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.

I wandered around the airport. I wanted to confirm my future ticket to Kenya, but really didn’t want to stand in line at the Lufthansa gate for two hours. So I decided to brave the trains.  One very nice thing was that most Germans spoke some English, especially the younger ones.   All students were now required to study English, so their English would definitely be better than my German.  Another nice point was that even though many of the people I saw were grumpy– some quite rude–it usually wasn’t too difficult to get a little assistance in Germany when you needed it.

I changed some money, and with a little help used the right coins to get a one-way ticket into town. I actually got a train into Frankfurt.  As I ventured into the train station I again realized culture shock.  There were uptight, running-late people everywhere, and by the way they were dressed I decided they must all love Johnny Cash, the original man in black.  I didn’t have a guidebook for Europe, so I headed to the tourist information office.

What a pleasant surprise.

‘Do you speak English?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Ten minutes later I was walking out with specific directions to a hostel and the location of a travel agency. There was even an internet terminal just next door.  I thought how even though it was snowing in Germany, things were looking a little bit brighter.  I went to the internet terminal, checking to see if the girl I had left in Brazil had written.  She had, and I’m a sap.  My day was definitely looking brighter then.  I thought maybe later, after I got home, I would write about traveling and romance. I left the internet terminal ready for anything.

It was still snowing but it looked so much prettier than before. I negotiated the bus with no problem and arrived at the hostel. (I later named it the Gulag of Frankfurt).  The people there were instantly rude and aggressive. It didn’t bother me.  I got my bed, sharing a room with four other people.  I decided that a walk amidst the hurried Christmas shoppers in black was called for, then it would be off to early bed.

Two hours later an East German man of about fifty, who had become my newest roommate, had decided to have a late supper with the lights on. Each item of food was produced from a very cold, wrinkled, loud plastic bag. I was in that middle world where I was too tired to unlock my pack to find my ear plugs, yet too awake to get back to sleep.  I made a mental note not to ever need to get into anything in a plastic bag while others were sleeping, and to always pull the ear plugs out of my pack and set them next to the bed, just in case.  I realized just how much I missed the nice, private, cheap rooms I shared with my girl in South America.  I finally drifted off into the lovely land of dreams.

8:20 a.m. ”BREAKFAST WILL!”…I opened my eyes and found a skinny, 6 ‘5″ German guy two feet from my face,…”ONLY BE SERVED FOR ANOTHER 10 MINUTES. YOU MUST BE OUT OF THE HOSTEL IN 30 MINUTES!”‘

This guy obviously didn’t realize that I was still on South American time.  Also, it would have been nice if they had told me when I checked in that breakfast was served only during limited hours, and that everyone had to be out of the hostel from 9:00 am to 4:00 pm… oh well.

8:40 a.m. I took my time, got yelled at some more, and exchanged some ‘fuck yous’ with the lanky German as I came out of the shower. I was really feeling pretty good. I decided that since I was over my serene, South American attitude and back to a city persona it was time to take my well-tanned butt for a walk amongst the people in black.  I needed to take care of some errands. I started thinking of all the possibilities to exchange vulgarities with overly rude people and I smiled.  I needed to mail some stuff; photos, excess crap, and Christmas gifts.  (A good thing to remember about mailing from overseas is that it always costs a lot more than you think–the more remote the area the more expensive). For this reason I chose Germany to dump my stuff.  It was still very expensive but I knew it would be reliable.  I was glad I had thrown out or given away the majority of the shoebox’s worth of stuff I had originally intended to send home.

I enjoyed the next few days; doing laundry, shopping for shoes and wandering the streets, listening to Christmas carols in German and English.  A treat I discovered  was Gluvien,  a hot-spiced wine sold on the streets during the holiday season. Also, it was interesting to watch the people and see how similar a commercialized Christmas is in Germany, compared to the States.

I decided to move on to Switzerland and see if skiing was an option. I figured at the bare minimum it would be nice to ride a train through the black forest in winter and see Lake Lucerne.   I had opted against a Euro rail pass because I really didn’t know how long I wanted to stay in Europe.

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.

As our group continued on we saw some Masi villages, or as they called them, Bomas.  We found out that in these bomas an extended family existed, consisting of several brothers and their wives–sometimes up to five wives per man–all their children, the cattle, goats and chickens.

The outside of the village was completely covered with a dense 5′ wide x 6′ tall barrier of very thorny brush.  The thorns were 1-3 inches long and were used to deter lions from entering the boma.  This protective fence was shaped in a circle and only had one entrance, large enough for a single person or cow, to walk through. People slept in very small huts made of sticks, cow dung and mud, and were roughly 10′ x 10 ‘ and only 5 ft. high and slept up to 6.  Additional rings of thorns were made outside the boma for additional cattle.

Massi people don’t have bank accounts. Their wealth is measured only by their cattle.  What money they do get is used for a knife for their son when he turns 16, beads, schoolbooks and medicine.  Most of the Masi are very tall and thin, kind of like Jimmy Walker.  I could see where in the States these guys might get picked on, but there it is a very different story.  The Masi are known to be completely fearless. Remembering back to my first days in Nairobi, when I recall the Masi guard at the hotel, armed with only a war club, all of the nasty looking guys outside didn’t dare try to come to the door. Even the hotel owners were nervous when they went outside, but the Masi guard didn’t seem to have a problem with it; completely fearless.

On this particular day our group had enjoyed a great morning game drive. In the afternoon there was a treat.  Several Masi had wandered into our camp and offered to take us on a hike.  The beautiful rolling hills and outcroppings had been calling to me, but because we were western Muzungus, (Swahili for white people), we didn’t have the savvy to wander the outer bush of Africa by ourselves.  I had backpacked all over the United States, through national parks, and felt extremely comfortable in the woods, but after being on Safari for a few days I could understand why our guide didn’t want to let us Muzungus travel the bush by ourselves.  So when the opportunity arose to go for a hike with some guys who are known to wander wherever, whenever they liked, I was game.

It must be said that Masi are definitely made for walking.  Those guys are strong and take huge strides as they go.  All of the Muzungus struggled to keep up, but finally we arrived at the top of one of tallest hills near our camp.  We sat on a rocky outcrop and looked down towards the Serengeti river, passing binoculars around, ones that some of the other travelers had brought.

Our three Masi guides wanted to show off for us by making a fire simply with two sticks and friction.  (I’m and Eagle Scout and I have done that before, but it was obvious by how quickly these guys did it that they were pros and that this was really how they made a fire each night).  Two of our guides we really friendly and smiled easily. They both tried talking with us, going slow, being patient with the Muzungus they had in tow.  Our third guide appeared to be some kind of tough guy who really didn’t seem to appreciate that we were with them.  I never saw him smile and it felt as if he was always impatient with us.  I just tried to steer clear of Grumpy.  After the fire was made we continued to hang out and that was when I noticed Grumpy had gotten hold of the binoculars.  He had moved off to the side by himself.  Sitting on an overhang with his feet dangling, he was looking through the binoculars the wrong way, sticking his hand out in front of the lenses, looking through the binoculars then looking with just his eyes.  He was smiling, having fun looking at his hand as it appeared so far away.  OK, so maybe tough guy wasn’t so tough after all.

That evening, back in camp, I pulled out a small harmonica I had bought in Paraguay for two dollars, nothing special but it had a reasonable tone.  I began to play Christmas carols.  It was very surreal, sitting around the campfire with Masi warriors in the heart of East Africa, playing Christmas carols.

Earlier, at dinner, one of the other travelers had celebrated a birthday.  His wife had brought along a white ceramic candle that when lit warmed up, activating a small chip inside that played Happy Birthday.  This candle looked similar to a very fat golf tee that you placed upside down.  In this case, once the candle cooled and we had eaten the birthday cake she’d also brought, the used candle was presented as a gift to one of the Masi.  He quickly put it through a hole in his ear as an ornament.  After all, it was bright, white, and hard, and no one else had one.  So there we were, sitting around the fire, with everyone quietly staring into it while I played Silent Night on my harmonica, when we were all surprised to hear Happy Birthday To You.  With a jolt, the Masi with the candle in his ear jumped up and started spinning around, left then right, trying to see why that noise was so loud and where was it coming from. This six-foot-tall-plus man didn’t seem scared. (He had not been around to see how the candle worked originally).  When he realized that it was simply the candle in his ear, he pulled it out in disgust. He was embarrassment, as his fellow warriors rolled around on the ground, laughing so hard I thought they would wet themselves.

Those men–who had such an aura around them, men who walked so tall and proud that everyone respected them, if not feared them–were giving us a glimpse of how childlike and silly they could be. To see an embarrassed Masi warrior being relentlessly teased by his companions and being able to laugh with them was a tremendous treat. Eventually the candle cooled down enough to allow it to stop playing Happy Birthday. Each of the warriors took turns looking at the hard white candle, which eventually ended up back in the warrior’s ear.  I think he liked that he could play Happy Birthday repeatedly in his ear.

As the night continued on, I played the harmonica and resumed a discussion with a Masi man I had become friends with.  He spoke English and smiled easily.  He told me his Masi name, which I had great difficulty saying, so he told me simply to call him Dennis.  Dennis was an easy 6′5″, and as most all Masi men and women, he wore several finely detailed, beaded, bracelets and necklaces.  Dennis and I were having a good talk and he was showing great fascination with my harmonica.  I would play and then he would ask how it worked.  I handed it over to him so he could give it a try.  He gently took the tiny instrument and meticulously inspected it.  He gently put it to his lips and carefully blew… honk!  Smiling a huge smile, Dennis tried to look inside the harmonica to see what had happened.  After a few more tries he became more confident and began to experiment.

I showed him how, if he inhaled through it, a little different tone came out.  The others were watching and I could sense they wanted to try out the harmonica, but they seemed to be respectful that Dennis and I were talking.  Smiling, Dennis handed back my harmonica.  I looked at him and pointed at his beaded bracelet and said, “Trade?”  He looked confused.  Someone who knew Swahili translated, and then someone who knew Masi translated again, to Dennis.  He looked at me and frowned and said something in Masi, pointing to the different beaded adornments he wore.  This went through the translation telegraph around the fire. Dennis wanted to trade, but his beads were all gifts and he could not trade them away.  It wasn’t exactly the UN, with those funny headphones, but it was my turn to frown.

Dennis and I looked at each other and then an idea appeared to pop into his head.  He was wearing one, single-strand necklace made of beads and small dangling pieces of metal.  He said that this one was his and he could trade it for the harmonica.  Before it got through our campfire translation service I already knew we had a deal.  I smiled and nodded, put the harmonica in its little box and extended it to him.  He smiled, pulled the necklace over his head and handed it to me.  I’m sure we both thought we were getting the better deal, so it worked out perfectly.

