Elephant Journal

Good morning sunshines!

So, let´s take a little break from the #memoirsofahitchikker series because I´m slightly (extremely) elated that Elephant Journal has picked up one of my poems and published it on their site. EleJ is an independantly written and published magazine about,

"the mindful life ... yoga, organics, sustainability, conscious consumerism, enlightened education, the contemplative arts, adventure, bicycling, family…everything. But mostly it’s about this present moment, right here, right now, and how we can best be of benefit, and have a good time doing so."

Yep. Hippies. And what beautiful hippies. Anywho, if you´ve never heard of them, go check them out and check out their articles and other such goodness.

Oh, and if you missed the link camouflaging in the first sentence of this post, here it is again: Evolution

Pura vida!
ERK

Comodoro Rivadavia

Ricardo picked us up on the outskirts of Trelew, a literal two-horse town with a picturesque main drag about two city blocks long. As promised, Daniel had dropped us off at a trucker stop right on the border of Trelew, where he had to be for some mysterious reason he hadn´t elaborated on. As much as people have cautioned against walking the highway and hoping for luck (for various reasons, the most obvious being that if you are caught in the middle of nowhere when night falls, you´re kind of screwed), it seemed like it was where all of our luck was being found. So, after a few failed attempts, we started hiking down the highway, chasing the afternoon sun, and in no time we hitched a ride. Easypeasy.

Ricardo pointed out a strange looking animal he called a Guanaco. It looked like a llama, but he insisted it was different, and continued to tell us about how he unknowingly ate its meat for some time. "Delicious," he said. "But they should have told me before I ate it." He paused for a moment as he passed a truck, then he continued, grave and serious, as if surviving the brief encounter gave more weight to our lives, "Here, any food that they say is Patagonica, assume it has Guanaco meat." 

We all fell silent for some time. Maybe from Ricardo's wisdom. Maybe from the persistent drone of the unchanging landscape. It seemed like we had all fallen asleep. It seemed as though even Ricardo had fallen asleep at the wheel, and by some Argentine voodoo, he was able to continue driving with his eyes closed, weaving through trucks and slower moving cars with unnatural ease.

A British tenor singing a Spanish song in the style of opera came on and almost as if on cue, the road changed. The monotonous flatness of the countryside morphed into hills and cliffs. And in response, the once faithfully straight road turned into a snake. Dark green foliage clung to the dusty red cliff sides, with canyon-like valleys carving through every so often, allowing glimpses of the dark blue calm of the sea to the east. All of this hung on the backdrop of a light blue sky smattered with white-washed clouds. It was beautiful. 

The cliffs grew in size, or the road carved closer to sea level, making the cliff look larger by way of optical illusion. Whichever may be the case, they became more impressive and I became more and more aware of my tiny, so easily measured mortality. As we entered the boundaries of Comodoro Rivadavia, the green no longer clung to the dusty red earth. Even the red faded. The earth was just dusty. 

The city of Comodoro Rivadavia was strange. After being on the open road for so long, drowning in such an unchanging landscape, suddenly being sandwiched in a city carved between cliffside and sea felt strange. Not good. Not bad. Just strange. There was an intangible awareness suddenly forced upon me. An awareness of what, I had no idea, but I wouldn't mind finding out. The city reminded me of the video game series, Zelda. Specifically, the cave city of the Gorons. The people running about industrious and serious, dwarfed by the scale of their surroundings. 

Butted right up against semi-skyscrapers, the dusty gray cliff loomed. On its face were carved lines, like wrinkles drawn in with a ruler, zigzagging with industrial vehicles made for mining deep into the earth, sucking out precious minerals. The cliff looked pale, like a tired old woman fighting some ailment born of being malnourished. 

The streets creeped up and down steep hills, reminding me of Ankara, Turkey. It was a city clinging to a cliff so ready to unburden itself of the foreign population, ready to let everything slide off at any moment. Probably from the mines, or the fact that many of the streets were nothing more than unpaved gravel paths, even the most minute of motions lifted dust into and around the air. Comodoro Rivadavia was shrouded in a constant cloud of dust.

La Ciudad Gris, Soledad had called it. The Gray City. Having never been, and only hearing of the city, she admitted that she had no idea why. Walking through Comodoro Rivadavia, I suddenly understood why.

Tanta tierra. Much earth.

A little after 6AM. Lyndon's alarm rang. 

Ignored. 

A few minutes passed and mine rang. 

Ignored. 

It's always hard to crawl out of bed, adventure or not. After soaking in the last remnants of warmth from my lent cot, I finally, rather begrudgingly, got up and prepped for the trek ahead. 

Filled water bottle, check. 

Camera wrapped and stowed, check. 

Snacks (very important), check. 

Lyndon got up from his cot and did the same. When we were ready, Lyndon knocked on Javier and Sol's door to let us out. I could never wake people up. Sleep has always held such a sacred space for me that I've always found it extremely difficult to cut anyone's dreams short. 

We hobbled down the stairs, still a bit asleep, out the front door, through the gate, hugged and kissed Javier and Sol and started heading off.

"Hasta la vuelta, chicos!" They chased us with one last sentiment. Until your return, kids!

It's always a little bit more difficult to hitch a ride within city limits, so with Javier's suggestion, we walked to a bus station and took a bus and got off at a trucker stop near the edge of the city. The same exact spot Miguel had dropped us off almost two weeks ago. The sun was just beginning to rise. We wandered around asking trucks for a hand in helping us continue on our journey. We hobbled around awkwardly striking up conversation with anyone behind a wheel for a few hours without any luck until Lyndon suggested that we walk down the national route and throw our thumbs up into the air, like we did at Bahía Blanca. Out of ideas myself, and feeling a bit low after being turned down so many times, I agreed. So we walked down the side of the highway, taking turns strumming random chords on the guitar while the other stuck out his thumb at anything with wheels.

