Adios Parque Machia

Park Monkey Bite (people got stitches from monkey bites daily, seriously, mostly from capuchins monkeys though, not spider monkeys) is in the past, I’ve left to the city of Santa Cruz, a rich (meaning whiter, unfortunately) area of Bolivia. The total time at the park was 4 ½ weeks. I went through such different feelings and changes, time didn’t exist, wasn’t quite sure if I’d been there for a few days or a few years. Eventually the contradicting “elder” volunteers had left and I became the senior volunteer, the boss, in charge, king of the monkeys. It was actually really interesting to be put in that sort of management position; I’ve never really been in that position before, extracted the King energy inside me, the new people looked to me for what to do next…..as I lay suspended half naked in the hammock, getting fanned with palm fronds as grapes dangled above my awaiting mouth.

But the world has a strange way of balancing itself out, it’s not always boobs and beer my dear. Mother Nature holds a tight stability of yin and yang, which I observed my last several days. One day brought death and despair and the next brought life and joy – and vice versa.

I was sitting down at the roadside café, just finished eating lunch when people started yelling from down the road. They said a black monkey had just been electrocuted in the power lines. A negro! I quickly started running towards the people; Johnny the vet was already sprinting back with a black mass in his arms. I asked who it was as I ran alongside him. “Nicole” he quickly replied. Her body flopping about, legs out-stretched, limp as a rag doll, cradled in Johnny’s arms. Her mouth half open and eyes white and crazed from shock. I trailed behind, running full speed to the clinic with the Angel of Death slowly floating on my frantic shoulders – waiting. We barged into the clinic, I waited at the curtain door, they laid her burnt body on the medical table rubbing ice all over her, injecting some sort of life saving juice into her poor veins. I looked on like a panicked mother as they gave her CPR and covered her body in more ice. After 10 gruelling minutes without a pulse they slowly laid down their tools and quickened energy, and sulked into the surrounding plastic chairs, silent and frozen as Death carried her soul onto his dark wings and disappeared. My eyes swelled and tears poured down my face; I slowly walked up to her lifeless, burnt body, the smell of burning hair congealed with the still lingering remnants of death. I stroked her furry little head sobbing uncontrollably and said “good night my friend”. Nicole was my friend, one of the few monkeys you could really play with, always ready to be swung around or take chase. She never really interacted with the other spiders, always played with her sister. They both came from a circus with their mother, who had died shortly after coming here. I wept for my friend Nicole, but also for her sister, sad and confused, wondering and waiting in the jungle for her dead sister to never return. The rest of the day my eyes flooded with every thought of her poor innocent body lying motionless on the cold table. The real problem with this park is that it is too close to the damn road and stupid power lines, the park is huge but the free monkeys tend to come down where the people are to steal ice cream and shit like that. They really need to buy different land for the animals sake (which they are in the long process of doing).

So the next day, sun strong and bright for such a morning, actually my (much needed) day off, I awoke too Becka bolting into the room yelling “Kishu had her baby”, which wasn’t due for another month. I threw on some clothes and ran up to the park. There she was sitting on the path, happy as a clam, with a teeny tiny baby clenching for dear life to her furry side. Kishu was making happy-face at everyone like she was purposefully showing it off, being quite vocal and excited. Her vagina was huge and hanging, bloody, ripped and swollen, but she didn’t seem to mind, jumping up on everyone smearing placenta on nearly everything. The baby looked like a little alien, scared and bewildered by the light, the air, and smells that swirl this fresh world. After her gleeful show-n-tell she took off into the jungle for the rest of the day to nourish her new prize. It’s like she knew what happened to Nicole and knew she had to balance out the scales. It’s so cosmic and perfect, makes me ponder the intertwined connection we all have but tend to lose over time.

