I’m in. Thing is, dude’s voice was unbelievably irritating (something akin to raking stones inside your head.) Perfect for Zen-master training, not ideal on a “relaxing” ride. I wasn’t above offering a cash payment to cease and desist.

He shared depressing tidbits regarding thousands of children…

The map was wrong. Really wrong. Dead wrong, as in “make-believe roads” wrong. This was hard to accept. What are the chances? How could this be? Well, it was. We wasted two hours reconciling impossible circumstances. According to the map, we couldn’t possibly be in the town we were in. We turned to the proletariat. Inquiries/borderline interrogations followed. We were ignored, brushed off, or given more baffling information. How many ways can you pronounce 'Ba Be'? Answer: 1,946. Did a note (courtesy of Mr. Hai,) with “How do you get to Ba Be Lake?” written in Vietnamese help? No, no it did not.

We drove through Bao Lam twice in search of glory. No luck. We capitulated, opting for the long way…

The language barrier hurted my head hard. I phoned Mr. Hung (rental agency) in Hanoi for backup and passed the phone for translation. Yep, we needed a guide—a fail-safe in case we became sick or injured. Fair enough. My cynical nature led me to believe this was a convenient way to drum up tourist business, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. We retreated to discuss options. What choice did we have? None. We returned to immigration and five minutes later a Mr. Hai presented himself. We followed him to his office and made it official. The staff there was friendlier but not overwhelmingly so. While waiting for our permits we had breakfast in the small restaurant in the back. More Vietnamese tar and meat (described as veal) that was mostly fat and skin. Yumsters…

A woman at a local market shooed me away as I ogled a bowl of live eels. Pardon me, ma’am, not something I see every day. Forgive my curious nature. I’ll fuck off now, thank you. Then again, where did curiosity get that cat? I saw another woman with a headless turtle squeezing blood from the neck into a plastic bottle. Nummy. And then there were the live puppies I heard barking incessantly. (Not a pet market. Nuff said.) Perhaps, they’ve dealt with their share of judgmental Westerners and have had enough. Also, maybe I just look like an asshole.

Disgruntled shoe dude was mildly upsetting, but the rest I laughed off with ease… mostly. I found the quirkiness endearing… for a while. I’d experience this before and assumed it would dissipate…

1858 - French colonial rule begins.

1930 - Ho Chi Minh founds the Indochinese Communist Party (ICP).

1941 - ICP organises a guerrilla force, Viet Minh, in response to invasion by Japan during World War II.

1945 - The Viet Minh seizes power. Ho Chi Minh announces Vietnam's independence.

1946 - French forces attack Viet Minh in Haiphong in November, sparking the war of resistance against the colonial power.

1950 - Democratic Republic of Vietnam is recognised by China and USSR.

1954 - Viet Minh forces attack an isolated French military outpost in the town of Dien Bien Phu. The attempt to take the outpost lasts two months, during which time…

The equatorial breeze and Dutch colonial flavor forced me to remind myself I was still in Sri Lanka. Long ago, Galle’s fortress held back invaders, now it serves to attenuate the creep of modern development. The walls encompass the peninsula’s bulk, so patrolling the ramparts means tracing the coastline. When I wasn’t monitoring the ocean horizon, I was inspecting the lighthouse from a rooftop café or rambling the streets for postcard-esque photo opportunities. I’ll admit it, Galle charmed my pants off (figuratively). Why, exactly? I posit three essential elements: Set and setting (i.e. colonial backdrop), a dearth of tourists, and Ramadan. I credit low per capita tourist density to the recently concluded hostilities (i.e. the civil war hangover effect)…

The atmosphere was tense, as one might expect when prey and predator convene in close quarters. Two spotted deer edged their way closer and closer to a pond teeming with crocs. A few reptiles lounged nearby, thoroughly uninterested. I couldn’t say the same for one drifting toward shore submarine-style. Bambi and Rudolf took nervous sips from the water’s edge before moving on, forestalling doom.

Seaside Yala is equally compelling. A swift breeze conspired with a setting sun to solidify the park as one of my favorite places in the Sri. You could say the beach is haunting and haunted, poetic and tragic. On December 26, 2004, a tsunami killed forty-seven people (tourists and locals) at the site I visited…