Dennis pulled the harmonica out of the box and the other young warriors rushed over to see his new prize.  I went to slip the necklace over my head and realized there was a problem.  All those times I’d been called a fat head, those people must have been right.  I could almost get the thing on, but not quite.  Dennis looked up from his new harmonica and his face went blank. I pulled the necklace down and looked at it.  Dennis put the harmonica back in the box and offered it back to me.  Evidently the necklace had a must-fit guarantee.

Everyone around the fire looked at me to see what I was going to do.  Now lets think about this for a moment, I thought. I can buy a harmonica anywhere, but how many times in my life am I going to have the opportunity to trade a Masi warrior for one of his only prized possession? I looked at Dennis and knew this really was a good man. I smiled, shook my head no and let him know the offer to trade back was appreciated, but I was still happy with the trade.  He smiled. You could feel everyone around the fire finally take a breath.  His friends immediately started trying to grab the harmonica away from Dennis in boyish curiosity.  Dennis would show it to them, holding it out and twisting it and then pulling it back, curling up as the others tried to wrestle it away from him, but Dennis won every time.

Finally one of the older Masi men, an elder I guessed, mumbled at Dennis, gave him a dirty look and held out his hand.  Dennis respectfully handed the harmonica over.  The older guy proceeded to go though almost the exact motions that Dennis had when he first investigated the harmonica.  The only difference what that he never smiled.  After a few minutes he handed it back to Dennis, grumbled and hinted a smile.  It appeared that everything was kosher with the old man.

As the night continued Dennis eventually let the other warriors look at his harmonica.  The grumpy one who liked looking through the binoculars the wrong way even smiled when he made the harmonica go, ‘hum’.  It gave me great pleasure to watch as these guys explored the new instrument.  I was feeling a little frustrated that I could almost get my necklace on, by not quite, so I decided to try again.  I was sitting off to the side of the fire so I didn’t think anyone could see me.  I was playing with it and realized I was getting very close to getting it over my head.  It was pretty close to my eyes and I thought if I could just get the damn thing over my nose I would be set.

Dennis and a couple of the other Masi must have read my mind.  My eyes were closed and the necklace was stuck above my nose.  I suddenly felt several sets of very large hands on my head, gently trying to work the necklace down over my nose.  As it turned out, the cord that the beads were strung on was made from material used in large grain sacs, which was plastic, so it had some stretch to it.  It took the guys a couple of minutes to work down over my nose and bushy handlebar mustache, but it worked.  I realized I would never get the necklace off without breaking it, but that was a-okay by me.  I looked up and Dennis was smiling ear-to-ear. I glanced over at the old guy and even he gave me a quick smile.  That did it; a good trade all around.

####

Trading a harmonica for a necklace while on Safari was a simple, fun, and extraordinary bit of negotiation.  While you are on the road, different opportunities for trading may come up; particularly trading books with other travelers.  Just remember before you begin trading that just getting by with your day-to-day activities may be challenge enough in the beginning of your journey.

When negotiations do start, remember that in the Third World, often the person on the other side of the table looks at you as one of the wealthiest people they have ever met.  The average income in the Third World is appallingly low. There is a good chance the boots you are walking in represent several month’s wages in the country where you are negotiating.  Another uncomfortable fact is that most Americans and Europeans haven’t haggled for anything in their life.  Haggling is not part of our culture, and is even considered rude.  Imagine standing at the checkout line in a grocery store, telling the clerk you aren’t going to pay a penny more than twenty-five cents a pound for those tomatoes, and that seventy-five cents for a roll of toilet paper is highway robbery.  Most likely security would be called. At the bare minimum, you would receive nasty looks from the people waiting in line behind you.  In The States it basically comes down to this; if you see something you like, look at the price. If you think the price is reasonable and you have a means to pay for it, then buy it.  If you think the price is unreasonable, then don’t.

In the Third World, things are very different. Adam Smith’s Rules of Supply and Demand Economics really come into play.  Like anything else that comes up when you are a traveler, it is necessary to find out what the local rules are and make sure to play the game.  I have no idea how important this is from a money-saving standpoint, but from a cultural perspective it is very important.  A good example would be purchasing toilet paper in India.  Most Indians believe in the philosophy that says you eat exclusively with your right hand and you clean yourself up with the left hand. It doesn’t matter if you are right or left-handed, that is just a hard, fast rule.  Because of this, many of those people don’t see a need for toilet paper.  I’ve heard all the arguments on how this is actually more sanitary and easier, and though I usually try to partake of all local customs, this one is where I draw the line.  Therefore, I always carry some toilet paper with me, just in case. If  you have none, there is usually toilet paper available for sale, although very few restaurants, and no public facilities will have toilet paper for sale. Combine this local custom with the fact that most Westerners’ stomachs don’t react to the food in India in a positive manner, and you have a very interesting economic study of supply and demand.

While in India, I heard a range of prices for toilet paper–anywhere from ten cents to five dollars a roll.  It makes sense, for if  you were in the wrong situation, and there was only one vendor selling toilet paper for five dollars, you would probably pay it.  The problem arises when you are not in such desperate need.  All the street vendors in Third World countries have heard the same story of the range of price of toilet paper, so every time you try and buy a roll, the standard asking price is five dollars.

I found India challenging due to this and several other negotiating points.  A full dance is required when negotiating in India.  You usually want to start off with extremely insulting prices.  Then comes insulting the product itself, then insulting each other, and spending a lot more time than you would have liked to waste going through these motions. However, it is important to remember that this is how these vendors make their living, and you’re the Golden Goose. It will be well worth the vendor’s time to haggle for an hour to make an extra twenty-five cents.  If you choose not to haggle over the price of an item, it will cost you and other Westerners more in the future because of the vendors’ raised expectations. These expectations make things a real challenge when you have to buy again or for those who may follow.

Learning the rules of the game is important as well.  In India, very rarely would I buy something off the street where our voices didn’t get raised.  In contrast, when I flew from Delhi, India to Katmandu, I discovered that raising your voice and being aggressive was the fastest way to see the price go up.  In most of South East Asia, Nepal included, if you raise your voice at the vendor, the vendor loses face and is extremely insulted and may not even sell you something no matter what the price.  So learning the rules for each area is important.

These examples are very basic and simple but are here to prove a point.  Negotiation is like a long drop toilet.  It is very different than anything we’ve seen in the Western world. You may find it vulgar and distasteful, but it works for billions of people all over the world.

I don’t pretend to think that I always got the best price or even the local price, but I would like to think I was getting a fair traveler’s price and not a bad tourist price.  Talking with other travelers and getting an idea from guide books is usually a good place to start to get a good idea of what price is fair and what isn’t.  When you arrive in a new country, assume at first that you will always pay a little too much, then once you do your homework, you will do a lot better.

All types of transportation need to be negotiated in advance.  If you are taking a taxi anywhere in the Third World, it usually requires that you agree on the price before you get in.  Taxi drivers in the Third World are notorious for being great negotiators. Once you have discovered what the standard rate for a taxi is, stick to your guns.  If the first driver doesn’t want to give you a ride for a certain price, then fine,  let him go. There will be another taxi that will be willing to give you a fair price.  Another taxi trick is to get you into the cab and then try to renegotiate.  Whenever this happened to me, if the driver was persistent about changing our negotiated price, I would open the door at a stoplight and start to get out.  This always worked to end negotiation.

In certain countries, the taxi drivers love to make detour stops, where you can get a “Good Deal.” Remember that the driver will get roughly a ten percent commission on everything you buy, so sometimes they can be really tenacious. When this happened to me, I made it clear to the driver that there would be no shopping and no stops. I figured that if he did it anyway he had broken our agreement. I would just get out and walk away.  Inevitably he will agree with your wishes in the beginning, but sometimes he may be persistent and try a couple of more times to get you to stop.  Just keep in mind that all of this is just a game. If you do stop, shop and buy something, there is a very good chance your driver will drive you around all day long, looking a “Good Deals,” and you will never reach your destination.

Places to stay is another area where negotiating comes into play.  The least I ever paid for a night’s lodging was fifty cents.  I got my money’s worth, but not much more.  Accommodations around the world vary greatly.  I personally liked more of the pension, bed and breakfast style accommodations,  where you had your own room and may share a bathroom.  I enjoyed this more than a hotel because it is usually easier to get to know some locals.

When considering a room for the night, always ask to see the room. When you are led to the room, look around to see if it looks clean and safe.  Check out the bed.  Very few places have nice orthopedic mattresses, so lie down and decide if you will be comfortable.  If the room is supposed to have hot water and you are feeling suspicious, turn it on and give it try.  If it is in an area that has a reputation for being a bit unsafe, ask if there is a locker where you can put stuff while you are out. Once acquired, lock this locker with your own padlock. Finally, look outside to make sure the area looks quiet and is in an environment you like.  If you like the room, but would like to check out a few others, say thanks and head on down the road.  All innkeepers are used to this and it promotes a good competition among the lodgings.

Most lodgings are safe, friendly, and secure.  When traveling by myself I usually looked for something that had a good buzz of activity coming from around the area, to immerse myself fully in the culture, though sometimes it was nice to have a quiet place.  Remember, these places aren’t the Marriott. Smoking is allowed almost everywhere in the Third World. The mattresses may not be perfect, but usually they are very comfortable and offer a rewarding sleep.

Once you have finally found a room you like, check out the price. If it is close to what you were prepared to pay there may not be the need for much haggling. If it is totally unreasonable be prepared to go someplace else.  A few other important things to find out are; if breakfast is included, is there laundry available, and on some rare occasions if there is a curfew when the place get locked up.

When Reka and I were on the road we would often go for a place that was a little better then the rock bottom price. Usually, for just a couple of buck more, we were able to get a private bath and cable TV. Not that we only hung out in the room, but sometimes it was nice to escape the busy hustle and bustle and be in our own little oasis.

Here is a short review list of the basic rules for following when negotiating in a Third World country.

Negotiating rules:

1. Most of the world negotiates. It isn’t rude.
2. The street vendor sees you as a Golden Goose.
3. Always remember, your opponent has more patience.
4. Do your homework to find out what’s fair.
5. Find out what the ground rules are, and whether to get noisy or remain quiet.
6. Always predefine the price for cabs, hotels, bus rides, and outings.
7. Don’t get angry if you don’t get the local’s price.

Now, go forth, travel and negotiate!

“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.

After a couple of short hops from Zanzibar I arrived in Nairobi, A.K.A (No Rob Me), and decided to see if I could avoid customs completely.  (When I first began traveling I actually pulled this off, mostly because of my refusal to check luggage. God, I love traveling light! Traveling with only a carry-on allowed me to stay a passenger-in-transit). Once inside the airport I wandered off to find the Lufthansa counter, which was unmanned.  However, there was a typed note–Wow, typed!–at the counter stating,  “If counter is unmanned please use the gray telephone behind this desk and call these numbers for assistance.”  Well that’s a little German organization for you.  I stepped behind the counter as directed to use the phone and the phone had been locked up in the desk,  (welcome to Africa).  I can see the phone cord leading into the wood cabinet, taunting me. Oh well.

