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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“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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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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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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