Travel Snippits

 

SNIPPITS INDEX

Morocco (Casablanca)

Kenya (Nairobi)

Equador (Quito)

Faroe Islands (Denmark)

Australia (Ayers Rock)

Armenia (Sevan)

Tunisia (Tozuer)

Albania (border w/ Montenegro)

Kyrgystan (Bishkek)

Senegal (Dakar)

New Zealand (south island)

Sweden (Stockholm)

Jordan (Aqaba)

Canada (Ontario province)

Belize (Placentia)

Lesotho (Sani Pass)

South Africa (Cape Town/Cape Point)

Spain (Barcelona)

Dominican Republic (Santa Domingo/Jarabacoa)

Chile (Punta Arenas)

Montserrat (Plymouth)

Morocco (Tangiers)

France (Paris, en route to Amsterdam)

Ireland (from Liverpool)

Denmark (Copenhagen)

Austria (Vienna)

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CASABLANCA, MOROCCO

2016

Tyler's plane has arrived, probably, and I station myself at the spot (the "sortie") where arriving passengers come out after clearing customs and claiming luggage. I note there are two terminals, and two exits. I ask the two young girls at the information desk which terminal the flight from Madrid arrives, and they tell me terminal one. Then they say that passengers come out of BOTH terminals, but that Tyler will probably exit through the terminal two doors. So I wait for him there.

He does not show. I go back to the information desk, and this time the girls say that Madrid passengers will exit through the terminal ONE doors. What the hell? If Tyler walked out and I was not there to greet him, he would most likely continue walking to the outside area, where a mob of people wait. So, not finding him, I venture outside and search for him in the crowd. I do not find him.

It is now past the time for him to appear. I go back around to the entrance, re-enter the terminal (not an easy thing to do because of security), and go back to the girls at the information desk. This time I ask them if there is WI-FI at the airport, and they instruct me how to connect.

It is then I learn that Tyler missed his flight. He arrived for his flight at the Madrid airport less than an hour before departure time and the airline would not let him on the plane.

I return his message, telling him to just forget about meeting. This is the second complication he has had flying to rendezvous with me in Morocco. I hop in my rental car and drive 40 minutes to downtown Casablanca, without a map, and with no idea where I will be spending the night.

 

NAIROBI, KENYA

2015

The car ride from the airport to the Nairobi downtown area is 20 kilometers. I am warned by Chane, our driver, that there will be heavy traffic on Mombasa Road, the ONLY route into the city, because it is Monday, the day most people return to the city, and it is still "rush hour." Sure enough, five minutes after the words leave his mouth we are idling behind a parade of vehicles, mostly trucks with little regard for air quality. Indeed, the cityscape I see on the distant horizon is obscured by dense smog.

Traffic lightens for a bit before coming to another halt. We are driving a two lane road (no highways in Kenya). I am informed that we must negotiate four roundabouts, with traffic alternating from four directions at once. This means we idle some ten minutes, move up a quarter mile or so, and stop again to wait another ten minutes for our turn around the traffic circle. At one point my frustration gets the better of me and I get out of the car and yell at the cars lined up in front of me: "C'mon! Move it!". This brings rounds of laughter from all the occupants in the cars idling around me.

We stop and go for the next ten kilometers. How inefficient! An hour later we are through the last traffic circle and enter downtown proper. The volume of cars and trucks crammed in the downtown area is simply amazing.

I hate waiting in traffic with a capital H. I am quite relieved when we finally arrive at our hotel. However, the hotel does not have a spot out front for the taxi driver to park, and he has to park because he has to accompany us to reception. So, yeah, we are told to get back in the car and creep around the block to allow the hotel time to create a spot for the taxi to park. "Around the block" means driving for another 15 minutes through smoke-clogged, jam-packed streets: and I just lose it. I yell and gesture in a rage. Clay keeps quiet, but Chane is mortified. I do later tell Chane that I know it wasn't his fault, and that I actually think he did a good job maneuvering through the motoring maze madness.

As soon as we are ensconced in our one-star hotel, we go out to walk around the teeming streets. I get my traditional vacation haircut. We eat lunch while looking out at the wondrous traffic. We then take a rest back at the room until the driver returns to our hotel at 4:30pm.

So what shall we do this afternoon? The idea of a city tour in all this traffic is, how to say? not indicated, so we decide to travel to a nature sanctuary some six kilometers out of town. Chane tells us it will take 30 minutes to get to the sanctuary. We plan to visit the sanctuary for an hour and then have Chane drive us to the train station for our overnight train ride to Mombasa.

On our drive out of town, I note that opposing traffic coming into town is stopped and backed up as far as I can see. Chane explains that when we return to town an hour from now traffic will be lighter. Still, the more we drive, the more concerned I am about having to inch our way back downtown. Ultimately, I realize that this whole nature tour escapade is a freaking bad idea, and I tell Chane to just turn around NOW and head back.

So here we are once again, stuck in traffic heading into Nairobi. I am incredulous that I let this happen again.

We make it to the train station at 6:30pm. The train is scheduled to depart at 7:30pm. We are clearly still stuck in the days of colonialism. There have been no upgrades to this station for decades. My ticket is processed via an old ledger book. There are no computers. No credit cards. As we are putting our bags on a shelf, a porter nonchalantly tells us that the train is set to arrive at 9:00pm and, after it is serviced, will depart at midnight. Midnight?! I am aghast, and Clay is reduced to tears. I try my best to console him. A few minutes later, he accepts the turn of events and returns to his happy child state.

We board a little after midnight and are appalled at the condition of the train. Everything is dilapidated and non-functional. The first class cabin is so narrow that two people cannot pass each other. We have two narrow beds and a sink. That's it. We were supposed to have dinner in the dining car hours ago. The dining tables are still prepared for passengers to eat, and the food service gets underway shortly after the train pulls out of the station at 1:30am.

The train rocks back and forth to such a degree that I contemplate what will happen should the cars derail. I have real fear while I am trying to fall asleep amid the clamor of the rails, the clinking of the under-carraige, and the sound of doors with broken latches opening and closing, all accompanied by an unnerving sway from one side to the other. Ahh, sweet sleep...

QUITO, ECUADOR

2015

I do not have a hotel reservation at the Hotel AUDIENCIA, but I tell the taxi driver to take me there anyway. I definitely want a balcony as part of my room, but the only room with a balcony in this hotel is the king suite, at a firm $142.00. They suggest I try the Hotel San Francisco, and I have the driver take me there, despite his surprise.

The young kid manning the reception desk at the San Francisco tells me that rooms cost $58. Even then, balconies are outside the rooms, and across the hall. I shake my head as he leads me to one of the rooms.

Before he shows me a room though, he mentions a penthouse room that has a balcony, but tells me that that room is "a different price." Fine, lead the way.

I follow him up five flights of stairs to an incredible room; walls of glass on three sides, a kitchen, a fireplace, rustic old style furniture and a sunlight, to name the most obvious amenities. Oh, and of course there are a couple balconies. He says that the "different" price is $49.00. I ask him to repeat himself. He does. I am still convinced he has made a mistake, and really means to say $149.00. But no.

The "different" price for this vastly superior room is less than the regular room rate.

FAROE ISLANDS

2014

I am eating at a restaurant right next to the Vagar airport, and I do not look forward to having to drive an hour back to Torshavn just to drop off my rental car and then take a shuttle all the way back to the airport I am currently looking at through the window from my luncheon table.

So I concoct a scheme. It is true that turning the ignition key to start the engine is a bit tricky. It usually takes multiple tries before the key will turn. A couple times I actually thought I wouldn't be able to get the key to turn at all, stranding me. So I figure I can use that as an excuse for not driving the car back to Torshavn.

The rental car agency is aware of the key problem, because the told me about it before I rented the car. I'll just say that I was unable to get the key to turn.

But where to position the car? I don't want to leave it at the airport, that would be too obvious. So I decide to leave it at the hotel/restaurant I am eating at, which is next to the airport. I am sure they won't figure out my ruse then!

I reveal my "predicament" to the receptionist at the restaurant , and she telephones the rental company for me, and actually explains the situation to them over the phone for me, too. They tell her they will pick up the car, I don't even need to speak with them.

I do not feel guilty that I am not taking the car back to Toshavn, but I do regret not filling up the tank, since I used over half a tank of gas driving around. I'll mail them the gas money later.

I order a large pepperoni pizza and a tall beer, and I actually eat the entire pizza pie! I then walk ten minutes on a dirt trail that brings me directly to the airport.

My flight to Bergen, Norway leaves in three hours. I am so groggy waiting for my flight that it is a Herculean effort to stay awake. As soon as I close my eyes I start dreaming (it really was a very large pepperoni pizza I scarfed!).

There are a couple noisy infants in the airport waiting area, and then I have the bad luck to experience the cacaphonous sounds of an unruly baby perched in the seat right behind me on the plane.

Add to the various shrieking of this infant the mother singing annoying baby songs, and you get an idea of the auditory torture I am being put through. Thank God I have earphones to partially obscure the assault!

