I think it began as one of those ideas that doesn't even qualify as an idea at the time. During the year I lived in New Zealand, I had moved into a flat with two Kiwi chicks who I actually spent very little time talking to. On the wall of the flat hung a poster of one of the most amazing mountain landscapes I'd ever seen. The caption read The Annapurna Circuit: Nepal. In one of the few conversations I had with either of the girls, one of them told me about how they were trying to raise money through various fundraisers in order to fund thier trip to Nepal and a trek on the Annapurna Circuit. To this day, I have no idea if they ever made it. Probably not, as their means of "fundraising" involved asking people to "sponsor" them. What sponsors would receive in return was anybody's guess.

I hope they did make it, but regardless, the vision from that poster has somehow stuck with me over the years. At the time, moving to New Zealand was my first solo-trip and was meant to be the last. Whatever happened to me over the next four years may require an entire team of psychotherapists to sort out, but to put it mildly, travelling has become a bit of an "obsession" for me of late.

So as I found myself struggling through some of my more troublesome classes as a teacher this past year in Korea, visions of that poster kept popping into my brain. The idea that wasn't even an idea, suddenly began to formulate into a plan as I stood daydreaming in my own classroom. There's nothing like asking students to write English words and then draw pictures of them to buy time for teacher to enter his "happy place" for 15 minutes or so.

Fast-forward to reality, and I found myself walking the streets of Kathmandu (a city I earlier described as the Biff Tannin-run "evil 1984" from Back to the Future II) in early November of 2008. It's not that Kathmandu was that bad, it's just that it was very far away from the scene that has lived in my mind as a vision from that poster and I wanted to get to that place as soon as possible.

My original plan was to head to Pokhara (where I sit today) to hire a guide, but walking through the touristy neighborhood of Thamel in Kathmandu is like running a gaunlet of tourism touts, souvenir salespeople and hash peddlers. Sooner or later I caved in, not to the hash, but to hiring a guide in Kathmandu. I just wanted out and that seemed like the quickest way.

Upon meeting my guide, Prakash, I thought this was really going to work out great. He was a young kid, but seemed very friendly and eager to impress. Those qualities stuck with him throughout the trek, but what he didn't turn out to be was much of a guide (more on that later).

To leave Kathmandu, we had to leave from the bus station. I suppose there are agencies that splash out the cash and put you on one of the fancy "tourist" buses that you can take here in Nepal, but I don't think I really went with the Cadillac of trekking agencies, so we set out on a local bus. And brash as it may sound, anytime you do anything "local" in Nepal, you're usually doing it the hard way. So off we went in something that kind of looked like a small school bus; but only if you were to take a school bus, then drop a bunch of acid, subsequently paint it and add decorations as the visions in your head dictated and then put it to use for 25 years without maintenance before turning it into a "local bus".

A blessing from a Saddhu at the bus station before leaving on a local bus is proably a good thing

As we motored away from Kathmandu, I asked Prakash if these things ever crashed. Probably being too young to realize that death is not something most tourists want to think is impending, he told me about a crash several months ago that killed 14 people. Super Prakash, just super! But as long as we were sputtering away from Kathmandu, albeit with my long Western legs jabbing into the metal seat frame in front of me, I was a happy camper. Only seven hours to go to Besi Sahar!

PART II
Arriving in Besi Sahar after a long and perilous bus ride was only the first step in what would be a nearly 20-day trekking adventure on the Annapurna Circuit, or Around Annapurna, as it is more aptly called by the locals. As I sit here looking at a map trying to recall my exact route, it is clear to see that trekkers on this route, do indeed, walk completely around the Annapurna Himalayan Range. I can't tell you exactly what a circuit is (thank you very much expensive education), but I can now say for damn sure that I walked completely "around Annapurna"; so from here on out I'm siding with the local name - romantic poster from New Zealand be damned.

For those of you out there who have very little idea about what the Around Annapurna trek entails (trust me, I was in that camp until I actually found myself in too deep to turn back), here's the gist: The Annapurna Himalayas are a big damn set of mountains located near the center of Nepal. Without walking you through the names of each mountain and the day that we passed by them, I'll just name-drop a few of the mountains that were our constant, but ever-changing companions throughout the trek, literally, as we walked around them: Annapurna I (8091 meters), Annapurna II (7937 m), Annapurna III (7555 m) Annapurna IV (7525 m), Gangapurna (7454 m), Dhaulagiri (8172 m) and Machhapuchhre (6997 m). So, you have this big group of monsterous mountains that people actually climb, and then you have a trail that completely circles them at a much more reasonable alititude for people like me who don't possess the drive to conquer the world, but who'll work hard to see the view of what's possible and then settle in to a nice tall beer at the end of the day.

For many, the Everest Base Camp trek holds more sex appeal, as who wouldn't want to see the world's highest mountain (8848 m). But there is also a drawback to this trek, as you walk up and walk right back down the way you came. With the Around Annapurna trek, you never backtrack (unless altitude sickness causes you to do the "walk of shame" back the other way) and everyday provides a different backdrop, different villages to pass through and different people to encounter along the way. This ultimately swayed my decision to go with Annapurna over Everest. Plus, completing the Around Annapurna trek takes you over a 5,416 meter pass (nearly 18,000 feet), whereas Everest Base Camp sits at a measely 5,360 meters, so I feel like I'm well within my rights to snub my nose at the weenies who choose to take the easy way out and head to Everest.

Trekking, it is worth noting, is not neccessarily the same as camping. The beauty of the Around Annpurna trek (as well as many other treks in Nepal) is that the trails are essentially the local Nepalese "highways", carrying foot traffic between small and remote villages. Located in almost all of these villages are what are known as teahouses, a term that sounds pretty exotic, but I can tell you that they're just really basic guesthouses. This works out to be really convenient on a popular route such as Around Annapurna, as it gives trekkers the freedom to trek as far or as little as they choose in a given day. And at the end of each day, the teahouses all have a nice menu (that is pretty much the same as every other menu along the trek varying only depending on local ingredients available in each village) to order food from and relax with a cup of tea or coffee. Facilities are quite basic (I have become an expert at, and quite a fan of, the squat toilet), though generally cozy enough for a night. The other nice aspect of this form of trekking is that you begin to see the same people over and over again at each stop and soon you begin to form a bond with many of these people. Before long, you start discussing how long it's been since you've taken a crap with a nice old lady from England and it doesn't even seem wierd when she offers you some medication to get things moving again.

PART III
My primary companions for the entire trek were a father and son from Perth, Australia named Ron (dad) and Matt (son). Though we were led to believe that it was just a happy coincidence that we were all headed off on the same day from the same trekking agency, by the middle of the trek we all began to suspect that the Aussie's guide Anjun, was essentially serving as a sort of mentor for my man Prakash.

Though Prakash really truly meant well, he proved to be a bigger pain in my ass throughout the trek than he was an asset. Before we had even stepped foot outside of Kathmandu, he repeatedly professed that we were now "brothers" and that our hearts were now one. Perhaps I'm just a cynical bastard, or maybe I just haven't spent enough time sitting around hash parties listening to Cat Stevens, but I eventually had to stifle a laugh every time he would go into one of these diatribes about our fated meeting. To me, I was just a guy paying another guy to get me through a 20 day trek alive.

And maybe I would have thought of him as more of a "brother" if he'd actually acted like one. For one, he seemed much more at ease serving as a man-servant to me than as a guide. Though I may be 30+ years old, he doted on me like I was a small child or perhaps a person who had narrowly, and not so succesfully, survived brain surgery. Every time I would set my pack down, he would rush to my side to help it down. If my feet slipped a little on the trail, he would grasp my arm and brace me like I might do to help my mother if she slipped on ice. Every time we would enter a new village he would give me the same precautionary speech about locking my door, minding my head, drinking enough water, etc. All very much appreciated, until after a few days when my nerves began to fray. I finally put a stop to most of the pampering one afternoon when I went to put my pack down and fumed as he rushed to help it off my shoulders and then as he began assisting in unbuckling the straps.

"Prakash, God damn it, if you think you're my brother you should really meet my real brother! Trust me, he would never help my bag off my shoulders. He'd probably push me over as I tried to take it off. If he were here right now he'd laugh his ass off watching you prance around trying to help me out like I was an idiot. If I set my bag down, it doesn't mean I have a problem, it means I'm doing something. If I need your help with ANYTHING, I'll ask for it!"

Okay, so I probably set American/Nepali relations back a few generations, but it had to be done and from there on out he reserved his nursemaid chores to filling up my water bottle and ordering my food; tasks that I was begrudingly willing to accept if it made him feel he was doing his job.

But I do have to hand it to he guy, he was doing his best under what I would imagine were uncomfortable circumstances for him. Traveling with the Australians meant that I was also privy to some of the guiding that their very experienced and personable guide, Anjun was offering them. Whenever Anjun was providing a description, giving directions or answering a question, Prakash would interject a split second behind him with a parroted response.

