Time to go again

I sat on my porcelain throne, listening to the delicate hum of the ventilation fan, and began to contemplate what it might mean to leave this place behind for the next year. Why go? What could possibly be accomplished by adding one more tourist to the global throng? As time rolls inexorably forward what will I miss from this place I currently call home?

Absent mindedly I began leafing though a discretely placed magazine. I think I’ll miss the kind eyes of my grandmother and the vacuous eyes of a sushi dinner. I’ll miss crisp raw lettuce and dark roasted coffee. I’ll miss orderly traffic and police beyond a bribe. I’ll miss central heat and central air.

I refiled the magazine and replaced its glossy pages with an endless spool of quilted white paper. Most of all I’ll miss a clean quiet crap.

India, Varansai

Travel in India is both hard and rewarding. It often seems that the entire country has mobilized to keep you from your destination and that no matter how hard you might try, the bus you are on is the wrong one and stops a few kilometers short. Then without explanation everything suddenly works just right and you find yourself right where you wanted to be. Nothing is easy and most everything is rewarding, if only for the challenge of having done it.

Several weeks ago we arrived in Varanasi. As we got off of the bus we were confronted with the usual normal swarm of people asking where we wanted to go. We knew better than to give them the name of a Hotel (if we had they would have tried to collect a commission and the price of our room would have gone up.) Instead we asked to go to a place called

Dasaswamed ghat. The driver agreed and off we went. We arrived to find a large yellow and black government sign letting us know that we had arrived. Up and down the street were signs of other hotels including the one we wanted call home. However, when we went in, we were told that the hotel was full but that they had opened another hotel and there was room there. The hotel we were taken to was great and the price was right.

There was only one problem. We always seemed to have trouble getting back. When ever we would ask for directions to Dasaswamed ghat we would be pointed in a different direction. It took several days to make sense of this but we had been "had".

The government sign that said Dasaswamed ghat was a fake, as were the signs for the other hotels on the street. The reason that we could never find our way back was because we were about 1 kilometer south of the real Dasaswamed ghat.

It would be easy to be bitter about this but when we looked at other hotels it became clear that we had done much better then if we had not been scammed. From the roof of our hotel we watched the continuous stream of bodies being bathed and then burned so that there ashes could be sent down the Ganges river.

I took pictures of the signs for both the real and almost real ghats but those pictures were the victim of another scam and will never be seen.

I hope that this email finds everyone doing well.

Tibet, Nam-Tso Lake

There is a lake just north of Lhasa called Nam-Tso. There are two roads leading to the lake and the trip does not require any permits (one reason that we liked the idea of going.) The question then becomes why were we stopped 9 times on the way to the lake?

After several hours on the road we were stopped and told that the road was closed for construction and would remain so for the next 12 hours. The army person who stopped us suggested that we "go to sleep until the road work is finished for the day." We were told this in spite of the fact that a steady stream of trucks and other cars continued on their way without any apparent problem. After several hours we were able to convince our tormenter that we had talked to his boss and that he had said it was OK for us to pass.

We were later stopped again for construction. This time we were told that it would only be about two hours and that we should have lunch and a nap. We elected instead to drive around the construction. The detour took about ten min..

Again we were stopped. This time for a "car inspection." In the middle of the road was a road black and spikes to prevent us from driving around. The only problem here was that there was no one in evidence to do the inspection. After several min. of looking perplexed we were approached from the side of the road and told to just move to road black out of the way. Apparently the inspector could not be bothered.

The last time we were stopped was only 100 yards from our destination. We needed to pay a "$1 protection fee." It is hard to say what was being protected and from what. Our destination was one of only two guest houses on the shore of an otherwise deserted lake.

During out entire time at the lake we saw only four buildings: 2 guest houses, 1 canteen, and 1 temple.

As I said before we were stopped a total of 9 times. Please trust me in that the other stops were only different in the details and not in the substance.

This journey to Nam-Tso was maddening. The trip took 12 hours much of which was spent either arguing or more likely paying money at various check points.

In the end the frustration was more than repaid by the beauty of the lake. With luck the pictures will do it justice.

We are now trying to organize our journey to the border. It is a daunting task.

India, Thar Desert

We are now in Jaiselmer on the edge of the Thar Desert in western India. The bus journey here seemed to be taking place in New Mexico. The road stretched out in front and behind us in a straight line from one horizon to the other. On either side of the road the small Mesquite trees could have come from anywhere in the southwest.

Every few minutes however we were reminded that we were in India. In the distance there would be cry like a banshee escaping from hell. The horn on our bus would then wail its reply. This ritual was repeated every time that two busses needed to establish who had the right of way on the one lane road. The larger bus and/or the one with the loudest horn would hold its course as the loser politely swerved out of the way. On the times when our bus swerved the women who were standing in the isle next to my seat would be forced to press their soft round bodies into me. Then as the bus swerved the other way they would fall into the other seat. This might not have been unpleasant were it not for the fact that after several hours it is easy to feel suffocated.