It is my opinion that all babies should be served knock-out pills on planes. No exceptions!

AYERS ROCK, AUSTRALIA

2013

Ayers Rock is quite awe-inspiring. We circumnavigate the Rock in our trusty rental and then stop at the climbing area. There is a section of rope that is used to climb to the top of the Rock.

It is logistically difficult to climb the Rock. The climb itself is not hard, The difficulty is due to the restrictions to climbing it. The climb is closed almost ALL the time. The local aborigines have objected to anyone climbing the Rock, even though there is no sacred proscription against climbing it.

Its all very annoying to me. No, I will go further: the local native objection to people climbing the rock is contemptible. Both Connor and I are dead set on making the climb. Of course, at the time we arrive at the trailhead, the route is closed. The trail to the top closes when the weather is hot. It closes after a rain. It closes when there is a forecast of rain. It closes after 8:00am, and whenever the fuck else the spineless park officials feel like closing it, designed to make it as difficult as possible for climbers.

Back at our bunkhouse, we dress up as much as we can, since we are going to be eating dinner at a restaurant in a different hotel, and there is a dinner dress code. Connor doesn't have a collared shirt, and neither of us have dress shoes. I park illegally near the entrance, as I am NOT walking ten minutes from the car park.

The restaurant turns out to be very pretentious. I order a "tasting" of four dishes for $22.00, and am presented with bite-sized portions of each dish, and I mean ONE bite size of each. Worse, two of the four are sweet tasting. I knew about the pineapple and mango that came with the prawn, but was taken aback by the "apple butter" glaze over the slices of kangaroo. I call the waiter over to complain, but then decide to have him take the entire dish back so I may order something else.

I couple minutes later, the manager arrives at our table, wanting to salvage the dish for me. I stay firm that I do not want the four bite semi-sweet "dinner". He mentions more than once the fact that he will have to throw the dish away, but eventually agrees to let me order something else. He shakes my hand and leaves. I then order a kangaroo and mushroom crepe that is just awful. They really need to hire a new chef.

The electronic credit card processing system and the cell phone tower for the entire resort complex has been down for hours. All credit cards must be processed manually. That's how it was when they processed my park admission fee, and also when I bought gas. I assumed the restaurant would do the same, but no. Instead, the waiter returns to our table with my credit card and says that they cannot process the card. I tell him I do not have cash on hand to cover the bill ($62.00) and he tells me I can just charge the meal to my room. So that's what I do. He no doubt assumed I was staying at his hotel. I put down the room number of the hotel we are actually staying at, and then we beat a hasty retreat! I figure it is unlikely that they will be able to track me down. But you know what? Considering the yucky quality of the food and the rip-off hotel rates, I am HAPPY that I didn't have to pay for the piss-poor meal.

And we do not climb Ayers Rock. Disappointing.

Connor is dreading the car ride back to Alice Springs, but its not so bad. We listen to songs by Metallica and then stop at a road house where I order a beer. The guy looks at his watchband and notes that the time is exactly 10:00am, which just so happens to be the time alcohol can legally be served. The VB beer can I pick costs over $8.00, so I choose a cheaper beer instead, and the guy gives me a hard time about it, even though he didn't even open the can of VB. Nevertheless, I buy a six-pack from him for "only" $23.00.

I choose to drive on to the next petrol station to get gas, as I just don't want to give this proprietor any more of my money. A couple kilometers down the road I see a sign letting me know that the next gas station is 105 kilometers away. I study my gas gauge and determine that we will be able to make it to the next station before we run out of gas.

But then the gas gauge starts dropping precipitously. I become worried, and for the next 50 kilometers I am constantly preoccupied by the fuel situation.

The gauge is firmly on "E" when I pull the car into the gas station and cruise up to the gas pump. The pump is locked so I go into the adjoining store. There is a big tour bus parked in front, and just about everyone on the tour is standing in line waiting to buy food or other sundries (too bad we didn't arrive ten minutes earlier when there was likely no other customers). The girl behind the counter tells me I must wait for gas, as she cannot leave the store, and there is no one else to unlock the pump. So I go back to the car and wait.

There are two viciously excitable dogs in the rear seat of a truck parked in the other fuel lane, and I take pleasure in taunting them.

Eventually, a burly, tattoo-covered bald guy walks over to the pumps with a key.

$96.00 later, our tank is full, and we resume our trek toward Alice Springs.

SEVAN, ARMENIA

2013

After eating lunch in my room, including the drinking of beer, wine and vodka, I head out to explore the shore of Lake Sevan. There is a marina within walking distance of my hotel that I walk toward. I am soon confronted by a wrought iron fence, requiring me to "walk the fence" out over the water line, cross to the other side of the fence, and walk the fence back to shore. Further on, I approach another fence, but an official of sorts comes down a spiral staircase from a second floor of a nearby building, and shows me that the lock on the fence door is not secure. He opens it for me, allowing access to the marina.

There are a couple dogs on the other side of this fence but an Armenian guy quiets them down. The guy greets me, says his name is Tigrin, and leads me to where he and a half dozen other men are sitting around a covered picnic table enjoying food and drink. He asks me to join them, and I of course cannot refuse.

I have a great time eating chicken, bread, green onions, and an egg. Many toasts of vodka are made (a couple guys leave at some point to get more vodka). I try my best to relate that I would like to go out on the lake on a fast boat. Instead, one of the guys points to a small wooden dinghy. I laugh. He gets into the boat and motions me to get in too, so I hop in his boat. On the floor of the boat is a metal tub full of silvery small fish. He rows out on the water for five minutes, and then motions for the two of us to change places in the boat. He then pulls in a net containing more silvery fish, squirting each one out of the net and into the metal tub. I row the boat to the other side of the jetty, and we both carry the tub of fish to the trunk of his dilapidated car, and drive back around to rejoin the others.

After a few more toasts and the singing of many songs, Tigrin walks me back to the gate. I feel I should offer money, which he of course refuses to accept.

I then wander around some deserted buildings, feeling blurry. There are absolutely no other tourists anywhere. Is it just the time of year? There are no locals around either. I try opening every door of each building I pass, but they are all locked. My memory, I must admit, is quite hazy, given all the imbibing I enjoyed with my fishermen friends.

When I get back on the hotel property, I walk up a broad staircase toward the hotel. There are light globes on each side of the stairway. For reasons I can't quite explain I remove each glass globe from its base, and then remove the incandescent light bulbs inside. I do this to nine globes, somehow hiding all nine spiral-shaped bulbs in my pockets before going up to my room.

I must have watched TV, but that part I don't remember. I also don't remember anything about a blue bag I later find on the desk in my room, filled with eight distinctly shaped bottles partially filled with various liquids. What?

I really get the impression that I am the only one staying at this large hotel. When I go down for breakfast, there is a small buffet set out, but no other guests around, and no evidence that any other guests ate a breakfast. Still, I am assured by the front desk girl that there ARE other guests staying at this hotel besides me. "They just stay in their rooms", she says.

I resolve to reinstall all the lightbulbs I removed last night. I put the bulbs in a sack and carry them to the scene of the crime. I accomplish my mission without being observed (I think).

I then go into the game room. No one is there except the attendant. I pick up a ping-pong paddle and serve the ball to no one, right as he passes by, but he does not take the hint. I try my hand at a billiard game that has all white balls, save one dark red one, but suddenly lose interest after two minutes.

I check out at 1:00pm and give the girl a $100 bill. She says "thank you." "What about my change?" I retort. $100 equals 41,500 dram, and the room rate is 40,000. She says the hotel exchanges at 400 dram to the dollar. I am outraged, and argue with her for five minutes to no avail. The difference is less than $4, but its the fucking principle!

Now I regret screwing the lightbulbs back in!

TOZUER, TUNISIA

2013

I apologize to the three people who have been waiting for me at the travel office for the last 30 minutes while Slim took me around to consider a couple hotels. I then pay Slim for the jeep excursion we are about to take and the hotel he just arranged for me to stay at.

We are off! Thing is, I do not know where we are off to! I just wanted to join a tour, and this was the one leaving at the moment (well, yeah, this tour was supposed to leave 30 minutes ago, but for Slim's hotel diversion for me).

Get this: the other three people in our tour van are from France, Belgium and Spain, respectively. So, counting the local driver, each of the five people in our SUV speaks a different native language.

Once out of town, we drive on a dirt road that is rutted and rough, which is not really what I want to experience a day after my back injury riding an ATV on the Tunisian sand dunes (see full description of that wild escapade in my other published journal!).

15 minutes later, we stop at a desert location consisting of a few shacks filled with trinkets for tourists. The stop is located next to an odd-shaped rocky outcropping. There isn't much point to the stop, so I simply wait for the other three people in my group to climb back down from the rocky outcropping (my back prevents me from climbing it).

While I am waiting, one SUV after another comes motoring around the bend to stop at our little outpost until there are some two dozen trucks parked side by side by the time we finally motor on.