Anjun: "That mountain is Dhal" Prakash: "Dhaulagiri, yes yes, Dhaulagiri" Anjun: ". . .giri. The fifth tallest moun" Prakash:"Yes, yes, the fifth tallest mountain in the world".

If it wasn't so infuriating it would have been downright comical. The problem was that, in the end, it made it difficult to understand either one of them. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why Anjun wouldn't have pulled him aside at some point to tell him to shut the hell up. But he didn't, and it became a silent joke as I would frequently catch Ron's eye after one of these "guiding sessions" and we both chuckle.

Whatever my issues with Prakash, the guy was at his most likeable when there was money on the line. If Kenny Rogers weren't so old and Prakash so young, I'd be pretty certain that "The Gambler" was written one night by candlelight while trekking with Prakash. Like most Nepali men I've met, the guy just loved to gamble. Considering how little money most of these guys have, its a sight to see the rupees start flying when a card game or other game of chance gets broken out.

The Gambler

Early on in the trip, Ron and Matt introduced a very simple card game called "Pass the Ace". It requires just a little skill and a bit of a poker face and the Nepali guides and porters instantly loved it. We started out playing just for fun, but soon the Nepali's started demanding that we make it more interesting. There's an interesting moral dillema that gets tangled up while gambling with people who you know don't make as much in a year as you see in a month. But then again, gambling is gambling, and they never gambled with more than they could afford to lose. Even so, we all gave out hearty applause when the Aussie's porter Naryn finally won a game. The poor guy (literally probably the poorest of the bunch) just had the worst luck.

Naryn was our silent rock. The man had a piercing silent air to him and the quiet demeanor of a man who had "seen some shit" and just didn't want to talk about it. He was an ex-army soldier, having fought the Maoist Rebellion that just ended over the last year or so (with the Maoists winning out). He rarely spoke, even in Nepali, but was always there lugging the Australians stuff with ease and keeping a watchful eye on us. Perhaps he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary at all, and was just a quiet man. I don't know. We didn't have many conversations.

Whatever the case, my favorite Naryn moment came when we were moving at high altitude (about 17,000 feet). I was ahead of the pack and it was just Naryn and I. For some reason the thin air made him giddy and he was bouncing around like a gazelle. At one point I caught up to him, gave him a happy nod and then watched as he let out a bellowing series of yelps and literally sprinted up the steepest section of hill. He wasn't under my employment, but as I bonded with the Australians and we all became a group, Naryn became a presence that I came to rely upon.

Though I set off on this trek as a solo traveller (well, I suppose I had Prakash), I ended it as the member of a family; though perhaps as the bastard son that is never seen from again. The two Australians were an absolute pleasure to trek with and were quite kind to let me share in the unique father/son journey that they had embarked on.

Ron, in his late 50's, was an absolute machine (I suppose at everything he does in life). He was always personable, quick with a smile and ever-determined. Though I played it off to the fact that I was carrying my own stuff, I'm quite sure that had I had a porter, Ron would still have out-walked me day-in/day-out. Back in Perth, he is a meteorolgist who works predicting hurricanes and other weather-related occurances. So as we walked, I learned more about such topics than I ever thought I would and he was just a great guy to talk to as we plodded along day after day.

As for Matt, to be honest, I wasn't sure I was going to like the guy from the start. He was a big guy, an Aussie Rules Football player (or footy as he called it) and didn't speak nearly as much as his old man. When he did speak, he frequently referred to Americans as "Sepo's" (or Septics, for those unfamiliar with the Aussie term), a term that for some reason has always gotten to me, even though I've heard worse. Whatever our first impressions were (I suspect he had his reservations about me from the start as well), by the time we both decided to crack and have a beer after 7days dry respectively, we began to forge a friendship.

We had arrived in a town called Manang, which is the only place we were to spend two nights in the same place for the purposes of altitude acclimatization. The two of us had been sitting out in the sun watching the snow blow off of Gangapurna discussing how this would be the perfect time for a beer. Our guides had put us on orders not to drink until we made it over Thorong La Pass, but as two tall American girls checked into the hotel and promptly sat outside and ordered a beer, we both knew resistance was futile. I know it doesn't send a good message to the kiddies to admit that alcohol brings people together, but I feel like from that point on, Matt and I were much better friends (Not to mention those two American girls would continue to pop up in my travels throughout the remainder of my time in Nepal - here's to beer!).

Aussie/American relations being conducted at 18,000 feet

Though the trek encapsulated about 20-days, it was really broken down into two parts: Before the Pass (BP) and After the Pass (AP).

BP was filled with anticipation, stunning scenery, camaraderie and cold cold nights. AP was filled with long walks, pretty good scenery and more long walks. Both were amazing in their own aspects, but BP was a much better experience.

The reason for this was the looming and ever-present goal of getting over Thorong La Pass (5,416 meters - nearly 18,000 feet). As we got closer, the hours of walking got shorter as the air got thinner and the conditions got rougher. Nights were cold, meals got repetitive and things like brushing your teeth and changing your underwear became things that only seemed important to take care of every couple days.

For the couple of nights leading up to and following the pass, I began sharing a room with a French/Israeli named Ron (the nice thing about this trip is that it was easy to remember names as many repeated themselves). Ron had clearly grown up accoustomed to some of the finer things in life and when we first met, I began to think that trekking wasn't his thing. He also had the love of his life waiting for him back in Paris, so most of our early conversations revolved around him wondering what the hell he was doing sleeping in shitty Nepali teahouses, crapping in holes and walking all day/everyday when he could be back in Paris with the lovely Emily.

But Ron was no softy. He had been an officer in the Israeli army. And he was no dumby. He was returning to France to commence interviews with some of the top banks in Europe after finishing his masters of Finance. And though he had his quirks, he was managed to pull all of the best traits of being French and being Israeli into one while leaving out some of the not-so-nice sterotypes (Hey, as a Sepo, I'm allowed to be a little judgemental!). He was unique as they come and I now consider him a very good friend. I think my favorite "Ron moment" may be the fact that he took diomox (altitude sickness pills) the day of the ascent on Thorong La, even though he felt no symptoms prior. Every time I turned around the poor bastard was peeing like a mule (one of the side effects of the drug). He must have gone 50 times on his way up alone.

Since this is already getting way to long, I'll save you the suspense and tell you that we all made it over the pass just fine. We left at 4 am and were up on top by 7 am. Though I had experienced some AMS symptoms the night before (major blow to my Colorado bred lungs), I woke feeling strong and led the way to the top. At the top, we drank tea, tied some Tibetan prayer flags to the mass already stewn about and Ron led a Nepali dance party in celebration.

King of the Mountain

(Video to come when I get out of Nepal and find a really good Internet speed).

Upon arriving in the village of Muktinath on the other side of the pass, it was clearly party time. Our guides no longer had any credible threat to temper our behaviour, and it seems they were ready to tear it up as well. Gathered in our hotel that night we had our group (myself, Ron Aussie, Matt Aussie, Ron Frenchie, two American girls Liz and Sunnie, and two other Australians we had met along the way; conveniently also Matt and John). The night got a little out of hand with singing and dancing with our Nepali guides, followed by a trip to the Bob Marley Bar and then a return to our hotel for a few more beers (in the morning, Anjun counted 54 empty 1L bottles of Everest Beer).

Topping the night off, I got into a drunken competition with Liz where I promised I could drink more Nepali chili sauce straight from the bottle than she could. I'll never know who won the bet, because when it was her turn I was in throwing the stuff up into a dirty squat toilet. The next day was one of our longest and least scenic of the entire trip and the chronic heartburn made for a grumpy John that day. But as we continued our trek, I soon learned that the legend was growing as people would run into me and tell me they'd heard the story of the chili-man!

After the pass, we all kind of went our separate ways (barring myself and the Australian family). A lot of people flew out of Jomson, or took a Jeep out without continuing the trek. The hype was really about the Pass and the rest was a nice walk with some stunning scenery.

As I sit here in the chaos of Kathmandu with smog-clogged lungs and struggling with a bout of food poisoning (I haven't even eaten any meat since I began the trek!) preparing to leave tomorrow, I know I'll be back one day; probably sooner rather than later. The image of that poster that was burned in my brain for so long has now been pushed aside and has been replaced with actual images and memories that beckon me to return.

The country of Nepal was blessed with such natural beauty that God had to make it a perfect match by adding a quirky sense of humour as well, because there is much that is just plain goofy as well. And that, my friends, will be the topic of my next blog.

There were many bridges on the trek; this is one.

Muktinath Dance Party after Thorong La

The ever present squat toilet. You gotta watch your step at high altitude temperatures

Losing the Madness Over the Mountains (With Photos) remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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But what many people generally don't understand is that travelling is not always fun and games. Yes, sometimes, in between the Bangkok parties or the Himalayan treks, you have to lay down a travel sacrifice to the Gods and bide your time.

And thus it was so that I found myself sitting in an airport at 2 a.m. in Calcutta, India, wondering what the ultimate price for this journey may end up being.