When were finally disgorged from the bus in Jaiselmer it was as if we had stepped back in time. The city has been constructed entirely of pale sandstone. The windows of the houses have been intricately carved out of the same stone as if each window were trying to out-do the next. The streets snake in and out of one another with the same logic that is found in a bowl of pasta. The city is dominated by a somewhat tired-looking fort perched on the only hill to be found for as far as the eye can see. We are staying in the Hotel Paradise, which is hidden inside this fort and over looks the city.

In the next few days we plan to take camels out into the desert for a chance to sleep on the sand under the full moon.

Guatemala

Some questions I think that I know the answer to.

Some questions I know that I do not know the answer to.

Some questions I have never thought to ask.

I never asked where all the good school busses went for retirement.

I now know that they come to Guatemala. The busses are not so different than the New Yorks who go to Florida to enjoy the sun and wear outrageous cloths.

When the busses come to Guatemala they and are repainted in bright greens, reds, and yellows. For some reason the flying bird at the front of the buss is seldom covered over but rather is enlarged and accented to give it the look of increased speed. The insides are plastered with stickers of busty women, Bugs Bunny and the Madonna. All these images sit comfortably side by side on the mirror that was once used to keep an eye on rowdy teenagers. Over the drivers head the buss rules are sometimes still posted explaining that the driver is authorized to assign seats, and that the same code of behavior is expected in the buss as in the class room. Without exception the horn is no longer blown by pressing on the steering weal but rather the horn has been rewired. The driver now pulls a red, green and blue plastic pony tail hanging from the ceiling. This is done often and usually as a form of greeting to other busses as they pass one another on the road.

Some things do not changed though. The seats are still too close together and their vinal is still cracking and chipping. Much the same music still comes from the stereo. It is as if the busses of my childhood truly liked 80s pop and are reluctant to give it up even in their new home.

You can tell the busses that are new to the area because they are still in the early stages of their transformation. On the very new the name of the school district is still written in formal black letters on the side. I have not looked under the seats but I am sure that gum is stuck their along with the old love notes.

In their retirement the busses are lovingly cared for. They are clean and well maintained. As we waited for our buss to depart one day we watch as the drive shaft was removed cleaned and replace. This was all completed in time for a prompt departure.

We are in Quetzaltenango now and will soon be taking a buss to Chichicastenango.

Burma, 1

Now its Myanmar now its Burma.

Let's make something very clear at the beginning.

I live in a county and in a society that allows and even encourages my dissent. If I fail to give public voice to my anger, my disgust, or my contempt then it is only I that can and should bear the responsibility for my failure. So I ask for your patience, though not your permission and not your consent, as I freely express my opinion of Myanmar's government.

The military dictatorship masquerading as a legitimate government long ago crossed the line from bad to pathetic, idiotic, ruthless, ignorant, despicable, and contemptible. If a government can be called humane then the Myanmar dictatorship resides at the subhuman level keeping company with the foul smelling pond scum and ooze I scraped off the bottom of my shoe following an unfortunate misstep into a cesspool.

Thank you for your time. I hope you believe it was well spent. If you found my description offensive then I look forward to suffering no consequences beyond your quickly forgotten scorn.

As I discharge my own contempt I wonder how many people the Myanmar government has gunned to prevent them from doing the same. I also wonder about my own role. Did my journey further consolidate this government's lock on power? I imagine that half the money I spent ended up in the state's hands one way or another. Did I help ease the suffering and isolation of a people desperate for democracy and a copy of Reader's Digest? What money I could direct and all my good will went to them. Was my journey fundamentally useless beyond my own entertainment?

I would like to say that I know the answers to these questions but I don't. Instead I sit in still another hotel room and I wonder at the implications of my actions. Most of all I wonder: What if the answer to all of these questions is, "Yes?"

Did I aid the government? YES

Did I help the people of Myanmar? YES

Did I enjoy my journey to the hilt and shed a tear when I departed? YES

Did I do the right thing by going? I will never know.

As I collect my thoughts and anecdotes from Myanmar (a.k.a. Burma) I will try and share them but these thoughts and questions will always be in thebackground even if they are not always spoken.

Burma, 2

I sought a stream or a bucket of water but when this failed I simply resigned myself to the sticky mango juice coating my fingers. May is the hot season in Myanmar; the wisdom of comfort and convenience rigidly dictates that May is not the time for a sojourn here. But May is mango season. May is a time when this land of gold, rubies, emeralds, teakwood and smiling children drifts from forgotten into a complete void. May is a time when children freely decorate strangers with flowers, laughter.

The purity of a metal chime greeted the sunrise. Held high by a bald child in burgundy robes his chime preceded an ordered line of monks. Each with his head shaved clean, dressed in the same deep red and with a lacquer begging bowl looped under his arm. From the stalls of the street venders, the doors of the houses and the entrance of our hotel the city scrambled to meet the monks, a pot of freshly cooked rice ready to great the procession. Winding down the streets and through the allies the begging bowls gradually filled with a morning meal, freely given to the bald men in burgundy robes who asked for nothing but only walked silently by hoping for breakfast.

Black tea gently poured over sweetened condensed milk blended into a midday ritual of short plastic stools, salty sweat and a few deep fried samosas. With our late breakfast came certainty of an eventual retreat

to the hotel, the air-conditioning and the always welcome cold shower.