We drive up and down a big sand dune (excuse me if I do not seem excited), and arrive at TATOOIE, the movie set for the space colony by that name pictured in the original Star Wars movie. The Star Wars make-believe site is still standing. It is a popular destination for movie buffs (like me), and for lovers of the Star Wars saga (not so much me). The French guy with us I learn is a Star Wars nut. He even arranged for the tour operator to stop at another Star Wars film location nearby that is usually not visited.

After waiting for the rest of my mates to finish trolling through Tatooie, we drive 30 minutes toward the Algerian border, past a couple bored-looking soldiers standing on the side of the desert road (my driver waves to them as we pass).

Out on the salt plane we arrive at a small igloo-shaped white building, all by itself, that served as the home of the young Luke Skywalker. The structure looks pretty good for being some 35 years old. I later learn that Star Wars fans from around the globe donated $10,000 to refurbish the structure a couple years ago. I can't imagine why it cost that amount of money to simply shore up and paint the round white structure, which is about the size of a small one car garage.

I swear the French dude and the Belgian chick are an item. They take over 100 photos from various angles around the hut while the Spaniard and I watch and wait. The French guy then says that he wants to continue taking pictures at the site until the sun sets, which would be at least another 30 minutes.

So it is time for me to object at that point. I tell the two of them that I really do have to get back to town. Very reluctantly, they both agree to leave five minutes later. Everyone ignores me on the ride back to Tozuer.

At the tourist agency, I pick up my hotel voucher, drive to my hotel, and then head directly to the hotel bar for a beer without further delay. This hotel is a bit past its prime, and I have to question its four star designation. There is a high percentage of things unavailable or not working.

One thing I pursue is getting a desk lamp. My room does not have one, and I do want to write in my journal later. I follow up on my request for a lamp three times and, surprisingly, when I return from dinner, there is actually a desk lamp on my desk!

A few minutes later, the porter raps on my door, beaming with pride that he found me a desk lamp. I tell him he is great.

Ironically, given the lack of TV channels and my nagging back, I go to sleep early, and never do use the desk lamp.

ALBANIA

2012

Well, my drive through Albania is coming to an end. At the Montenegro border, I spy perhaps 30 cars waiting to cross over from Albania to Montenegro, divided into two lines. The lines are moving really slow. I am thinking to myself that it is going be awhile when suddenly one of the officers walking around approaches my window and asks to see my passport and insurance papers. He then directs me to move my car out of line and points toward a building. I am directed to drive inside this building for an inspection. A smiling guy working there waits with me for the inspection officials to arrive.

Shortly, four officers saunter up. I open my trunk to show that all I have is nothing. One of them fingers the articles I have on my passenger seat. He takes a particular interest in my jar of kalamata olives. He picks up the glass I bought at the fish festival in Belgrade, says something humorous that I do not understand, and flashes a thumbs up sign. The bunch of them quickly reach a consensus of "OK".

I am told to drive my car to the front of the line. A couple minutes later I am cleared through customs. The whole event ended up saving me a lot of wait time!

The difference between Albania and Montenegro is palpable. The road immediately turns to smooth black top, and the road signs are organized. The people just

appear more "Mediterranean".

I tried to like Albania, but its no use. Its infrastructure really needs improving. And I still cannot believe that during the entire time I was driving through the country I was never pulled over by the ever-present traffic police.

BISHKEK, KYRGYSTAN

2011

At the Dubai airport, I bid farewell to Ali and our group, and go inside to catch my flight to Kyrgystan. I present my "letter" at check-in and hold my breath, relieved to receive a boarding pass without a hitch.

We are supposed to board the plane to Kyrgystan at 10:40pm for an 11:10pm take-off, but the flight attendants do not saunter in until 11:05pm. The Air Bishkek plane is old and a bit decrepit (the can of air freshener above the toilet is a nice touch). Hot tea is the only beverage served on board (which is NOT a nice touch). I try to sleep, but in vain. Four hours later, we land. I look out the plane window and see snow on the ground (big change from Dubai). I fish out my flannel coat, since we will be exiting the plane down a ramp and into a bus. I pass a policeman with an extremely large wide-brimmed hat (very communist looking!)

I need a visa, but the process is uncomplicated. Ten minutes later my money supply is $70 lighter. I then breeze through customs and enter a scrum of people prior to exiting the airport, most of whom want to drive me somewhere. I am approached by a big guy who speaks fairly good English. I ask him how much the fare is to downtown Bishkek, and he says "70." I remember my guide book stating that a typical fare from the airport to the city center runs about 40 som, so I do not quibble, since everything is fairly cheap here anyway. Still, I am not yet aware of the current exchange rate and I have not had a chance to use an ATM. My driver, Mohammad, says he will take me to an ATM in town, since it is on the way to my hotel.

On the way to Bishkek, Mohammad tells me he wants to drive me around all day tomorrow to show me everything, and will arrange to pick up some girls. I humorously decline. He presses me about arrangements, and quotes a rate of $20 per hour. I remain non-committal. I tell him to call me tomorrow about it at my hotel.

He does not know the exchange rate, he says. It is still very early in the morning, and there is no one else on the dark streets of downtown Bishkek when he pulls up in front of an ATM. I figure I will withdraw 500 som. Mohammad is standing right next to me, and when he sees the amount I am withdrawing he becomes agitated and says that 500 som is not enough to pay him for the $70 cab ride.

"70 dollars?!?" Yes, he says, I agreed to pay him $70 at the airport. That is what he meant when he said "70". I tell him that it is ridiculous to think I will pay him $70, and that the thing to do is to continue driving to my hotel, where we will ask the desk clerk what a reasonable taxi fare is for the 30 minute ride from the airport into town. Mohammad, of course, does not want to do this. (I did, wisely, in retrospect, tell him as we were leaving the airport that I have no money on me).

He then starts driving in slow motion, muttering and shaking his head. I emphasize the need to get to my hotel quickly, and we eventually do arrive. He comes in with me, and the desk clerk (after some hesitancy) advises that the usual cab fare from the airport to the hotel is 450-500 som. I promptly hand Mohammad my newly acquired 500 som note. At the exchange rate of 46 som to the dollar, the fare amounts to about $11. I think it best to tell Mohammad that I still want him to call me tomorrow as we discussed, but I am happy to see him leave...forever.

I then walk around the town of Bishkek. It is partly sunny, and really not that cold. I walk past VICTORY PARK and stroll past large monolithic communist structures, before catching a cab to the OSH BAZAAR. The bazaar is a vibrant marketplace that the desk clerk tried to dissuade me from going to, because of pick-pockets. So I was suitably paranoid while there.

The bazaar is a great immersion into the local culture. It is a rambling concoction of vendors, selling everything imaginable. I especially like the many tubs of brightly colored aromatic spices.

I buy a loaf of bread for less than 15 cents. I buy a pair of black boots, with fur inside, for less than $9. I also buy shag-like inserts for the soles of my slip-on shoes, for 50 cents. They fit perfectly. So now my slip-ons have a new life.

DAKAR, SENEGAL

2006

I make my way to a barber to fulfill my ritual of getting my head shaved on vacation (my hair is very long at this point). The barbershop is a closet-sized cubicle, but the barber is nowhere to be found. I decline to wait for his return, and wave goodbye to my guides (and surprised they do not demand some type of fee for keeping me company).

I decide to visit the Island of Goree. As I walk down to the harbor area I am accosted every five minutes by someone trying to sell me something. There is an especially persistent guy selling "Ray Ban" sunglasses for 15,000 (close to $30). He then offers them for 12, then 10, 8, 6, 5....I walk away each time, telling him I do not want to buy sunglasses (when in fact I really do need a pair). I finally offer him $2. He wants $3, but, feigning reluctance, agrees to take my $2, and tries to make me feel guilty because of it.

It cost 5000 ($10) for a round trip ticket on the ferry boat to Goree. There are a lot of people going over to the island, due to the fact that today is Senegal's Independence Day. What's more, Colonel Quiddafi of Libya is in town to give a speech.

The Island of Goree exceeds my expectations in beauty. It reminds me of one of the Greek Islands, right down to the white washed rocks, brightly colored buildings, and profuse bougianville flowers. I order lunch at one of the half-dozen beachfront restaurants. The food takes forever to come. Gizelle, the local beer, tastes lousy. Still, I am at a good vantage point sitting at my table watching and listening to the Independence Day ceremonies.

I then commence to circumnavigate the island on foot. The higher elevation at the center of the island is occupied by artists, exhibiting paintings and sculptures. Their art lines the walls of the sidewalks by the thousands. At the island summit, there is a huge set of cannons. And near the cannons I see someone cutting hair. This is my second chance to get my hair cut, and I wait while the barber finishes cutting the head he is working on. I am sitting next to a couple of dreadlock guys openly smoking pot. When the barber finishes, he goes away to eat. A few minutes later he comes back and sits down. I can tell he doesn't want to cut my hair, so I walk away.