So, I kissed good-bye to my furry friends, immensely sad, they were some of the best friends I’ve ever had (no offence to the friends I have now). I felt as though I was betraying them, coming and then leaving so quickly. I felt I was cheating them out of something. I wonder if they have any sense of remorse or sad absents from things or people. I ran around giving each one a kiss and a good pat on the head; they looked at me like “yah whatever, I’ll see ya tomorrow”, completely indifferent to my gloomy good-bye.

When I got back down to the café my stomach started to feel sort of, well……NOT GOOD. I took a lay down. Woke up, feeling MORE NOT GOOD. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t nostalgia pains. After exploding south bound on the toilet route, and my head feeling it had jack hammers dancing Irish jigs upon my temples, and my shirt soaked from sweat, I stumbled down to my room, laid down and couldn't move.  My friends picked me up, threw me into a taxi and went to the doctor’s castle (aka hospital). I progressively got worse and worse by the second, stumbled into the emergency room like a drunken zombie; all I could say at this point was “Estoy Enfermo! Estoy Enfermo!” Doctors, nurses, stars, small children, and mangy dogs gathered around me speaking bla-blas and turk-turks. They stared at me asking questions, but my hearing decided to wander off, they sounded like far away echoes, then my eyes joined my hearing to go make-out behind some dungy dumpster and only silhouettes were left. Next thing I know I’m on a table getting another shot in my ass and all I could think of was “sweet, another one to the list –that’s 3 baby”. After they took blood, and I somehow managed to poop in a tiny cup (yah, try holding a thimble under the Niagara Falls and see what happens), they told me I had a 102 F fever, and three different parasites, one of them being…….the infamous E.coli!!! Yeah, who the fuck gets E.coli and doesn’t that kill people? They gave me some serious meds and sent me home after several hours. I lay on my bed the next 7 days not eating, hunched in the fetal position, clenching my exploding intestines, and moaning like a stuck pig. But not to worry all you readers, I’m doing fine, eating lots of yogurts and good flora, just takin’ it easy. I’m pretty much a pro at getting sick now.

Parque Machia -- Week Two

I can’t even believe that two weeks have passed since I've been here. The days go by so quickly. When you don’t have a day off, it feels like you just live in the park with the monkeys and once in a while you get to go back to your bed to sleep for a few hours. Sort of the same feeling with lobster fishing, you just live on the boat with the lobsters and bait, then you get to hangout on land and sleep for a little bit. So anyway, today is my first day off, although I'm fairly sick. I didn't go to work yesterday either because I ate some bad food and ended up puking throughout the night, but the puke was so acidic that it drastically burned my esophagus and it instantly swelled up and I couldn´t sallow, and if I did attempt to sallow it was the most excruciating pain and would drop me to my knees, my mouth was producing heaps of saliva that I had to keep spitting out. I was actually quite scared during the night because I thought I was having some allergic reaction to something I ate and thought my throat was going to close completely. So, once the morning came I went to the local hospital, they told me what had happened and the pain was from layers of skin in my throat being burned off and bloody from the acid I puked up. They gave me two injection, one in the arm and another in my arse (the second ass shot of my travels, I'm gunna see how many I can collect before I leave South America), and some anti-inflammatory pills. Spent the whole day in bed. I'm doing alright now but my throat still hurts a wee bit.

So, the only problem as of now is that some of the other volunteers have these strange power complexes, and will tell you every single thing you are doing that they think is wrong, even if it doesn't make any difference for the monkeys, if it's not the way they do it they get all bent outta shape. And everyone contradicts everyone else, but oh well, that's just human nature for ya. But other than that I'm doing pretty well. I can now identify all 29 monkeys at just a glance. Some seem like my best friends and others are like spoiled little brats with some serious attitude problems. One little bastard monkey named Mickey bit me a few times the other day, broke the skin but nothing serious; he's the son of the alpha female so he thinks he can get away with anything, and still breast feeds even though he's years past the age where he should have stopped. They're just like humans; they can be so different personality wise. Another monkey named Octavio is the sweetest little guy ever, if you walk up to him and pull out the bottom of your shirt he'll instantly climb right up under it, wrap his arms around you and make these delightful happy noises, just his little black head will be poking out the top of yer shirt to look around and see what's happening. And if you're lucky you might just get a little stinky surprise before he decides to hop out. When the sun is setting low behind distant mountains, illuminating bugs of microscopic dimensions, the jungle breaths and undulates like the ocean, continuously feathering and flowing in and out as it's done for millions of years. I sit with its fusing heat holding close my furry friends, singing Dylan songs into their little human-like ears as the sun kisses forth its own calming tune. And the monkeys never complain when I'm off key or fudge a line or two. I'm planning on leaving to Argentina in two weeks, but I might stay here longer, but we'll cross that dresser when we see her. Until my next day off in two weeks..........