Buddha towered over the freshly planted rice fields, a second sunset forming in the gold paint of his robes as the day came to an end. With the onset of an evening breeze the day’s serious work could begin. Tethered to the earth with the thinnest nylon cords, kites, bamboo crosses glued over with tissue paper rose to meet the departing sun.

After a cold beer, fried cashew nuts and laughs we ended another day.

Mexico

Before we left on our trip to Central America we received some advice from a friend who had spent a great deal of time here. "What ever you do, do not eat the chicken." He told us this for the simple reason that often meat is not refrigerated between when it dies and when you add the salsa. Though this advice is probably sound I have not been able to follow it. Rather I am now doing the opposite. I find myself eating lots of chicken, even making a point of ordering it when I could just as easily get something else. The reason for this is simple. I am tired of being a helpless victim in the rooster wars. At four in the morning the opening salvo is fired by an overly aggressive rooster. This lone cackle is often enough to wake the dead but it is only the beginning. Moments later another rooster returns fire and the volume increases. It is not long before the number of combatants has increased to four then eight. It is impossible to keep track of the numbers. These birds seem to believe that it is their patriotic duty to out shout one another between the hours of 4 and 6 in the morning.

I can only hope that if I manage to eat enough chicken I will be able to sleep until the sun rises. It is after the sun rises that the dogs start.

As I write this we are in San Cristobal de Las Casas. This town was at the center of the Zapatistas rebellion in 1994. The rebellion was successful for several days before the Mexican military drove the rebels from the town. It would seem that the Mexican government is not going to be taken by surprise again. All around town the military is in evidence. Men is green are everywhere. The military is also backup by policemen who all carry assault rifles.

All of this is placed against a background of a beautiful town not unlike Santa Fe New Mexico. Colonial Spanish building line the streets. The sky line is dominated by the town’s several churches. The center of town is packed with cafes, jewelry stores and trendy places to east. The streets are filled with descendants of the Maya. The woman dress in brightly embroidered dresses as they sell souvenirs to the tourists. However, no amount of smiles will convince them to let you take their picture a few pesos will not even do the tick.

This morning we wandered though the market. Venders were packed one on top of the other selling beans, raw wool, salted fish, radios, flowers and thankfully chickens. The stalls had all been covered over with plastic tarps so that everything was cast in a soft blue light. We spent several hours wandering up one ally and down another and we plan to go back again.

I hope that everyone is doing well. News from home is always welcome.

Guatemala, Antigua

Semana Santa has started in Antigua. It is a time of color, chaos and necking in the park. This morning we woke up with the sun rise and went to one of the churches near out guest house. A group of about 8 men was putting the finishing touches on a Alfombra (ritual carpet.) The English term carpet only seems to be applicable in the loosest way. An area of about 100 feet long and 5 feet wide had been blocked off in the middle of the street. This area had been filled with layers of colored saw dust. A border of sunshine yellow had been laid down and as we watched, paper stencils were laid out and another layer of emerald green was applied to form the stems of what later became roses. Running down the center of this carpet were parrots, toucans, and quetzals, all formed in relief by iridescent saw dust. This carpet had taken most of the night to make and was later destroyed in an instant.

Starting around noon a crowd began to form around the church. Within an hour the people were so densely packed that we could not have left the area even if we had wanted to. From inside the church drums began to sound. The drums were later accompanied by a disjointed horn section. The level of excitement of the crowd became palpable.

I am taller than most of the Guatemalans and I was able to see over their heads to the entrance of the church. Christ came floating through the air. He was wearing a blood red robe fit for a king and was shouldering a gold cross. This figure floated toward us. As it came nearer I was able to see that this idol was standing atop a dais being shouldered by eighty men in purple satin robes and white turbans. The path before them was kept clear by roman soldiers in plastic helmets.

The air became thick with incense. Though this fog I was able to The Virgin Marry floating out of the church. Her platform was smaller and carried by a group of 40 women.

The crowd pushed, pulled and dragged us down the street with the procession. To escape we managed to turn onto a side street and wind our way back to the hotel and onto the balcony. The street in front of the hotel had earlier been roped off. In a few hours the same procession was scheduled to come to us. Ten to 40 foot sections of the street had been claimed by carpets of pine needles and flowers. The pine formed the back drop for the lilies, birds of paradise, and Dupont plastic flowers.

When the procession arrived we watched from the safety and comfort of the balcony 3 stories about the street. All of the works of art were crushed underfoot and turned into a pile of fragrant compost.

With surprising efficiency the procession was followed by uniformed street sweepers. Their blue jerseys bore numbers 1 though 13. The pine and flowers were swept into a pile and a Caterpillar front-end loader scooped it all into a waiting dump truck.

15 minutes later the procession had moved on and the street looked as it had the day before.

Tibet, Lhasa

I am happy to say that we were wrong. We had thought that the process of getting into Tibet would involve more red tape than a job in the securities industry. Instead the process of getting into Tibet was almost easy. It seems that the only thing that is really necessary is a willingness to pay the fees.

We flew from Bangkok to Cheng-du. Once in Cheng-du we were able to buy our tickets and obligatory tour to Lhasa. This took only one day to organize and the following day we were in Lhasa.