On my stroll down into town, I peer through an old wall and see someone getting their hair cut. Just then, an old guy in a white flowing robe directs me around to the other side of the wall, part of a massive old government building that has been left to deteriorate. I then wait for the barber. While I wait, I wander up some circular stairs that are so decrepit I think I might just fall through as I tour shell-shocked rooms upstairs.

OK, the barber is ready for me. He attacks the back of my head with electric shears. After five minutes, it is obvious he is getting nowhere. He then runs away and returns with a pair of large dull scissors. After one painful snip, I am out of there. No thanks! Strike three.

I step off the ferry returning to the mainland and walk to the south side of Independence Plaza to dine at a restaurant that appears to be the only place that offers outdoor seating. I sit at one of the four outside tables next to the sidewalk. While I am eating, someone walks up and tries to sell me a watch. It is the same guy who tried to sell me the same watch two hours ago. When I remind him that he already pitched the watch to me, he says he indeed remembers, and that he is sorry, but then continues to sell me the watch. He wants 15k. I offer 1k. He laughs. I tell him I really do need a watch, so he runs off to get a couple more "Rolex" to sell me.

Meanwhile, the waiter attempts to cheat me. The beef I ordered costs 4500, and he now claims it cost 6500, since it is a filet. I will have none of it, and stare him down. He gets out of the dispute by making me pay full price and then giving me a 2000 bill credit afterward (?).

As I am leaving the restaurant, the watch-hawker returns with another Rolex, with dummy buttons and fake dials. When I point this out to him, he turns to some other guy (who obviously gave him the watch to sell) and relates what I said. It is at that moment that I seize the opportunity to run away! I run for two blocks before I dare slow down. I dash into a bakery (very busy), and then go into a bar called "The Viking", which is indeed run by some big blond Swede, who has obviously fucked all his pretty young black assistants. The girls walking into the place are all physically stunning.

Believe it or not, when I walk out the front door of the Viking bar I spy a guy holding a black satchel that he furtively opens to reveal a wide selection of watches. I approach the guy to buy one of his watches, but I have to change money first. Just then, some tall drunk guy interrupts the transaction, and won't back away. So I do what now becomes fun: I run away. Back to my hotel a block away.

From my third story balcony I glance down at the watch guy and his money changer. Both are waiting in front of my hotel for me to come out. And there they wait for some 30 minutes. I watch them from my balcony as they finally walk away. And I feel something for the first time: I feel guilt.

By the way, on my wanderings around town this afternoon, I came upon a man getting his hair cut. I asked to be next. Some other guy spoke up on the barber's behalf, but neither he nor the barber was willing to tell me how much a haircut would cost. So I walked away...strike four.

NEW ZEALAND

(South Island)

2003

Well, the flight over to Auckland is uneventful, and I am happy to report that the beer on board is again free! So I have a couple mini-bottles of red wine.

There is a noticeable change in the attitude of the people in New Zealand compared to the attitude of the people in Australia. A happy quirkiness prevails here, epitomized by the airport security personnel, who wear red coats and funny hats, making them look just like Canadian Royal Mounted Police. I have to laugh when, after I mistakenly go to the departure gate in the international terminal rather than the departure gate in the domestic terminal next door, three of these characters escort me outside to show me the white and blue line that I am to follow to the proper terminal.

So, as we are about to take-off for Christchurch, the captain does his usual greet to the passengers over the intercom. He says the weather in Christchurch is currently good, but that the weather is "closing in". But not to worry though, as the plane has enough fuel to return to Auckland if necessary. And, by the way, the temperature in Christchurch is 7 degrees celsius (41 degrees fahrenheit).

The following morning, I set off from Christchurch in my shiny rental car with my sights set on making it to the WANAKA lake area for an overnight.

In the middle of a long stretch of straight away road, I am flagged down by a police officer. He stops me for traveling 120 kilometers per hour when the speed limit is 100 KMH. However, the first thing he says when he sees me is "so why aren't you wearing your seat belt then?" True, I completely forgot to snap it on. He then starts lecturing me about high speed head-on collisions, describing the image of my body splattered for 100 meters, et cetera. He says he will give me a warning for my speed, but will need to write me a ticket for not wearing my seat belt, which amounts to $150NZ (over $90 US!). Well, I quickly realize that I probably do not actually have to pay the fine. The officer says I should go to some bank to pay it. Yeah, right. He didn't even write my Georgia license number on the ticket.

At the Mt. Cook ski area, I stop in at the airport where SKI PLANES has an office. They confirm that I am booked on a 1:30pm flight to a glacier, and that the flight is good to go (there is a two person minimum per flight, but a Japanese mother and daughter also want to go, so there). I have time to drive a little bit into the park village for a quick beer, fries and meat pie. Ummmm, love those meat pies!

The four seater plane takes off for the glacier under a brilliant blue sky (I haven't seen a cloud in the sky all day, and find out later that this winter has been the driest in New Zealand in recent memory). About 20 minutes later the plane touches down on snow high up the valley. We have 10 minutes to walk around the knee-deep powder pack before returning from whence we came.

I drive back into the village, back to the place I had lunch, and attempt to order a Steinlager to go. The guy says he doesn't have a "take away license," but that there is a loophole. He then goes to another display case, takes out a warm Steinlager and gives it to me. I pay for it. He then exchanges my warm beer for a cold one in the fridge behind him. "Silly, isn't it?" he says. "How can I not agree?", I say, as I walk away with my chilly brew.

The next day, I am cruising at 120 kilometers per hour along another empty stretch of wide open road when I see coming the other way, too late, a police car. I am again pulled over. I also realize, too late, that I am supposed to have my seat belt on. I get it half way snapped before the cop walks up to me, giggling. He says that there have been fatalities on this stretch of road, with bodies splattered for 100 meters. He has been directed to issue tickets for speeding. No amount of cajoling will talk him out of it. However, he will just give me a warning for not wearing my seat belt. The speeding ticket is $120NZ. That's right. the fine for speeding is less than the fine for not wearing your seat belt!

This whole country is obsessed with rugby (football), and there is a game being played tonight. The New Zealand All Blacks are playing the South African Spring Boks. When I check into a hotel, I see that the proprietor is drunk, and he explains that he and his mates have been watching the game, and proudly informs me that the All Blacks beat South Africa!

Hip hip, hurray!

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN

2002

The weather is sunny and mild. After disembarking the ferry from Poland I am surprised to find NO taxis waiting. I am advised to walk ten minutes to take a train into Stockholm. The train I need leaves in an hour, and it takes about an hour to reach the city. So with time remaining, I head for a waterfront bar and restaurant. I pay $4.75 for a beer (what?!) and watch boats depart their berths primed for a fun day on the water. I then catch the 2:07pm train to Stockholm.

The Stockholm train station is huge (60 cents to use the bathroom?) There is a hotel service desk at the Stockholm station and I inquire about a hotel. They tell me that almost all the rooms in the city are booked, since today happens to be a big celebration honoring the founding of the city 750 years ago. And there is also the running of a marathon, for which people all over Europe come to watch. But they set me up in a downtown high rise hotel nonetheless.

Sight-seeing here we come! There are indeed a LOT of people downtown, and everyone is in a festive mood. I ply the narrow streets of the old town, and saunter past shops selling over-priced wares to tourists. Down at the port area I pass by craft booths, and watch a steady stream of marathon runners move past me. I come upon a big tent under which a band will play tonight next to a roped off area containing hundreds of tables, already filled with people drinking, eating, and having fun.

As I am walking to a Japanese restaurant, I start feeling nauseous. I am feeling so bad by the time I get to the fast-food sushi place that I order sushi solely on the hope it will make me feel better. The fish does help a little, but I am still not functioning 100%.

Then I hear loud explosions. I look up and see fireworks shooting up over the building tops. I hear a series of very low and intense booms. I run over to a bridge to check out what's going on and am amazed to see large orange fireballs being discharged in the air in front of thousands of people lining the canal as far as the eye can see, and I can see quite far, because the bridge I am standing on is at a higher elevation than the pyrotechnics being displayed.

Along the main canal is a series of large colorful balloons shaped like dancing figures, that gyrate back and forth and up and down from the force of air being funneled into the balloons by powerful compressors, fixed to the railings that line the canal. I'm sure my description here fails to convey the wonderful spectacle before me, and I damn the fact that I did not bring my camera with me to memorialize the scene.

After witnessing another series of remarkable fireworks (of a kind that you do NOT see in the U.S.) I head back to my hotel, still ailing from nausea. I stop along the way to have another helping of sushi. It tastes good, but it still does not restore my health. Back at the hotel, I ingest antacid, defecate, burp, drink coke...anything to relieve my malady. I then go to bed around 10:00pm.

I wake at midnight, feeling better. The sun has dipped below the horizon, but there is still an orange fringe framing the sky. And the town is still hopping! Up and down the boulevard prance a never-ending parade of beautiful girls...ummm, yummy! The music is loud, and people are dancing at outside drinking establishments and tumbling on to the sidewalks.