I'll backtrack just a little.

Going into this trip, I was aware from the beginning that I would have a nasty layover in Calcutta. What I wasn't sure of was whether they would actually let me in or not, or if I might actually get deported back to Bangkok being that I didn't have a visa for India (required) and that I had to change airlines while I was there. So the day of my flight, I spent some time trying to track down the telephone numbers for both Thai Airways and Indian Airlines. I accomplished this small feat, though trying several times to get someone to answer either line proved futile. It was at this point that some of my "hostel friends" started drinking a few beers on the front steps of the incredible hostel I was staying in there in Bangkok. Thinking a beer might help clarify my situation, I hunkered down and relaxed with a can of Chang. It's amazing what a beer and the laid-back encouragement of a group of slack-jawed travelers will do for your demeanor, so soon I had decided to throw caution to the wind and let may be, may be.

So, fast forward about six hostel beers, a taxi ride to the airport and an airline check-in lady who's answer to my question of "will I be able to transfer in India without a visa" was, "yeah, well, probably. I think so". Okay, I like my chances, let's do this. So, feeling like luck was on my side, off I went. Plane departed Bangkok at 11:45 pm and arrived in Calcutta at 12:00 am, with a time change.

At this point, I kind of have a headache from my earlier hostel beers and am dog-assed tired. Exiting the plane I was praying to see a sign for a transit lounge or anything other than a one-way hallway to customs where I was sure I was going to need to produce a visa. No such luck. The entire plane filters down a single hallway into an immigration hall. A one room, filthy, fly-invested space with just a handful of plastic chairs on the periphery. As all of the Calcutta-bound passengers filtered through immigration, I stood there contemplating what nightmare scenerio might lie ahead of me. With the crowds dissepating, I asked one of the rather brutish immigration officers what I should do, as I was a transit passenger. Without a trace of kindness, he told me to sit over there and wait. Okay, this guy didn't seem to want to engage in small talk about my situation, so I just went over and sat down by myself. . . for 45 minutes.

With no other travellers left there, I went up to one of the desks and asked the same question. Same response, sit over there. So at this point I'm looking around and thinking, "well, on the upside, it doesn't seem like I'm going to get deported tonight. On the downside, I think I may have to pass the next 13 hours sitting in this room under flourescent lights and with only a nice group of flies to keep me company."

After an hour and a half, and several more questions followed by the same gruff answer, another plane arrived from Germany. Luckily, this plane carried a nice German couple who were in my same position. Transit passengers with no clue as to what we were supposed to do now. So we sat some more. Finally, after nearly 3 hours of sitting there, an honest-to-God gem of a man came and started working on some paperwork for me. He promised I would not have to sleep in the room I had currently occupied for the past several hours. He secured my baggage from immigration and told me I could hold onto it for the night. He then led me through some red tape where I finally was led to more of a "lounge area". Honestly, it could have been a 5-star hotel, as happy as I was to not have to spend my night in that immigration area.

So then, things actually got better. I was able to pull the sleeping back out of the checked luggage I recieved back. I also remembered a blow-up travel pillow, I had stashed somewhere and one of those airline sleep masks. So at about 4 am, I got to sleep on two chairs that were pushed together in the darkest corner I could find. Not great, but I wasn't deported and I was out of that God-awful immigration room.

So all-told things worked out for the best. However, waking up the next morning, I would encounter my next set of problems. Not being a "planner" of sorts, I had not packed any food with me, even knowing I would be stopped over in Calcutta for 14 hours. Not a genious, I know. So rising at about 7 am, starving and thirsty as a mule, I was confronted with the notion that where I was placed had no currency exchange. I probably could have paid for a cup of coffee with $US, but all I had was $100 bills. No dice. So until my plane left at 2 pm, I had nothing to eat or drink except some water that came out of a dirty looking faucet labelled "water for drink". But life is tough and I got by just fine.

So after a very interesting and time consuming (but to the airport's credit, a very nice man walked us through everything) process of re-checking our luggage and getting our new boarding passes, I was finally off on my flight to Kathmandu. And I will tell you this, no matter what they tell you about airline food, if you have not eaten or drank anything for 20 hours, that food will taste like Wolfgang Puck himself was cheffing in the back of plane.

Touching down in Kathmandu, I was thrilled just to finally be here in Nepal. The visa/immigrtion process was another nightmare, but at this point I was just a walking zombie and turned the anger part of my brain off. I had booked accomodation in Kathmandu already and had a nice man waiting for me to help me pick up a taxi. This is getting way too long to explain what traffic is like in Kathmandu, but it is everything you would ever dream arriving in a 3rd world country would be like. Is Nepal a third world country? I don't even know, but I can tell you this, it tops even Myanmar if there were ever to be a head-to-head traffic disaster competition.

Long, long, long story short - I made it my hotel safe and sound. It's a bit of a shithole, but a friendly enough shithole. Shortly after my arrival, the power was cut, which you can't blame the hotel for. But I was hungry again and not quite ready for bed, so I decided to head out and find someplace to eat on my own. With the power cut in the entire area, I was left wandering by myself in the dark with traffic of 10 different varieties trying to work past me and the throng of other people in the street. For lack of a better example, it truly reminded me of the "evil 1984" in Back to the Future 2. I'm sure it really wasn't that bad, but after the previous 24 hours I'd had, I was ready to pack it in and head to bed.

So that's my sob story. In the end, I gues if you break it all down, nothing really that bad happened. I'm here, I'm alive and I'm going trekking on the Annapurna Circuit in a matter of days.

As I've said before; my life does not suck. But sometimes it does give me a headache!

Not All Fun and Games remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So a few quick thoughts on Hong Kong:

1. If shopping is your bag baby, then Hong Kong may just be the city for you. I apparently know very little about communism, or whether Hong Kong is actually governed by Communist China, but I can tell you that Capitalism is alive and well on the streets of Hong Kong, whatever it's official title may be. This would all be fine and great if I had any tinge of desire to ever go shopping at any point in my life, but as my mom will attest, I'd generally rather visit the dentist than head to a mall. All told, I bought one thing in Hong Kong: a Lonely Planet for Bangkok.

2. The people of Hong Kong virtually all speak English! After living in Korea and having grown generally accoustomed to saying whatever the hell happens to fall out of my mouth, knowing full well that most of the public won't understand me (yeah, us English teachers must be doing a bang up job), it was a bit strange to find that even the lower classes in Hong Kong speak perfectly descent English. Having been governed/leased/whatever by the British up until very recently, this makes some sense. I think I first learned this on my first afternoon when I walked into a 7-11 and gave the lady my best "trying to speak slow, but really just coming across as mentally challenged" speel of hand gestures and slowed speech. She answered my question in perfect English, maybe wondering if she should pull aside any sharp objects that might be lying around.

3. Hong Kong has some incredibly beautiful women walking around. Granted, those who know me, know that I've fallen completely off the charts with a newfound attraction to Asian women since living in Korea, so I'll leave this up to debate. I'm not saying the women are any more beautiful than any other city in the world, I'm just saying there's certainly no shortage of pretty and very stylish women walking from shop to shop.

4. That's all you get. Three days, three points to be made. I did ride a tram up to the top of Victoria Peak and took some decent photos, but I'm afraid I'd bore even myself by trying to make it sound like anything more than just a day sight-seeing. One other activity of note: I watched my first movie in a theater in over a year. It's not that Korea doesn't have movie theaters, there just isn't one near where I live and I do most of my movie viewing from my computer over there. Anyway, Tropic Thunder, good flick.

Today, I'm in Bangkok, leaving tonight for Nepal. I have a beauty of an itinerary where I get into Calcutta, India tonight at 1:00 am, and then get to sit on my duff in the airport until 1:30 pm the following day. Though I'll probably show up in Kathmandu looking like yak poop, I sure will be happy to get there.

Stay tuned. . .

Hong Kong: Short and Sweet remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Its hard to believe, but I have just finished up one year away from home and my year of teaching in South Korea. It has been one hell of a ride. So what now? Well, anybody who knows me, knows that if I've got a pocket full of cash and an abundance of free-time, well I'm a go'in traveling. . .

So on Friday morning at 3 a.m. I board a bus out of Daegu and head up to Seoul. I then fly from Incheon (Seoul) to Hong Kong. I'm going to stay in Hong Kong for about a week, but I might shave that down to 3 nights because Hong Kong is pretty expensive and I'll be heading to Bangkok which is quite cheap. I have absolutely nothing planned for Hong Kong, have done zilch reading on what to see and do, but I'm usually at my best when left to just wander.

From Hong Kong, as aforementioned, I head to Bangkok for a short stay. I don't really have a plan for Bangkok either, but my guess is that it will involve eating a lot of Thai food and drinking a lot of Chang Beer. I have a friend who runs a used bookstore there, so I plan to meet up with him and chat about Myanmar as I intend to go back there at the end of my trip. He has been there many times and knows more about the country than anybody I know.