The city of Lhasa is in many ways not what I expected to see. The small city on the roof of the world does not have dirt roads and yaks in the streets. Lhasa is a mostly Chinese city now. The street signs and most of the businesses are also Chinese. In many ways Mandarin is a more useful language than Tibetan. However, once you are in the Tibetan section of the city things change. Monks and pilgrims walk in a steady circle around the Jakhang. The Potala still dominates the city.

In many of the temples around the city construction is taking place to rebuild what had previously been destroyed in the Cultural Revolution.

The initial ease with which we had arrived in Tibet did lead us into a false impression. Several days after we entered Lhasa we decided to go to the Sanye monastery, about a four hour bus ride. We had however neglected the fact that outsiders need a permit to travel to this area. We had a relaxing walk through he monastery and enjoyed the relative quiet. However, our dinner did not go as well. In the middle of our dinner the local police came to ask for our permits (the ones we did not have). Fortunately one of our traveling companions speaks Chinese and was able to talk us out of the $100 fine and get us off with only a warning. We have resolved to be more careful in the future.

Tomorrow we will leave on a three day trip to the lake of Nam-tso. (We have checks and we do not need a permit).

It is great to hear from people when we are on the road so any news from home would be welcome.

Guatemala, Lago de Atitlan

Lago de Atitlan is a fresh water lake in the highlands of Guatemala. It was formed when a volcanic crater filled with water. Surrounding the lake rise the cones of three other volcanoes. On the slopes of these cones coffee and pot are grown in abundance. Tucked amongst these cones a small town has grown up and now play host to tourists.

I am told that this is a place of tremendous beauty. I do not know this for a fact but I am trusting what Suzanne has told me. What I do know about, first hand, is the hotel room where we stayed on the lake for four days. The room was constructed of concrete and the walls on the inside had been painted powder blue. The sheets on the bed were of the finest polyester and matched the walls in color. The elastic on the bottom sheet had grown old and tired. As a result the sheet kept coming off as I rolled around at night. The room had a complete ecosystem consisting of an untold amount of bacteria, 5 flies and 2 spiders. The spiders were of the lazy sort and I never once saw them eat a thing. The bathroom was two steps from the bed and the toilet was half step further along. Though generally clean the toilet did not have a seat making it impossible to sit. I spent a great deal of time wishing that I had stronger legs and better balance. During my four days in the hotel room this toilet and I got to be close friends though I never did get its name.

Though I was sick during most of our time at Lago de Atitlan I was never seriously ill. The problem was simply one of needing to be very close to my friend the seatless toilet.

In other news I have now turned 30. I am not to sure what to make of this fact but I have been getting some ideas. I have been thinking that it might be time to have a mid-life crisis. I asked Suzanne if she had any ideas for this. She suggested that I might consider cutting my hair, living in one place, getting and keeping a real job, and living like an adult. I have given this some thought and it seems a little too extreme to do just yet. I am leaning toward the idea of having my mid-life crisis at 40 instead of 30.

We are now in Antigua and plan to stay here for the next week or so. Holy Week is coming and the town is preparing for a huge party. It is not to be missed.

I will let you know how it was.

Guatemala, Tikal

We have arrived in Tikal, an extensive set of Mayan ruins that has been reclaimed by the jungle. The ruins are guarded by a family of demons that have escaped from hell. At night and in the mornings you can hear these demons issuing forth screams of agony, spite and hatred which could only be generated by a supernatural being.

Well it turns out that my first interpretation of these jungle screams was incorrect. These sounds of pain and torment are not the result of a family of demons. They are made by the howler monkey. The monkey’s appearance is of no great consequence when compared with the sounds it produces. They are small black creatures that live in the tree tops. They are about as threatening as a piñata.

I have learned the “true legend” about the howler monkeys. These monkeys fulfill a critical ecological function. The jungles around Tikal are only slightly cooler than Dante´s hell. Each morning before dawn the howler monkeys begin they terrifying screams. These sounds are so intimidating that they actually manage to frighten the sun from the sky for a few minutes each day. Sadly, as the jungles are destroyed, there are fewer of these monkeys; the sun spends more and more time in the sky and global warming results.

Skiing gets worse, the jungles gets hotter and deserts get dryer; I have found the reason. There are no longer enough howler monkeys to chase the sun from the sky.

USA, Beckley WV

There is after all a subtle yet pivotal difference between joking, half joking, exaggerating and telling the truth.

My guide to Beckley, West Virginia introduced himself as “Porker.” As might be imagined from his self-styled moniker, Porker could not see his toes without the aid of a mirror. After a week with Porker I no longer noticed this girth, though its profound nature had in no way diminished. When I looked at him I saw something so disturbing that my sleep was haunted with nightmares the likes of which Poe could never have imagined. These dreams would not end with the rising of the sun but only grew lighter and filled with unwelcome detail. My time in Beckley split between the murky imagery and horrid uncertainty of night, and the crisp, terrifying light of day where nothing could hide and every detail thrust itself into my consciousness.