Talk of Man

Since time, the Talk of Man
Ponders and bewilders the
Essence of the Talkers;
They're plastered to thought, creative
Reasoning of the unknown for a
Meaning to fill our celestial void,
I too work the mind in pretzels
Of confusion and circular despair, only
To arrive before the beginning,
So, Thought and Talk have their golden
Thrones high upon society's mind, but
The Doer, the Fool, who sings life and
Dances reality has this Game in slight command
Banished and badgered by the masses,
(who falsely fumble through this world),
Give mirror-like, reflective disapproval
To the Fool –the Doer of pure action
Far submerged in damp corners, lightless
And cold, musty men and wretched women
Ponder and bewilder still the Talk of Man
Over the faint taps and cordial chords
Of the humble Fool
LIVING
Ages away in the sweet morning grass

Parque Machia

I’ve been a week here at the park. Better than what I expected. You don't tell them that you're coming before hand, you just show up, and if you only stay for 2 weeks you work in quarantine with the sick (or crazy) animals. But, if you promise to stay at least a month they put you to work directly with the spider monkeys, capuchin monkeys or the pumas. I'm staying a month so they put me with the spider monkeys. If you aren’t too sure what exactly a spider monkey is than give 'em a quick google search and educate yourself. Unfortunately, they have a bad stereo type of masturbating on everything -- which is completely false, I've never seen them rubbing-one-out as of yet, but basically they are long and lanky, totally black, extremely affectionate, and look like little furry ninjas. I only work with 3 other people, and there are 29 monkeys, each with their own name and personality (at first they all looked exactly the same, but now I'm beginning to see the drastic differences). Basically every day we start at 7am, bring buckets of bananas up to their playground area in the park, let them out of their cage where they sleep and out they come, exploding from the cage doors like black fire rockets into the morning light. Only seven are on collars and long chords (which we switch to different runner throughout the day), but the rest are free to roam and swing amongst the vines and trees of the jungle. We then cuddle with them for several hours making funny little gurgle noises and playing with the babies, then clean their cage which they have been pissing and shiting in all night, clean their little blankets that they snuggled under and then prepare lunch consisting of an array of fruits. After lunch we do a little more cuddling and some more affectionate squeaky sounds, a bit more snuggling and then make 'em dinner which is a medley of veggies. At 6pm we call 'em back to their cage for bed (which is about as easy as getting a 3 year old to file your taxes), and the day is done. Quite rewarding and satisfying. It's just so nice to actually be doing something. I have something, actually a gang of somethings, to take care of; a purpose besides what beer to drink or which club to go to. I absolutely LOVE it. I never thought I would be able to get so close to monkeys unless I had some damn Master's degree in Zoology or something. Words can't explain the feeling of a big furry monkeys running up to you, jumping on your chest, wrapping its spidery arms around your body, nuzzling its face into you and making strange adorable loving monkeys noises. Once in a while they'll get mad at you for some reason or another, but mostly because you did something stupid that they didn't like, and once in a while they'll get in fights with each other, but basically it's one of the most refreshing and spiritually rewarding things I have ever done. I'm becoming so attached to them already, I'm already sad to leave in 3 weeks.