Anyone who's hitchhiked anywhere will tell you that rejection is normal. Some go days without successfully hitching a ride. Luckily, Argentina's asphalted backbone, Ruta 3, had been kind. And in the crisp Patagonian air tampered by the hot sun blazing across the flatlands of southern Argentina, a black SUV veered off the road onto the gravelly shoulder of the highway. 

"You guys coming or not?" A middle-aged man's head popped out the window, yelling in our general direction.

Accommodating our packs into the back seat, we settled in, Lyndon in the back with the bags and me in the front. Without much more than a smile and a hey-how's-it-going, we were off. Most will say no, some will altogether ignore your existence like some phantom from a Jack Kerouac novel. But, luckily, all it takes is one smiling soul to pull over and the journey continues.

We did the normal pleasantries, introducing ourselves, describing our faraway homelands, searching for something in common for interesting conversation. His name was Daniel, and he liked to practice his English, so we spoke in this lingua franca, each straining to neutralize his accent. It took some time before Daniel even asked where we were heading. Ruta 3 is long, stretching north and south. Wherever we were heading didn't really matter, since we were heading south just as he.

"We're heading to Comodoro Rivadavia," I said, "we've got in touch with another traveler from that city and he's agreed to house us for a bit."

"Ahh, that's kind of him," Daniel said, not looking away from the road. "Well, I'm headed to Trelew, so I can't take you all the way there. But I can drop you off at a petrol station where a lot of truckers pass by so you should be able to make it to Comodoro Rivadavia by the afternoon."

"Great," I said smiling, still not fully believing our luck with hitchhiking. "That would be really helpful!"

The conversation drifted toward Australia and it's sun-drenched beaches. I looked out the window looking for the random llamas dotting the vast landscape. 

Tanta tierra. 

Much earth. 

The first ride.

Our shadows as we hitch-hike

We left the Estanga home a little after 7AM. The density of the night sky was already being cracked by slivers of light, but the sun still hadn't broken over the horizon. The patriarch of the home, Norberto, had pulled out a taped, torn, and re-taped map of Argentina and handed it to me, unfurled like a sail waiting to catch adventures.

"About 700 km," he said. "Bahía Blanca to Puerto Madryn." Two places I had only heard of in passing until very recently. "You can most definitely arrive to Puerto Madryn by the end of the day," he said, eyes to the ceiling, calculating in his head. Then, quickly adding behind a smile, "With a little luck, of course."

Of course.

We arrived at the YPF petrol station a little before half past. We got out of the car, heaved our heavy packs out of the trunk, and briskly said our goodbyes and see you laters as we shifted the masses on our shoulders, redirecting the weight to shifting legs. We wandered aimlessly around the station for what seemed like hours, following the sound of humming engines, searching for truck drivers revving up for a long haul. Taking turns, we awkwardly asked for rides south, down Ruta Nacional 3. Everyone said no, usually quoting a new company rule to not take on hitch-hikers. One guy even told us we were too ugly. Literally. Those words exactly. "You guys are too ugly."

In the cold wind I fingered the plastic bag of chocolates Lili, the matriarch of our home in Bahía Blanca, had packed for us. "In case you get hungry," she said to us with a look of concern. As if we genuinely had no clue what we were supposed to do when we felt hungry. You know, maybe eat something. I measured hunger against craving, and finally decided to save it for later.

At a little after 9AM, tired of the directionless pacing and the cold of the autumn air starting to seep into our bones, we decided to start walking alongside the highway and try our luck Holywood style, throwing out our thumbs and smiling big goofy grins, squinting against the strong sun of the southern hemisphere. Cars passed. Trucks passed. More cars passed. A few people waved. Most made a tiny, but visible swerve as soon as they saw us, like you would do if you saw a homeless man on the sidewalk you were walking down.

We were beginning to lose hope. Maybe we had made a mistake. These packs are heavy. Hitch-hiking isn't easy at all. We weren't 17-year-olds full of teenage angst looking for movie-style adventures before schlepping off to some expensive ivy league. We were educated professionals. I was hungry. The sun was beginning to hurt my eyes. Maybe this was a mistake. Who fucking hitch-hikes, anyway? What the fuck were we doing with our lives?

Finally, at around 10AM, a truck driver made eye contact and slowed down, coming to a full halt fifty meters or so in front of us. This was it, we were doing it! We half jogged, half skipped with excitement, up to his window and exchanged pleasantries while probably smiling way too much. He asked where we were heading, to which I replied, "As far south as possible."

He mumbled something about the south being vast and the word "south" being too vague. Something negative, and I could feel our first triumph slipping away.

"We have some friends in Puerto Madryn," I lied a little. We didn't technically know anyone in Puerto Madryn. Javier and Soledad were couchsurfers who had passed through Bahía Blanca, stayed one night with the Estanga family, and Ayelen contacted them before we left. We had never met and I don't think they even believed we were coming. But whatever, we weren't going to lose this victory over semantics. "We could talk to them to see if they could put us up for a few nights." He nodded pensively, weighing something invisible but heavy.

"Do you kids like mate?" he broke the awkward silence.

"Of course."

"Let's have some mate and talk about your trip a bit. Although, I must warn you, I take my mate with sugar."

I smiled and repeated a cheesy Argentine saying I'd come across a few times before, "Take mate with sugar when life is sweet, and bitter when life is bitter." He grunted and motioned us into his truck where he had a makeshift stove to heat up a little kettle. The herb was poured into the gourd, steel straw placed methodically in, the water, sufficiently hot, poured onto the herb, and we were sharing mate.

"I've got to make this delivery to Rio Gallegos, but I don't think I can take you that far south. Puerto Madryn, that sounds more possible."

"That's perfect!" I said, visibly relieved. He nodded with a faint smile, squinted at the road, revved the engine, and just like that, we were off; kettle still on the makeshift stove and mate gourd still full of hot water.