It is, of course, possible that my torment was the result of a simple misunderstanding, or a joke left to fester without the punch line. If this was the case Porker showed no interest rectifying this state of affairs nor did he make efforts to end my suffering. Instead he gleefully watched as I lived and breathed the dreaded images burned into my brain where even blindness could not have saved me.

“You know what they say about these parts is true?”

If only I had answered this question differently, then I might have walked through one more anonymous town without incident or regard. What was I to say though? I suppose I might have replied “Yes I know,” and then just hoped to leave the conversation at that. It was my naiveté, my honesty, my ignorance that drew me to my stygian torment. I was led by a bloated devil offering a plastic peal of knowledge. I replied, “No, what do they say?” And I sealed my fate. Never again would I find comfort in the warmth of the sun, the security of an embrace, or the innocence of dreamless sleep.

Looping his soft hairy arm around my shoulder Porker pulled me tight and replied, “We all do it. I’ve had my brothers and sisters.” Porker let a lewd grin draw across his face before he continued on, “We should get back to work.”

Was Porker joking, half joking, exaggerating or telling the truth? I could have happily continued on with this uncertainty. Without knowing the answer I could have just assumed the truth to be whatever felt convenient and comfortable. Ignorance can be a soothing thing when knowledge tears at you with claws that never let go.

Now I am prepared to extend a luxury I was never offered. Live happy and read no further, or read on, drawn by the curiosity of a fool straight into the abysses and be happy never more.

Porker has no sisters.

USA, Cape Girardeau MO

Does Cape Girardeau Missouri have a Cape?

This is only one of the many questions that I was

never able to answer about this notable yet small

speck along the Mississippi River. (Pronounced Missip

River; two syllables in the local dialect.) If Cape

Girardeau does have a Cape, then it is small enough to

escape both notice and ridicule.

Unlike the town’s alleged Cape however, not everything

is small enough to escape notice. Along the seawall,

built to hold back the Missip River the proud and

obese likeness of Rush Limbaugh has been painted. Cape

Girardeau has gained what notoriety it has for being

the birthplace of this fountain of wisdom and insight.

Along this same seawall are other Missouri titans.

Perhaps it is only a coincidence that e.e. Cummings

and Rush are engaged in a perpetual staring contest.

As I watched, neither e.e. nor Rush flinched. In

retrospect, it was my narrow minded, ignorance that

lead me to the firm conviction that these two would

not be the best of friends. Ignorant convictions of

the same color also lead me to believe that arson, and

not faulty wiring, burned down the town’s only gay

bar.

Caught in my own hypocrisy I forced myself to try and

learn, not judge the local culture. My client, the

county’s only ambulance service, proved to be a ideal

base for my investigation.

Sex is everywhere in Cape County though the act is

never discussed, only the results. Speaking the word

“fuck” once is likely to earn a stern look, twice and

you can be shunned, three times and you can go home.

Though the word is never spoken, the teen pregnancy

rate would indicate that the concept is not unknown.

There is an inverse correlation between distance form

the town’s center and the age spread between mother

and child; the greater the distance, the smaller the

spread. Paternity is often an open question but it can

be easily resolved with DNA.

Along with sex, religion is omnipresent. The “Biblical

Car Dealership,” and “The Christian Way Real Estate

Group” vie for billboard space with the “Who’s my

Daddy” signs. On Sunday morning it is possible to

meander down the center of any street without even

looking for traffic. Ambulances are posted by the

churches because, “Every Sunday morning someone’s

gunna have a wreck, or chest pains and they gunna be

at church when they do. That is where the business

is.”

If there is hypocrisy in any of this then the people

of Cape Girardeau seem comfortable with it.

Perhaps if I had spent more time there I would have

become more comfortable with my own hypocrisy.

USA, Cleveland OH

Cleveland a.k.a. Heaveland a.k.a. The Mistake by the Lake a.k.a. The Void

Letter to an old friend prior to departure:

Are you still in Cleveland?

If so, let me know. I will be in town later this month.

Reply:

Sorry to hear that you'll be in Heaveland.

Actually, if you haven't been there, it's not too

bad. Hopefully you won't have one of those storied

e-mails that you usually send out after your visits

to other places such as Texas.

Sometimes it is hard to say which is worse: the plane ride or the place that the plane decides to stop.

Woman with no life looking for last friendship on an airplane: So do you live in Cleveland?

Businessman who likes nothing and mocks everything: No

Woman: Are you going to Cleveland on business?

Businessman: Yes.

Woman: I used to live in Cleveland. Ten years was enough thank you. Don’t get me wrong. Cleveland is not a bad place. I live in Denver now. Is that were you live?

Businessman: Yes.

The drive from the hotel to the client is no more interesting than any other drive through suburbia. The houses are almost identical but not quite. The streets are almost in good repair. The weather is almost nice but just a little overcast.

Client: Where do you live?

Bored traveler: Boulder Colorado

Client: That must be a cool place to live. Are you guys hiring?

Traveler: I don’t know. You would have to ask HR. Don’t you like living here?

Client: Cleveland is OK I guess…

As a city Cleveland has dodged the laws of metaphysics and sits in neither, The Inferno, nor Purgatory nor Paradise. It is nowhere and yet it is not quite nothing. Travelers’ descriptions of Cleveland are confused and contradictory just as Buddhist descriptions of the void are like the sound of one hand clapping.