After all the haggling I had done on the phone in Zanzibar, the final word had been that I would get my ticket reissued while in transit and would be confirmed all the way to London with my confirmation number, so all I needed to do at this point was to find someone to issue my ticket. After having no luck at the Lufthansa counter, I decided I needed to talk to a customs official to see if they would lead me or escort me to the Lufthansa counter in the main terminal.  Haunted by my first arrival in Nairobi, I apprehensively walked down the concrete hallway to find five Kenyan officials dressed in suits, smoking, hanging out under a No-Smoking sign.  These guys looked at me with only the slightest interest.  I considered lighting up a smoke, but looked at the sign and common sense told me not to.

Those gentlemen were of absolutely no help, (maybe I should have risked the smoke and bonded with them?).  It was beginning to look as though I would remain in the transit area whether I wanted to or not.  After about four hours of waiting, hanging around the unmanned Lufthansa counter with the lying, typed sign, and talking with a variety of people from all over the world, a tall, lanky German guy in a Lufthansa uniform finally showed up at the counter. I gave a deep sigh. My luck hadn’t been too good with tall, lanky Germans so far.  Plus I was armed with only an expired ticket, a confirmation number, an expired Kenyan visa and a promise over the phone.

“I’m sorry, Sir. They told you incorrectly and we won’t be able to help you, ” stated the lanky German.

That was not the right answer and I let the gentleman know that.

(I could tell I had been on the road for a while. Had all of this happened at the beginning of my journey I might just have cried in my skirt, but now I felt more like a Massi warrior ready for trouble and almost wanting it. O.K. maybe not quite like a Massi warrior, more like someone from the number one East African television show, WWF.  That’s right, World Wrestling Federation. I am serious. I am told it is the most watched show in all of east Africa. I have seen people crowd around one beat up old black and white TV and watch Randy The Macho Man Savage. (He was around when I was a kid.)  So maybe I was feeling a little more like The Macho Man, yelling at someone to ‘Come on!’, even though it is in his contract that the Macho man always wins.)

The German gentleman at the counter obviously didn’t realize that I had to get to London to meet my former girlfriend from South America for a final showdown.  After a bit more debating a compromise was agreed upon, Lufthansa would get me to Frankfurt and there I could change my ticket to London. I would fly from Nairobi to Frankfurt in First Class.  That would work.  To go from a grass hut on the beach of a Third World country to a First Class International German flight really was traveling across the spectrum of comfort.

On my First Class flight I felt like a kid in a candy store. There was Lobster Thermador, a goodie bag filled with socks, toothbrush, eye covers and other first class necessities all tied together with my own T.V. monitor, plus free liquor. (These thing might seem trivial, but remember, I had just come from two months in Africa and would have been impressed with a hot dog from 7-11).  While giggling, I slowly removed all the booty from my goodie bag and carefully removed each article from its sealed bag.  Of course I had to try everything out.  It felt like Christmas.  Everything seemed great–except for the impending battle with Lufthansa in Germany–I was feeling really tired and really goofy. (I blame the quiet little bottles of scotch). I relinquished myself to the Sandman.

A few hours later I awoke with my left leg and ankle feeling very sore.  I removed my new Lufthansa headphones, slid up my new Lufthansa eye covers, wriggled out of my new Lufthansa blanket, and rolled down my new Lufthansa socks to touch where I had cut myself on a coral reef while swimming a week earlier. My ankle was swollen so much that as I touched the throbbing cut the scab came off and a nasty white liquid covered my finger.  (Sorry, don’t mean to gross you out, but now you know how I felt).  A gland in my crotch had swollen up like a tennis ball, not to be confused with a grapefruit.  (All grapefruit-sized growths are reserved for cancer descriptions). My entire leg really felt quite painful, but there was nothing I could do, so I just had to wait and see.

I drifted back to sleep and awoke in Germany.  I felt like shit.  I hobbled off the plane in my new designer socks.   I needed to find where to go to take care of my ticket to London.  Alas, I found the counter with a queue of only thirty people and one really grumpy counter person.  German efficiency? My sore leg, tired ass and I all waited patiently in line.  Upon reaching the  counter I was told by the grumpy person,  “You are in Z wrong line Zir. I can’t help you.”

Wrong answer. However, this time I waited patiently, smiled, didn’t make any accusations and wasn’t trying to start a fight. It still didn’t work.  My leg continued to throb, but I was not going to spend one night in the Gulag of Frankfurt.  The counter person pointed to a smaller queue with an older lady working there.  Alright, I thought, I’d give it a try. That is when I met an angel, Dickhead’s supervisor, maybe why he had the line of thirty people and she had only six.

I discovered here that once you reached a German with the authority to make a decision it was amazing how easy it was to guilt them into fixing a legitimate wrong of their company. When I told my story, the woman informed me that my ticket could not be changed and once again I hear that I have been misinformed by a Lufthansa representative.  I don’t know if she could tell that my head was on the verge of splitting, allowing some evil beast to rise out of me and swallow her whole or if she was just doing her job, but she started working on her computer.  My leg continued to throb and the idea of the Gulag began not to be so bad. At least I could sleep.  Five minutes later the angel handed me new tickets to London, with a return and connection to Delhi.  “No charge sir, sorry for the inconvenience,”  she said, smiling.

I look at her, befuddled.  A warm glowing light appeared around her; not really, but it should have.  I’ll be damned, I thought. This angel had been able to fix all the damage done by five other employees on two continents in just five minutes.  I had everything I wanted and it had all worked out.  I was on a flight to London in just a couple of hours…great!  As I walked away it occurred to me that she was probably just worried about my head splitting open and an evil beast eating her whole.  (I really was feeling delirious).

I decided that I need to say thank you to such a lovely woman for helping me out while reestablishing my faith in German customer service.  I went and bought her a cappuccino.  As I returned to present the cappuccino, I wasn’t expecting much.  I knew she was busy, but I really wanted her to know how much I appreciated her help.  To see her face when I gave it to her you would have thought it was a new car.  This efficient, focused, Lufthansa representative stopped talking to her customer mid-sentence, looked confused, then shocked, and then said several thank yous, and then began to smile from ear to ear.  A small gesture really can go a  long way sometimes.  I hobbled off to the gate and off to London.

The flight to London was only a few hours long, but I began to feel like it was going to last forever.  I drifted in and out of sleep. My leg was really getting uncomfortable.  I  told myself what the hell, I could get a hostel and take a nap for five or six hours after I arrived in London.

Wrong…my delirium began to spiral. Heathrow Airport was like a weird delusional dream, including fire alarms going off across the entire airport. (I think fire alarms are louder in London than in The States).  It was fun, though. It gave me an excuse to yell at the customs official,  “I am a tourist!‘…NO I DON’T PLAN TO WORK!” I showed her my ticket, which proved I was planning on leaving the UK after my visit, and I was through customs.  It was about this time that I began to realize just how tired and bizarre I really was feeling.  I began to panic a little bit and decided I really didn’t have it in me to go on the big ‘Figure-out-the-Subways-and-Hostel’ hunt.

One nice thing about large airports is that they always have some cute young lady working behind a counter who will book a reservation at an extremely expensive hotel.  I decide I need to find that lady.  My delirium began to rise and I started making sonar noises as I scanned the airport terminal, “BBBBBB…BBBBB, …there, target identified and location locked.”  I slowly hobbled to my savior.

“Hello. What is the closest, cheapest hotel?”

“It is the Sheridan Heathrow, Sir.”

“Can I be there in 15 minutes?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take it.”

Thirty minutes later I was in bed asleep.  Of my first forty-eight hours in London, forty-five of them had been spent in a weird land of larium dreams and delirium.  When I woke up I was firmly convinced I’d survived an assassination attempt and had information necessary to save the world.  I realized that this probably was not right, and went to the concierge to get a doctor.  Fortunately, the Sheridan had a doctor on call and I was able to call and make an appointment.  I went back to my room and back to sleep, awoke again and realized I had not eaten since the Lobster Thermador on the flight. I had seen a McDonalds across the street from the hotel, so I though I would go grab a bite.  I had been sleeping since I called the doctor and it was now 5:45. It was dark out, but I had heard it got dark really early in London in the winter. But what did I know? I had just come from south of the equator.

My sore leg and I stumbled across the street to McDonald’s.  It was closed. What the hell? I walked over to the gas station next door to buy some aspirin. The place is sealed up tight, with only a security window and a guy in a turban behind it.  When I walked up to the window, the turbaned guy asked, “What do you want? I told him I needed some aspirin. He replied with the helpful answer, “I am only selling gas now.” I don’t get it.

Confused, I decided I was better off sleeping and headed back toward my room. Then it hit me. It was 5:45 in the morning!? I asked the desk clerk what time and day it was. She told me very slowly, looking at me like I was a junkie.  A-ha! I thought, it is morning and I have been sleeping for 20 hours!  I walked away from the hotel desk triumphantly proud of my reasoning skills which had allowed me to deduce that it was morning.

I thought how I’d like to go avoid assassination and save the world again. I went back to the desk and asked for a 9:00 a.m. wakeup call.  This time the desk clerk looked at me like I really was a junkie. As I limped down the hall, I walked by a mirror and realized why the woman behind the desk had looked at me that way.  I had 45-hour bed-head bags under my eyes, a great tan, a giant, unkempt handle bar mustache and go-tee topped off by a huge mop of bright red, big hair.  I really did stick out like a sore thumb in London.

The next few days were really quite uneventful. I saw the doctor and did the usual doctor stuff.  (One notable thing about seeing a doctor abroad is that it is good to let them know you have cash and are will to pay them directly).  I was able to go right in and see the doctor. I skipped through a crowded lobby and actually had several consultations with the doctor over a two-hour period in one morning.  I was also able to talk him into resupplying my first aid kit with any lovely prescription drugs I happened to be low on.  The doctor said I had done the right thing by starting myself on antibiotics and taking hot baths to scrub out the coral cut.

Those first few days in London I got a lot of dirty looks.  I deserved them of course, but it really did seem funny at the time, for people there actually do say words like, “jolly good!”, “Thank you love”, “old chap,” and a hodgepodge of other very British words.  Combine these with the amount of delirium I possessed and it became hysterical.

For example, I would ask someone, “Excuse me, Sir. Where is the cute girl who books really expensive hotels?”

The Brit would reply, “Jolly good sir! Just go down this hall and take a left.”

At which I would explode into delirious laughter aimed directly at the speaker.

He would top it off with, “I say, Old Chap, is everything all right?”

