Traveler's Life

After an eight-hour layover, followed by a thirteen-hour flight, I arrived in Germany.  The flight was pleasant, much to the credit of prince Valium.  Eight hours of sleep and I was feeling relatively rested.  I zipped the pant legs on my shorts, brushed my teeth and ran my fingers through my hair.  I was ready.  After a very smooth, German type of landing and customs I venture out into the terminal.

I wasn’t ready.

The colors, the weather, and friendly people of South America were gone.  I looked outside the terminal and realized I had landed during an early-season snow. The days were also much shorter. The color black, from head to toe, looked like the only fashionable thing to wear. Most of the Germans were caught up in the piss-off, merry-fucking-Christmas attitude.  I couldn’t blame them. I knew it would be like that in the States, too.

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It was December 19th, the official three-month mark of my trip abroad. I awoke to the sounds of baboons fighting and the bells that hung from the necks of the Masi cattle.  It was 6 a.m.   I stepped out of my tent, took a deep breath and saw my breath. It was actually chilly.  On the horizon, I was privileged with a beautiful sunrise.  In the distance there were faint wisps of clouds which appeared to be on fire and growing brighter by the second.  My first night of safari had been a treat.  I had slept soundly.  It was a great way to start into my fourth month overseas.  As the others of the group slowly wandered in there was a definite feeling of excitement.  We enjoyed a good breakfast of eggs, toast, and sausage.  Almost all you could eat.  We all woofed our breakfasts down and jumped into the van.  We were off!

As we traveled towards the gate of Masi Mara Park, we saw many Masi people that were very distinguishable.  The men all wore a light red blanket for clothing.  Many of the blankets had a plaid pattern. (I wondered if the Masi men realized that each different plaid represented a clan of people in Ireland).  In addition, each Masi man carried a two-foot-long knife sheathed on his hip and a two-foot-long club. Most of the clubs were made of carved wood. Occasionally the club would be made of carved wood with a very large 2 1/2-inch metal bolt screwed in at the top, where the normal club head would be. When you held either club it was easy to see how they both made a highly effective weapon. In addition to their knives and clubs, each man carried either a short 1-inch diameter walking stick or a spear.

Both the men and the women wore brightly colored, beaded bracelets and necklaces. The beads represented their standing in the tribe.  Some of the women wore beads pierced into their earlobes, which were stretched up to five inches in diameter.  The men also had large earlobes. Occasionally a heavy ornament hung from them, but most of the men looped their earlobe over the top of their ear to avoid tearing them.  I was told that it was a great disgrace to the entire tribe if anyone allowed the piercing in their earlobe to be torn.  I silently wondered if they had any idea how hip they would be in any of the body piercing shops or moshpits at home. Then there was footwear.  The footwear of the Masi varied dramatically.  I have seen everything from barefoot through the bush to wing tips, Converse low tops to sandals made of old tires.  (Many people have asked me what I had to trade a Masi to get my sandals. Seldom could they believe that I had bought them in Peru from the local people.)

How these tall, very slender and fit people could simultaneously coexist with modern society; the occasional pair of shorts under their blanket, modern footwear and maybe even a watch sometimes, was nothing short of amazing.

As the Masi men tended the cattle, the young boys took care of the goats. Occasionally women could be seen walking along the very rough road with children or firewood, or along the river washing clothes.  All the people seemed to be friendly; especially the kids, they always waved.  The one exception to this rule was discovered as one of our group stood to take a photo of the children as we passed by.  As the camera was pointed at them, the kids all dived for cover, hiding behind bushes or whatever they could find.  Most Masi were Christianized and didn’t believe a camera would hurt you. The hiding was more due to the fact that the kids were tired of people taking their pictures all the time. Most only allowed their picture taken if you paid them.

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“How much to take me to the airport?”

“6000 shillings.”

“I’ll give you 3000 shillings.”

“O.K., 4000 shillings, let’s go.”

“NO! 3000 shillings, do you want it or not?”

“O.K. O.K. 3500 shillings, we go now.”

“FUCK OFF!”

“O.K. 3000 shillings, lets go.”

I got in the taxi.

It is amazing how much better your negotiating skills become the longer you travel and the more comfortable you become in a foreign environment.  With this small cost-of- a-ride victory under my belt, I was finally on my way to the airport in Zanzibar, Tanzania. I was beginning a travel day, which would be more than twenty-four hours long if all went well.  I had spent almost four days and $50.00 in phone calls with the Lufthansa office in Dar Salaam.  (This brings up a notable point.  No matter how good a company is in the Western world, plan on them being just like everybody else in the Third World.)