La Paz........Still

This place is hard as hell to leave. You can't leave when you want to, and you can't leave when you don't want to....if that makes any sense. I've been here in La Paz for about 3 weeks -- way too long. The 100 room hostel I'm staying in has become a drunken Groundhog's Day movie, I'm sick of the loud ass, drunken Westerners, blabbing endlessly about how drunk they were -- or are. It's all good and fun for a day or too, but this isn't traveling, this has nothing to do with the culture of this country, I might as well be in some dark dusty pub in the middle of London. The roads to the south are blocked because of protesters cutting them off, and I need to get to the animal refuge place which is unfortunately south of here. I'm getting on the next open bus out of this cold ass, drugged up city.


Our Gift

Time, our gift
Wasted on coke and beer
Precious and ticking, we
Tightly grip comfort
Frozen in fear of knowledge,
The wise feast on vibration
The coward starves in the stagnant

The Death Road -- Bolivia

So there we were, helmets on, hearts pounding, bikes hopefully in tack, mountains, glaciers and rivers surrounding our mob of 10 riders. Down we went, single file. We were actually on the main paved road for about 2 hours, vans and trucks bonking and zooming inches away from out shaky petals. My frozen hands could barley hold onto the handle bars. Some of the most beautiful country side; crisp air to the face, llamas and sheep feasting on half frozen grass behind old stone walls as we flew by. Once we arrived to the actual Death Road, the ungodly, nightmarish road became clear through the high mountain fog. Across the valley the tan wire-thin road hugged tightly to the lush, jungle mountain side like a baby to its mother in a vicious storm. Everyone took there “last pictures”, thinking it might be the last time they’d be alive (9 French tourists just died on the road last week, and 100 people die on it every year – just for future reference). We started slowly, quite slowly, down the loose gravely road, joking with one another to alleviate the fear of death out of our quivering minds. And once the first edge came unbelievably looming around the corner like an angry elephant in heat, everyone was pretty much at a stand still. The dirt road, no wider than a VW Bug, ended quite -- let’s say – sharply to a sheer vertical 1,000+ ft cliff. Every once in a while I’d bike a little closer to the edge to get a better look at how close dying could be, I’d see old rusted, mangled busses and cars crashed and batter in the jungle below, and I’d quickly merge back to hugging the wall. At one point some (damn) Canadian kid started getting all cocky and passed me on the shoulder, seconds later just a few yards in front of me his shirt, which he stupidly tied around his handle bars, got caught in his front spokes, the wheel locked up and over he went head first like a retarded pole vaulter, the bike landing smack dab on top of him. He skidded roughly along the sharp gravel and ended up about 3 feet from the bloodcurdling edge. Another fellow from another group actually flew right off the damn cliff, only to be miraculously saved by a wee tree 30 feet down; he eventually got pulled up by a rope with a face battered and bloody. After 5 hours of a nerve-racking, body-vibrating, wild ride, we made it to the bottom to a warm, lush jungle setting. As scary as it was, the adrenalin and rush of the whole adventure was well worth it – and I even got a t-shirt that says I survived “The World’s Most Dangerous Road”.

The next day we took a 3 day jungle tour up a river into this national park. I spent most of the time growling at the crocodiles, laughing at the funny monkeys jumping on my head, petting strange pink river dolphins, comparing teeth with piranhas, and making inappropriate jokes with the anaconda we found – come on, when you’re with a bunch of rowdy boys that stuff just slips out. (The snake actually bit my friend, he was bleeding all over the place, I guess he deserved it, quite funny at the time though). In the jeep ride back to the little town we almost flipped right over, it started fish-tailing in the mud, swinging side to side, ended up on two wheels at one point; but the most ironically, hysterical part of it was that we were all in the middle of playing this game where you each have to sing a song that has the word LOVE in it. That would be one for the headlines: JEEP FULL OF GRINGOS DIE SINGING LOVE SONGS. Anyway, now after a 20 hour grueling, cold, wet (there was a leak in the roof which happened to be right over my head) bus ride I’m back in La Paz. Where to after here I’m not sure, but I have tentative plans of going to this animal rehab refuge park to volunteer for a while.


p.s. I actually have some pictures of the Death Road that I'll post in a few days. And I changed the comment thing so that now anyone can comment, not just "google" people, but just say who you are in the comment.