After Bangkok, I head to Nepal. Well, more accurately, I head to Calcutta India, where I'll get to enjoy 15 hours of hanging out in the airport. That should be fun. I wonder if the airport curry will be good? If it is, I think that justifies checking India off on my Facebook list of "places I've been".

But I digress. So yeah, off to Nepal which should really be the highlight of this little jaunt. I'm going to be there for six weeks and will spend three of those weeks trekking the Annapurna Circuit (which should be interesting considering I haven't exactly devoted myself to fitness in my year here in Korea). The AP Circuit doesn't take you up to Everest Base Camp or anything like that, but you trek from village to village surrounded by the Himalayas staying in little tea houses. It should be epic. Also on my list of things to do in Nepal is to visit the Royal Chitwan National Park where you get to ride around on the back of an elephant and view wildlife like rhinos and tigers. That should be pretty cool, though it may result in a bit of sore ass. I'm also considering a multi-day raft trip and may also take a "mountain viewing flight" to check out Everest from eye-level.

After Nepal, I'll return to Bangkok for a brief stay before heading back to Myanmar for about 10 days. I was there a little over a year ago, and though it is perhaps one of the most backwards places you can visit, it makes it all the more interesting. The Myanmar people are just amazing, made even more amazing by their resilience in the face of living in a country governed by a bunch of spineless thugs. If my time is running too short and the logistics of getting into Myanmar prove too tough, my backup plan is to head to Laos instead.

Assuming all goes well, I'll be on a long-haul slog back to the States on Christmas Eve. My current plan is to surprise my parents by telling them that I won't be back until January, but I'm a terrible liar and it's getting kind of tough to keep it up. After being home for about a month and a half, it looks like I'll end up back in Korea by February. It's kind of strange to think about coming back for another year, but life is good over here and I'm able to save a ton of money, something that I don't think is so easy back home with the current state of things.

So that's the plan. My life doesn't suck.

The Buckley Train is Setting Off Once Again remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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For those of you who have been following my blog for the last couple years, you may remember entries about wild boar hunting in Borneo, climbing the tallest mountain in South East Asia and traipsing off into the unknown with a Burmese monk in Myanmar. So you might think that what follows might be an interesting account of backpacking along the Great Wall, studying kung fu with some Shaolin Monks or getting back to nature in the scenic Tiger Leaping Gorge. Well, I’ve got news for you, I did none of that. In fact, on this trip to China, I did essentially two things: got drunk and laid on the beach; not necessarily in that order. But along the way, some pretty hilarious things took place, so here you go.

This trip to China took place during our summer vacation. Though children back in the States enjoy a three month summer vacation, the children in Korea get to enjoy a grand total of three days off from their rigorous hakwan schedule in the summer. So short on options, but wanting to get out of Korea for a few days, my English friend Mark and I decided on Qingdao, China. Qingdao is only a short flight from Seoul, is the site of the Olympic sailing events and is also the city that brews Tsingtao Beer (pronounced the same as Qingdao, yet inexplicably spelled with a T). When Mark proposed this plan to me, he had me at Tsingtao Brewery.

Our first few hours in Qingdao got off to an ominous start. As we took an exploratory walk down towards the beach, we quickly became aware that we were being stared at by nearly every passerby. Now, living in Korea, we’ve become quite accustomed to being stared at by the locals. But in Korea, the stares almost always seem to be an interested and friendly stare. The stares we were getting during our first few hours in China bordered on intimidating. We couldn’t tell for sure, but we were pretty sure we were on the verge of getting our asses kicked. The stare that worried me the most and got us moving the quickest was from one rather tough looking dude who I noticed stare at us, who then tapped his buddy on the shoulder before pointing directly at us. For a country about to host the entire world, we joked that they better get used to the sight of these strange looking creatures. Maybe we just weren’t wearing our Right Guard that day, because luckily, all the people we met after that first walk turned out to be amazing (though we did continue to feel a bit like a circus act, with strangers stopping us to take our pictures with them).

Early on in our trip we discovered a place literally called “Beer Street”. Naturally, this jumped to the top of our list of cultural sites we had to see in Qingdao. Unfortunately, due to this discovery, we really saw very little else during our stay in China. One restaurant/bar in particular became our second home during our stay. We found it on the first night, befriended the rather large staff and soon became the Norm and Cliff (TV show Cheers, for my International readers) to the Chinese Sam Malone and his bar of Asian Diane’s and Woody’s. Over the next couple days, we became fixtures at this place and for some unknown reason developed the tendancy to shout a Fonzie-eque "Heeeyyy!" everytime we entered.

Our new best friends in China

On our first night there, we helped one of the employees edit the English menu he’d been working on. Of the many items on the menu that we looked over, we got a chuckle out of donkey being on the menu. So naturally, on our second night (and subsequently on the third), we decided we had to give it a go. Little known fact, donkey is actually quite delicious! Then again, it was covered with so much spicy sauce that it tasted identical to the lamb and deer we also ordered.

Mmmmm! Donkey is amazing!

The other great thing about this place was that it gave us our own special Olympic preview of China’s strength and shirtless determination to sporting excellence. Every night we found ourselves engrossed in shirtless competitions and feats of strength like arm-wrestling and push-up contests. Sadly, we were no match. And while I’m on the subject, I should note that Chinese men have a strange obsession with going shirtless. Even when they’re wearing their shirts, they seem to feel the need to air out their belly by pulling their shirt up below their armpits. It sounds strange, but after a few days, we decided ‘what the hell’ and joined right in. I have to say, hanging the belly out may look bad, but it feels so good!

On our second night, after eating donkey and drinking at this bar, we asked our new friends if they knew of anywhere to go dancing. So when the bar closed, we packed into a few cars and headed out on the town. Unfortunately, the dance club they took us to was closing down for the night. After being in Korea, a land where the bars never close, China surprised us with a very early closing bar scene. Unfazed, our new friends took us to the Chinese version of a Norae Bang (karaoke room). Soon, we were joined by nearly the rest of the restaurant’s male staff, including the owner.

Of course, this night quickly erupted into debauchery with us joining in on the shirtless trend while belting out Western songs as our new buddies jammed out to the Chinese hits. It may be true that we didn’t visit a single museum or palace in China, but this night will be burned into my memory for far longer than any long-winded scenic tour.

Courtney from Canada and Gillian from Scotland were the only two ladies in a room filled with sweaty, shirtless men

The one “cultural” outing we did make while in China was our tour of the Tsingtao Brewery. After walking through a museum of the history of the brewery, we ended up in a beer sampling area. This wouldn’t really be worth noting (we did drink enough Tsingtao to make China re-think Communism, after all), except for the fact that we were then joined by a rather large group of Chinese tourists, many of whom had children with them. Still not really worth noting, until I mention that all of these children joined in on the beer sampling. I’m telling you, if you haven’t seen an eight-year old wandering around with a beer in one hand and a bag of nuts in the other, well you just haven’t lived my friend. I know it’s disturbing, but quite entertaining, I assure you. In fact, the only thing that could have provided me with bigger sense of shocked amusement would have been if a monkey knife-fight had broken out over a racist comment about proboscis monkeys being less smelly than macaques.

Hey man, where can a guy get a refill and some more nuts around here?

Later on, when they gave us a pitcher of beer to enjoy at the end of the tour, we were joined by a father and son at our table. The father looked proudly on as his small child gave a beer cheers to a Western dude, me. Capping off this strange foray into different cultural norms, I watched as a young boy slammed his beer down to empty and then as his mother refilled his glass from hers. To quote Homer Simpson, “To alcohol, the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s little problems!” Get used to that kid, I think you’re gonna need it later on in life.

Speaking of drinking in China (wait, I think I’ve been doing that during this entire blog), the Chinese we met seemed to only know one way to drink. . .down in one! Now, I’m not one to avoid a cheeky pint or two, but I’m not accustomed to having to chug every beer that is offered to me. I can’t tell you how many people offered us a beer and a cheers, only to expect us to slam it down with them. One or two of these is fine, but this followed us nearly everywhere we went. No wonder the trip was a blur!

The crowning evidence of this came during our visit to an Olympic Village party site. We just kind of happened upon this place and decided to stick around because there was beer a flow’in and hot models walking a runway. After settling in with a couple beers we really took notice of the fact that these Chinese people were really packing down the beers. They even had several “beer chugging” contests up on stage, where contestants were given 1.5 liter pitchers half-full and were expected to chug their contents as quickly as possible. This seemed impressive, until the third round where a robust Chinese guy insisted that they chug full 1.5 liter pitchers. Thinking no way this was possible, we watched in amazement as the brazen lad chugged the pitcher as quickly as you could pour it on the ground.