According to the office in Dar Salaam, everything was taken care of and they would have my new ticket waiting for me in Nairobi with only a four hour layover, completely re-routed to London.  All I needed to do was pay my $75.00 re-route fee and everything would be O.K. Being a muzungu, (Swahili for white man), who had seen just how efficient African commerce and communication really wasn’t, combined with an expired, used up, single-entry visa for Kenya, along with the complete assurance of the travel agent who sold me the flight from Zanzibar–the same man you could ask if you could shove a lit stick of dynamite up his ass and he would always reply with the same answer, no problem Bwana, (Swahili for Sir), the world will end tomorrow, your head is on fire, you don’t understand a word I say, the dog is nailed to the wrong side of the door, the response was always the same, ‘No Problem, Bwana’–my landing in and sorting out of my ticket in the most corrupt east African nation of Kenya should make for an interesting afternoon.

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A 7000-cubic-inch suitcase stuffed, fully loaded, with over sixty pounds of supplies; tent, sleeping bag, stove, frying pan, eight changes of clothes, coffee pot, and God only knows what else. That was how I took my first solo trip abroad. By the time my trip was over six weeks later I had sold, lost, thrown away or cursed carrying three quarters of the stuff I’d packed.

So please, learn from my mistake. IF YOU DON’T NEED IT, LEAVE IT. That’s the only rule for packing for a trip abroad, which believe it or not can be the most important part of the trip.

If you don’t need it, leave it. I can’t say it enough.

You can almost always tell the seasoned traveler from the new kid on the block simply by the size of their pack. The pack I use now is a small, 2100-cubic-inch backpack. It works perfect as a carry on everywhere I go. Sometimes, it is a real treat to see the professional traveler, someone who has been on the trail for years. These travelers usully have a bag smaller then a lot of purses, with some extra underwear, a toothbrush and a good book. When you think about it, what more do you really need?

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The following is a story I wrote while I was in a Buddhist Monastery in Katmandu. I was feeling very nostalgic.

Don’t Dwell on the Past

The past is exactly that; the past. You can’t bring it back nor can you change it. Still, we all have regrets about things that happened in the past. I would estimate that there isn’t a person on the planet over five-years-old who doesn’t regret something from their past.

We all know that regret is a waste of time, and that dwelling on our past is self-destructive. By the same token, there are certain events from our past that we should not forget. Remembering an event–good, bad or indifferent– is how we learn and grow. However, there is a big difference between dwelling and remembering. Dwelling on an event from the past is the surest way to a closed mind and emotional stagnation.

There are countless examples of different things we might regret from the past; relationships that went sour,  our sixth-grade bully, cheating on a second-grade spelling test, getting fired. Maybe you got a great job promotion or won the high school football championship. All of these are simply events from the past.

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Hearing the water lap gently against the gunnels, I smell fresh, clear air mixed with diesel fuel as our small boat chugs along Lake Titicaca.

Our first destination is the Uros Islands. These small islands in South America are man-made and have been used by the native people for generations.

Reeds are the life-force of this band of floating nomads. Reeds are also the raw material used to build the boats the natives fish with. They are a source of food, are used for home construction, and reeds are even bunched and woven together to form the islands the natives live on.

Before today I had only heard about these remote islands, islands on which the residents float gently around on one of the highest lakes in the world. Warm, high-altitude sun beats on my face as a cool, gentle breeze blows down the back of my neck. The first leg of our eight-hour boat ride nears to a stop. Our captain, smelling of damp wool and no shower, smiles a coca-leafed smile and slows the engine. Chug..chug.. chug… a bow line is secured to a large wooden post with a creek of the rope.

Our cheesy band of backpacker tourist begins to exit the boat. Each person jumps about five feet from the deck onto the floating island. It sounds like kids playing in a hayloft. Alas, it is my turn as I land with a crunch and immediately feel my brain kick-start the part used for balance. It feels like standing on the old waterbed I had in college. I shift my weight and feel one foot sink a little deeper into the reed matt, reveling in childish enjoyment.

Suddenly I’m very young and back in my parent’s basement looking at a National Geographic, lying on the floor, wrapped in an old quilt that smells safe; like Grandma. I don’t think I could read very well at that time, but I definitely remember those pictures, the pictures of floating island made of reeds.

Smiling, thinking back to my youth in Nebraska, I see that even though it may have taken a few years I now know the ground really does move when you walk on the floating Uros Islands of Lake Titicaca.

Music of Thelonious Monk is playing in the background. The tiny back-alley café is filled with warm light and fresh smells. I am enjoying the best banana pancakes in Katmandu. Pauline and Andrea, new friends, are trying to talk me into going to a meditation workshop at the Kopan Monastery.

I’m torn. This year-long trip around the world is moving fast and my stay in Nepal is short, only three weeks. I had been planning to hike the Anapurna Circuit filled with teahouses and incredible views. Besides, I’m not a big meditator. In fact I’ve never meditated in my life and it sounds kind of cultist. What would my Mom back in Nebraska think? I don’t want to be brain washed, clothed in a flowing moo-moo while dancing around, day and night singing Kum-ba-ya, fed on only half a cup of oatmeal. I drink, I smoke and I swear. I’m happy with my own little version of spirituality. Those Monks would hate me. I’m a heathen compared to the life I assume they live.