Bahía Blanca

Enjoying the sun in Plaza Rivadavia, Bahía Blanca, Argentina

We got off the train and stepped onto Bahía Blanca soil, dazed, confused, and with back pain. We had no idea where we were. There was an incredible lack of signage to orient oneself. We weren't even sure we were in Bahía Blanca, we just knew that it was the last station and everyone seemed to be getting off the train so we did as well. We stood there, suspended, squinted into the overcast sky and wondered in which direction to wander. I think it was around 9AM.

"We should probably go to a café or something for wi-fi," Lyndon said, directing words in my direction without turning.

"Probably," I replied without looking at him. I understood his concern was to somehow get a hold of the couchsurfer we had contacted while still in Buenos Aires to inform her that we'd arrived. But how do you say that without so many words? I tried to come up with an answer and ended up lost in my thoughts.

"So, in which direction do we go?"

I shrugged my shoulders, not looking to see if he saw the gesture, thus rendering it meaningless. After a bit of a pause, he crossed the street and veered toward the left, and so we started walking. I felt like I'd slept, but hadn't rested, if that makes any sense. Lyndon said a few things but they reached my ear in nothing more than the form of garbled sounds. Completely meaningless. I didn't feel like deciphering his Aussie accent so early in the morning. I felt like a zombie.

So, we walked. Aimlessly it seemed, and I was completely fine with it. Still trying to fully awaken myself while still trying to acclimate to the borrowed backpacker knapsack, my biggest concern was how to not topple over. I was used to traveling with a messenger bag. These past few years, I'd been running around South East Asia and you don't need much for jungle weather. But we were heading towards Antarctica. You need a lot more for colder climates, apparently. Like, you know, sweaters and socks and stuff.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, this girl leapt between Lyndon and I, and I nearly fell over. Never creep up behind a backpacker, balance is tricky with so much mass on your back. It was Ayelen, the couchsurfer we had contacted before arriving to Bahía Blanca. Apparently, she was on a bus heading for the train station to meet us when she saw us hobbling down the street. Recognizing us from our profile photos, she quicky got off the bus and ran over to us, in true couchsurfer spirit, panting but smiling.

Couchsurfing is fun because you never know what to expect. You sort of arrive and play by ear. This particular time, Ayelen, lived with her family. So we were pretty much adopted into her cozy home in Bahía Blanca. She had two sisters who were both lovely and emitted such infectious laughter. Her parents were also a lot of fun, the mother always worried we weren't eating enough and the father always cracking jokes with a straight face.

Our first night at the Estanga household, we made dinner. I made some chicken adobo and rice, of course. They all loved it. Of course. It was their first taste of Filipino food and I was glad to be a fat kid from Pampanga who grew up in the kitchen so I could proudly represent my country in food. After dinner we went to a bar across from the Universidad Nacional del Sur with one of Ayelen's sisters, Aymara. We drank a lot of beer, talked about traveling, some stuff about Brazil (Aymara had recently returned from a trip to Brazil), and some local dog breeder started talking to us. Every so often he would disappear to the restroom and reappear with pupils even more dilated. Yeah. Do with that piece of information as you will. On our way back to the house, Lyndon fell in love with a black cat with orange eyes. I wanted to play with it too so I picked it up but ended up scaring it and it ran away. Lyndon was very sad.

Our second night, Lyndon made some goulash, standard Hungarian fare. He also made some ANZAC biscuits, some sort of Aussie cookie with some interesting back-history as told by Lyndon, later corroborated by Wikipedia. They loved it all as well, and it was fun watching Lyndon try to explain himself in his limited Spanish. A lot of pantomiming.

Hitch-hiking is difficult when inside a big city. So the plan was to get as far south on a train as possible and to start hitching from wherever the train tracks ended. That was Bahía Blanca. We were planning to stay for a night or two, take a hot shower, then hit the road, thumbs pointing south. But on our second night, the Estanga family invited us to an asado, a typical argentine grill with delicious Argentine meats. And Norberto, the patriarch of the family offered to be the asador (griller and master of ceremonies), so who could say no? We sure as hell couldn't.

The asado was delicious. I had always seen matambre, a typical cut of meat, but I had never tried it. Holy baby Jesus in the manger surrounded by the twelve apostles or whatever it was, I fucking love matambre! Imagine a thin layer of meat topped by an equally thin layer of fat. Grilled. Crispy. Fat. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I asked why the funny name for such a delicious creation. Matambre sounds like a portmanteau of matar and hambre, Spanish words meaning "to kill" and "hunger," respectively. Norberto explained that due to it being so thin, it's usually the first cut of meat to be ready to eat. Thus, matambre kills your hunger while you're standing in front of a grill listening to the sweet symphony of sizzling meats and inhaling all that delicious goodness, patiently waiting for the meat-gasms to begin. Thank you University of Life for that lovely little lesson. Again, I love matambre.

Then there was the night we went to the university party. First we went to a previa, AKA a pre-game. We went to one of Aymará's friend's apartment on the other side of town. We played some sort of drinking game. I don't remember the name, but it gets you drunk very fast. My favorite rule was before drawing a card, you have to say, "Tomá por ser puta!" Which translates to, "Drink for being a whore!" Whores are designated by drawing a certain card. Fun, no?? Needless to say, by the time we got to the actual party in one of the local clubs, we were fairly inebriated. Long story short, Lyndon got lost and ended up sleeping on the front door step of the Estanga house, cuddling their dog for warmth.

Believe it or not, we did end up finally getting our act together and were able to continue on our journey.

The beginning of the trip.

Lyndon and Carlos discussing strategies to conquer Patagonia

As per last blog entry, I have embarked on a journey to Antarctica. Maybe. Thusly inasmuch heretofore my blog entries will be about hitch-hiking (read, trying to survive) Patagonia. Mostly. Maybe.