Machu Picchu

Cusco has a strange feeling, beautiful yet strange nevertheless. This colonial city was once the capital of the entire Inca Empire, and now millions of cheesy tourist from around the globe flood into its red-cob colored city to see Machu Picchu, selling hikes and tours like they’re newspapers on the streets of New York. A brief stroll through the main plaza will bombard you with everything from alpaca socks, cocaine, to Machu Picchu treks. People will come running out of nowhere, shoving lunch menus in your face, and tell you its happy hour. I guess it’s always happy hour because they always say that just to get you to come in their restaurant. One evening I went out to dinner with a large group of people, sat down in the fancy air, and we all ordered the local specialty – guinea pig (sorry Debby). His burnt paws were crisped and out stretched on the plain white plate; as I bit into its little body I couldn’t extinguish the sound of our old guinea pig making its cute little squeaks whenever you walked by his little home in the sunroom. The little guy didn’t even taste that good, but I gave him (or her) and all the other guinea pigs in the world a short little prayer of thanks and forgiveness.

On my birthday I started a 5 day / 4 night trek with 10 other people around the mountain of Salkantay reaching 13,500 ft and then into Machu Picchu. By far one of the most amazing (and strenuous) things I have ever done in my entire life. The first night in the tents we got snowed on, bundled in every article of clothing I had, huddled in my sleeping bag I smiled to the first day of being 24. We hiked along a pristine gorge, the river grumbled way down at the bottom of the valley. Every hour or so I’d have to just stop and look back at the breath-taking lower Andes sprawling on forever, up ahead the looming coke-white peak of Salkantay mountain beckoned our way. For 6 hours I sucked on a huge wad of coca leaves for energy and to help with the ever escalating elevation, and talked with all the exciting new people I was about to spend the next 5 days with in the wild of the Andes Mountains. That cold night everyone sang me happy birthday, mumbling when it came time to say the name because nobody really remembered it yet, the tour guide bought me a small pint of rum and the cooks surprised me with a cake they make from scratch. The second day we woke up before dawn, our guide served us steaming hot coca tea in our tents before we even go out of our sleeping bags, the hot cup was like a savior to my fingers, white and trembling from the below freezing temperature. This second day was the hardest, but most beautiful. We hiked for a total of 9 hours, 5 up to the base of Salkantay, and then 4 hours of a knee killing decent down into the jungle. The picturesque landscape changed drastically every hour, and every hour my knee felt more and more like it was broken. At the end of the day I was hobbling down the trail like a drunken pirate and flopped down on the grass at camp. Imagine walking through a National Geographic magazine article about the Andes Mountain and Machu Picchu, and then times it by 1000, and that’s pretty much what the trek was like. The next several day were slightly easier, lower elevation and warmer environment, and a well deserved stop at the most spectacular hot springs I’ve ever seem. I took hundreds of mental hand-camera shots; it’s pretty fun to make a circle of your hand and make shutter sounds while everyone around you is snapping away with their fancy-pants cameras, (and just for the record, 3 people’s camera broke during the trip, especially after the third day when its down poured all night and inside everyone’s tents looked like a miniature Lake Titicaca). Machu Picchu was cold, rainy and foggy when we arrived at 6am; our tour guide (just for MP, not the one we had during our whole trek) had the worst English ever and sounded like a drowning guinea pig after being barbequed on Super Bowl Sunday. The only thing I learned (or heard) was that the Inca people held the most respect for the sun; well shit, what else were they supposed to think of that huge, bright, christless, orange thing moving through the sky every day. I didn’t need the guide anyway, the mystical energy and deep power of the place was enough of a guide for me. I’m just blown away by the difference of this ancient culture building a marvelous city teetering on top of 1000ft sheer vertical cliffs, and the present times of our hummer humping, plastic dumping society.