Perhaps if I had stayed longer the emptiness and nothingness of Cleveland would have shown me a path to a higher level of understanding. Instead my journey ended with a shrug, a scratch, and a plane ride home.

USA, Detroit

The heart of darkness has left Africa and now lives in Detroit.

In Boulder the tulips are blooming and the snow is gone. It has taken three months and a change of seasons to give me the courage to think about my February sojourn in Detroit. It is hard to picture Detroit as a city that ever possessed vitality, happiness or joy. The people living there meander from place to place in a dead landscape of crumbling buildings, colorless skies and defoliated trees.

“Where are you staying?” The concerned host asked.

“Just down the road. Why?”

“Good. What ever you do, don’t go wandering around, and don’t even think about going downtown.”

“What’s up with downtown?” I asked.

“Nothing is up with downtown but if you go there you will probably be shot.”

My host was not joking and only after he was certain that I was taking him seriously did he crack a smile, “Ya know other cities have more shootings than Detroit but we still have the most murders. We’re better shots.”

I believed him.

Wanda smiled at me as she eased her double sized butt into her single sized office chair, “I’m gonna teach you to speak black.”

Me, the educated white boy with the ponytail had nothing more intelligent to say other than “Huh?”

“That’s right. Gonna get you a black name and teach you to speak black.”

“OK, I’ve been teaching you software all day. Teach me how to speak black.”

“Ya first word is ‘elsen.’”

“Elsen?”

“Ya know, like don’t be hatin’ on my skills, elsen I be kickin’ your ass.”

“OK, I can learn that. So what’s my black name?”

“Cleetis.”

The name Cleetis had been discussed before it was officially unveiled to the owner. From across the room, “YO Cleetis! Get your butt over here. What is this damn computer doing to me now?”

Cleetis moved with the same speed and determination he had used when he first arrived in Detroit. He had tried to cheat frostbite by running from the car to the hotel lobby. The wind had made the cold worse and his heaving lungs instantly froze in place. Running in the Detroit is not a good idea unless you are inside and responding to your new name.

USA, Florida

Witches ride brooms into the night. The Lone Ranger rode Silver through the old west. Egyptian Pharaohs rode their Chariots through the Nile delta.

In the Ocean world of Florida I found my trusted steed.

The irresistible force of habit led me to the Hertz office in the vain attempt to rent a car. A sea-creature of women greeted me. A solid exoskeleton rose from her scalp where hair might once have grown. Instead of eyebrows, she sported great stripes of red makeup that drew across her forehead in an intimidating scowl. (My studies have since indicated that this is a form of deceptive camouflage to fool would-be predators into thinking that these creatures are aggressive and more dangerous then they really are.)

“My last name is Rudolph. Is my car ready?”
“You rented a non-smoking midsize?”
“Yes”
“That type of car is not native to these waters and we’re all out. Perhaps you would care for a local model?”

The idea that Florida would have an indigenous car had never occurred to me. However, I have found it helpful to blend in and remain inconspicuous when on the road. “Sure” I said.

“Good. We’ll give you a Lincoln Town Car. Executive model.”
This was the end of my conversation with the menacing yet thoughtful crustacean woman. I was never able to tell her of my gratitude. Her kind offer of an indigenous car could not have been more rewarding.

At first I mistook the enormous creature to be a domesticated version of Moby Dick. Measuring no less than twenty feet long, its belly could have held seven men, and its trunk another two. Despite this tremendous girth my white whale cut thought the assault waves with the grace of a ballerina and the agility of a humming bird.

Together, Moby and I slowly explored the coral subdivisions and strip malls that play such an essential role in the local ecology. These delicate structures are everywhere, providing shelter and food for all manner of species. Beside us, other mysterious animals floated by: Cadillacs, Buicks, Low Riders, and Humvies. My Town Car fit right in and we passed unnoticed through this exotic wilderness. Even with his great size and docile manner, Moby was more than willing to fly. With a gentle touch of the gas Moby could leap to life, thrusting me back into the leather bench seat and burying the speedometer. Not even the Bose speaker system could hide the noise of Moby’s engine as it assaulted the laws of physics. Strapped into the saddle, it was impossible to not to love the grace and power of my new friend, companion, and steed.

USA, Hawaii

After years of journeying through the wild and untamed lands of the American South and the ruthless backwaters of Detroit I decided to indulge in a proper vacation. I have now completed a safari to a remote collection of rocks in the approximate center of the Pacific Ocean. Though I am not an anthropologist or a biologist by training I cannot help but draw the comparison to the Galapagos Islands made famous around the world (except in Kansas) by Charles Darwin.