Author's note: I apologize for the weak photo-to-word ratio but I am blogging from a mobile app that confuses the bananas out of me. I promise to try to add photos when I get my act together and figure out this fancy technology.

Anywho, without much further ado, I present to you, The Beginning Of The Trip:

"What do you even want to do with that?" Carlos asked. Even in the thick darkness of the abandoned building, I could feel his right eyebrow raise as his right hand lifted to rub his left forearm, one of his ticks. Something he does as an attempt to make silence more tactile, less threatening.

We were standing in a room that Jorge Luis Borges himself had frequented, the office of the President of a printing press. I was holding acetate pages of a book, or a "pre-book" - the negatives of pages once printed here. I felt like I was holding ghosts, or at least, something truer to haunting phantoms that I'd ever come into contact with.

"I don't know," I replied. "Borges..." I trailed off. I wanted to say something profound. Somewhere along the lines of these being artifacts of a past suspended only within the vaults delineated by these abandoned walls. Something profound. But, I kept quiet instead, letting the heavy silence speak for itself. I've been doing that a lot lately. Letting the silence speak.

It's like the night sky. I imagined all that space getting jealous of the stars and all the songs that get sung about them. I imagined my silence was like the blackness of space, allowing the stars to standout. Either that, or switching between so many languages was beginning to render me mute.

"Well, here," Carlos picked up another book, it's plastic pages plastered together from the hot humidity of Porteño summers stacked one on top of the other. "You can take this and no one will probably notice." He pulled out a few pages from a nearly solidified block of plastic pages. I took the treasure into my hands, trying to wipe off what looked like dust, but must have been dried ink.

We climbed onto a back terrace and there, in between two buildings crumbling brick by brick, on cracked terra-cotta tiles next to some vines of ivy creeping across rusty railed windows, we lit up. Bellies full of wine and lungs full of smoke, we spoke about our insanity. A trip through Patagonia with winter quickly coming. We discussed hypothermia and frost bite and sunburn. I asked to borrow Carlos' identification documents, maybe it would allow for easier passage through the south. He said no.

"Thanks, Carlitos. I thought we were friends."

We walked back to Chanta's apartment in Balvanera. The Buenos Aires air was chilly. I pictured a world map in my head. Buenos Aires is by Brazil. Brazil is hot. Patagonia is the last stop before Antarctica. If I'm cold now, how will I survive this trip with hot island blood in my veins?

Back at Chanta's we drank more wine and filled up on the left-over chicken biryani she had cooked up earlier for our despedida. We played music from two different phones, listening to see where two completely different songs would briefly intertwine, causing chaos into harmony. We made music from music and fell asleep on couches.

It was early afternoon by the time we woke up. Chanta was brewing coffee and packing us cookies she had hidden the night before from Carlos' grubby hands. Carlos complained of a stomach ache and Chanta yelled at him for turning into a two-year old around freshly baked cookies. We sipped on the leftover wine as Chanta and Carlos continued to wonder if Lyndon and I actually understood the concept of how cold grows colder as you near Antarctica. Sipping on warm wine and cold coffee, we lingered in this close-knit friendship that had somehow formed for as long as we could. We checked our bags one more time and we headed out.

Chanta had to go to work so she hugged and kissed us goodbye at the door. "Don't leave me," she whined, slightly hunched over and hugging herself as we started to walk away.

"See you later, Chanta!" I replied, waving off the gravity of goodbyes.

We waited at the stop for a bus to Estación Constitución. Carlos laughed and said something along the lines of, "The train station at Constitución is probably the most dangerous part of your trip." We waited and waited. Buses passed but not the one we needed. Carlos laughed again, "You can't even get to the train station to start your trip!"

"You're just full of jokes today, aren't you, buddy?"

The bus finally came. A few more hugs exchanged. A little gift from Carlos, "To make the horrible train ride a little less horrible," he smiled. We awkwardly boarded the bus, obviously still acclimating to the weight of our packs, and we were off.

"We're actually doing it," Lyndon said as we sat on the train platform, waiting to board. "No turning back now."

"It hasn't hit me yet," I replied, trying to decipher his grin. Where does one journey end and another begin?

We boarded the train, Pullman Class, the most expensive. Not exactly a luxury sleeper cabin, but neither was it a cargo car. I didn't want to imagine how the more "economic" stagecoaches looked like. I've been in worse, I thought, as we heaved our backpacks onto the railings above the seats meant to store luggage, thinking back to that 18 hour train ride from Bangkok to Chiangmai.

Another anniversary. Almost.

When I first began this journey almost three years ago, I didn't really know what I was doing nor what to expect. All I could feel was this overwhelming need to be somewhere else, to be everywhere else. I had a lot of ideas but no particular direction. So I sold my car to a friend and hit the road. East, I said. From San Francisco to New York. Hit as far east as I could in the United States. More east, I said. Explored Asia and South East Asia. Now what? West, maybe? Arrived in Buenos Aires, Argentina with a knapsack of random Spanish words and an inkling of grammar and syntax.

Ok, now what? Maybe actually learn Spanish properly?

Who knows, pantyhose. Who motherfuckin' knowsen, lederhosen.

When I first arrived, I tried to work on a polo ranch, but that failed. So I continued writing my 12 cent articles and picked up random gigs at hostels to avoid paying rent. Couchsurfed. Couchsurfed a lot. Taught some yoga, worked in bars, worked in a restaurant, tried to start my own restaurant. And somewhere along the way, I made a little family of friends. Random misfits from all over the globe, for some cosmic reason, coming to Buenos Aires, fitting perfectly into the nooks and crannies of my heart. And I learned to smile from the inside.

For the first time in a long time I thought, I could stay here. I can stop moving.

But, in a few weeks shy of a year, I find myself hitch hiking to the southernmost tip of the world, scheming free passage into Antarctica. And why, I ask myself. All I can answer (to myself, because I'm a little insane) is... Why the fuck not?