Anyway, I left Cusco and headed for Lake Titicaca on the boarder of Peru and Bolivia(the highest navigable lake in the world). Took a 3 hour boat ride out to this island in the middle of the lake and spent the night in this local lady’s house, the name (Titicaca) itself was well worth the trip. My new friends and I walked about the peaceful, car-less island; the calm blue lake was laking on for miles where it laid asleep in the lap of far away bleach white mountains.


p.s. Feel free to make comments or say hi if you reads this so I know I'm not writting to the wind.

Peru

We didn’t know what we were doing, that seems like the normal status quo these days; its actually a fun game called ¨I have no idea what’s going on, but I think I like it¨. If you ever get a chance to play you should. So out we went, Me, Mex from Holland and this German dude, to meet these local Peruvian guys for a few drinks. As we wandered through the devastated town on Pisco, everything in rubble from the huge earthquake last August. The town looks like some Eastern European town after the World War. The few buildings that are still standing are bars, restaurants or hostels. Inside this fancy wine bar we ordered the local drink called a Pisco Sour, which is sort of like a strange margarita but with raw egg (it’s a wonder we didn’t get salmonella). These guys told us all about the town and their families and friends that died in the quake, quite sad actually. I noticed my Spanish was getting better and could understand more, but then I figured it may have been from all the Pisco Sours I’d been drinking. So the game continued, off we went to some discotech in the out skirts of town, full of people, 200 or so, and we were the only gringos. Everyone gave us the classic ¨look at the freaky gringo¨ look, but that’s all just part of the game. We danced the night away to out dated American hip-hop and cheesy Spanish songs. Before we knew it it was 2:30am, our boat tour out to the Islas Ballestas (The Poor Man’s Galapagos) leaves at 7:00am. Back to the hostel for 3 hours of sleep and out to the islands. Still sort of drunk, we motored out in a large speed boat with 12 other tourists. It was absolutely amazing, thousands upon thousands of birds covered these small desolate islands, penguins waddled about like confused business men at a vegan pot-luck and sea lions moved about in awkward dances while their babies barked and played in the surf. Truly magnificent, well worth the 10 dollars. The same day Mex and I hoped on a bus to Haucachina, a cute little oasis town in the middle of huge, sprawling sand dunes rolling on forever. For a dollar we rented sand boards with straps and up we went, trekking through the heavy sand sinking below out feet. And believe me, trying to hike up a 600 ft sand dune is no easy task my friend. So there we were sitting at the top of this massive sand mountain, over looking the cute oasis and miles of sweeping smooth sand dudes as far as the eye could see, and the game continues. ¨Go Mex, I’ll watch you first¨ I sarcastically said. ¨Hell no man, you’re the surfer, you go¨ he replied in his funny Dutch accent. Once again, we had no idea what we were doing but we thought it may be fun. Down we went like old ladies standing in a small canoe. There isn’t really any turning involved so you pretty much have to just bomb down the thing in a straight line but then you get going way too fast and the only way to stop is wipe-out. And that we did, many a time. OH shit there we were cart wheeling down the hill, sand swirling and flying ever which way, covering our bodies and filling out ears and eyes, gritting between out teeth laughing all the way. Later on we decided to go for a dune buggy ride; the driver flung us town gigantic mountains of sand and jumped off ledges and banks. A wild ride to say the least. I’m sure I’ll be cleaning sand out from every crevasse for the next week. We’re heading to Cusco tonight, a 15 hour drive through the mountains. Cusco is the base town where everybody stays before hiking to Machu Picchu. So on we go...