I am sitting on a bench next to a black guy with a bunch of other guys when suddenly this white dude passes by with his girlfriend and casually says, "hello nigger!" My mouth drops! The black guy sitting next to me just smiles. This dude then repeats his greeting. There is no sense of anger or surprise, or anything like that. But for me, and my American sensibilities, the exchange is just so off the wall I have to laugh.

Finally, workers start disassembling the temporary stands and cart away supplies. Around 2:30am, the sun starts rising. I walk around a bit longer and then head back to my hotel a mite past 4:00am.

AQABA, JORDAN

2001

The taxicabs in Jordan are new, in contrast to the decrepit cabs in Syria. So taxicab rates are higher here (in fact, all prices in Jordan are higher compared to Syria).

I have a driver take me along a coastal road to the border with Saudi Arabia (perhaps 10 kilometers), then we take a mountain road back to Aqaba, then we enjoy a 30 minute glass bottom boat tour on his friend's boat, then we head to a restaurant for a tall beer, then we go back to my hotel so I may check out, then he drives me seven kilometers to the Israeli border (all for 36 dinars).

I planned my money purchases so I would have no extra dinars leaving Jordan. I literally give the taxi driver all the dinars I have when he drops me off at the border.

So imagine my surprise when a Jordanian official informs me of a four dinar departure tax. He suggests I take a taxi back into town to a bank machine, but I loathe that idea. Fortunately, there is a bank at the border (though no ATM). I have a 100 Syrian pound note on me, but this is only half of what I need. Then I remember I still have about $15 worth of Turkish money. The guy at the border exchange initially refuses to change Turkish lira, until I plead with him by striking a prayer position with my hands. Once he comprehends my financial situation, he reluctantly relents, pulls out a book and makes a phone call to get the current exchange rate.

So here's the money exchange that takes place: I fork over 100 Syrian pounds and 7,000,000 Turkish lira in exchange for 4 Jordanian dinars and 9 Israeli sheckles!

I pay the departure tax and have 9 sheckles left as I cross the border into Israel.

ONTARIO, CANADA

2001

The car rental agency at the Toronto airport does not have my class of car available, so they "upgrade" me to a PT Cruiser. I drive for three hours,spend the night in the town of ALGONQUIN. and arrive in GOWGANDA the next day. Gowganda is the hamlet where I will connect with the guys who operate the seaplane that will fly me to SCARECROW LAKE.

The ground crew straps a canoe onto the side of the plane. We are scheduled to depart at 4:00pm, and I use the one hour wait time to gather supplies, which is an adventure in itself since the town is quite remote. There are only two stores in town and both are not very well stocked (It looks like I'll be sleeping on the ground tonight).

After 20 minutes of flying, the seaplane touches down on Scarecrow Lake. My sunglasses promptly drift to the bottom of the lake as I transfer from the plane to the canoe. I paddle over toward the trailhead that leads to the high point,as I watch the plane do its water take-off.

I chat with an older couple happening by in another canoe. They just finished climbing the high point (ISHPATINA RIDGE) and tell me of a camp site near the trailhead that has plenty of firewood. They are in the middle of a 17 day canoe trip, and they will be the last people I will see until the seaplane picks me up tomorrow afternoon.

I pitch my tent and strike out for the high point at 5:30pm. The entire trail goes through a dense forest of trees and ferns, skirting along an occasional lake. The hike to the top takes less than two hours, though most accounts report the hike taking over three hours. The view from the top reveals a bunch of trees and lakes in all direction (what else?)

I hike back to my campsite and set up camp. The silence of this place amplifies the ringing in my ears and noises in my head. There are, of course, no roads in this area. It takes three days to canoe here over lengthy portages. The portage to this lake, for example, is two kilometers.

I canoe a bit, swim in the lake, and retire to my tent around 9:30pm. It is still fairly warm, but that will drastically change as the night progresses.

I awake at 1:30am because of the cold. The temperature has plummeted to about 50 degrees, so I get up to make a fire and move my tent closer to the firepit. I don more clothing and go back to sleep at 3:00am only to awake two hours later to start another fire just to warm up.

Breakfast consists of sausage, bread, cheese and tomato juice. I watch the sky lighten. I start canoeing around 6:00am. There is steam rising from the lake, since the water is warmer than the air. In fact, my hands are cold so I warm them up by putting them in the water.

The plane returns to pick me up promptly at 3:00pm.

I am now back in my car and on the road heading west, then south to MANITOULIN ISLAND. From there I drive to SOUTH BAYMOUTH, where I plan to catch the car ferry tomorrow at 9:10am to return to Toronto.

PLACENTIA, BELIZE

2001

I purchase a plane ticket to Placencia upon my arrival in Belize City. The plane is a turbo-prop 10-seater. While in flight, I talk to a gentleman named BEN who operates the NAUTICAL INN resort. He fills me in on the devastation wrought by HURRICANE IRIS seventeen days ago. The eye of the hurricane passed directly over the Placencia peninsula, accompanied by 145 mile per hour winds. Well, Ben does not much care for my decision to travel to Placencia right now. He is affronted that I would even think of being a tourist when there is suffering going on. Touchy guy.

There is no lodging AT ALL in Placencia...officially. I am staying at the SINGING SANDS INN in an unofficial capacity at $50 per night, for room, breakfast and dinner, which is less than half the going rate, because there is no longer a power grid. The place is now operating by gas generator.

At the Placencia airport, I call a taxi to take me to the Singing Sands. Ironically enough, Ben asks to share my taxi, since he is unable to get through to his wife to pick him up. He pays most of the $15 taxi fare. At the Sands, I meet ELDEN, an older guy who specializes in growing tropical flowers. And I meet BOB, a young computer guy down from CLEVELAND to help with disaster clean-up.

My room is quite nice, with a kitchen and an outside shower. I take a pleasant dip in the ocean after downing three beers. I am told that there is only one place within walking distance where I can get a dinner (MARTI, the hotel proprietor, planned on making dinner for me, but she and her daughter are in BELIZE CITY until tomorrow).

I grab a flashlight and walk 15 minutes down the beach. I arrive at a thatched-roof building that houses MANGOS, a restaurant/bar. Since their sign blew down you would never know it is a restaurant, and I am still not sure it is a restaurant as I walk up steps to a second level. I see a half a dozen people sitting around a dimly lit bar. I order the one meal they are offering: meat and potato hash, beans, and white rice (with crackers upon request). I also have the pleasure of playing a game of pool in the dark with an eight year old kid.

It is an epiphanal experience walking back from the restaurant along the beach. Waves are gently lapping on the sand. Palm trees are hanging over the water. There is a three quarter moon, and scores of twinkling stars in the night sky. The scene is simply magical. It is one of those moments that occur less than a dozen times during a lifetime. Everything is just sooooo right...

Back at the hotel, I chat for awhile with two guys in the kitchen before retiring around 9:00pm, just as the generator shuts down for the night.

The night is humid, especially without the fan. I wake at 1:00am bothered by tiny mosquitoes called "no-see-ums". I get up, shower with lots of soup, and fall back to sleep an hour later.

After breakfast, I gather some things for a canoe ride to a mangrove island about a half hour off shore to do some snorkeling. The journey out is easy. The water is glass-like and there is no breeze. I canoe around the island, and get out on the north end to snorkel for a half hour. The canoe ride back, however, is quite difficult. There is now a strong wind blowing that keeps pushing me south when the mainland is to the west. No matter how hard I try, I cannot cut into the wind. I keep traveling south-west, only because I am paddling continuously northward. Whenever I stop paddling, the canoe points directly south, away from the mainland. After more than an hour of this, and with both arms numb, I make landfall about three miles down the coast from where I started.

I try to walk the canoe back up the shore to the resort, but the waves make this difficult. So I decide to abandon the canoe and walk the three miles back to the hotel.

Elden is not happy to hear what I have done, fearing that someone will steal his canoe. Fortunately, there is a group of men repairing his dock. They have a boat and they motor down and retrieve the canoe. So all's well that ends well.

I had planned on walking the nine miles of coastline to the destroyed town of Placencia, but the canoe escapade causes me to change my plans. I instead walk out to the road to hitchhike into town. The first vehicle that drives by is an old Ford van driven by two elderly ladies; IDA, who just quit her nursing job in SAUDI ARABIA to return here, without her husband, to protect her property from thieves, and HELEN, a real estate agent from SASKATCHEWAN, Canada, who is living down here, also without her husband. They take me all the way to town, where, perhaps not surprisingly, there is NO place to eat, or even get a cold beer! After taking a few photos, we drive back north about four miles and stop to have lunch and drink beer at KITTY'S PLACE, near the airport. Kitty's actually has a choice of things to eat. After lunch, the ladies drive me back to the Singing Sands. They come in to visit MARTI, an old friend of theirs, who has just returned from Belize City with her daughter.

After chatting about matters both local and global, it is time for me to catch my 5:20pm flight to PUNTA GORDA, and I reluctantly bid goodbye to all my new-found acquaintances.

LESOTHO

2000

I leave my Durbin waterfront hotel room at 6:20am to begin the three hour drive to HIMEVILLE. I arranged with a tour company for a 4x4 vehicle to pick me up at the foot of Sani Pass to transport me into Lesotho.