I don't know where I am going with this, but that's not to say I don't have a point. Everything has a point, a reason. I imagine the universe as an infinite body of water, calm and turbulent at the same time. Every action, every thought, every held breath sends outward ripples. Ripples colliding with other ripples, syncopating sine and cosine waves, making beautiful tapestries of patterns on a surface that is constantly undulating, forever transforming.

So, here's a ripple. Maybe someday it will meet another ripple, and in the pattern they make together, some sort of meaning will be born.

Revisiting Turkey

About two years ago, a good buddy of mine and I got the awesome idea that it would be pretty damn rad to celebrate Turkey Day in Turkey, you know, the country with Istanbul as one of its cities. Yes, I know. We were also pretty stoked about having such an incredible idea and making it reality.

Anywho, needless to say, it was one of the best trips of my life. I kind of wish I had begun blogging about my travels a lot earlier in life. Oh well, shoulda, coulda, woulda. You can, however, check out some of the pics I took on that trip on my Flickr Photostream. In the meantime, here's another little photo-story of some good times. Enjoy!

While exploring this unforgivably harsh landscape, we see a tiny figure off in the distance.

Having no real direction in our wandering, we decide to climb toward the strange figure.

The distant figure turns out to be a stout, old Turkish man who speaks no English whatsoever dressed in a three-piece suit - in the middle of an arid desert riddled with caves. A full suit. I'm pretty sure the suit was made of wool.

The well-dressed old man proceeds to show us a ring of skeleton keys attached to a string attached to a belt loop and he beckons us to follow him. Odd as this encounter may seem, we follow him. The spritely old fellow shames us as our unaccustomed feet find much difficulty in keeping up with the nimble old man's pace across the sandy, volcanic cliff sides.

After following the jolly old fellow for an awkwardly long time, we come upon a dark hole hidden in a small corner of the sheer side of a cliff. We nervously peer into the cold blackness, half awaiting to be ambushed by desert bandits wearing sand in their hair.

As our eyes adjust, the most magnificent view materializes before our sun-ravaged eyes. An ancient basilica with vivid frescoes of antiquity suddenly jump from the bleakness of the cave. Needless to say, we stood agasp at the miraculous sight we have somehow come to behold.

Wanderlust Wednesday [5]

For this edition of Wanderlust Wednesday, I am stoked to present duo travelers, childhood sweethearts, Erica and Shaun. They are living the dream - together! I know, unbearably sweet, right?  Be sure to check out their photos and buy some prints of their awesome photography!

Name - Shaun and Erica Kuschel (look that name up in German, it drives Shaun insane.)

Site - You can find us at http://www.overyonderlust.com!

Occupation - Well, right now we both do not officially have jobs (it is hard to convince your boss to have a year sabbatical in the video game industry) but before, I (Erica) was a wedding photographer and pedicabber and Shaun was a manager for Blizzard Entertainment.

Birthplace - I was born in Laredo, Texas (and brought up in El Paso for 13 years) and Shaun was born and raised around Mesa, Arizona. I would try to explain my ethnic background but it is too confusing with 1/16 of this, 1/32 of this, 1/3 of blah.

Current Location - Our hearts belong to our hometown of Austin, Texas. We have yet to find a place that suits our fancy like home.

Trips Made - Well, our list is quite "short" for now. Ask us again in a year and it will have doubled in size. We have been to Barbados (honeymoon), Japan, United Kingdom, Spain, Mexico, Cuba, Belize and Guatemala.

Trips on the List - After our South American tour we are hoping to head to Southeast Asia!

Featured trip - I think one of my favorite memories was drinking with salarymen in Osaka, Japan. We were lead into this hole in the wall bar by this awesome guy wearing black rimmed, square glasses, a golfer hat, and a Hilary Clinton shirt - where people were watching bad movies like Biker Boyz. The bartender brought out a bottle of Cuervo and we played a card game. Lowest card had to take a shot of tequila. I would just like to notify you that my Texas drinking ability does NOT match that of the salarymen who drink every night in Japan. I had to be carried home 8 shots of tequila later. Regardless, I still reminisce about the people that we drank with that night. Good times.

Teach, learn, share - We're lucky that Shaun used to be a mechanic so when we come across people who are in need of mechanic help, Shaun is always willing to help. I take pretty pictures and unless someone wants to know how to work a camera, yeah, I'm not much help. We both are always wanting to learn Spanish so I would love to keep practicing with people!

Worst Hostel - Playa del Carmen: We arrived when it was hot and raining outside. Our gear was wet and our clothes were soaked through. Even though it was supposed to be low season, it seemed as though this hostel was booked full and just enough beds left for Shaun and I - except in different rooms... on different floors. When I was led to my bed I noticed that I had the top bunk and something integral was missing. What was it? Oh yeah - the MATTRESS. I was already unimpressed as this room had no windows and probably the most disgusting bathroom I had seen to date. I think you could get herpes just looking at it. We were told a mattress would be placed on it later and to go out and have a good time - which we did and got back to the hostel at 2am. Slightly drunk I stumble into the hostel room and notice I am still mattress-less. Shaun and I ended up sharing his very small twin size top bunk with no protective railings all night.

Needless to say we left very early that next morning.

Do you have any tattoos? - Shaun and I have quite a few. I have my "ode to Texas" chestpiece complete with yellow roses, a horseshoe, and guns. My right arm has a half sleeve of Oogie Boogie from Nightmare Before Christmas and on my wrist, a matching sugar skull (Dia de los Muertos) that Shaun has on his left wrist. Shaun on the other hand has his last name on his back and an "ode to hot rod Chevys" chestpiece.

We would like to get work done on the road but I'm not sure if we will. I used to work in a tattoo shop for 3 years so I'm super picky about who gets to work on me.

What's in the bag?

Almost a year on the road. Camping in the great American Wilderness. Torrential downpours in Singapore. Eating only God knows what in Macau.  Mosquito swarms in Indonesia. Cave-diving in the Philippines. Poutine in Canada.