Ecuador

Last week I arrived, and caught a bus to this little surf town on the coast, full of strange hippies and lost travelers, good surfing and too much partying. Surfed a few times with this cool Costa Rican guy but the waves sort of sucked. All was well until I went drinking with a bunch of wild kids from Israel, eating good cheap food, running around on the beach, and dancing until the morning light pierced our eyes. It must have lowered my immune system because after that day I became horribly sick. For a week straight it felt like a jack-hammer was continuously going off in my head, my body was quickly changing from freezing cold sweats to hot hellfire sweats, my tonsils are trying to kiss each other coated in white infection, my stomach felt full and bloated even though I hadn’t eaten anything for 5 days, and what I did eat wouldn´t come out the back door like it should of. I didn´t even feel like my self, some other being had taken over me; people tried to talk to me and all I could do was vaguely try to look at them like a dying refugee and cough and hack a nasty noise instead of saying words. Death felt like the best option. Wow, the joys of traveling, fun for all families, good times.

South Bound

Today I'm in Santa Cruz, back at the House of the Goddess'. Roberto lives with three beautiful/wild women. I've realized in life that those two characteristics seem to be fairly present in women at the same time. It's a good thing I guess; I'd rather have it that way than: ugly and dull. So anyway, I've been here for the past 10 days, acclimating to the brisker California weather and ending the Master Cleanse I had been doing during my last days in Hawaii. I've realized a huge concept while on the cleanse/fast: there is a big difference between actually needing food and eating out of boredom. My stories of pissing out my ass in the mornings really must have moved something in Roberto, because now he has started the cleanse. I taught him all I know and now leave him to his own porcelain parties. Tomorrow I'm gone; leaving on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again, ooo babe I hate to let you go. I'm no Jonny Denver (is that correct, did he write that?), but I know I must more on. There is a real underlying urge to explore and travel that resides within the human psyche, and some people have it "worse" than others; to each their own, but for me I crave that distant human connection, that awkward culture shock, the foreign accents, the jonny-two-steps with no bathroom in sight, the international friendships, the exotic food, the joys of the moment, the freedom to go, the freedom to stay, the insight into our own fucked up culture juxtaposed against a sustainable self-sufficient village tucked peacefully between the mountains; I crave that freedom in travel.

Soon I will be in Ecuador, but I have no clue what the hell I'm going to do after that. That's as far as my plans have gone. Wandering in the States is jolly and fun, but wandering in another country with no return ticket is even more fun. But fun and adventure are in cohorts with danger and sorrow, they're all drinking the same drink and skinning the same cat (by the way there is more than one of doing that). My tentative, fuzzy, maybe-gunna-happen, long term plan is to travel around in Ecuador, Bolivia, and Peru, then head down the coast of Chile to Santiago to see my good friend Matt, and then maybe end up in Argentina teaching english to smoking hot super models drinking Yerba Mate and dancing erotic tango in the streets of Buenos Aries; but we'll see.

So, I just want to say: If this trip proves fatal I want you all to know that I love you dearly and have been so grateful to know you in this beautiful LIFE. (Whom ever the hell you are. I'm not even sure anyone even checks this thing. I could just be talking to my self. So in that case, thank you Walker for being me, you have kept me company when I've needed you most and made me laugh when I felt like crying. And I apologize that everyone fucking associates you with Chuck Noris. You've been good to me so far, enjoy your self Walker.)


P.S. I have made a very conscious decision not to bring my camera to South America, for many cultural and personal reasons, so I apologize for the lack of pictures that wont come.

Pele's Home

Upon the volcano, stepping gently around Pele's House, you sense her sleeping deep within the earth below you. The crater, gigantic, like her very own cage fighting ring, where she is the star, the every present Goddess dancing to her own tune, making her own new earth. The only thing one can do in her house is take off your shoes, and politely sit down at the table.