As this was happening, the atmosphere was clearly getting quite raucous. As a Chinese pop singer sang to the crowd with people dancing on the tables and chugging beers, Mark told me he had a feeling something bad was about to go down. I think his exact words were, “I have a feeling something illegal is about to happen.” Not two minutes later, a fight broke out in the back of the crowd. The next thing we knew, pockets of fighting began erupting all around the crowd. Beer bottles were being broken on heads, people were bleeding and women were jumping in the middle of it all trying to pull their husbands/boyfriends away, some taking swings themselves. In America, this would be broken up by the cops in about five minutes, but the police here seemed to just let it all go on. They did end the show and turned off the lights, but the fighting continued for probably an hour. During this whole thing, we didn’t move. We just sat their drinking our pints talking to a random drunk stranger who had plunked himself down at our table. At one point, a kind waiter came over and told us not to leave as it was quote, un-quote, “maybe a little dangerous for us to leave”. Point taken, we sat and just watched the excitement wondering if this was all just training for the Olympic party scene a week later.

All-in-all, I know I’ve had more culturally enlightening trips in the past, but this one proved to be among the most entertaining. As an American, we and the Chinese certainly have our differences, but I will concede this: in the world of drunken, sweaty, shirtless arm-wrestling, China is clearly the best! Much respect to China, as the Chinese people were incredibly friendly, accommodating and hilarious.

P. S. – Free Tibet!

Beer and Loathing in China remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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This point was driven home to me even before I stepped foot on Korean soil. While making arrangements via email with the director of my school to meet her at the airport, I naively asked, “Is there a specific place in the airport I should plan to meet you?” Her response came in a single line, “Don’t worry, you’ll be the only white guy coming out of the airport, I’ll see you.” - Gloria

Not yet accustomed to this foreign status, I stumbled out of 14-hour flight groggy and worried that I might be spending my first jet-lagged hours in Korea sitting on a street corner yelling the single name I knew in Korea . . . Gloria, help me! Adding to my anxiety was the fact that upon exiting the baggage claim, I noticed that there were in fact, two other foreigners walking nearby. However, one looked like a Texas oilman wearing a 10-gallon hat and a cheap suit (I felt pretty confident Gloria wouldn’t think that was me) and the other was a muscle-bound soldier-looking type. Now, I do photograph extremely well (I had earlier emailed a single image of myself looking kind of buff, if I do say so myself), but I was pretty sure Gloria wouldn’t mistake me for this guy either.

Although her math was slightly off, true to her world, I exited the baggage claim suddenly awash in only Asian faces and indeed saw a woman I soon learned to be Gloria, walking immediately in my direction.
Since that first night of experiencing life as a foreigner, I’ve come to appreciate the daily quirks that come with this title. These are just a few of my favorites, though I’m sure I could come up with many more:

“Hello, how are you? I’m fine thanks, and you?” – No matter where I go in my daily routine, I am greeted with this phrase by no less than five separate children in any given 30 minute span. Though I do feel the urge to teach them a slightly varied list of other greetings (maybe something like: how’s it hang’ in bro? What up homey? Or even a more honest; how are you? I’m freaking terrible man; my parents make me go to school like 80 hours a week! And you?), I none-the-less enjoy these exuberant exchanges that take place everywhere I go. Though it’s sometimes difficult to respond to each and every one of these encounters as I whiz by on my bike on my way to school, I get a kick out of the giggles and excited mumblings when I do respond, so unlike some of the other more seasoned (i.e. grumpy) foreigners, I always try to give them a shout out.

You get to be 5-years old again (take that self-reliance!)– Raise your hand if you thought being a five-year old was the greatest thing on Earth? If your hand isn’t up, get back to work you titan of industry. When you were five, people went out of their way to do things for you; they kindly overlooked your foolish mistakes and they let you take a lot of naps. Well that’s a lot like what being a foreigner in Korea feels like.

As one example, at many of the restaurants in Korea you get to cook your own meat right at your table. They either fire up gas burners under a Teflon plate, or bring a bucket of smoldering wood chunks and place them under a grate in the center of your table. It seems like this should be easy enough to manage on your own, but for some reason, every time we eat at one of these places the owner ends up hovering over the table turning the meat, cutting it up with scissors and then placing it in a side dish in front of us. What service you might think! Yeah, that’s what I thought the first couple times this happened. Then I began to look around and noticed that this particular service was not on offer for all of the Koreans in these restaurants. So I’ve since deduced that something we’re doing is either not cooking the meat to their standards, or perhaps more likely, burning the crap out of their hard to clean grill pieces. Whatever the case, we generally get our own little sous chef every time we eat at one of these places. I’m still waiting for the moment where one of these proprietors will pick up a piece of meat with some chopsticks and perform the “airplane” trick to get me to eat it. That would truly be the coup de grace in the life of an incompetent foreigner.

One of the many Korean barbeque restaurants. Here comes the airplane. . .

As another example, the bike that I pedal around here in Korea had the pedal break off a couple months ago. Though it would have probably been an easy fix at a local bike shop, laziness had gotten the better of me and I hadn’t taken it in to get fixed. I was just making due pedaling around with a peg sticking out from under my foot. Then one night, not long ago, I was in a local bakery near my school. The owner, who seems to have taken a liking to me, followed me outside as I mounted my bike after a bread purchase. He began pointing at the missing pedal and uttered some words in Korean that I obviously couldn’t understand. He then led me around the corner to a stairwell where an old bike was parked in the corner. He opened up a little closet and came out with a pair of pliers. Not really sure what the guy was up to, he then proceeded to pull and twist on the pedal of the old bike. Not knowing any words to inquire about what he was up to, I just watched as he pulled the pedal off of this bike and then as he screwed it onto my bike. I’m really not sure if this bike actually belonged to this guy or if he was just willing to pull off a small misdemeanor as a favor to his new foreign friend. Whatever the case, I’ve been biking around with a fully functioning bike pedal again and that guy sees 2 bucks from me couple times a week for bread.

The other beauty of reliving my kindergarten years is the naps! My work schedule consists of less than 4 hours of work from 4:40 to 8:30 pm (with four ten minute breaks); so let’s just say I’m well rested. Unfortunately I don’t get to color as much as I’d like to.

On a scale of 1-10, you automatically jump up at least 2 points – Let me tell you, if you’re ever in need of an ego boost as a pale-skinned, blue-eyed Westerner - well, head to Korea! I may not be the best looking guy west of the Mississippi back home, but when you’re told on a daily basis (albeit, mostly by 12 year olds) how handsome you are, damn it, you start to believe the hype. You might also be ready to head to Hollywood upon your return to the States as I often get compared to the likes of Kevin Costner, Owen Wilson and Nick Cage. Even my robust English friend Mark who, to put it nicely, is rather big-boned gets compared to a “round Bruce Willis”. Now, I realize that these movie stars are probably their only frame of reference, but it’s still nice to hear every once in a while. My only question is whether they think I look like a cool Bull Durham Kevin Costner or a lame Water World Kevin Costner.

On the downside, through language difficulties and different cultural norms, Koreans are also very quick to point out any flaws you might have. Just as often as I am told I am handsome and look like a movie star, I also get told that I have a wrinkly forehead, gray hairs and a big nose. At 32, my age has been guessed at anywhere from 22 to 65. It can literally be a roller coaster of emotions from minute-to-minute over here.

The "round Bruce Willis" conducting late night international relations. You can't always trust a mystery liquor poured from a Budweiser bottle, then filtered through a hot chili at crotch level of a Korean man. This stuff tasted like spicy lighter fluid, but our new friend was quite insistent on showing us good hospitality.

Cut the small talk! – Though it is a strange thing to get used to, I know that anytime I’m out and about, I don’t have to make meaningless small talk with strangers. So for those times when you’re riding in a taxi and wish the driver would shut up and let you zone out, Korea is bliss. They don’t understand you and you don’t understand them. This is kind of a double-edged sword though as there are many times you wish to the Heavens that you could get your message across or understand what is being said to you, but you oddly get used to the fact that you’re a mime walking through a crowd.

I’m freaking awesome, I can read Korean – But I have no idea what any of it means. It’s like a Shakespeare class I took in college. I could read the entire five acts of A Mid Summer Night’s Dream, but until I got to class and the teacher explained the whole thing, I had no idea what that rascal Puck was on about.

You’re Above the Law – Now, I’m sure this theory has its limits, but as far as I can tell, foreigners can more or less get away with a lot of crap as long as they’re not a danger to anybody around them. It seems that more often than not, the language barrier is often too much of a hassle to overcome. I’ve been to several parties where the police have been called and the cops had no idea what to do or say. I’m sure we didn’t win any friends with the neighbors, but the police more-or-less urged us to be quiet and left us alone for no other reason than they couldn’t tell us to shut up and go home.

Just before the cops showed up and said "Oh!. . . "

I should clarify, that I go out of my way to never purposefully offend my hosts in this country, but it is comforting to know that if I ever do cross an unintentional line, my best defense is ‘gee, I just didn’t understand’.
I don’t mean to make light of this, but it reminds me of the end of the movie Kingpin where Bill Murray’s character (Ernie McCracken) wins the bowling championship and a million dollars. . . “Finally Big Ern is above the law! I can buy my way out of anything!” Yep, being a foreigner in Korea is a lot like being Big Ern. You know you’re making an ass of yourself most of the time, but you are who you are, and you just hope you don’t get “Munson’ed” too much like this guy. . .