Both the native wildlife and the aboriginal inhabitants provided a stark and exciting contrast to my native Colorado. The people of this land are both primitive and uneducated, spending the majority of their time scantily clad on the beaches. I tried to penetrate their culture believing that if I could understand their language I might earn their trust. With that accomplished I could later exploit them for commercial gain. My success in this area was decidedly limited. What follows is the extent of my translation dictionary:

Haw-I-ee the local name for the island I was on

Haw-I-ee the name of the people I was studying

Haw-I-ee the local language

Haw-I-ee a reference to time that can be exceedingly imprecise

A-low-ha hello

A-low-ha goodbye

A-low-ha I want to sell you something

Though this dictionary may appear sparse and incomplete I am at pains to point out that the local dialect is exceedingly difficult to understand. Unlike most languages Haw-I-ee is composed almost exclusively of vowels that are repeated without pause and in a seemingly random order. Despite the inevitable communication problems I found the aboriginal inhabitants to be both welcoming and hospitable. Immediately upon my arrival I made friends and changed money into the local currency. (Curiously this currency was accepted nowhere on the island though it brought great joy to the locals both when I changed my money and again whenever I produced it there after.)

Though I enjoyed my time with the locals the wildlife proved the highlight of my trip. As with my dictionary I have attempted to catalogue the various new species I discovered on my journey.

Marital Bliss-ters: I am led to understand these creatures are not native to the islands but rather engage in a one-time migration for the principle purpose of courtship and copulation. They are most often seen on the beaches at sunset. The male of the species, bland in appearance, encourages the female to approach him by offering her a trinket, (often a ring of some type.) The females take on a more stunning appearance, looking like a cross between a cotton ball and a lemon meringue pie without the lemon or the pie. Once the ritual seduction has taken place and been properly documented by one of the many photographers, the fornication begins (though this is not generally on the beach and recorded for posterity.)

Snorkel Nosed Brainless White Whale: These enormous creatures can weigh in excess of 300 pounds and are either found waddling along the beach or floating face down in the shallow coastal waters. As the day progresses these creatures miraculously change color from an iridescent pasty white to pink or even the occasional fire red. This color change is usually accompanied by unintelligible groans and cries.

Aquatic Reef Bangers: These creatures are more advanced than other fauna in that they are tool users. The Reef Bangers are principally land mammals though they spend hours at a time floating in the surf while resting atop a log or large stick. When the right wave comes along the Reef Banger will combine the force of the wave with his own body weight to attack the off shore coral reefs. The reason for this behavior remains a mystery. I have decided to call this mysterious behavior ‘surfing.’

Bronzed Beach Snail: I found only the younger females of this species to be worthy of study. Throughout the day these animals do almost nothing beyond rolling from their backs to their fronts. Despite this apparent lack of activity these were the most fascinating creatures of all and I spent hours engaged in meticulous study of their form and appearance. Unlike the three-toed sloth of Australia, which also displays a stunning lack of activity, the Bronzed Beach Snail does not even need to forage for food. Instead of slowly ambling through the wilderness gathering bits of sustenance this creature simply raises one or the other of its arms and food comes to it. It is not surprising given this extreme lack of motion that as the Bronzed Beach Snail ages it grows to a gargantuan and repulsive size. I refuse to study this creature after it has undergone this metamorphosis though there is reason to speculate that it eventually becomes the Snorkel Nosed Brainless White Whale in much the same way that a caterpillar becomes a moth.

USA, Johnson City, Tennessee

Toothless hillbillies, illiterate Bible wielding priests, banjoes, and the words “squeal like a pig.”

I set off for the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee with an undeniable sense of ill ease and thoughts of cutting off my ponytail.

For the record: I did not cut my hair, I did not need to squeal, the Smoky Mountains are more like hills, and at least some of the preachers can read or at least the one sitting next to me on the plane looked pensively at the Bible as we plummeted back to earth. However, it is none of these things that now come to my mind when I recall my trip. Rather it is the drinks I think about.

Hillbillies are not made toothless with pliers, baseball bats, or any other kind of solid object. It is from the ‘sweet tea.’ As an ignorant westerner I had asked, “What’s Sweet Tea?”

“Ya’all dun have Sweet Tea?! We’s just gunna have’t get yous some them.”

“Is it just tea with sugar? We got that.”

“You’uns don’t know nutten but that’s ok. Yous gottu boil du tea. Then yous put du sugar in. If yous just put sugar in du cold tea it dun get sweet.”

“OK I guess I need to try it then.”

“If yous really want’en some’en gooood then yous put a little shine in.”

“Shine?”

“Don’t yous worry none ‘bout that. One thing at’a time.”

A super jumbo Styrofoam cup, and two gulps of Sweet Tea later my teeth fell out of my skull and sank to the bottom of the cup. As a child I once stuck my tongue into the sugar bowl. The two experiences have nothing in common.

Haller Creek Tea is not the same thing as sweet tea. (Translation note: Haller=Hollow=Valley or Canyon) Haller Creek Tea is Shine not tea. While a gulp of Sweet Tea may cause your teeth to fall out a gulp of Haller Creek Tea may cause third degree burns to the inside of your throat, a loss of balance and a blinding headache several hours later. I was concerned that Haller Creek Tea might cause blindness but my concern were put to rest, “If yous worried yous can light it. T’aint no problem ifit burn blue.”