And that was just a partial list of the crazy shit I've been subjecting my soft and easily bruised body to. So, how am I still alive and not curled up in a ball somewhere in a rainforest, trying to ward off leptospirosis with vinegar and cranberry juice? I am not entirely sure, to be perfectly honest.

I can tell you, however, of the awesome gadgets and knick-knacks I've been using that make life as a poor nomad totally doable on this episode of WHAT'S IN THE BAG? **in best Alex Trebek impersonation **



1. Timbuk2 Messenger Bag - Seems natural to start with the actual bag in this game of What's in the Bag? Right? Timbuk2 is a great company that makes uber durable bags out of waterproof material. The reason I prefer this to the regular backpacker bag is because I am not a hardcore backpacker so I don't need all that bag for my portable stove and machete, or whatever it is you crazy adventurists pack. Also, I do not like sticking out as an obvious traveler. Call me paranoid, but I'd rather not be an easy target for tourist scams, pickpockets, kidnappings, or torture-and-murder-for-fun-a-la-Hostel-the-movie. Sorry, but I'm just not into that stuff. Also, Timbuk2 is a San Francisco based company, so you know that not only will your bag last forever, it's also full of happy feelings and good vibes.

2. Katadyn Water Filtration bottle - I have had explosive diarrhea a handful of times during this newly acquired traveler lifestyle. Usually because I was retarded and drank local, unfiltered water  in the form of ice (which brings me to a good travel advisory, even if you drink only bottled water when traveling, a lot of the time ice isn't filtered so don't go pouring your bottled water into a glass full of dirty ice - kind of defeats the purpose). Without this bottle, I'd probably have huge tapeworms in my belly, or something equally, if not more, disgusting and terrifying. Hell, people in Newark, NJ should probably invest in these as well.

3. Headlamp with Lantern Attachment - I cannot express how awesome this thing is. It comes in handy whenever there's no light, obviously. This whole electricity going out without warning thing (AKA, blackouts) actually happens pretty often in the developing world. It's annoying when all the lights suddenly go out. Not to mention, a little creepy as you start to hear all the noises of the night slowly getting louder. Screw candles because who wants to light a fire in the middle of a jungle? It's already fucking hot and sticky as the devil's sphincter, no need to add to the misery. So, pull out your trusty headlamp! The reason I love this particular Mammut headlamp is it comes with a nifty lantern attachment. The attachment turns the directional lighting of the headlamp into a softer dispersed lighting, just like a lantern. How neat is that?? Definitely great when you're in a dark house and not a mine shaft. Also, great for reading at night. 

4. Teva Sandals - These things are literally indestructible. I've waded through bum-high flood waters,  hiked on stony caveman-esque trails, and even walked through Chicago's South Side in these puppies and not only am I still alive, my feet feel amazing! They're like walking on clouds and they haven't deteriorated one bit. Okay, they have a little, but only because someone's dog got a hold of one of them and made violent, animalistic love to it. I wanted to stop him but I was kind of entranced by the whole event. Also, I didn't want to catch its rabies.

5. The North Face Trail Running Shoes - These shoes are great. Durable and lightweight. My Teva sandals weigh more than these shoes, which kind of boggles my mind. They are made mostly of this mesh material that let your feet breathe and water can get in and out pretty easily. I have run 10K on paved roads and I've gone spelunking in these shoes. Comfortable and very versatile. When I'm feeling fancy, I wear them with argyle socks. 

6. Electric Shaver - Just because you're a nomad doesn't mean you have to look like a stinky hermit. Personal hygiene is very important. There is merit in shaving every now and then so you don't look like a crazy person. I don't use razors because they are too abrasive and cause rashes on my sensitive and supple skin. I use this electric shaver because it has its own cleaning system. The cleaning cartridges last a long time. I haven't had to change the cartridge in months. But then again, that might just be because I'm Asian and not Irish. Yeah, that's right, some stereotypes are true.

7. Acer Netbook in sexy, sexy Sapphire Blue - This is how I stay sane. This is my connection to civilization. It's tiny and lightweight but it has WiFi and a camera and all the basic programs I need. I can keep in touch with loved ones via video chat, I can make a little money writing freelance, and what's most importantly of all, I can blog. Oh yeah, I just figured out how to install Angry Birds onto my netbook. Pretty stoked about that.

8. Nikon D90 DSLR Camera - My camera kit is by far the biggest, most important thing in my bag. All the clothes I pack? Yeah, they're just there to cushion my badass buddy, my recording device and best friend. I've abused this little sucker like a trailer park baby mama and yet it still gives me amazing shots. In all my romping around, it's still holding up and refuses to leave my side. 

9. On the Road by Jack Kerouac - This, in my humble opinion, is a must read for anyone in search of that something else which is hard to name, for anyone wanting to fill themselves to the brim with possibilities and get drunk on pure exhilaration. I must admit that this is a half-lie because before leaving the great US of A,  I gave my copy of On the Road to one of my most beloved peeps in the world. But I do have a copy of the Dharma Bums in my bag. Not as good as On the Road, though, so I am pretending it's still in my bag. Just play along.

10. Notebooks - No, not NETbooks. NOTEbooks. Yeah, you know, as in writing with an actual pen across real paper. Novel idea, I know, but I'm somewhat of a writer (pun intended). I love small Moleskines because I am an artsy fartsy hipster who puts notebooks in his back pocket. I particularly like brightly colored ones like the one pictured here because they are attention grabbers. They stand out and scream, YES, I HAVE THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS AND I LIKE TO WRITE THEM DOWN! ALSO, I MIGHT DOODLE EVERY NOW AND THEN!