More of my laughter would ensue, assuring me a dirty look from a very pale man with large ears.

To this day I still can’t hide a smile whenever I hear some one say, ‘Jolly good’ or ‘Old Chap!’

The moral of this story is don’t mess around with coral cuts. They are evil and can be very dangerous.

But I must add before I am done that I was pleasantly surprised at how friendly Londoners turned out to be.  For a large city it was marvelous! Whomever I asked for directions helped me out. People said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘excuse me.’  Of all the things that happened, this offered me a culture shock more than anything else.

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?

My basic philosophy about what to bring on an around-the-world trip stems for the type of trip I like to take, with a comfort level allowing me to buy almost anything I need on the road. When I’m on the road the last thing I want to do is worry about my stuff. I have been on countless buses where bags are coming off at an interim stop and have watched as travelers dutifully study each bag that comes off to make sure it isn’t theirs. I’ve also been walking with people who won’t walk down a very interesting but darkened road because they’re carrying an $800.00 camera. I’ve watched this type of person as they are approached by local towts. They inevitably grab their camera tight, or unconsciously check their money belt.

I make sure I don’t have any stuff on me that’s worth worrying too much about, and walk with the philosophy that if someone robs me, I simply say OK, here you go, and hand it over. People are people all over the world. A thug in the Third World can read body language just as well, if not better, than a thug in the U.S.  I have never been robbed while traveling and I’m truly convinced it’s because of my diligence, but even more so due to my maintaining an attitude that if necessary I really don’t care if my stuff disappears.

If you can adopt this approach you will walk differently. Your body language will say, “Hey, I’m not worth the hassle, try someone else.” Since adopting this approach I find I have a greater opportunity to enjoy the local flavor and spend more time observing and participating and less time worrying about my stuff.

I have often though back to that first trip and wondered what I was thinking. So much gear and so many clothes! I can only guess that I must have been nervous about what lay outside the country, thinking, “They might not have what I NEED.” In hindsight I feel pretty silly for thinking that way. Food, clothing and shelter are all you really need. It isn’t difficult to understand that these are the same things all people need. You don’t need to bring the super economy-size toothpaste. People all over the world brush their teeth. There are also people all over the world who rent places to stay. If it a hot camping spot, you will be able to rent all the gear you need.

People all over the world also eat. These people shop in markets, buy bottled water and dine in restaurants. Most places in the world, people take photos and e-mail friends. There are very few places remaining in the world where people still run around naked. Everywhere else in the world people wear clothes, so you will easily be able to buy a new shirt, or pants, socks or underwear. In addition, people all over the world who wear clothes have facilities, services or soap to clean their clothes.

Finally, (this is best part), with very few exceptions the stuff you may need–clothes, food, supplies and services–are readily available and generally much cheaper than in the U.S.

If I have been obnoxious in the section above it was only to prove a point.

There is an extremely good chance you could start an around-the-world journey with nothing more than a credit card and passport and have a ball. People all around the world have the same basic needs as you. Here is a list of things I took on my around-the-world adventure. What others choose is up to them. But I really stress; less really amounts to better traveling.

1.  The best shoes money can buy–Don’t cheat yourself when it comes to footwear. I made this mistake and hobbled around South America for two months. Make sure to wear your new shoes a lot before your trip. Walk on hard surfaces, to get an idea how your boots will feel after a long hike on concrete. On the road I average 5-15 miles a day, wandering and touring around. A pair of quality sandals also makes a great second pair of shoes. I only bring these two pair.

2.  Clothes–When it comes to clothing, durable and comfortable are the two high points. Most travelers aren’t too concerned with fashion, and if the occasion comes up that they need to dress for some sort of occasion they figure out a way to make due. A fine example is when I had to buy a tie in Buenos Aries to attend the opera.  Start your packing of clothes considering the way you dress from the inside out. Undergarments, let’s face it, are small so take up little room, although they are also your first line of cleanliness. My first trip I packed five pair of underwear and ended up taking three from then on. Three pair of socks are sufficient. Make sure they are socks that keep moisture away from you skin.

Micro fleece tights and a thermal top, these work great for layering, pajamas, or as an extra top and pants. I pack two pair of pants. I prefer the zip-off style because they also work as shorts or as a bathing suit. Two button-up shirts, long or short-sleeve, whatever is appropriate for where you are starting out. Either way, they will get worn out soon and you will need to buy new ones. A fleece jacket works great for sleeping in if it is chilly as well as doubling as a standard jacket. A good waterproof jacket can be worth its weight in gold if you hit the rainy season in some foreign land.

You’ll want two hats–one winter hat that you can roll down and cover your eyes with when you want to sleep and another for sun or rain. Finally a light pair of gloves. I like the ones you can but in the Peruvian markets. I always pack two bandanas. They work great to keep your neck out of the sun and as wash cloths.

That’s it for clothes. I was able to travel for nine months across all seven continents with just this packing list. Remember you will be wearing close to half of it at any given time. If you pack right, the remaing stuff will take up very little room.

A small side note on packing clothes…(Folding your clothes and then rolling them up like a tortilla will take up less room and actually wrinkle less. I like to put items in disposable bags for clean or dirty clothes.  By rolling up your fleece items and stuffing them in a sack, they stay smaller and more manageable. All these clothes combined should take up less than half your pack when pack well.)

3.  A high quality, panel-loading backpack–In my experience, whatever size pack you get you will always rationalize filling it, so keep it small. If you go to a quality outdoor retailer they should be able set you up with a great carry-on size bag, (don’t let them upsale you into something bigger.) Just make sure the construction is good, taped inner seams and heavy duty zipper, and that the shoulder harness is relatively comfortable. I like panel loading packs because they can be locked, simply meaning the pack closes by a heavy zipper and that the two zipper ends can be locked together. It isn’t Fort Knox, but it will help honest people stay honest, particularly in shared hostel rooms. Another aspect of the pack that I personally like are pack straps that somehow disappear into some type of compartment.

A reasonable hip belt to distribute the load is a must if you plan on doing any trecking. I also like to add a couple of clips to the outside of my pack. It really works well if you are trying to dry off your clothes or boots while you are on the move.

If you choose a bigger pack or one that has straps hanging all over, remember to get a light weight stuff sack, like the ones used for sleeping bag storage. This stuff sack works great to put your pack in. Again, it will help honest people stay honest as well as prevent your bag from getting chewed up by some automated bagage system, or being ruined if it sits on top of a dusty, then rainy, then dusty, bus trip. If it has been protected you really won’t mind having to wear it when you have that 2 mile walk from the bus station to the pension.

You may want a small day pack . This really comes down to personal preference. Some larger travel packs do come with zip-off day packs but I have seen many of these break or become impossible to put back on due to an overly stuffed main pack. The important thing is to find something comfortable, durable and easily packable. I like to carry a large bum bag. (The word ‘fanny’ is an extremely vulgar word everywhere but in the U.S.  In other countries it is used in a derogatory way when referring to a woman’s vagina.)

I usually wear my “bum” bag in the front rather than in the back for easy access and in avoidance of pickpockets. However, please note, I have a shoulder strap that is always on as well. Bum bags really are not very safe. All it takes is one kid to get your attention, one kid to open the buckle and a third kid to catch you bag and run. Then it is a game of keep away and you are screwed. If you can get away without one that is probably your best bet.

4.  First-aid kit–Any good travel Doc should be able to set you up with a list of what you need. Perscription drugs are your best staring point and then get whatever else you need from the pharmacy. It is alway a lot cheaper to put together your first-aid kit yourself, but good kits already containing what you need are available for sale.

5.  A good guide book–You want a guide book of the area you are starting in. I personally like the Lonely Planet series. However, the most recently updated book is probably best. Don’t worry about getting a book for the other places you are going. After you start there will always be new or used books available for sale for your next destination.

6.  Cameras–In the modern age of digital cameras, this may be the best way to go. However, I choose to go with two small, instamatic, point-and-shoot cameras, one with a zoom lens and the other with a simple fixed focus. I take two so that I can always have one loaded with black and white film. After my trip I was more happy with the black and white photos than I was with the color. The cameras I took were nice but not extremely expensive, so when I forgot one in a rick-shaw in India I really didn’t worry about it.

7. Security stuff–There is a ton of stuff on the market to hide your money and lock your stuff up. Most of it is pretty good but I think a lot is made for selling. A few rules to remember are these: If a thief wants your stuff bad enough he or she will get it. However, most thieves are like vultures and will go for the prey that will take the least amount of work so make it a pain in the ass for somebody to rip you off.  Spread everything out in different places, meaning don’t keep all your valuables in one place, spread them around in several different hiding places. I personally keep stuff hidden in up to six different places. And finally the most important thing to remember is the closer you keep it to your skin the safer it usually is. Cameras dangeling around your neck, backpacks slung over one shoulder, bum bags and watches are all easy targets for some kid to just run by and see who is stronger. With the added aspect of surprise the kid is almost always stronger.

I usually carry three wallets when I am out and about. A security wallet with money, photocopies, credit cards and passport all tucked into my pants. A money belt–one that actually looks like a belt–for money and passport photocopy. Finally a small money purse in my front pocket that has a twenty-inch string attached to my belt. This small purse is my everyday wallet. I keep one credit card, I.D. and just enough money for the day. The reasons for this are simple, I don’t want to tempt anyone by reaching into my main stash and letting them see more money then they may make in year. Also, if I were ever to be robbed I would just hand over that small purse. The thief looks inside and see money, I.D. and credit card, he smiles, says  ”thank you, welcome to my country” and leaves. You will then say “thank God I read this book!” and get the hell out of there.

I make several photocopies of all my credit cards (front and back), plane tickets and passport. I then spread out the copies to my pack, travel wallet and leave one at home with someone reliable who is only a phone call or e-mail away. It just makes it easier if something did happen to have all the numbers at hand. I have heard that having a copy of passport makes getting a replacement much easier.

Chicken wire or some kind of knife proof mesh can actually save a lot of aggravation. Simply line the inside of your day bag with this mesh. That way, if someone does slice your bag, all your stuff doesn’t come spilling out. Bag slicing is a favorite of thieves. A common technique used by thieves is for a woman to come up to you asking for money. She will be carrying a baby and have a couple of kids with her. She will stare you down, asking for help while trying to put the baby in your arms. Meanwhile, the two other kids, (actually adult midgets disguised as children)–just kidding!–use a razor blade to slice your bag and take all your valuables. You finally push away from the lady and baby, but by now it is too late, they already have what they wanted. You won’t even realize it until you go to pull something out of your bag.

Another scheme is for a group of people to suddenly surround you in a public place. It could be on a street, in a train station or maybe on a bus. Everybody seems to get shoved around and before you know it, you’re standing there in just your underwear. O.K. maybe it’s not that extreme, but there are many people in the world who make their living just by ripping off tourists. Please note that none of this actually happened to me. A couple of times people tried, but these stories are more traveler lore than anything.