The jeep does not arrive at the appointed time. Instead of waiting, I drive five kilometers to another town to buy sunglasses (without success). By the time I return to Himeville, my transport has come and gone! Luckily, there is a driver on hand from SANI TOP CHALET, and he drives me up the pass (which can only be negotiated by a 4x4) in an attempt to catch my original driver. He drives faster than what I consider safe, and succeeds in catching him. Alas, it turns out that the tour company vehicle is now full up with passengers, and the driver I originally contracted with cannot take me. Just then, and lucky again, another tour company 4x4 happens by, and I catch a ride with them.

It is a beautiful day, sunny and in the 70s. As soon as we cross from South Africa into Lesotho I see the Sani Top Chalet on the right, perched on a ridge. The Chalet boasts an expansive view down the pass. The pub is crowded with people, because it is Sunday, and perhaps because next Tuesday is a South African holiday. What the holiday is is unclear. I ask a half a dozen people, yet no one seems to know.

I catch up on my sleep from 2:00-5:00pm. When I awake, I see that a heavy fog has descended. I start hiking in the fog (a pleasant experience). After ten minutes though, it begins to rain. I return to the pub and note that just about everyone has gone.

The female proprietor of the Chalet arranges for a guide to accompany me tomorrow on my hike to the top of Thabana Ntlenyana, the highest point in Lesotho. The cost is only 50R, she says. Later, she tells me the guide wants 100R, and I tell her to tell him that it is 50R or nothing. We'll see. And yes, I am quibbling about a difference of less than $8.00.

The Sani Top reminds me of the lodging I had in NEPAL back in 1992. There is only a candle and oil lamp in the room (no electricity), the view is expansive, and the exchange rate is great.

It is 6:30pm, and quite dark out. I am back in the pub, touted as "the highest pub in Africa". There is a fire in the fireplace, and things are quite laid back. I am witnessing before me a conversation between a male Scandinavian patron (rudely assertive) and the female bar-keep (slightly contemptuous and aloof), and I note she is smiling at me. All of a sudden, a Lesotho man arrives regarding my guide services to the high point tomorrow. He continues to demand 100R on the guide's behalf, claiming a cost of 50R for the guide, and another 50R for a horse, even if a horse is not utilized. I suppose the guide will ride the horse.

Dinner is served...steak, french cut (not fried) potatoes and peas. My plate is taken away unbid, and the person who takes it advises there is custard set out on yonder table...so let us gather...yes, ummmm, and apple crisp, too.

I am surprised to see the bar maid enjoying the hearth fire with the rude Scandinavian. She, however, plays me another sultry CD, and asks where I am from. We converse, but without much of a connection. She is back with the Swede.

OK...no more beer. Instead, the bar-keep buys me a concoction called "Gluhwein", that she describes as a "strong wine." I suppose she is also wondering what I am writing in my travel journal. Well the "strong wine" (which is hot, by the way) pretty much sucks. "How is it?" she inquires. "Aughhhhh...."

The guide intermediary and the guide himself now arrive. They continue to insist on 100R. In reply to my offer of 70R, the guide thinks for a moment, and then says "no". So it looks like I will find my way to the summit tomorrow alone. I kinda prefer it that way, assuming I don't get totally lost. But then again, why am I being so frugal? 100R is only $16.

9:00pm. I have been listening to the bar maid's "house" music for the last hour or so (read: trance, ambience), and have accepted her gratuitous shots of chocolate Baileys something-or-other. I ask about the pub T-shirts, and she offers to give me one on the condition that I disrobe from the waist up. (the Swede has gone to bed). She leads me in the back to her favorite spot, gives me the T-shirt, and then gives me...her. It is thundering & lightening outside, which seems to get louder closer to climax. Quite dramatic!

I am back in my room. As I write this, I am taking a picture. The pic snaps: now!

The barmaid slinks in...

CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

2000

I catch a flight to Johannesburg and try to arrange an onward flight to MAPUTO. I am told that Mozambique does not issue visas at the border, and, since I did not apply for a visa beforehand, I cannot go there. I then consider going to BLANTYRE in MALAWI but change my mind after reading about it in my travel book. I decide to go to WINDHOEK in Numibia, but by the time I check with the airline it is too late to catch the flight. So I ultimately fly to CAPE TOWN.

Once in Cape Town, I rent a car, drive to the shore area, and find lodging in a guest house. There I meet a couple girls. One of the girls has just arrived, and the other has been staying at the guest house for two weeks. When queried, she admits to not having seen anything during her two week stay. "She's been waiting for me," the other girl chimes in, learns over, and kisses her girlfriend on the lips. Then she looks at me, and smiles. Wow. What is going on? The day after my Lesotho liaison and perhaps now the opportunity for a menage a trios? Well, OK then...

It is the next day. I awake rarin' to go, but cannot rouse the host of the house in order to pay for my lodging (160R). I get in my car and head for the local ATM machine. I am suddenly faced with the choice of either going back to the guest house to wake up the lady in order to pay my bill, or simply start my journey down the coast...

So anyway, its very windy, and the cable car to the top of Table Mountain is closed. I also experience a road closure along the coast, requiring an inland detour. I continue my drive south, eventually reaching CAPE POINT. A couple hours later, I head up the eastern side of the peninsula toward wine country, and wine tasting. Surprisingly, a good percentage of the wineries close after lunch, but I am still able to hit five or six joints. I purchase a half dozen bottles, giddy that wine prices are so incredibly cheap. It costs $1.75 to $4.00 for the average bottle, though I splurge and spend $7.50 on a really good cabernet savignon.

Later in the afternoon near the end of my tour, I find myself close to the airport. I had arranged to fly out at 3:00pm tomorrow, but I really need to leave tonight if I am to have enough time to visit Swaziland.

BARCELONA, SPAIN

2000

Birgit and I walk around the Spanish Quarter for a couple hours. We catch a boat and cruise out on the Mediterranean Sea. Birgit consults her tour book and suggests a particular restaurant for dinner, and by golly the restaurant served a fantastic meal.

We stroll up and down the central pedestrian boulevard, gazing at merchandise offered by street vendors. There is a battery of street performers. The most memorable act is a couple working puppets that look just like the Beatles. The mop-top marionettes are manipulated to dance around to the sound of "she loves you, yeah yeah yeah." Very cute.

Birgit and I are sitting at a promenade table, drinking beer, taking pictures, and watching people stroll by. Suddenly, a young man appears in front of our table, gesticulating wildly, and pointing at something down the boulevard. As I get up from my seat and look where he is pointing, Birgit yelps, as she notices another man crouching down behind us, trying to snatch her purse from under her seat. Birgit then points to the man pointing in front of me and says "they're working together!" The ersatz purse-snatcher slinks away quickly, while the guy in front of me stands motionless for a second before calmly walking away.

Their master plan? The first man appears in front of us, intent on causing a distraction, while the other man attempts the theft of the purse, which is designed to cause a further distraction, allowing the first man to snatch my camera from off our table.

DOMINICAN REPUBLIC

1999

I stroll along the Boca Chica beach and plop down in a chair in front of an adjoining upscale hotel. I am presently approached by a friendly native with something to sell. I tell him I'm interested in "ganja", and he goes to fetch a guy. A few minutes later, the two of them return and I tell the guy he fetched what I really want: cocaine. This "fetched guy" then introduces me to yet another guy, armed with a moped, and the three of us ride his moped back to my resort, where I pick up $100.00: the price for 3 grams of the magical white powder. We three then ride to the ghetto part of town.

I drink a beer while we wait for yet another "other" guy. As soon as he arrives and the four of us are assembled, we walk between some dilapidated structures, into a small washroom of sorts, where the drug deal is consummated. Each gram of coke is encased in its own little round baggie.

The guy who initially quoted me the price of $100 now attempts to extort from me $150, but relents in the face of my stonewall resistance. He then suggests keeping one of the three baggies for himself. Yeah...right. At this point the main "other guy" tells him to back off. Still, I do let him take a healthy toke out of one of my little baggies.

Later. My rental car is delivered, and I hit the road to JARABACOA in the Dominican mountains. Jarabacoa is the closest town to the trailhead that leads to Mt. Duarte, the highest point in the Caribbean. It is this mountain I plan on climbing tomorrow.

I get lost briefly while driving through Santa Domingo, and a police officer on

a motor-scooter saddles up next to my car. He knocks on my window and

directs me to pull over. He gets off his scooter, opens my passenger car door, and makes himself comfortable in my car. He claims I ran a red light, and wants me to pay him 500 pesos. I attempt to shame him for what he is doing. I then contemptuously give him 230 pesos (About $15.00) which he eventually accepts as an adequate pay-off. Jesus. Fucking corrupt cowardly Caribbean cops!