Being a Wayguk (foreigner) is Way Fun remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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No, E's brazen disregard for his people's welfare is much more diabolical than any of those "hypothetical" mishaps. It seems Easy E is content to bring the downfall of modern South Korea by letting American (miguk) cow meat into the country. These are not just American cows, they're Mad Cows!

Now when I was told this, I had to check my Korean phrasebook to see if "mad" might translate into something like "tasty", but I haven't been able to find a phonetic translation for ma-ad.

According to my students, American beef is all tainted by mad cow disease. How is this not driving all of the Americans mad you might ask? Well, duh? Americans don't eat American beef. They only eat beef imported from Australia and then ship all of their crazy cows to other countries. It makes sense if you think about it. I mean if all of your countries' cows were crazy, you'd certainly want to make them somebody else's problem and pay top dollar to eat another countries sane cows.

This blog is quite tongue-in-cheek, but this is apparently a very serious issue over here. And as I said, I'm sure there is a much more legitmate news story here than what I glean from the mouths of 12 year olds. But since I can't read the newspapers, I can only write about what I live from day-to-day and what I read graffitied on the desks at school.

If I were to write a list of things I don't like about Korea and Koreans, I'm sure I couldn't come up with much more than it pisses me off that they park their cars on the sidewalks. So my brief attempt at humor here is in no way a reflection of my opinion of Koreans. My blog is merely a reflection of what I come across from day-to-day and this on-going conversation struck me as worth noting.

And since I just ate a dinner tonight that was comprised of the "unmentionable" parts of cows, it could just be that I've gone a bit mad myself.

The Mad Cows are Coming! remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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For quite some time now, I’ve been meaning to put the old blog back together and let you know all about everything I’ve been up to over the past several months. I’ve envisioned an elaborate, well-told narrative with witty anecdotes and a seamless story-line. But the fact of the matter is that that seems like a lot of work, which doesn’t exactly jive with my current year-long paid vacation schedule. Thus, the blank canvas I’ve been staring at for the past several weeks.

On a Skype call this morning with my blogging spiritual advisor, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright of the Vail blogging community if you will, Tommy Boyd reminded me that people just want to know what my life is like over here. He reminded me that my now mundane life over here might still be of interest to some of you back home whose routine is still very far away from that of life in Daegu, South Korea.

So for the next couple of months, as I wind down my year in Korea, I’m going to put together a string of short snippets on my life here in Korea. Topics will include my experiences with the food and drink, my evolving take on Korean women, my participation in a foreigner softball league and the delights of teaching a bunch of Korean children who are not shy about telling me that I have a big nose, a wrinkly forehead, hairy arms and that I am either incredibly handsome or just a freakish-looking human being; depending on their point of view and their opinion of my class. I’ll also be open to your suggestions on any topics you might be mildly curious about concerning my life living abroad.

But for tonight, I’m just going to keep it incredibly simple and let some video do the talking for me.

This video shows my morning ritual of making coffee. Although Korea seems to be way ahead of us back in the States in terms of technology, for whatever reason, home coffee production has lagged behind the Samsung technology boom. I'm sure that somewhere they sell automatic coffee grinders and mechanical drip coffee machines, but for whatever reason I'm stuck making coffee John Dunbar-style over here.

Please ignore my Ed Grimley morning hairdo. . .

This second video does a lot more justice to the experience of being a foreign English teacher in Korea than I can muster with my own rapping skills. If you squint though, you can imagine that I'm the dude in the Ed McCaffrey jersey.

Though this video is loaded with inside jokes that come only with living in Korea as a foreigner, a few translations might help:

Komsamnida - thank you
Anyong Haseyo - hello

These are two of the four phrases I've actually learned to say over here.

Putting the Old Blog Back Together remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I think it boils down to two simple things that I seem to have an equal combination of: faith and hope. Wait, wasn't that the title of a really bad sitcom? Well, before any of the guys out there jam a screwdriver into their hard drive to make this all go away, I ask that you to hear me out.

Faith: I've never been big on preachy religious mumbo jumbo and I'm not going to use my blog as a vehicle to make people keen on Jesus, Allah, Buddha or the benefits of a being a snake handler.

I simply have faith as a traveller that the world is a far better place than most of us give it credit for. Though nervous thoughts have inevitably crept into my head preceding each journey, I've always returned home thinking how silly those thoughts had been.

Have bad things happened to me while travelling? Absolutely. Is it entirely possible that I might not make it back from the trip I am about to embark on? Sure. But as I write this, I am several hours removed from learning of the death of a 27-year old woman in my hometown. She was driving home from work. I have no idea how to make sense of this.

So what I try to do is understand that life is something to be lived every day until it is over. I've always felt that it is my greatest obligation to myself to not be let down when the chips are cashed in. In this regard, there is a quote by a man named Mark Twight that has been haunting me for some time.

"Eventually, I sickened of people, myself included, who didn't think enough of themselves to make something of themselves - people who did only what they had to and never what they could have done. I learned from them the infected loneliness that comes at the end of every misspent day. I knew I could do better."

I think this quote sums up why I travel, but it also leaves me with some level of confusion. I've never considered making something of myself to be tied into saving money or accumlating possessions. In my mind, my overflowing bank account will come in the form of a culmination of life experiences and the satification of a life well lived. But I also wonder whether Mark Twight, or I, truly know what it means to make something of ourselves. Success and happiness are relative terms and their respective paths are not always the same.

If I lead a full life, but have pleased nobody but myself, have I really made something of myself?

And this, to me, is where hope comes in.

In regard to hope, I like to think back to something a man said who climbed through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side.

"Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies." - Andy Dufresne, The Shawshank Redemption.

Personally, I hope that the decisions I make and the endeavors I pursue will lead me down a path that would have otherwise been unattainable should I had stayed at home doing what was comfortable. I hope that the sacrifices I will make in the pursuit of doing something worthwhile prove to be worth the risk. I have hope that by making bold choices in life, the rewards will far exceed those of the safe choices. I hope that I never completely know what I am doing.

I hope that the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. . . (sorry couldn't resist)

Confession of a Wayward Traveller remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Menacing thoughts began to creep into my mind.

Sure I’ve traveled, but have I really traveled enough to cut it here?

To be honest, I had made no real plans for Yangon other than to set my bearings, figure out a tentative route for my three weeks in Myanmar and to get on my way as soon as possible. I figured I should also pay a visit to the Shwedagon Pagoda, because it seemed like a good start, and well, because it was there. What can I say? I’m a poor man’s George Mallory.

And so I set off on foot for what I was told would be an easy 20-minute walk to the 100 meter golden pagoda that dominates the Yangon skyline. Legend holds that the Shwedagon Pagoda was built 2,865 years ago by King Okkalapa to enshrine eight hairs of the Buddha. When the “20-minute walk” turned out to be closer to an hour, it seemed like a small price to pay for a kid from Colorado to see a sight that people from rural Myanmar may wait their entire lives to see in person.

Unlike Mallory, I did not need to climb an 8,850 meter mountain to reach my destination, though I did have to step over a decomposing dog carcass on the shambled sidewalk, endure oppressive heat and humidity (kryptonite to the Colorado-borne) and find my way using street signs bearing words that looked more like a game of hangman than indications of where I was standing.

By the time I arrived, I knew I needed sustenance. A cursory look around yielded no “get-out-of-jail-free cards”, otherwise known as western-resembling food establishments. There was, however, a small street-side restaurant located adjacent to the towering golden spire I had endeavored to find. A trip to the bathroom in the back revealed people cooking over a woodstove surrounded by sanitary conditions that were best ignored.

Thinking that a tall Myanmar Beer would wash away these concerns, and possibly any unwanted parasites, I ordered one and sat down to a surprisingly tasty meal of chicken and fried noodles.

Maybe it was the beer, or more likely the fact that my young waiter would frequently return with friendly, innocuous questions about where I was from and what I thought about his country, but I was beginning to feel much more at ease with Yangon. With a full stomach and a renewed confidence, I left with a “chezu ba” (thank you) and headed over to the Shwedagon Pagoda.

Upon entry, I was asked if I had any long pants that would cover my knees. Embarrassed at my negligence, I admitted that I did not. It then occurred to me that I did have a traditional longyi in my backpack that had been given to me by a travel agent the day before. A longyi is an ankle-length piece of fabric worn by men throughout Myanmar that in the West would better be described as a “man skirt”. Wearing this, I was told, would be much appreciated and one of the young men gave me my first lesson on fastening this along my waistline.

Entering the massive temple complex was as mesmerizing as it was daunting. The literature I was handed informed me that the site “remains a symbol to the Myanmar people and is the essence of Myanmar, indestructible, indisputable and unforgettable”. This in mind, I set about on a mere wander, feeling somewhat guilty that I might not be able to soak in its true significance to the Buddhist religion and to the people who hold it such high regard. It was a quite a sight to see and for the moment I was happy just for that.