11. Aviators - Nothing says swagger like a nice pair of aviators. Also, on a more practical note, prolonged exposure to UV rays can kill your eyes. Whenever looking at eye wear, make sure they provide 100% UV protection and that they are polarized so that they reduce glare. Glare is lame. These aviators are all of the above. And I swear, these Ray Bans are indestructible. I have stepped on them, slept in them, dropped them into places I'd rather not name, and still they live. I've had my pair for three years now and all they have to show from my abuse is a few scratches.

12. A Lighter - Now, I don't know about you but I am no Boy Scout. I never had to do any nature stuff in exchange for rad pins. Consequently, I never learned how to make fire, which it turns out is pretty damn difficult. Traveling, I always have the need for fire for some reason or another. Since coming face to face with my total and crippling ineptitude at starting a fire from scratch in Yellowstone, of all places, I have saved myself a lot of grief and invested in lighters. I normally use those really cheap lighters you pick up at the checkout counters right next to the gum and tabloid magazines, but for display purposes, here's a fancy Zippo lighter with a pretty sweet zipper design on it. I know, right? How clever!

Well, that about does it for the contents of my bag. A good, strong, dirty dozen. I mean, obviously, I have other things like my passport, a toothbrush, clean underwear, etc. But they don't really count as "essentials for a traveler." I can do without underwear, but I will not live without my camera. 

And no, this is not just shameless product endorsement because I've become a sellout. I really do use all of this stuff... It just so happens that you can get them all on Amazon.com. And if you do order said items via the links I've provided, I get paid a commission at no cost to you. How convenient is that? Next thing you know, you'll be ordering all of this stuff and joining me on my crazy adventure. See you soon? And oh, if you do come, please bring tacos. I especially enjoy buche and lengua. Gracias!

Besos y abrazos,

Erick

Batik from Bali, anybody?

While traipsing around Indonesia, daring each other to drink kopi luak (coffee made from fermented beans literally shat out by cats), I noticed a bunch of guys in dresses. Yep, EXTREMELY good times.

The sarong, also affectionately known as the Asian Kilt, is still very much in use in Indonesia. And I must say, it is great. Do you know how hot it is in that jungle? Goddamn, now I know why girls love wearing skirts. It's breezy! And yes, real men go commando under their sarongs.

Batik is this amazing thing that is made in South East Asia. It is a specific type of cloth that is created in a specific way (more on the process in a bit). In Indonesia, you can find the decorative cloth being used in a variety of ways, from collared shirts to handkerchiefs to place mats to man-dresses.

Here are a two examples of popular batik sarong styles as worn by men:

Fashion forward dude chillin' in a great shirt that brings out the highlights and patterns on his batik sarong. He's also accessorized with a cute little salmon sash. Kind of wish he'd gone with a complimentary color for the sash to better accent his waist, but hey, to each his own.

Look numero dos is another popular way men show off their beautiful batik. The look is achieved by layering a simple sarong with a very tamed trim above a more intricately designed batik pattern to subdue what could easily become tacky. The fancy front knot (a little difficult to see in this shot) also brings the sarong just high enough to smartly display his sturdy mankles. The dapper gentleman definitely understands that in fashion, sometimes less is more.

While in Indonesia, I was fortunate enough to visit a batik studio and got to see first hand how these precious pieces of jungle couture are made. It's a fascinatingly laborious process.

Now, LeVar Burton on Reading Rainbow style: Listen closely, friends, as I share with you the lessons I've learned!

Tools of the trade. On the upper right-hand corner are blocks of solid wax which are melted in the bowl-wax-melter-thing (red contraption to the left of the wax). Beneath the wax is an array of wooden handles with metal spouts which are filled with the melted wax before it's applied to the fabric. They also use stamps (square carved with the rooster), to apply intricate patterns to the fabric much faster.

Before the fabric can become batik, the designer decides which patterns will go on her carte blanche. Some patterns are predetermined by templates, but some batik artists, like this fine woman, just goes at it freehand. She draws from centuries-old patterns with each having its own meaning. For example, certain patterns can show where you're from, your social status, your thoughts of the weather, etc.

To get the show started, the batik artist takes one of the wooden handles and fills the cup on the tip with melted wax. The wax then drips down as she draws on complicated patterns handed down from generations upon generations of cultural history. The woman on the left was way ahead of the other woman and was all like, jeez girlfriend, hurry yo' ass up so we's can get paid coz I needs mah skrill to buy milk coz my baby daddy been left for Brunei like months ago and the lazy bastard sill ain't sent us no child support! And the other woman was all like, psshh chica, don't be rushin' me, you gotta chill coz we in paradise tho mija.

After the wax dries, the batik artist dips the entire piece of cloth in a single color of dye. The wax prevents the dye from coloring the cloth so you get a cool looking negative. Once the dye dries, the batik artist goes over the cloth again with wax and dips it again in dye to get another layer of color. This woman is only two colors in, but look at how awesome it looks already. I love how the jungle sun hits the opaque wax and dyed cloth. It's kind of poetic, or something.

The waxing and dying process is repeated over and over again until the design has been fully colored in and the cloth is laid out to dry one last time before the entire cloth is dipped in a solution that melts the wax off, revealing the product of hours upon hours of tedious work.

After countless hours of drawing and dripping and waxing and dying and drying and re-melting and such, the final product is something like this. A symphony of colors and patterns. Then, they charge you up to thousands of dollars (US) for pieces of cloth you can't wear outside of Indonesia and Malaysia without looking like a complete hippie. Yay, culture!

Travel advisories are pretty useful.

This may sound silly, but it might be a good idea to check if a country you are about to visit is at war or not. Monsoon season is about to start in the Pacific tropics right now, but nothing makes torrential downpours more unbearable than bullets and bombs. Real talk.