Island Hoppin'

As the travels unveil, the wandering continues. Today I showed up at my friends house in Hilo after I hitch-hiked down from Hawi, which is about 2 hours away. This one old man picked me up, must have been close to 75 years old, driving this little red sports car. I stuffed my bag and Ukulele in the tiny-ass trunk and hopped in. His wrinkled arms were covered in old tattoos, hair slicked back with fancy shades covering his eyes. Right off the bat he start chatting it up about how fortunate I am to be able to travel aimlessly without the troubles of "modern life" keeping me put. All in good time I told him. His voice and inflections sounded like he was 18, just so stoked on everything. As a young boy in Honolulu he watched the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor from his little house up in the hills. I asked him what he did back then when he was my age, and he replied "Shit man, we smoked A LOT of POT!" I'm telling ya, this man was for real, quite the character. He let me off in Wiamia, across the street from a house my GGGG Grandfather owned, with a heart full of Aloha. After I walked a little ways out of the busy streets of town towards Hilo, I came across some horses along the road that seemed to laugh at my awkward stance and funny looking thumb sticking out into the road like bait for some giant fish. I loudly replied, "oh you think this is funny that nobody is picking me up do ya?", but then quickly glanced around to see if anyone was near by to hear me talking sarcastically to a horse. Anyway, this one man pulled over in an old Mercedes that was the same year and color as my (I mean my Dad's) old Mercedes - and he ran it off veg-oil too. He oddly reminded me of my Dad as well, but then again any jolly, slightly rounder stature man with a beard does.

The days preceding in a slight s ummary: Met up with me ole Pops in Maui, headed to Oahu for a few days to be his sidekick. Some research was done and come to find out I'm 1/128 Hawaiian - can't ya tell. Royalty bra, Royalty. Jaunted up to the North Shore, where we sat right in front of Pipeline and watched it go off. I huge check-off on my To-Do List of Life. I paddled out for just one wave, snaked Kelly Slater, dropped in on Sunny Garcia, sprayed Andy Irons in the face, held deep in the tube, and ran over Gerry Lopez as I was spit out of the barrel. Paddled in and ate a sandwich. Luckily my Dad snapped a good shot of me (attached). We ran around Waikiki like troubled farm folk drunk at a barn dance. And just as a side note: walking around down there makes you feel like you're in some soft-core Asian porn; go there and you'll see what I mean. Flew to Big Island, north to Kohala where I stayed with my good friend Brian in his shack and watched the grass grow as they worked all day, and now here I am. Until next time.....

Maui

I've been living here in Maui for about a month, computers are few and far between where I have been staying. I was left here (from my own choice) by Jared, Ryan, Aaron, Jasmine, and Megan after we attempted to sleep on the beach during a torrential down pour all through the night. Nobody slept, everything was wet, bags and boxers drenched to the bone, standing around in a circle dripping wet, laughing at our unfortunate circumstance. At around 4:37am we happened to find an open laundry room in a resort nearby where we rested face down on the cold cement. So yah, that morning they all left on the ferry back to Lana'i and there I was (oh shit there I was) wrapped in a plastic tablecloth under an abandoned shed dazed and disheveled in the misty morning light. I ended up staying with a friend I knew from Mexico for a while, and through meeting friends through friends I happened to find this commune in Hana that needed someone to stay and work for two weeks. The place is called Hale Mano, it's totally off the grid, harnessing their power through the streams and solar panels. There are about 9 people all living in the most beautiful land seated right on the cliffs, waves crashing all night against the lava reefs, fruit and magical gardens zigzagging throughout the property. It was quite the experience to live in such a hippie commune with a bunch of older spiritual guru dudes and dudets who all lived in India for years and followed some famous guru named Osho. I just did some general landscaping and brunt work for a little thatched-roofed hut and some organic food - a world apart from cell phones and plastic junk, nightclubs and gutter punks. In Hana waterfalls scatter the coast and hillsides and sacred pools full of naked spirits blessed with “mana” trickle through the lush jungle of wild fruits, a beauty beyond words. Now I'm staying at a friends house wondering what to do with my self: either go back to Lana'i and drink for a week with the Mainards, or go to Big Island and pursue my adventures alone with my new surfboard I bought in a drunken stupor.