A pack that has zippers which come together and can be locked can be of some comfort. I also cary a small Bike cabel lock. I use it both on the move and in hostels. In the hostels it works great. It allows me to run the cable through the area where the two zippers meet, then through the bed frame, or radiator, or something else in the room that is stable. On buses or trains it really gives me peace of mind to lock the pack up somewhere where I can see it and know that it will be difficult for someone to walk off with it while I am sleeping.

Anyway you use it, a cable lock at least creates one more obstacle for a would-be thief. Also carry a medium-sized padlock. Many hostels have lockers of some sort, but usually they don’t supply a lock. The lockers are great and really easy to use if you have your own lock.

8. Toiletries–This is a very individual area. I think it is important to start simple and buy as you need. A short list of what to pack: toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, razor, small towel, deodorant, and any other basic personal needs. I keep these in a plastic bag. Changes in altitude and pressure seem to always put bottled soap all over the place.

9. Extras–You might want to carry some photos from home, a hiking staff, a micro-recorder, journal, extra eyeglasses, garbage bags, playing cards,  maybe even a harmonica. A small stuff sack filled with the little extras works great. I carried extra eyeglasses in case I broke mine, garbage bags to throw the pack in if I was on a small boat, safety pins for all things, sewing kit, harmonica, (traded for a necklace from a Massi Warrior around the Campfire in Kenya), playing cards, corkscrew and cheese knife.

This is strictly an area of personal preference. I believe in minimalism, but if there is something special think about it and if it you want to bring it, great. On my trips I have chosen to bring along a few extras and was always happy that I did. On a long trip anyone is bound to get a bit homesick or feel the need to connect with someone and want to talk about their life at home. I brought along about twenty photos of family, friends and my dog. I was amazed that where ever I went, the young ladies of the world were always most interested in my sister’s wedding photo.

I have had my knee rebuilt three times, and for this reason I would always carry a support bandage and collapsible hiking staff. This really helped save my knee and reduced my vitamin and Ibuprofen intake. I also wrapped about three feet of duct tape on one section of my hiking staff, just to have it in case I needed it. It ended up being very useful when I used the duct tape to repair an embarrassing tear in my pants.

For me, memories are sparked in many different ways, through sight, sound and smell. I brought a small micro-cassette recorder that has created some cherished memories, from elephants trumpeting in Africa to little girls singing in Bolivia. It amazes me just how much of hams kids can be all over the world.

As you can see I enjoy writing, and a journal was a great way to do it. Paper or electronic, whatever works for you is best. However, I did find that sending mass-mailing e-mail stories to friends and family at home was well received and is also a great way to get someone at home to print off a journal as you go.

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.

Of course there are certain sad events that only time can heal, just as time is needed to reflect upon and savor the happy events. With that said–whether it be the loss of a loved one or the euphoria of a new love–the truth remains that whether you are coming up or coming down you do live here on earth with a lot of other people. This makes it wise to remember that though there is no set schedule  for how long you should take to heal, or how long you should bask in the glory of a happy memory, when this time of reflection and/or healing stops being productive, taking hold of your life, it is time to move on.

A prime example of having to let go of the past happened to me when I lost my best friend to cancer. We had been friends since middle school. He died in our sophomore summer of college. My friend’s name was Sang Won. Sang was conceived in Korea but born and raised every bit an American. Sang and I had shared it all. We’d chased girls together, had fun together, fought together, and got in trouble together. We were like brothers.

From the time Sang found out he had cancer until the time he died was only six months. It was not a nice six months. He was treated with chemotherapy, had his leg removed and several other surgeries. We had fun during those six months when we could. I had no problem hanging out with a one-legged Korean.

When Sang Won died it really caught me off guard. I had known that death was a distinct possibility…but hell, this was my best friend!  I wasn’t prepared to learn how to handle not having him around. At first I didn’t do a very good job of it either. Then I realized how pissed-off Sang would be if he knew I was dwelling on his death rather than celebrating his life. I knew how I would have felt. I would have been really upset if I was the one who had died and San the one who sat around feeling sorry for himself. I would have expected him to go out and have twice as much fun–some for him and some for me. I realized that dealing with the death of my best friend wasn’t going to be easy, but I learned how, a day at a time. I went out and began to have fun again, though for a very long time Sang was never far from my thoughts.

I still remember Sang Won; not as much any more, but I think that’s OK too. I know that all of our experience together– from the practical jokes to burying him–have made me a stronger and better person. So this one’s for you, Sang, thanks for not letting me dwell in the past, and I am still having fun for both of us.

Thanks, Sang…Keep Smiling.

It is important to remember events, both good and bad. The compilation of experiences is who we are. Not dwelling on our experiences from the past, but learning from them–appreciating them for what they were and growing from them–create the people we become.

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.

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.

While sitting at the table with my two new friends having a nice debate, three Buddhist Monks walk into the cafe. (I know this sounds like the opening to a really bad joke, but this really happened.) These guys are the real deal; shaved heads, dressed in red cotton robes and holding prayer beads. As each monk walks by, they take turns bumping into our table and squeezing behind my chair to the only remaining empty table. (Actually there were only three tables in the whole restaurant.) As each monk walks by making eye contact they say “Namastay” a common Nepali greeting.

Respectfully I return the courtesy. Once they are seated, my back is touching the back of the monk behind me.

The Monk turns toward me and with a chuckle and a quick side-to-side head bob asks, “Hello, where… from you?”

I couldn’t help smiling, “I’m from the United States.”

He laughs, rolls his eyes, shows a puzzled look and leans closer. I’m sure he could hear me, I think he just wanted to let me know that he really didn’t understand. Talking slower, we started to get somewhere. This monk’s smile and laughter were absolutely contagious and such fun. The majority of our conversation is made up of laughter, definitely not at each other but with each other.

Finally I asked, “Where do you live?”

He smiles, giggles and then replies “Kopan.”

Kopan…Hum.

I look over at my two friends and in unison they give me that, “See, I told you so!” look. You know the one, with the raised eyebrows and a slight smirk. I relent and realize that I’ve lost our little debate.

That settles it.  The teahouses become added to my agenda. If it’s guys like this I have to live with for a couple of weeks I’m game. It would be a blast to dance around in a Moo-Moo singing Kum-Ba-Ya with these bald-headed cats.
However to protect myself, I decide that during my time at the monastery to have my own, personal, subversive goal. The goal; to get a bald-headed, robe-wearing monk to say, “Thank you…Thank you very much,” with an Elvis snarl. This will be my protection if it really turns out to be a cult. I will have my own agenda, my own secret operation. I can’t wait.

Feeling like a pinball getting thrown from side to side in the back seat, our taxi is racing along the twisted, dusty, ancient, back streets of Katmandu. Huge priceless stone sculptures are around every turn. These well-worn artifacts are not only worshiped and admired, they are used as anchor post for prayer flags, laundry lines and perches for pigeons. People, carts, cars, trucks, monkeys and dogs create a mass of confusion. Katmandu is a full assault on all the senses and filled with over-whelming pollution. This place is busy and our driver is either insane or incredibly good. Racing through the placid mayhem we hit the edge of town and our driver, Mario Andrettie, points to a walled-structure on top of a ridge, cradled in at the feet of the Himalayas and says “Kopan”, our destination.

Seeing the monastery that would be home for the next couple of weeks I begin to think of the T.V. series “Kung Fu.” It really is the only exposure I have to base my expectations on what a Buddhist Monastery is like. I imagine perfectly manicured grounds with robed, chanting guys learning Kung Fu and other monks in quiet meditation.

With the taste of road dust in my mouth I begin to feel a bit nervous. What have I got myself into? What if this really is like a cult? What if they only eat oatmeal and want me to write letters home asking for money? What if they want me to change my name to “Moonbeam?” I suppose I could change my name to “Moonshine” or perhaps “Jim Beam.” I snicker inside at my little pun and remember back to my protective, secret agenda, my mission and quest for an Elvis Snarl. I find comfort.

With these bizarre, surreal thoughts swimming in my head, we circle up the switchbacks to the monastery and arrive at the open, large, steel gates with two life-sized gold-covered deer sculptures perched above the opening. This type of life- sized, gold-covered deer statues facing one another are perched over many of the entrances to Tibetan Buddhists buildings.

In contrast to Katmandu, Kopan is clean and quiet. I am apprehensive and excited all at once. Within the Monastery walls and among the tall pine trees are several brightly colored buildings. This place is perched on top of the mountain ridge, the grounds are immaculate and filled with strings of prayer flags in different degrees of decay, gently floating in the breeze. The heavy pollution of Katmandu below creates an orange haze, like a beautiful sunset. I find myself entering this place with the same respect as a guest to a new church. The noise and chaos below has ceased to exists behind these walls.

Timidly, we open the door of the cab and we are greeted by several very friendly dogs, all mutts all-sniffing and all tails wagging. Quietly the three of us look around, not really knowing what to expect. The cab disappears and there we stand with our packs; wide-eyed travelers and happy dogs. A quick scan reveals no Kung Fu practice. No chanting. No one is levitating. How disappointing. There are several monks standing in the shade laughing in undisciplined loitering. As a monk comes over to greet us, a motorcycle comes blazing through the gate, right in front of us, the driving monk’s robe flapping in the wind. He skids to a stop in front of the other monks. Most of the loitering Monks come over to check out the bike. It was odd to see a bald headed, goggle-wearing monk riding a gigantic dirt bike. It wasn’t Kun Fu class, but close. It was cool.

As I had expected, I was not a very good meditator and most of the time the class was filled with high-stressed, overachieving yoga junkies from the Western world. Not wanting to hang out with the stress monsters, I would often cut meditation class just to sneak of the grounds to smoke cigarettes, (no smoking on Monastery grounds), and then hang out with the monks, talking and play jokes on each other.

During one of these fine loitering sessions, while sitting at the community picnic table overlooking Katmandu, I was talking with my new friend Ingma Jingma. He explained how he had walked through the Himalayas, avoiding the Chinese border guards. It had taken him thirty days with the only food and water coming from caring people along the way. He had been away from his home in Tibet for many years now and had not seen his family since he escaped. With millions of his countrymen killed by the Chinese, I though he belonged to one of the few groups of people on the earth who could rightfully be bitter and resentful. This was not the case. Surprising to me, he held no ill will in his heart for the Chinese, only compassion. It really made me consider the frequent one-fingered salutes I dished out so easily on the roadways at home. I was spoiled.