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A Difficult Question

A sharp pain, focused on the right side of my neck, spreading to my head and halfway down my back woke me up. I was cuddled beside my beautiful wife, under a Hudson Bay trapper blanket and down comforter, topped with a quilt my grandmother made as a child. We were at our second home, a small condo nestled in the woods at 9300 ft in Summit County, Colorado. The fire in the front room had gone out and it was cold. I told myself, “I’ll just go back to sleep, all I need is rest and this awful headache will go away. It didn’t work. Sitting up, I felt the cold rush over my naked chest. I cocked my head to the side, praying to hear that wonderful pain-relieving crack. I stretched from one side to the other, again, no luck. It felt as if I had only made the vice on my neck tighter. I decided to try the chemical, hot shower and positive thinking approach. It was 4:23 in the morning. I was 37-years-old and I knew this entire headache was a result of my own self-induced stress.

Twenty-nine days ago, while sitting on the big leather sofa watching the Sunday political shows, I waited for my wife to return from our final diagnostic test at the fertility clinic. The extensive barrage of tests had all come back positive, meaning it just wasn’t our time yet to have a baby. As I watched the spin-doctors work their magic on the morning talk show, my wife came home, opened the door and bursts into tears. “I’m killing your sperm.” We hugged each other and I just wanted to comfort her. It killed me to see my wife in pain. We talked and I tried to listen, not fix, not finish sentences, just listen. As we cuddled on the couch and I watched the woman I loved in such pain, I learned that I am not to be a father. At first it didn’t really hit me. I was focused on my wife’s tears. Her pain. I could not begin to understand how she must have felt. Every strand of her being had been programmed from before her own birth to reproduce, nurture, and defend. In essence, to become a mother. This wasn’t to suggest that I was like an old Grizzly bear–fulfill my physical needs, move on and then if we should meet again, I might eat the little ones. I simply realized that I could not comprehend what my wife was feeling.

That Sunday was a long day.

Contemplation Begins

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Some stories are real, some are…???

Propped on my elbow, lying on the desert floor with the strong smell of sage filling my nose, my mouth tasted of dust and I could feel the warm sun and cool breeze on my exposed neck.  I heard whispering, “the wind is in our favor, so they can’t smell us. If this stalk’s been successful, that herd will be just over this little knob.”

I whispered back, “now I see what you mean, these antelope are hard as hell to get up on, they must be able to see over five miles. I didn’t believe you when you said we were going to see thousands of antelope and be lucky to sneak up on one. You were right.”

“It will happen, we just have to be patient. This may be our chance.” As the old man rose up and looked over the horizon, I knew he was going to get a shot. He whispered, “Ok, they are just over the rise, and they don’t know we are here,” as he looked through the binoculars. “On the far left of the heard is a doe lying down and looking away. I’m sure it is a doe so you are good to take the shot. Remember, take your time, breath and squeeze.”

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This is a self-indulgent update of who I am and what I have been up to.

After being raised and graduating from high school in Omaha, Nebraska, I attended the University of Wyoming. Since that time I have moved around the West a fair bit. I have settled in one place for now, in Denver, Colorado.

I am very happily married to my English wife and best friend, Mourbareka Nurmahomed Kluver, aka Reka, aka Trouble. We met on a freighter in Patagonia, Chile in 1998. She fell in love with me immediately and followed me around like a little puppy from country to country, (This is a lie, but it is my story and I am sticking to it). We have had the good fortune to travel. My wife and I have been to all seven continents and visit London regularly.

With the exception of travel, we really try and embrace a simple life. We don’t have cable, so we watch Netflix and read a lot. We like to try and take 1-3 months off–or at least away from our home base–a year. Unfortunately, kids were not in the cards for us, providing my wife and I with the unique privilege of being the “cool” Auntie and Uncle. We can focus full attention on the kids in our lives and then when they get grumpy or crash, leave them to their parents.

At 39, (yes she married a younger man), Reka made a major career change. She used to be an accountant, but went back to school and will soon graduate with her Masters Degree in Counseling. As far as my own career, Reka likes to say I am distracted by shiny objects and don’t work well with people I don’t respect. I have been self-employed for many, many years and have owned over a dozen businesses. It is challenging working for myself, but I really enjoy it and the lifestyle self-employment allows.

As far as I know I continue to get better looking every day. However, I have gained a few pounds. I have an annoying knee after four surgeries, which has slowed my cardo down a bit. Other than that, clean living and no more drinking or smoking are the norms for me now. I first had to prove to myself that I had perfected those pursuits, but finally learned that it was time to try something different.

I figure with our life expectancies now predicted to be around 100-years-old, for me time is getting close to the end of the 2nd quarter. I can definitely say there are things I shouldn’t have done, but I honestly wouldn’t change a thing. The first half has been a great adventure.

I can’t wait to see what is around the corner.

Keep Smiling