USA, Ohio

It would, of course, be wrong to journey to a foreign land with degrading preconceived notions founded on stereotypes, hearsay, and rumor. I have held the philosopher John Locke’s ideal of a ‘blank slate’ in mind when venturing into the armpit of America. For instance, prior to visiting Akron/Canton Ohio I did not place any stock in the notion that Ohio is a land with all the excitement of unsweetened vanilla ice cream, the romance of a used condom, and inhabited by troglodytes, trolls, ogres, and lice. I did not believe that an entire state could possible live up to this reputation, even if it were trying to.

This enlightened attitude allowed me to see Ohio without blinding preconceptions and instead permitted me to simply see the contraception. The city has built a massive monument to family planning, safe sex, and responsible polygamous behavior. The citizens of Ohio obviously do not believe that vast amounts of pasty white flesh alone are enough to lower the birth rate. Perched proudly by the freeway stands a perfect replica of the ‘Reservoir Tip.’ It is an architectural masterpiece; the last quarter inch of a condom has been cast in stone and held aloft for all to see and worship.

Yet this majestic monument is not without its mysteries, lost on the casual observer. The natives of this land of are loath to reveal this structure’s true name. Instead, to the outsider, they offer only pseudonyms, “Hall of Fame” or “Pro Football.” It is anyone’s guess how these terms came to be associated with this prophylactic shrine. Perhaps with suitable anthropological study of the primitive Ohio culture, its people and its monuments will be better understood.

USA, Somewhere South Carolina

[Snifffff]

Jim had once again confirmed that the odors clinging to the tips of his ten fingers were within tolerance. I tried not to imagine what smells he was checking for. I had just shook his hand and now I did not want to know were that hand had been nor did I want to imagine why that place might concern his nose and require a third check.

I tried to focus on the content of Jim’s words instead of the man delivering those words. Eye contact or at least the appearance of eye contact was easy. The skin surrounding his eyeball congealed into a walnut before releasing again. Every thirty seconds or so the mysterious walnut would blink in and out of existence as the side of Jim’s face underwent another spasm. Did the walnut hurt? Did this constant deforming and reforming cause pain? After the first morning I didn’t think so. Perhaps it caused his hands stink. Then why smell them? Perhaps the walnut caused Jim’s hands to smell of flowers. I like flowers as much as the next guy…but why keep smelling them?

Jim started, “Heavenly father we ask you in the name of your son Jesus Christ to bless this salad we are about to [walnut] consume. And we thank you for safely bringing us Erik from Boulder Colorado. We thank you for granting him a safe journey and we ask you to bless his time here with us. Amen.”

“So-, you a hockey fan Erik?”

I reeled a bit from the transition. I had never heard the salad at a business lunch receive a blessing but then again I have not traveled to a great many places and I am always encountering new cultures, religions and beliefs. I replied, “Ya, hockey is fun to watch. I am not a huge fan of the Colorado [walnut] Avalanche but I know plenty of people back home who are.”

“Oh man we just love hockey round here.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that. When I was in Detroit everyone loved hockey but I think South Carolina is not what you would normally consider hockey country.”

“That’s what a lot of people think but you see man they’re lookin’ at it all wrong.”

“How so?” I asked with more naiveté and ignorance that I could every have imagined.

“Well think about.” At this point Jim, dropped his voice a notch into a conspiratorial tone. “What do football, basketball and even baseball have in common?” I almost answered that they are all played with a ball but I senesced that this was not the answer under consideration. “All those sports are run by the [walnut-walnut this was the first double I had seen] blacks. Think about it. Hockey aint like that.”

And I said nothing.

Perhaps sensing my unease Jim switched tracks again. “You should try the fat back”

“What?”

“Fat back. They take the fat from a pig and fry it up in strips. Some people say it’s a little salty but I like it.” [Snifffff still within acceptable levels]

Jim then bit into a finger sized strip deep fried fat and gave me an easy going smile. “If you need anything while you’re in town you just let me know. Hell, I imagine it aint easy living on the road go’n form place to place.” Then after brief pause. “You look like one of them long hair hippies [walnut] I heard about from Boulder. I bet you even drink that funky dark beer. What’s it called?”

“Guinness?”

“Ya, Guinness. I’ll take you out for a couple on me. Make ya feel at home. Now what’s this I hear’n ‘bout to leaving your job?”

“You hear right. You’re my last client.”

“How come? You got a cool job. You get to travel to all kinds great places!”

“They’ll be hiring.”

“Me! [walnut-walnut yet another double] I never been out’a South Carolina. Don’t recon there’s anywhere I’d wants ta go. Furthest I thinks I’ve ever want to go is the next county.”

I paused for a second to think. “Ya, I understand. When I woke up in the hotel this morning I was thinking the same thing.”

I believe that this will be my last story from the back woods of America. I am no longer traveling the country and installing software for a living. Instead my brother and I are going into real estate. Traveling from small town to small town proved a fascinating way to see the county and though it was seldom dull I also can think of no place to which I am eager to return. Perhaps I simply love places where the people do not speak English and the locations teeter on the edge of the map.

On a more practical note I am in the process of redeveloping my email list. If you are sick of my stories and ranting let me know and I will happily work to conserver a few ones and zeros on your behalf. Alternately if I have managed to occasionally entertain and amuse let me know that too and I will be certain that you are included on future dispatches from the exotic and mundane.