My new friend explained to me how things worked at the Monastery and why there were so many young boys there. Most of the boys were orphans from Tibet, he told me, and were part of the Monastery family until they got to be about eighteen-years-old. Upon reaching this age, each individual boy would have the option to either leave the monastery and go out into the world, not as a monk, but just a regular guy or they could choose to stay within the order. There was another location a reasonable walk away from here that was a similar set up for nuns. I was never invited over there, but during my visit I did see a few bald-headed chicks come over the to main monastery. I guess the Buddhists are down with women’s lib… right on.

While continuing our discussion, two really short, bald-headed, robe-wearing, kid monks were involved in a mock sword battle with sticks. All the boys of the monastery had a disciplined schedule of meditation, education and chores, but these two obviously had some free time. I was soon to learn the saying “boys will be boys” is appropriate in all languages all over the world.

I’m not sure where exactly the initial mock sword battle between the boys began, but they worked their way across the grounds and in front of the main Gompa, (the large spiritual gathering building). The mock battle intensified and the wood swords sliced back and forth through the air as one midget swordsman gained ground on the other. Back and forth across the grounds they now battled, directly in front of a tall ceremonial building with a huge 15-foot high prayer wheel inside. The building had stairs on the outside that lead to the flat roof. On top of the flat roof over the giant door where two beautiful, life-sized, gold-covered deer statues facing each other. One swordsman began to gain ground and the other started to back up the stairs of the colorful ceremonial building. As they made their way up the open-air stairs I lost sight of them for a minute. The boys reappeared on top of the flat roof. Quickly the battle ended, evidently the boys had tired of swordplay.

Taking a break from combat, one of them decided to ride one of the deer statues. Jumping atop the beautiful gold covered deer, hanging on to an antler, with his feet dangling at the deer’s side, he swings his wood sword above his head like a cavalryman on charge. At about this time the monk in charge of the young boys discipline walks into the yard and sees the boys playing. I’m new here, but I am thinking even for these patient guys, riding sacred objects is a huge infraction. The young cavalryman sees Discipline Monk, (who looks somewhat like a Monk Nanny), about the same time that I do. The priceless statue he is riding begins to shift inward toward the center of the flat roof, falling in an unnatural, cringing and hair-raising fashion.

I had expected to experience time slowing down while here, but not in this way. Time almost stopped as the golden deer, obviously broken, begins to fall under the rider’s weight. The slow motion expression on the little cavalryman’s face turns from joy to terror as he rides the collapsing artifact to its demise. Watching in shock with an open jaw, I think to myself, “Man, that kid is toast!”

Sure enough Disciplinary Monk begins running toward the building. Picking up speed, he takes the stairs three at a time. Appearing on the rooftop he looks to be a giant compared to the little boys. He grabs the cavalryman by the back collar of his robe, stands him up and checks for damage. The boy is physically OK and Disciplinary Monk begins to have words with the boys. Being so far away I could not hear what was being said, however, I was close enough to see the international finger wag and the boys’ heads held low in shame. I knew there was trouble.

The Head Monk of the Monastery has almost magically appeared. He must have see that something was going on up on the roof of the building, along with the now-dead golden deer statue lying on its side. Standing just outside the entrance to the large prayer wheel and looking up, he had attracted the attention of the Disciplinary Monk. Hearing the Head Monk approach, the Disciplinary Monk looks over the edge of the roof and a conversation begins. There is obviously interest in what is going on and Disciplinary Monk turns his back to boys and looks down at Big Cheese Monk.

The boys still hold their heads low in shame.

From atop the roof, with his back still to the little boys, Discipline Monk can’t stop a huge smile which is growing from ear to ear. He clears his throat and tells the story of the boy’s adventures to Big Cheese Monk. As the Head Big Cheese Monk listens, he begins to laugh out loud, so much so he bends over from laughing so much. I am amazed. The older Monks are laughing at the situation, not angry, not frustrated that their priceless artifact has been damaged, just laughing. The Disciplinary Monk wipes the smile off of his face and turns around for an additional short finger wag and verbal chastising and then turns back around to smile and laugh with the Big Cheese Monk. There was a feeling that both the older monks really enjoyed the antics of the boys and even though what they had done was wrong and the boys were in trouble and would be punished, the older men were filled with patience and compassion for the young boys.

Watching in amazement I wondered what type of swordplay mishaps the two older monks had experienced in their youth. What type of memories were going through their heads as they put themselves in those boy’s shoes. I also considered that the outcome would most likely be very different if a kid at home in the States had broken a valuable statue in a similar way.  Not having their Mom and Dad around was a tragedy for these kids, but I really felt that they were in good hands.

Experiencing how these Monks lived allowed my fear of their unknown and mysterious lives to melt away. They were just people doing the best they could and really trying to look at life in a big-picture way and contribute to life through small day-to-day acts. I realized that what we learned from each other was open and true. When we want to learn and we are open, there is no need for fear.

By the way, I was successful in obtaining my subversive goal. However, by the time I obtained that goal it was no longer a subversive. I will always remember receiving that heart felt, smiling with a light snarl, “tank yu, tank yu berry mush.” I think my new friend meant it. I know I did.

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

Warm sun hit our tear-filled faces as we walked through Washington Park in Denver. Health nuts were in abundance, running, skating, spinning, just one more lap at light speed, on their bicycles. Families and lovers filled the gardens, playing and looking at one another with caring eyes. The little ones explored with absolute fascination, squirrels, flowers, rocks and even the grass. Smiling, I envied their curiosity in something as simple as grass. We continued walking hand in hand, doing our best to just be. A fog of disbelief followed us with “what should we do’s?” and the “why us?” questions.

During a period of simply walking and being consumed in our own thoughts, I reflected back to a brief time I spent in a Buddhist monastery in Katmandu, Nepal. At the time I wasn’t on some spiritual quest or some new-age trend, circumstance had just placed me there as an adventure while traveling. Thinking back to some of the friends I had made there, I remembered the basic premise of “Life isn’t fair, get over it.” Many of the monks I had met there had experienced negative acts I could only dream of.  Now, hearing the fall leaves rustle and feeling the breeze on my face, I realized that life really isn’t fair. I was so fortunate to be walking hand-in-hand with my soul mate.  Not only had we found each other, but we were enjoying a beautiful sun-filled day. We had reasonably large brains that allow us to chase our desires. We lived in a country where we could pursue our dreams and speak our minds. I was self-employed and master of my own destiny. I was not worried about where my next meal would come from. I lived the life of a king compared to many in the world. Yes, life isn’t fair; I am among the fortunate few. I expressed this revelation to my wife and she agreed.

The fog cleared and we walked with confidence. Ten steps later the fog was back. We both knew we would make the right decisions and would get through this new information about our fertility. However, first the fog of disbelief will have to turn to the fog of anger and then info the fog of pain and eventually into the clear light of “life is not fair” and yes, we are among of the fortunate. Realizing we were only beginning this path was a very decisive step. Even though we both knew the worst was yet to come, at least we knew together we were working through it.

The Baby Factory

Four days after receiving the initial test results from the nurse, indicating that we could not get pregnant, naturally we found ourselves sitting in the doctor’s office. The practice was considered to be the best fertility clinic in the state. This doctor’s office was obviously his inner sanctum; degrees covered the walls and every flat surface was covered with either files or visual aids of the female and male reproductive organs. Tentatively we sat together, clutching each other’s hand tightly. This was where we had sat a few months ago when we decided that after two years of trying naturally we should have some diagnostic testing to find out if everything was OK.

This was where I expressed my concerns about being on a slippery slope. My fears pertained to starting treatment with just a small step, and if that didn’t work then another small step, and before we knew it three years would have gone by, the emotional toll off the chart, my wife and I having spent all the money we had and still wouldn’t have a child. Neither one of us had anything ethical against fertility treatments for others. However, we had always said that if we could not have a baby naturally then it wasn’t meant to be. Sitting there, holding hands and looking at the doctor with his warm smile, surrounded by busyness, I feared what direction he may try and steer us.

The doctor began by going through all of our tests and explaining how everything was fine except the last test. There it was, proof that we could not have a child naturally. He smiled and said this was good news. I looked in disbelief and reiterated my slippery slope concerns. This man was obviously in the baby making business and from his point of view this was good news. He explained what the next step would be, artificial insemination. I asked what the procedure entailed and he explained. He felt that because it was my stuff and my wife’s egg that it was still natural.

I thought about this and couldn’t see how obtaining my specimen, while in a small room at the clinic, then having this sample washed and a select few sperm chosen by a lab technician, having these lab-tech-chosen-few placed into a syringe, attached to a long, thin tube, bypassing the area of chemical acidity, injecting these washed, selected few into my wife after she had peed on a stick that showed two lines, was anything but natural. The doctor suggested that we should try this four or five times and we could see if it worked. If it didn’t, well, we could try the next step, which could possibly involve surgery, and if that didn’t work we could always try invitro fertilization, conception in a petri dish, still natural by his standards.

I began to feel the ice form under my feet and see the steep descent in front of me. Looking at my wife, her eyes showed a glimmer of hope, a possibility. The doctor had completely ignored our opinion, placed Pandora’s box, unlocked and with a big easy-opening handle, on our laps. This was what I had feared. He had made it so easy for us to just take that next simple step. He had even supplied us with the rationalization of it being natural. I knew this is his business, and evidently most people came in wanting a child at any cost, and that was what he supplied. I was sure he was very good at it. However, in our case he didn’t–or at least didn’t want to–listen.

Never being one to not at least review all options, I asked what the cost would be associated with this procedure. He laughed and said that he got in trouble with his office manager if he discussed costs. He was under strict rules not to do so. We departed his office with the usual pleasantries, the doctor excited at taking the next step, my wife–with Pandora’s box under her arm–saddened by confirmation of what we had feared yet grasping that there might be hope, and me, distraught by the confirmation of what we already knew and pissed off because the doctor hadn’t listened.

We were ushered back into the nondescript front waiting room to wait for the office manager. A strong selection of baby magazines intermixed with Time and News Week graced the magazine rack. This front office could have easily been interchanged with any of a thousand different doctor or dentist offices in the country, with one exception. Sitting on the table was a brochure for financing. Yes, with good credit, one could finance fertility treatments. Welcome to America, where you can get anything on credit; cars, washing machines, big screen TV’s, and now the hope of having a child–not a guarantee but the hope, the possibility. I felt my feet begin to slip and my stomach began to rumble. We were called up to see the office manager.

Her desk was cluttered. The office was very small and pictures of dogs and babies covered the walls. I don’t remember seeing any degrees on the walls and she had no windows. She came across as very tough. I noticed a picture of a new Hummer 2 taped next to her computer. I had the feeling of being in the office of a finance manager at a car dealership. She reviewed the doctor’s recommendations and began to explain when we could be scheduled and how the logistics of it would work. A sheet of paper appeared and she began to break down the costs for our first step on the slippery slope. $1600.00 for the first attempt at “Natural” artificial insemination. I asked if there are any other fees. Yes, after some discussions it looked like about $2,200.00 per attempt.