I try to arrange for a guide in the town of Jarabacoa to accompany me on the Pico Duarte climb. I inquire at an outfitter for tourists, but they charge $450.00 to guide the climb. An individual affiliated with a tourist agency estimates the cost of a guide at 2000 pesos ($132.00). It is then suggested that I drive to LA CIENAGA, a small village at the entrance to the Park, and inquire there.

So I drive one hour to the village and speak with a guide who quotes a price of 825 pesos ($57) for his services, including a mule, for the two day climb, plus 150 pesos for a sleeping bag, 100 pesos to park my car, and 50 pesos for the Park entrance fee. Done.

Later in my hotel room one of my contact lenses swirls down the drain of the bathroom sink. I am extremely upset!

The next morning, I return to La Cienaga. Sesu, my guide, is packing his mule. A Canadian guy named Ken comes motoring into town on the back of a white motorscooter and swiftly passes us. When Sesu and I arrive at the park, Ken has already hired his own guide and mule. We both quickly realize that we could have joined together and saved the cost of an extra guide/mule, but the park ranger won't let Ken back out of his guide arrangements. So we will be ascending the trail with our respective guides and mules.

We hit the trail at 8:30am and hike constantly. That is, I hike. My guide rides the mule. At approximately 5:00pm, we reach a camp consisting of a couple wood structures, a fire pit, and a couple solar-powered pay phones. Ken and his guide arrive at the camp 30 minutes later. I break open a bottle of wine (literally breaking off the glass neck of the bottle) and snack on some food.

We build a fire, cook grub, and retire at 8:00pm. We must arise tomorrow at 5:00am to push on to the summit.

PUNTA ARENAS, CHILE

1998

Today is a full travel day. I hire a taxi to transport me over the Peruvian border into Chile, and onward to the airport in Arica, where I catch a flight to Santiago. In Santiago, I catch another flight to Punta Arenas, the southern tip of Chile.

SNAP! I just traveled the complete length of this very long and thin country (2653 miles).

My modus operandi when getting on a plane is to be the last one on. Then I can choose any seat I prefer to sit in. It almost always works. But not this time. Less than a minute before departure, two other people board, and one of them is directed to where I am sitting. So I must move to another seat. Five minutes later, an attendant asks me to again move, as I am sitting where the attendants need to sit.

We land in Punto Arenas at 10:30pm. It is raining, and looks like it has been

raining all day. The town is 20 kilometers from the airport. The hotel I planned to stay at charges $91.00 for a single room, in the off-season! So I try another hotel: $80.00. So I try another: $40.00 for a very small room. After two or three more tries, I settle on a hotel for $32.00 that has a good restaurant. The taxi driver kept his humor.

I plop down on the bed. It is still dark outside as I roll over to check my watch and discover it is 8:45am. What the...? I jump out of bed, down a quick breakfast, put on my heavy coat, and set out to make arrangements to travel to either Puerto Natales, Tomes De Paines Park, and/or Calafate, Argentina.

I arrive at the bus station at 9:20am to learn that the bus to Puerto Natales leaves in ten minutes, so there is not enough time for me to return to my hotel and collect my bags. The next bus leaves at 1:00pm.

I then inquire about air routing. No, there are no flights to Puerto Natales. Alta Air used to fly there, but they went out of business two years ago. No, there are no flights to Califate.

I then inquire about lodging in the Torres Del Paine Park. Yes, there is lodging, and the off-season room rate is discounted to $150.00 per night. And the bus ride to the park takes seven hours.

My choices spent, I decide to jettison my entire Chilean southern tip visit and leave Punta Arenas today to spend more time in Chile's lake district.

So I buy an airline ticket to Puerto Montt. The flight is scheduled to leave at 6:10pm. I also buy a ticket from Conception to Santiago. Puerto Montt is at the south end of the lake district and Concepcion is at the north end, so I will have a couple days to explore the region while making my way from the south end to the north.

After spending the entire morning making travel plans, I visit the most southerly

ski area in the world, intent on skiing. The weather, surprisingly, is clear and sunny on this afternoon in July.

Even though there is no snow in Punta Arenas, the elevation rise of perhaps 1000 feet puts me in snow. Still, there is not enough snow for downhill skiing, so I do some cross-country skiing (my first time).

I then take a ski-lift to the top of a hill for a marvelous view over the Straits of Magellan, and, beyond that, Tierra Del Fuego.

I cause a minor sensation by riding the ski-lift without acquiring a ticket.

MONTSERRAT

1997

The volcano stays relatively inactive on the boat ride down the ash-laden coast of Montserrat. We cruise past the evacuated capital of Plymouth, and continue motoring south.

Suddenly, the volcano starts acting up, spewing dark brown smoke high in the air. I planned on docking in Plymouth for a walk around the town, but the increased volcanic activity makes a boat landing unlikely.

Fortunately, the spewed volcanic ash remains high in the sky long enough for my boatman to approach the Plymouth jetty. A party of journalists have already docked their boat and set out overland.

I walk around the town alone, marveling at the eerie setting. Everything is coated with a thick layer of ash. This would be a perfect setting for a post-apocalyptic movie. I take a lot of photos before returning to the boat. The journalist party has not yet returned, and their boatman is upset and nervous that they are taking so long.

On the boat ride back up the coast, ash starts to fall. We need to cover our mouths with whatever is handy, and I cover my mouth with my Speedo bathing suit!

My boatman then takes me to a deserted beach. I am grateful for the opportunity to wash off the ash.

Later in the day, I go into Salem again with Rita. She picks up a friend, and the three of us go to an old house where Rita stores the goods she moved from her shop in Plymouth. Her boyfriend apparently did not maintain the place well. I help her transfer some of her stock.

In the evening, United Nations Don and I taxi to the island's only remaining restaurant.

The volcano acts up again in the middle of the night. The following morning I witness the ash clean-up activity, very much like the clearing of snow following a blizzard

TANGIERS, MOROCCO

1994

The ferry is cruising across the Strait of Gibralter toward Tangiers when I note a line of passengers standing before an official-looking gentleman. The line is long, so I continue wandering around the boat. When I return a bit later, I note there is still a line, so, since I abhor waiting in line, I go off again. A little while later, I return and see that the line and the official is now gone.

Someone suggests I knock on the official's cabin door, so I do. No answer. When the ferry docks in Morocco, the official skips off the boat first thing. It turns out I am the only passenger on the ferry who did not get a passport stamp. Without a stamp, I cannot get off the ship.

After all the passengers have gone ashore, a deck hand takes my passport and runs to the main office on the pier to get it stamped. It takes him thirty minutes to return, though it seems more like an eternity.

I do not quite make it to the main ferry terminal before I am accosted by a group of hustlers. One hustler prevails over the others by his sheer boisterous character and intimidation. This gentleman wants to be my guide, He flashes me an official-looking badge, and all but corners me in the terminal. I ask him the cost of his service and, after attempting to parry the question, quotes 3000 dirhams for the day. I am then permitted by him to change money. The exchange rate is 9.4 dirham to the dollar, which means this character wants to be paid $320.00. When I figure this out, he says that it is just a mistake, and that he meant to say 300 dirham, then quickly says "OK, 150 dirham", and attempts to rush me. This guy is really bombastic and over-bearing. I walk away. He follows me, yelling. I then turn around and walk back to the terminal. He follows. I turn around again, and another "guide" intervenes. This one is quite easy-going and sympathetic. He warns me of hustlers everywhere, and says he will show me around, and I can pay him whatever I feel is fair. I tell him I desire to go to the

train station to immediately take a train to FEZ. However, it is only 11:00am, and the train doesn't leave until 4:30pm. I then agree that he can show me the sights of TANGIERS and I will pay him 100 dirham.

We take a taxi to the "medina", an ancient walled town. There is abundant shopping. We taxi to the highest point of the medina, which affords an impressive view of the sea and the maze of walled alleyways laid out below. As we walk down through the streets, I am led into the obligatory carpet shop. I say I do not wish to buy a carpet, and, in fact, do not wish to see how the carpets are made, since there will undoubtedly be a request for a "donation" afterward. Outside the carpet shop, my guide says that another gentleman will accompany me the rest of the way back down to the area of the port.

However, half way there, this other guy says he must go to "pray," He wants 100 dirham now. I tell him that if we hurry, he can go with me and still have time to make it to his prayer time. Just then, a guy on a motorscooter motors up the other side of me and mutters something akin to "pay him now if you value your life." There are lots of people around, and I do not take him very seriously. I am about to insist that the other guy follow me to the end of my tour, as previously agreed, but then it dawns on me that I don't even want him around. I say "here," and hand him a 100 dirham note, to his surprise, and release him, enabling him to go "pray."

PARIS, FRANCE

(en route to AMSTERDAM)

1984

I continue my search for a possible entrance to the Paris park. The park is surrounded by a high wrought iron fence. I come upon a section of fence that is only seven feet high, climb over it, and find a nice discreet grassy spot under some trees to rest from the miles and miles of walking I did today.

I wake up at 6:00am, terribly chilled, and surprised at the change in temperature from the balmy night of just a few hours ago.