Within moments, I was rather confidently joined by a young novice monk in burgundy robes. He held under his arm an old copy of the Myanmar Lonely Planet. Oddly, there was no formal introduction or discussion of what his intentions were. He merely walked alongside me, speaking as if we had known each other all our lives and were simply running into each other again at the Shwedagon Pagoda. The cynic in me thought, okay, let the scam begin.

As I walked along snapping photos, trying not to commit myself too much to this conversation, he would casually describe what we were looking at. Then, the ominous clouds that had been building let loose a heavy and steamy rain, turning the marble floor into an accident-waiting-to-happen under my unaccustomed, bare feet.

He grabbed me gently by the hand and led me to cover. Sitting under the slanted roof of one of the surrounding temple buildings, with the scent of joss sticks wafting through the air, he introduced himself as Wa Ra La Ba. The book he held was given to him by another traveler he had met and he was using it to practice English. Learning English, he informed me, was of the utmost importance in his life and the reason he would like to continue speaking and walking with me (if I didn’t mind). With an abundance of Buddhist temple ignorance, yet a pretty good grasp of the English language on my side, I figured this seemed like a win-win situation.

Thus, when the rain subsided, we continued our walk and Wa Ra La Ba continued to be a pleasant and knowledgeable companion.

Having nearly rounded the entire circumference of the temple complex he asked me if I would like to visit his monastery, as his fellow novice monks would really like to practice English too. He assured me it was only a 20-minute taxi ride; a time estimate I had earlier learned could possibly lead to an hour.

Having traveled in parts of the world where cynicism is a travelers’ virtue, the inner monologue kicked in: Oh boy. Getting into taxis with strangers; no idea where you’re going; nobody knows where you are. Geez, you really hadn’t planned on that interesting of a day. But hey, the holes in the sidewalk didn’t kill you; the traffic didn’t kill you; and the noodles didn’t kill you. Could a 15-year old in saffron robes really be what does you in?

Before I could ponder the possible repercussions and reminisce on the protective advice my parents had sent me off with, we had negotiated the local fare and were in a taxi bound for Thaketa Township on the outskirts of the city.

Upon arrival, we began walking through a neighborhood that was among the poorest I had ever made a conscious decision to visit.

I should clarify that upon agreeing to visit his monastery, I had the predisposed western notion that all monasteries were regal, solemn and adorned with golden statues. Wa Ra La Ba’s turned out to be a tin-roofed shack, located in a village that could best be described as a “shanty town”. I was pretty sure I was the only westerner within miles and I was still wearing a longyi. People were staring and I was increasingly becoming aware that we were being followed.

But then it occurred to me that the stares were not menacing. Far from it; they were simply stares of curiosity. And those people following us, well, they were giggling school children.

Entering the monastery, we were greeted by 6-8 young men lying on mats in neatly organized sections on the floor. Clearly an unexpected arrival, the young men excitedly rose and greeted me. I have not experienced many brushes with fame in my life and my sudden celebrity took me by surprise.

I was then seated on a mat in the corner and surrounded by an increasing number of young novice monks. Each took turns exuberantly asking questions they had clearly memorized from text books:

What is your name? Where are you from? Are you married? How old are you?

Unfortunately, my answers did not seem to bring much comprehension and my best attempt at simple grammar ultimately left much confusion. Still, they seemed thrilled just to listen.

As the conversation stalled, I remembered several pictures of my snowy homeland that I had brought in my backpack. Upon passing these around, the amazed glares interpreted that these could have been of the moon landscape, impressed as they were. I handed them out as gifts and several of them posted them above their sleeping mats with photos of their family members.

I was then asked if I would like to grab some tea (a Myanmar staple) at a teashop down the road with several of my new friends. Thinking ‘why stop with the interesting experiences now’, I agreed, and we walked to the village center once again under the watchful eyes of curious locals.

Sitting on tiny foot stools common place in Myanmar teashops, we discussed the prices of things in America. It became clear to me that a $3 cup of coffee seemed as outlandish and unattainable to them as a $50 cheeseburger would seem to me. The entire time, they expressed their immense gratitude at my presence, not realizing that they were giving me a much bigger gift than I could hope to give them with my simple English language conversation.

Aside from the priceless slideshow of images that I was committing to memory, they were giving me the gift of understanding. Having started my day with fear and aloofness, I now understood that the Myanmar people were a people to be embraced. They wanted to be released from poverty, but they didn’t want to take it from me. The only thing they were hoping to steal from me was my words, perhaps a friendship in the outside world and possibly a means to better their lives. Moreover, I knew that I had not made a mistake by coming here. My friends then insisted on paying for the tea even though my wallet probably held more money than they might see in a year.

After saying goodbye to the group, Wa Ra La Ba walked me down the road to meet a taxi. On the way, he insisted we stop at a roadside stall that served traditional Rakhaing food from the state of his birth. And of course, it was his treat. For a second I considered what this might do to my newly initiated stomach, but then decided that in the spirit of the day I should accept any invitation that presented itself.

After my second dish of incredibly spicy noodles (I later learned were called Ar Pu Shar Pu, or 'Burn Throat, Burn Tongue) that had been dished out by bare hands, I decided I was going to be just fine. My stomach, my personal safety and my state-of-mind; yes, it would all be just fine. It was at that point that I made a conscious decision to spend my time in Myanmar embracing new experiences and accepting any and all invitations made in earnest by these wonderful people.

I followed through on this decision over the following three weeks and was lead into some strange and memorable experiences. I did not regret it once.

Welcome to Myanmar remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Just Pictures - Myanmar remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Okay, I know that I still owe this blog the Part II to the jungle trekking story. But since that is going to be a lot of yaddee, yaddee yadda about how amazing the local people are and all of that (written mostly for my benefit), I figured I would first let you read about me climbing a big damn mountain.

Sitting at home, thumbing through my South East Asia travel books, Mount Kinabalu was actually what first piqued my interest in heading to Borneo. Afterall, it is the highest mountain in SE Asia, yet seemed a manageable feat for my not-quite mountaineer, yet no city slouch, legs and ability to handle. And so after working my way from Kuala Lumpur (mainland Malaysia) over to Sarawak state on Borneo, I now find myself in Sabah state in a city called Kota Kinabalu (KK), a few hours from the park headquarters of Mount Kinabalu.

As I was waiting for a minivan to depart KK at 7 a.m. in the morning, I sat restlessly as the van would only depart when all of the seats were filled. As it turned out, there was another obvious tourist sitting on the curb as well, a Swede named Rikard. After chattting a bit, we established that this Mount Kinabalu transit system was not exactly a well-oiled machine. And then the final passenger arrived, an American girl from Kansas. All traveling alone, and previously hoping to find some people to share the guide fees with, we unknowingly became a small trio for the ascent up Mount Kinabalu.

I've been accused of rambling on in my writing, so I think I'll just cut to the chase. We arrived at Park Headquarters sometime around 9 a.m. and after some fumbling around trying to store my heroic amount of excess baggage, we were on the trail by around 10:30 a.m. The end point for the day would be Laban Rata Guesthouse some 5 km up the mountain (if you're reading this and you've climbed the mountain, I admit it, I'm throwing out random distances as if they were fact, when I really didn't pay much attention.)

The first day was a bit of a slog, though not extraordinary other than the fact that the trail is composed almost entirely of stairs that are about 2-4 feet high. I'm sure there is a good reason for this, but the only one that came to my mind as I was climbing was that the people who built it were just cruel bastards.

Reaching Laban Rata was an impressive sight. For one, the landscape on the way up had been a relatively unrelenting jungle landscape that didn't change too much. Two, the place is just really cool in a how in the hell did they get all of this stuff up here way. I had seen pictures of this place before, and it was recently mentioned in Outside Magazine as one of the hardest to reach bars in the world. True they do serve beer, but I wouldn't really consider it a bar, in the sense that everybody up there has to get up at 2 am to climbing an incredibly steep rock mountain the next day. None-the-less, I passed on the 18 Ringgit room temperature beers, thinking that was outrageous. But looking back, a beer for under $5 dollars is a bargain considering somebody actually had to carry it all up there, and damn it, I probably should have rewarded them for the effort by drinking one. Ah well, next time.

Laban Rata Resthouse

The funny thing about climbing this big damn mountain is that they apparently want you up at the top for sunrise. Being that the girl from Kansas was having a little difficulty with the altitude, our "guide" got us moving at 2:30 a.m. Being that it was raining and that getting up the mountain involves climbing up ropes over slick mountain faces, Rikard decided to give the ascent a pass and go back to sleep.

So after going at the pace of Amanda and our guide early on, we then got passed for the lead by a lone climber. I've never really thought of myself as all that competitive, but I'd had it with the Kansas pace and headed up on the mountain on my own, following a single headlamp that had become my nemesis. And then the light went away. Had the guy fallen off the mountain? Was he waiting behind a rock to jump me? What is going on!