I asked her about fees for future treatments if this didn’t work. This seemed to throw her off stride. Another paper was presented and my brain began to calculate. The rumors of couples spending $50,000 to $100,000 dollars trying to get pregnant over a period of one to two years seemed to be accurate. My brain had now officially hit overload. My wife and I told the office manager that we needed to discuss it, picked up Pandora’s box, took our sheets of papers with cost breakdowns and financing options, walked down the hall out of the nondescript waiting room and stood in front of the elevator door, dazed and emotional wrecks.

The Fallout

A roller coaster of emotions was to follow. Tremendous swings between logic and feelings, desire and reality. On the one hand we had Pandora’s box sitting on our lap, ready to open. We could try it just once or maybe twice. We could afford it and after all, it was my sperm and her egg.

That’s natural, right?

The retort. How is that natural?

We had said we would not go any further, it would be natural or not at all. Then the true mind bender of why we really wanted a child and if we moved forward why were we going against nature to create a life? We could still have a tremendously positive impact on the existing kids around us; nieces, nephews, God’s kids and friend’s kids. We could have the energy to spend time with these children in ways that we could not if we had children of our own. And yet, if we felt that we should only have children naturally and that the gods must have something else planned for us, why were we trying to tell ourselves we should have kids? Why couldn’t we just accept that we couldn’t?

Then we debated the question, what is natural? If the gods created man and a man has figured out how to create a child in a non-traditional way, but this process was still considered by some as “natural,” why not? If man figured it out then in some respect it was natural. If I had a deep cut I went to the hospital and had it stitched up. Stitched up with man-made fibers, a man-made needle, in a sterile man-made environment. I had no ethical dilemma about that. Why was this such a challenge? I found myself continuing to lean to the side of, “just because we can doesn’t mean we should.” We struggled even with this. Had I set too rigid a standard, “it happens naturally or not at all?” Was I being too literal with the word natural? Had I set myself up to be so fearful of my own definition of “the slippery slope?” Why didn’t I trust us? Maybe we could simply give it a try once or twice. After all, we could stop whenever we want. (Now I sounded like an alcoholic.)

This seemed to be the process that flowed for two weeks. One afternoon, talking with a friend about the question of fertility treatment and the higher chances for birth defects, I did some research. I had asked our fertility doctor the question, if there was a higher chance of birth defects when using fertility treatments. He had danced around the question and seemed to suggest that it was about the same as regular conception. However, an article I found in the New England School of Medicine Journal suggested differently. The results reflected in this article, unfortunately, answered my questions and sealed the deal.

A True Quandary

As a person who has a challenge living in the present moment, I began to plan as I always did. Growing up in Nebraska, my father had taught me not to be afraid of making huge goals. Both parents had always told me, “you can do anything.”

(Aside–In 1989 I sold a business and traveled around the world, to all seven continents and 27 countries. This was an experience that changed my life. I met my English-born wife on a snowy freighter in Patagonia, Chili. We courted through South America and fell in love on a ship to Antarctica. We discovered the true joy of a simple life. All we possessed we carried with us in small backpacks. We were forced into a slower time. We had no cell phones and South American public transportation operates on some mystic schedule that only the 2nd and 3rd world could understand. Even though we lived a very simple existence, we often had more than the locals around us. Yet often we saw a happiness and contentment in their eyes that was rarely seen in the western world.

Reka, my wife, is from London, and a former accountant for a venture capital firm. She somehow escaped the material gerbil wheel most people get caught up on in the western world. Reka’s desire was for experiences and a simple life. I too thought of these things. I had recently read a quote from Einstein, “A chair, a table, a violin. What else does a man really need?” and pondered these words greatly. I was beginning to realize that since my return to the United States and marriage to my wife, affectionately known as TROUBLE, I had been doing what I thought I was supposed to do and not necessarily what I was built to do.

I think we are often programmed–in a good way–to follow a certain path. This programming comes from our family experiences, as well as from societal influences. I am not suggesting in any way that this programming is bad. I do feel that these influences had affected the way I had been living my life for the last few years. I had expected to have a family. When I did, my material want list went from very little to over the top. These material requirements included a private school for my children, a positive environment–meaning a good expensive neighborhood–financial security for my family in case I died early, easy travel and time, meaning yearly visits to all family both in the US and abroad. In short, I wanted to be a responsible parent raising a well-rounded kid. After my trip around the world and meeting my wife, these material items were beginning to vanish from my “needs” list.

As a mortgage broker I often see the unfortunate results of our advertising, consumer society and poor financial discipline. Most of the folks I see who are in trouble have wound up there because they thought they deserved something; the TV said so. This isn’t to say that I am not a consumer. I simply am trying to take a chapter from my wife’s life in that when it comes to something of a material want, make sure you really want or need it. If so, then go buy the very best and enjoy it for a long time. I have found when I do this I actually enjoy my purchase much more.)

Pondering all of this, it crept into my brain that what I really enjoyed was experiences. I had only rarely had the same job for more than 2 years in a row and then moved on, even though I have been quite successful at most of what I had tried. When I had time off–truly my time–my favorite thing to do was to go and explore the corners of the 3rd world.  I realized that the happiest I had ever been were the times when I had all the possessions I needed on me, dirty and in a small backpack, sitting on a hard bench seat on a bus with chickens and a cornucopia of smells, destined for a town I have never been to, having no idea where I would spend the night. After writing this I can see it might sound crazy, but it is definitely the truth.

I began to see that the crossroads of life have a mythical quality. From blues singers in the Mississippi Delta making deals with the devil to where I now stood in my life. I was not trying to make a deal with the devil, but there was a certain degree of apprehension of which road to go down.

As the brainstormer and planner I am, I began to set down on paper the options:

1. Open Pandora’s box. Medically try for a baby and live a quality of life as most, (this had been already decided against.)
2. Lead a quality of life as most in the same job, building an asset base. (This felt like being a cog in the Wheel…not bad but not for me.)
3. Live a life full of fun, happiness and adventure. (Similar to Hemingway, only I would be a better husba

Ok, I thought, if this is really the road I am considering, the conservative planner in me needs to be able to wrap my brain around some type of plan. I reminded myself to dream huge. I like most of the world. My wife has very little material wants and is extremely durable. Once Reka is a citizen we can leave and move to England, do my paperwork and then have the option to live and work legally anywhere in Europe we……

Crap! I suddenly realized that I’d unknowingly just opened another one of Pandora’s little boxes. I saw that the world really was our oyster. I felt like a little kid standing in the biggest toy store and candy shop in the world, with a fairy Godmother standing there saying you can have whatever you want and as much as you want, but you can only have one thing at a time.  Then I considered the overload a poor kid in that situation must have been feeling. Now I knew his pain. There were too many possibilities! With the life experiences I had been exposed to I began to open my mind and dream huge; Did I want to study for a Master Seaman license and captain sailboats around the world? Or become a chef in Milan, an exporter in Hong Kong, or maybe I could become a professional hunter in Alaska or South Africa?

I know it sounds like a little kid saying I want to be a racecar driver or a fireman, but I asked myself, why not? We live in a free society, have reasonably big brains, few material wants, and fiscal responsibility. I began to freak myself out.  It was all out there, all I had to do was choose.

The cross roads of life are not highways with on ramps, more like trails in the woods that branch and dead end, connect back up, and constantly change directions.

November 2, 2004–Election Day

I awake at our usual time, 6:00 am. The annoying blare of the alarm continued until Reka reached over to shut it off and then flopped back onto the bed. I felt a bit cold and we had our usual playful discussion about her stealing the covers or was it really me getting hot and pushing them all on her. She leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek and hopped out of bed. My body clock was not yet aware of Daylight Savings Time. It still needed time to reset itself. Usually I woke up two or three minutes before the alarm.

Our day started in typical fashion. I asked what type of eggs the Atkins’ lover in the house wanted for breakfast. “Poached” was the response. I liked to think that I was not spoiling my wife but supporting her. Never once had she requested that I get up and make her breakfast. I choose to do so because Reka got up every morning and went to a job that is OK. She did this to ensure a consistency of income while I created a new business for our transition to living full-time in the mountains. I did not take this fact for granted.

Reka jumped off to shower and I made breakfast. As is my usual practice I turned the news on. I had actually been anticipating some kind of terrorist attack before the election and yet somehow, here we were on Election Day. There have been no attacks here at home. For the first time I realized that my weeklong headache seemed to be gone. Happy days were here again. Eating breakfast in the front room, watching the TV, was a rare event for us. Typically it was together time at the kitchen table. However, today was election day and I was trying to soak up all that the spin doctors had to offer. Like the candidates or hate them, at least this election had spurred people on to become involved–to vote. (I truly feel that as citizens of this great country it is not our right to vote, but our civil obligation.)

Watching the TV, I noticed the little box with the temperature at the corner of the screen, 14 degrees (About –5c). That was cold for November 2nd. I decided to have my morning smoke and Sophie, the yellow lab, and I ventured out. I could feel the cold as I breathed through my nostrils and crystals of ice cracked under my feet. Sophie did the excited dance of, hey I’m outside and so are you!

It was dark, yet the sky held the beautiful pre-dawn colors of what promised to be a chilly but beautiful day. Reka’s jeep started without a problem. I then turned, stared down and swaggered to the old Mercedes diesel like a gun fighter. This 14-degree day would be a true test to see if the work the new mechanic had done was successful. If not, it may be time to car shop.

I stepped up to the door and inserted the key–well, I tried to insert the key. The lock was frozen. I felt like a gunfighter who didn’t even get his gun out of his holster. I laughed at myself a bit and found a different door lock more receptive to the key. Finally in, sitting behind the wheel in the crystal-covered car, I impatiently waited to see the little glow plug light on the dash turn off, signaling it was time to try and turn the engine over. The light went out and I turned the key. The big diesel belched to life, spit and sputtered a bit, but continued to run. The old boat must have known what I was thinking so she started on the first try. I guessed I would keep her.

You may be wondering how a simple morning routine applies to this story. I’ll tell you.

While warming up cold cars and playing with the dog I realized three simple ideas:

• Reka and I were one hell of a team.
• Life will always do the unexpected. Fourteen degrees on November 2nd and we couldn’t get pregnant. That’s life. Deal with it.
• Why worry about terrorist attacks? I can’t prevent them, nor pregnancies that won’t occur. Especially when I get excited about making breakfast for my bride and the glow plug turning off, allowing the engine to roar to life.