I jump back over the fence and walk a couple blocks to a cafe where I order a typically strong coffee, eat a couple pastries, and bide my time until the auto transport agency opens at 9:00am. The car I will be transporting back to Copenhagen is a new Ford Escort, silver in color with black interior. It has a full tank of gas.

Now the journey begins, as I tackle the secondary roads of France, motoring through small villages, heading east toward Luxembourg. The French scenery is every bit as beautiful as the brochures say it is, and I just love the fact that you do not have to stop when you come to a village. You just slow down, observe, drive through, head out, speed-up, and wave.

Luxembourg is disappointing. As soon as you cross the border from France you are transported from quaint towns to the smoke-filled, industrial horizon of this smallish country. The buildings are drab-looking, the people appear haggard, and industry is everywhere painfully apparent. Big lumbering trucks, smelly and unsightly, are everywhere to be seen, and the country appears generally dirty.

Still, the City of Luxembourg is the seat of the European Community. The buildings in the city are new, the grounds cultivated, and the air clean. It seems as if a special square of sunlight has been set aside in the city for European recognition of the country.

One good thing about a small country is that it never takes you very long to leave it, and I am in Belgium in no time. Belgium, though much cleaner, seems peculiarly uninteresting. There are no real distinguishing features to relate on my route through the country, and I look forward with anticipation to Amsterdam. The sun goes down as I freely cross the border into Holland.

Unfortunately, the map I am using cuts off after Belgium, so I enter Holland without direction. So how hard can it be to find Amsterdam? I'll just drive north along the coast. I'm bound to hit it sooner or later. Its such a popular place there must be signs aplenty.

Err, wrong. After circling Rotterdam at least twice, wasting a couple hours and almost getting into an accident by an overly animated show of anger, I finally find my direction and arrive in Amsterdam at 10:30pm.

The city is simply marvelous. It strikes me as akin to one of the illuminated scenes from "Apocalypse Now." Of course, the two things that sets Amsterdam apart from any other city are the legalization of hashish, and the whores that sit in windows to tempt passers by. Needless to say, I find both eccentricities interesting enough to seek out.

Well, I never was able to locate the whores in the windows (I asked a guy working in a restaurant and he said "Holes? Where are there holes in my window?") But I did manage to find the state supported hash hang-out: a place called the Milky Way.

Along with the usual beer, they sell about five or six different types of hash, and three selections of marijuana. Everyone seems pretty keyed up, not laid back and mellow like you would assume. And there is an awful lot of Rastafarians about. There is a reggae band playing, and after smoking a bowl of hash and listening to the band's final tune, I venture upstairs and wander into a movie. The flick as about a bunch of black rastafarians who go around stealing lock, stock, and barrel from the homes of middle-class white folk, and, just like Robin Hood, deliver the goods to poor ghetto blacks, who presumably have better uses for T.V.s and stereos and stuff.

Well, I didn't really connect with the Milky Way crowd, so I head back to my car to resume the drive to Copenhagen. I get behind the wheel, back the car up, and hit something, hard, like another car. Oh great. How could I not see a car parked behind me? I get out to investigate and discover that it isn't a car I hit, but a metal pole that some official deliberately inserted in a preformed hole in the concrete, neatly locking me in along with another car. And on top of that, my bumper has been damaged. The taxi drivers across the street all laugh at my predicament and shake their heads. Oh well. I was planning on stopping outside of Amsterdam to sleep for a few hours anyway, so it doesn't effect me much to have to sleep here until morning, when I assume somebody will come by and let me out, probably for a price.

A couple hours later though, the owners of the similarly situated car next to me return. They discover that by maneuvering our cars in such a manner, it is possible for both vehicles to squeeze through the bars. Good thing we both have compact cars or we would be stuck for sure.

IRELAND

1984

I take the overnight ferry from Liverpool to Dublin. I get no sleep, since I have no berth, and my general exuberance being on a ferry keeps me active and keen through the night.

As soon as the ferry docks in Dublin I learn of a coach tour promptly leaving , and I grab a seat on the tour bus. The tour lasts twelve hours and visits several small Irish towns and a few Irish castles, that were all built by Irishmen, the bus driver exclaims, but none for Irishmen.

Most of the people on the bus are aged, so I am rather on my own for the day. The trip starts out in very heavy rain, and I think: damn! What a day to take a tour. Still, I am optimistic that the weather will clear up, though the bus driver is not. Surprisingly, even to me, the weather breaks a couple hours later, the sun peeks out, and the sky stays partly cloudy for the rest of the day.

At one point, we stop to inspect a large castle (the name of which eludes me). I break off from the rest of the group being led by a guide, and wander about on my own. I finish exploring the castle earlier than the others and decide that I have plenty of time to saunter down the hill to hit one of the Irish pubs in town for a quick Guinness. As I enter the nondescript pub, a couple locals greet me like one of their own. One of them comes up to me and starts speaking Gaelic to me. I look at him warmly and quizzically. He then abruptly stops talking, looks at me intently, and announces to the other patrons in the pub that I am NOT Shamus after all!

Though I drink the pint rather quickly, I find upon returning to the bus that all of the other passengers are aboard and waiting, the bus is idling, and the bus driver has gone off to look for me. I feel a little guilty. Luckily, the driver returns in a couple minutes. He gives me a playful, knowing smirk as he slips into his driver's seat. It is lucky for me I suppose that the bus didn't leave without me!

I doze off a few times sitting at the back of the bus.

The tour ends at 10:00pm and the ferry leaves at 11:00pm for the journey back to Liverpool.

I haven't slept in a couple days so I am determined to check in early in order to get a berth. Incredibly, I am told there are no berths left, and I must be put on a waiting list.

Fortunately, my name comes up, and I am assigned a bed in a four berth cabin.

I sleep very soundly.

The ferry docks at 8:00am. I am asleep in my bunk until awakened by the cleaning people. Everyone else has already disembarked.

I am the last person to step off the boat.

COPENHAGEN,DENMARK

1984

The legal case my team tried at mock court this morning was on the whole very successful. My closing argument, and perhaps my cross-examination of the defendant, was a bit too bombastic and cocky,I am told by my professor/judge, which may be interpreted as insincerity by the jury.

Joel, Joannie, Caroline, and I go get some American pizza for lunch. Our lunch conversation reveals that Caroline was engaged to be married until this past February, but the wedding did not take place because her fiancee committed suicide. What a nerve-shattering experience that must have been.

And Joel thinks Neil Diamond is the greatest.

And Joannie is concerned about gaining weight.

Professor Lookafsky is having a little wine and cheese get-together tonight, and I have a reproduction of a map with arrows and an "X" at the spot where he lives. After disembarking at the proper train stop it takes twenty minutes to reach his apartment. And I'm impressed. It's very cozy and practical (with a home computer, even) The food served is massive and varied, hardly what I expected from an advertised "wine and cheese" get together.

The professor has a piano situated near one of the tables people are congregating around. I tickle the ivories, and think I am playing fairly well, but after five minutes or so the professor reaches over to me and motions me to please stop!

I talk deeply and intently with a Danish girl named Helle. I even recite to her a bit of my poetry, and she seems to be thoroughly enthralled. She is very cute, and I will have her, I think. Oh wait, she has a boyfriend, she says, apologetically.

Around 11:00pm, the party is breaking up, and most of us arrange to rendezvous at a pub in town. We meet at this dive, with no music, no ambience, high prices, and a hot and humid atmosphere. Who thought of this place, anyway? Most kids want to do some dancing, including yours truly.

We stumble out of the place and mill about the sidewalk. I go back inside to use the restroom, and when I come out again, everyone is gone! They thought I left for home. I check the train schedule and discover that the last train to Vaerlose has already departed. So I take a taxi. I have 124 Kroners on me, and the fare is exactly 124 Kroners.

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

2017

Tonight is splurge night. I spend 280 euros on a bi-level top floor room with a balcony, that includes parking for the car (29 euros) and breakfast (26 euros each). The hotel is nicely located, and the weather cooperates, though it is a bit colder today.

We walk around the core of Vienna, marveling at the massive ornate structures. Natalie notices a salon, and gets the idea that she wants to get her hair cut short (mentioning how she thinks its a great thing that I usually get my hair cut in different countries when on vacation).

So we stop in a salon. They charge 86 euros, and I question whether we should shop around for a more reasonable price. She agrees, or at least seems to, in her usual martyr way, but then pouts about it.

We walk along a lengthy street fair. Five or six blocks later, Natalie comes out of her pissy mood and then complains how I must like being a buzz kill; how I ruin her good feeling, and how she hasn't seen any other hair salons, et cetera. But no sooner do the words leave her mouth when we both see on our left: The Hair Fair.

She goes in. I wait some 45 minutes, drinking beer, shopping for food, and listening to a jazz quartet with a female singer doing a respectable Bette Midler imitation.

Natalie emerges with an equally jazzy hair-do. And the cost? 38 euros.

Yes, we just saved ourselves some $60.00. I feel vindicated, though she does not acknowledge the cost savings.

Mark David Lawhead

July 27^th, 1958