If you've been following the news, the increased violence in the world might not be new to you, but this index puts all the numbers together. Here are a few of the staggering key findings:

The world is less peaceful for the third straight year due to the following:

• An increased threat of terrorist attacks in 29 nations
• A greater likelihood of violent demonstrations in 33 countries
• Arab Spring unrest heralds biggest ever change in rankings, Libya tumbles 83 spots
• Somalia displaces Iraq as world’s least peaceful nation
• Violence cost the global economy more than $8.12 trillion in 2010

Mind-bottling, right? Want more? Well, i've always been one to oblige, so here's a nifty little video outlining the metrics used for the Global Peace Index.

So next time you start planning a trip, while looking up the weather forcasts, don't forget to consult the Global Peace Index Map as well. It just might save you a lot of grief, and maybe even a limb or two.

Happy travels!

Wanderlust Wednesday [4]

For this Wanderlust Wednesday, I am very excited to introduce Krys Simon, one of the most beautiful people you will ever meet. Beauty that doesn't just run skin deep but one that emanates from the depths of her soul, manifesting itself in everything she touches with her talented hands. I cannot praise her enough for all of the amazing things she has done and continue to do. I hope you enjoy her stories as much as I do!

Name - Krys Simon

Site - www.kryssimon.com, www.superlaughter.yelp.com, www.kryssimonsays.blogspot.com

Occupation - Professor Associate at California State University (East Bay), while selectively freelancing in web design and iPhone/iPad app development.

Birthplace - Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. 100% Filipina, 100% Sucka Free.

Current Location - California girl, still in love with the bay…

(Golden Gate Bridge, California)

Trips Made - US (Oregon, New Mexico, Arizona, Virginia, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, DC, Virginia, Florida, Hawaii), Canada (Montreal and Quebec City), Mexico (Ensenada, Puerto Vallarta, Cabo San Lucas, Guadalajara), Philippines Islands (Pampanga, Baguio, San Fernando, Luzon, Angeles, Quezon City, Manila, Boracay), Brazil (Sao Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, and some area in the Amazon), Peru (LIma and Callao), Australia (Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne), Italy (Florence and San Gimignano), China (Hong Kong and Macau)

(Puerto Vallarta, Mexico)

Trips on the List - Heading out to Berlin soon and will probably venture out around Europe during my stay. Shortly afterwards, I plan on visiting a good friend in Beijing and will probably venture out as well (hopefully I'll get to rendezvous with my long lost cousin along the way). I'm also currently applying to several humanities grants for our research thesis project on the Tibetan Book of the Dead, which will fund our backpacking trip around India.

I'd like to visit the family in Australia sometime next year and hit up New Zealand along the way. I hear the surf and the wildlife there are phenomenal! I've also been wanting to visit Alaska too and then continue island hopping around the Philippines. Next stop, Cebu!

(Freshly "enhanced" Brazilian national monument, Sao Paulo)

Featured trip - This was in 2007 during our stay in Brazil, my then-boyfriend and I had just spent a day traipsing around the favelas, sippin' on Guarana. After hitting up a dope ass Chemical Brothers show in Sao Paulo, on the drive back home, we were stopped by what looked like guerrilla terrorists with their rifles and all. Forced out of the car, they raided the shit out of us. I totally thought I was gonna get raped and was ready to die in attempts to judo kick their ass. But Dolfo seduced them in portuguese somehow, mentioning that we were coming back from a Chemical Brothers concert. Apparently, they were also CB fans and started choppin' it up like we were all homies. Pat on the back and an escort back home, we made it back to Dolfo's place safe and sound. The following morning, we take a plane ride to the Amazons to spend a few days at their private resort (his parents were head physicists at GE Brazil so they had hookups). That trip was pretty intense.

(Masantol Elementary School, Pampanga)

Teach, learn, share - "My culture gives me fire. My people give me strength. My words are a declaration of will. My work and my actions are a shout out to the world that no one is going to tell me what to do." Growing up female, first generation Filipino, and American, I've always understood how truly privileged I am of all this opportunity my family has worked so hard for, so that I don't have to live in a state of revolution they went through for me. Traveling alone is a simple reminder of that.

Despite the poverty I've encountered during my travels, I've found the most kindness and generosity from the very people living in it, and I try to carry that with me back in the States. When I feel that I've lost touch with that humility and gratitude, drowning in my hipster pretentiousness and self-entitlement, it means that it's time to take another trip back home. I'll island hop and get those highs again, where everything shines with boundless potential, and i'll remember again never to take my life for granted.

So I guess my tip to you all is… just fucking travel! I can only hope that it will broaden your mind and open the doors to self-awareness. As it should.

(Fishball vendor, San Fernando)

Worst food - I'm always down with street food. ALWAYS. Even if it means sitting on a toilet for a day. Don't be surprised to find me in some random street stall, hovering over a vat of hot oil, poking at all that fried deliciousness. But there was this one dish I had in Hong Kong that every local recommended, chou doufu or deep-fried stinky tofu. This fermented tofu dish was served with some kind of thick hoisin sauce that smelled like heaven. But after one bite, I thought something died in my mouth. It tasted so putrid!

Pig blood? No problem. Under-developed duck eggs? Delicious. But stinky tofu? Hells no.

(Financial District, Hong Kong)

Do you have any tattoos? - My mother and father's first name are written above my wrist and their last names below my triceps (mother on right side and father on left side, respectively). "Hope" in hebrew is located on my right forearm, "Fear" in hebrew on my left forearm, and a large phonograph below it. Rodolfo's name is on my left wrist. "What nurtures you destroys you" in Latin is written along my left rib cage. An octopus (my sister/power animal) hovers along the bottom right side of my back and thigh. A couple of her tentacles are wrapped around a branch of cherry blossoms, which covers the left side of my back and shoulder. I have a yin yang behind my neck, 510 inside my lip, my birthdate behind my left thigh and a crying minotaur from Radiohead's Amnesiac album above it.

Yeah, I've got a lot of tattoos but I've already made the decision to have my body covered eventually. There's no rush though, I've got my whole life to do so and I would love to tattoo and get tattooed during my travels soon.