I talk about a simple life, and even try to live it through a desire for fewer material wants. Yet for some reason I still didn’t get it. I was getting closer and I was truly trying to appreciate the path. I firmly believed that the gods had something else in mind for us. I also believed that the gods were playing a joke on me because we hadn’t seen the path yet. If I could plan and know where I was going I would have no problems with a long arduous path. What drove me nuts was not knowing what the plan was. I could hear the gods laughing in my head, (metaphorically, I didn’t really hear voices.) They laughed because I desired to know what the plan was–where I was going. The gods must have enjoyed watching me squirm as I learned to appreciate the life’s path and relax a bit, while allowing life to unfold the way it wanted to and on its time frame, not mine.

Moving On

As we sat in the Tattered Cover bookstore, we searched for advice on how to proceed. A gracious clerk had helped us to find books on international careers and guidebooks on identifying how to find what career you really love. We had also asked if there was anything out there on getting through tough times when you find out you can’t get pregnant. Our helpful clerk disappeared on a quest to find what we were looking for. As I sat with my recently-operated-on knee, elevated, looking through a list of foreign employers, she returned. There were no books that addressed our needs in the no-baby arena. Again I could hear the gods laughing. I guessed that this is one we would have to figure out for ourselves.

My headache was gone and the self-induced stress was beginning to decrease. We were still mourning the children we wouldn’t have, but truly appreciating each other. We looked to the future with our eyes filled with pinwheels of excitement, confusion and wonder. We knew our pain would diminish but never really disappear. Life wasn’t fair, we knew this and realized we were on the fortunate end of the spectrum. Where it would take us who knows, but it sure would a lot fun getting there.

Keep Smiling,
Kris

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.”

He handed me he binoculars. As I tried to hold them steady I could hear the exhale of his breath as the rifle jumped in his hands. Smelling the gunpowder and watching through the binoculars I saw the doe go limp. “Good shot!” I shouted.  Quickly, counting the steps, closing the distance on the dead animal, I stumble on the tough sagebrush and grinned when I saw how well the beautiful creature had been shot. I yelled back, “heart shot, over 300 yards!”

Watching the old man hobbling and trying to catch up I saw him smiling like a little kid.  It was fascinating to see just how excited he was. Living his whole life in Maine, he knew how to hunt deer and had every year since I had known him.  Now we were together in Wyoming hunting antelope, something I had been doing since I moved here to work on the gas pipelines six years ago.

Growing up, my fondest childhood and adolescent memories of my father had been of our hunting adventures. I started hunting when I could walk. I didn’t carry a gun that early, but I would walk the fields with Dad and feel big. My little legs were slow and Dad was strong, fast and always patient. It was precious time, time that was just Dad and me. During the hunting seasons we would hunt most weekends; pheasant, duck or deer. During my teenage years I was a little harder to wake up. I had a part-time job and I’m sure I had a little of the teenage grump that all teenagers have, but we still went out more weekends than not.

Looking back on those times I remember walking all day, learning the definition of “Hell’s half acre”. Rarely were we successful in bagging our quarry. However, through that time spent together I acquired a love of the outdoors that I will have for life. In hindsight the best memories involved sitting in the duck blind, during a stretch when we would rarely even saw ducks. Enjoying the warm midday sun and taking turns reading aloud my eleventh grade English assignment, Longfellow’s THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH.  I don’t get home much anymore, but I still make sure Dad always has a copy of that book in his duck blind.

My Dad took a closer look at the antelope he’d just shot and puffed out this chest, “Not a bad shot for an old man.” He smiled and took a deep breath while he looked around at the silent openness and listened to the wind. “There really isn’t anything out here.”

“Nothing but the wind.” I replied. I added, ” Congratulations, that was a really good shot.”

Looking at me with a twinkle in his eyes he said, “Thank you, son. I love you.”

“My pleasure.” I smiled. “Now you killed it so you get to clean it. Just do it the same way you would a deer.” I began walking toward the truck. I paused and turned, “I love you too Pop. I’m glad you were able to come out.”

With a glow on the horizon and sky that doesn’t end, sunsets on the high-plains of Wyoming can be magical. Recounting the day’s hunt we headed back to town in the gigantic American-made truck. With success under our belt, the earlier challenges of finding antelope had faded away as we started to drive next to private land, land filled with thousands of those antelope critters.

“I hate to admit how much I like these fancy heated seats you have. ” I looked over and told Dad. I was driving. Not only was I driving, I was driving Dad’s truck. As long as I can remember, if the old man was in the car, he was the one driving. No one ever drove his truck. I guess change happens.

We were staying at the nearest motel to the public land where we could hunt. (It should have been called the A Coal Train Goes by Every Fifteen Freakin” Minutes motel. Across the street from the motel was a dirt road that crossed the train tracks. Federal law required the train to blow its whistle as it approached the dusty intersection.) The rooms of the motel were old, the carpet worn out and musty. The TV had a pair of vice grips to turn the channel. Our hostess/manager is, to say the least, interesting.

“Do you think she’ll have a bra on today?” I asked Dad.

“God, I hope so!” he exclaimed.

Her age was difficult to guess. She had at least three teeth strategically placed in her smile, a buzz cut, was easily 250 pounds, and chain-smoked Bronco cigarettes. As far as clothing, our hostess apparently only owned one set, size XXL, of sweats. In previous years when I had hunted the area I had always camped alone. Several months ago, when I first found the motel, the hostess had smiled and warmly invited me in.  As she waved her hands and kept talking, I remember losing my attention to what looked like two huge grapefruits stuck in her shirt that kept bouncing off her belly, but this was basically what she said… “If ya kell somten, yous can use dat table round-back to butcher it. Each room has hot water and fresh towels.”

As I listened I knew I had to stop looking at her breast, but they were huge, not attractive, just hypnotic. I also knew this was the only room around for over 100 miles and Dad had specifically said, “I’m too old to sleep on the ground. Besides, I need to be close to a restroom, you’ll understand when you get older.” (I would learn more about the male prostate than I would ever want to know on this trip.)

As we neared the hotel, I was pondering the fact that after I paid our rent there I’d been able to buy leftover doe antelope tags, how we now had a place to stay, a license to kill and I knew the area. I was glad that at last Dad and I had finally stopped talking about it and were actually doing it. We were on an antelope hunting trip in Wyoming and we’d bagged one.

The lights of the truck swung onto the motel. The hostess was coming out of the office, and with a quick glance we were able to identify. “No bra…ugh,” Dad moaned.

We both laughed.

Dad worked his way out of the truck. “I have to hit the powder room, then we’ll drop the antelope at the locker and go get some supper.”

Even though we had not walked that far during our hunt, the high Wyoming planes are hard on a bad heart. Dad was beginning to stiffen up. His excited hobble to the antelope I’d seen earlier was now much slower and more exaggerated. Dad was getting old. I was reminded of when Dad would tease me on my birthday, “Boy, your getting old! How does it feel to be thirty?” (Or whatever the birthday happen to be.)

My best response had always been, “Great, how does it feel to have a 30 year old son?” (or however old I was). That usually shut him up. It had always been in jest and playful. But at 40-years-old I was beginning to see an Old Man where my Dad once was. Dad was still there but the Old Man was someone new. That smile I had seen earlier was Dad, it may have even been Dad as a kid. It was good to see.

The Cavalrymen Saloon had been built in the late 1800s as a stop for the railroad. A town of 87 tough inhabitants had built up around it. The smoke-stained saloon still had the original ornate wood bar and pressed tin ceiling. The walls were covered with stuffed, dead animals or pictures of smiling men standing over dead animals. It was not necessarily a politically correct scene, yet it was appropriate. During hunting season the owners would rent out beds in the rooming house dorm they had upstairs.

Sitting on old wood chairs on the well-worn and uneven planked floor of  this saloon, our waitress took our order,
“Feel free to help yourself to the salad bar,” she said as she began to walk away. There was a heavy thud on the ceiling from the floor above. I saw the facial expression of the waitress change as she stopped and looked at the ceiling.

With a heavy sigh she bellowed, “God damn it. Raymond! Get upstairs and tell them boys this is their final warning, they got to keep it down or get the hell out!” I heard her mumble, “I knew they was trouble when I saw that bottle of Jack and all that beer.”

Still dressed in our camo hunting clothes, with our wind-burned faces, Dad’s and my gaze went from the angry waitress to each other. With a snicker I said, “I guess we better not bitch about the food, she looks tough.” This comment had more insight than we realized when we saw the contents of the salad bar; brown iceberg lettuce, dried fake ham shavings, cottage cheese and crusted vanilla pudding…and that was it?

We had dropped the antelope off at the meat locker to be processed into steaks and hamburger and we now found ourselves at the only restaurant in town. The one gas station in town sold hot dogs and burritos, I didn’t count this a restaurant. The locals did. Telling stories with the other hunters at the supper tables clustered in the Saloon, we enjoyed one of the worst meals I have ever paid for. I got to watch Dad recant the story of the arduous stalk and the long shot,
“Dead as doornail at over 350 yards.” I don’t know how dead a doornail is, but I was sure the distance of the shot would be over 400 yards by the next day. I think story embellishment is part of the ritual of dinner and drinking after a day of hunting.

“I’ll have another Beefeater martini on the rocks,” Dad told the waitress.  Martinis were back in fashion again, but Beefeater, on the Rocks with onions, that really was an old man’s drink. I wondered what my Jim Beam on the rocks said about me? Enjoying our cocktails, we talked of our strategy for tomorrow’s hunt.

Upon returning to the hotel, we avoided the trauma of seeing Three-Teeth Above Free Ranging Grapefruit in a Dirty XXL Sweatshirt. New adventures were on the horizon.

“God damn it, how did I forget my t shirts!” Dad exclaimed, followed by a frustrated sigh. “I packed and repacked for this trip.”

Dad forgot his t-shirts? He always over-packed and is over prepared, or a t least he would never admit forgetting to pack something. “Here, I have an extra.” I said, handing him a t-shirt of mine.

“Thanks, Son.” Dad borrowing clothes from me, that was another first.

Next on the agenda were the pills. I had heard stories about old guys and pills but this was my first experience actually witnessing it. Again the Old Guy began to creep in on my Father.

A regiment of small colors is produced and put on top of the TV with the vice grips for a knob. An explanation of each is then offered. “This one is for my heart, and these are for my blood pressure, this is just a vitamin your Mother wants me to take. Now this, this is Flowmax, it’s suppose to help with the number of nightly visits to the powder room.” Dad put the pills away and got into bed.

“OK, Dad, I got it, enough with the prostate stuff. You forgot to turn the bathroom light off.”

“No I didn’t, I want to see where I’m going when I have to get up to go to the bathroom.”

“Now you sleep with a nightlight?”

“That’s enough!” He said with that authoritative tone I used to hear when I would test my boundaries as a kid.

“Goodnight, Pop. That was a fair 200-yard shot today, for an Old Guy.”

With a laugh he replied,  “It was 400 yards and yes, it was a hell of shot, for anyone.” Just over a fading whisper, “We have a big day tomorrow, it’s your turn.”

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