Well, low and behold, when I arrived at the top there was this guy sitting in the dark; headlamp dead. He was a French guy and our reward for making it to the top a good hour before anyone else was to sit there and freeze, and I mean absolutely freeze, from 4:30 a.m. until sunrise at 6 a.m. In my own sick way, I was trying to convince myself of how nice it was to be cold in SE Asia, but in truth, it was just pretty miserable.

And then the sun came up and it was absolutely mesmorizingly beautiful. You'd never know by my pictures as I kept getting the keep the hand steady sign, which was pretty much impossible for me at that point. How funny, I was thinking, it would have been to come from Borneo with frostbite on my hands.

On the way down, I was telling my tale of freezing in the dark to a fellow descending hiker. We hadn't been talking long so I hadn't picked up on his accent before he asked, were the two of you hugging to stay warm? To which I replied dryly, well, French-American relations aren't quite that warm are they? And where was that guy from? France of course. D'oh!

Mount Kinabalu - The 4,000 Meter Stairmaster remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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For some reason, I cannot get the photo insert feature to work here, but if you click on john7buck under author to the right, I think you can get directed to my photo gallery, of which I have downloaded several images.

Part One

Wow, where to begin? I truly feel like I've just experienced something truly special, like I was given a pass to witness a life that was not my own (I'm pretty sure I just lost half of my readers). Sure, lots of travelers catch glimpses of foreign cultures and experiences; that's kind of the point I think.

But for nearly the first time in all of my travels, barring the year I lived in Micronesia, I feel as though my experience here in Bario was more than just a "tour". It will take me a bit here to explain what I mean, but to set it up, even when I did a family homestay on Isla de Amantani (ha, lucky I'm using the same journal as my SA trip) on Lake Titicaca in Peru, it was all an elaborate set up to show Mr. and Mrs. Gringo this quaint "native life". Essentially, a boat load of tourists would stop off and spend the night with a local family. Around every corner they would try to sell you something and the people seemed bored and relatively put out by having to put on this song and dance for the tourists, day-in day-out. Now don't get me wrong, that was an amazing experience and one I cherish to this day. But to my point, I was a definite tourist among many others and I was clearly on a "tour". Not a bad thing.

For your sake, just edited out some more useless jibberish.

Without yammering on endlessly, oh wait, I just did; let me get to my experience here in Bario; or more expansively, the Kelabit Highlands of Sarawak, Borneo.

When I first arrived at the tiny Bario Airstrip, I was greeted by Nancy of the Nancy Harriss Homestay; as well as a woman from Reddish's Barview Lodge. Joanne in Miri had recommended Nancy, but as I was leaving the hostel, another guy in the stairway told me to ignore her and stay at Reddish's place instead. Lonley Planet was apparently in agreement, as Barview Lodge was the only place they spent any time reviewing. Regardless, when I arrived, Nancy seemed to be the more friendly of the two, so I agreed to go with her on blind judgement. It was the best decision I have made in a while.

Nancy then introduced me to her husband Harriss, who then drove me to their home. After settling in, Harriss put me on the back of their motorbike and toured me around the small town of Bario and the surroundings. As we were cruising around, we passed an Italian couple who were on my plane. They were just wandering around on their own and Harriss informed me that Reddish is rarely in Bario and his wife does not speak very good English. He then told me that for the next three days, Bario was hosting a "Spiritual Revival" and that none if the local guides would be available until it was finished. So those that were in town would either have to wait for the church marathon to end, or just fend for themselves on the limited trails near town that do not require a guide. Lucky for me, Nancy informed me that Harriss was too honest to put up with all of the church politics (and I later learned there were many), so he would serve as my guide during the week. Truth-be-told, after spending the week with him, I think he holds a blended belief of Christianity with the traditional beliefs of nature worship. Whatever the case, and whatever the God, someone was smiling on me in the events that lead to getting Harriss as my personal guide for the week. And I use the term guide rather loosely, as really what transpired was that I payed him a small fee to hang out with him and his buddies for the week. This was a very good thing in my eyes.

So on my first full day in Bario, because my arrival was unexpected and because Harriss had already promised his friend Robert that he'd go wild boar hunting, Harriss asked if I would like to join them; no charge. And here I should probably explain the pricing breakdown. I would pay 55 Ringgit for my food/accomodation on days that did not require a guide and RM 85 for those that did. On nights where I was sleeping in the jungle, it was still just RM 85, even though all of my stuff was still in my room in the house. Thus, for the entire eight days, I paid RM 660, roughly US$170 for food, accomodation and guide services. Not a bad deal if you ask me.

As far as I'm concerned, when I'm traveling, I live by one simple rule: if you have the chance to do something that you most probably will never have the chance to do again in your life, you f#@#ing do it! And so when Harriss asked if I wanted to go wild boar hunting; I thought hmmm. . .wild boar hunting in the Kelabit Highlands of Borneo; absolutely yes, please take me!

But I'll let you in on a little secret. Wild boar hunting in the jungles of Borneo kind of sucks. Well, let me re-phrase that; wild boar hunting in the jungles of Borneo is incredibly arduous. But then, I would later come to realize that doing anything in the jungles of Borneo is incredibly arduous.

The day started out at a nice enough pace with picturesque strolling surrounded by rice paddy fields, but soon the jungle began tightening up and we were soon walking in a butter-soft mud drainage. I should add that because this was Harriss' day off, I had decided to be a ghostly observer as he and Robert did their thing and chatted in a Kelabit dialect that was just pleasing to listen to listen to. But soon the romance of the rolling fields and foreign conversations wore off and we were deep in the jungle fighting off innumerable obstacles and small creatures. It was at this point that I was introduced to my first leech. When I found one clinging to my boot, I thought "how tribal, I'm being leeched" and took several pictures not realizing that in the week ahead these bastards would show up for three digit photo appearances should I continue to find them amusing.

As we made our way through the jungle, I thought, "how nice, Harriss and Robert aren't taking it easy on me." In truth, they probably were a bit, but they thankfully did not have a nice "tour" in mind either. Though there are quite a few local trails (I use this term loosely too, I'd say they are more aptly, just the way) apparently wild boar are not big on getting their hike on. So with Harriss and Robert chopping away with machetes, we worked our way deeper into the jungle, all the while waiting for a group of dogs to catch the scent of the wild boar. Fortunately, Harriss and Robert are big fans of the nicotine and would take numerous smoke breaks where I could wipe some sweat away and gather my senses.

When the dogs finally caught the scent of the wild boar, all hell broke loose and it was a seeming mad dash though the jungle. This was clearly no tour as I stumbled my way after Harriss and Robert with vines bearing spikes custom-made to grab and tear at Salomon base layers with fancy ski area logos embroidered on them.

The dogs wailed in the distance and Harriss assured me they were barking in a new way that meant they had it cornered. This went on for hours though air thick and heavy and dripping with wet jungle heat.

Scoffing at the dogs' abilities, we finally settled in for lunch. It was at this point that I noticed Robert had taken off his shoes and he was bleeding profusely. Naive Westerner that I am, I offered up Band-Aids, Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide, thinking that his all rubber low-tops had torn the crap out of his feet. Harriss then, non-chalantly told me not to worry, it's just leeches. Well then, that doesn't sound much better but if it's not going to bother Robert, it wouldn't bother me. Later in the week as jungle travails would nag at me, I'd tell myself, "this wouldn't bother Robert, deal with it yankee!" There were many of these moments.

And it was as we were wrapping up lunch that I noticed some large blood stains emerging in the legs of my pants. Um Harriss, is this from leeches? Yes John, if you do not find and pull the leeches off before they have had their fill, they let go on their own leaving a non-colagulent on the wound. This caused me some distress at first and it ruined a pair of pants and a couple pairs of socks, but after a while you actually come to terms with them as a fairly harmeless jungle nuisance; compared to say our wood tick that will keep sucking until it explodes.

After lunch, there was another frantic pursuit of wild dog noises and more clumbsy jungle running on my part. In the end, there would be no wild boar to be had, but hey, this was hunting. You win some, you loose some. The minor victory I had to take away was that the lack of wild boar did not seem to be openly attributed to my presence, but more to the cursed lousy dogs!

On the way home, as the jungle once again opened up into rolling paddock with water buffalo grazing nearby, we laid down on the grass for a well deserved rest. Harriss and Robert chatted away in their Kelabit dialect as Harriss whittled a toy top for his son out of a tree he had chopped down with his machete. And the tired white kid in the base layer fleece and the bloody pants took a nap, all along enjoying a glimpse into a world that was not his own.

Yes, I am a Wild Boar Hunter remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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And thus, there I was, standing roadside wondering to myself if the woman had mis-understood me. Perhaps she had thought I had asked, where is the best place to stand awkwardly in the rain for an hour and half? If that were in fact the case, then I had surely found the perfect spot.

You might be asking yourself, given my hefty dose of sarcasm here, why in the world would this fella be enjoying this particular moment of clear confusion and helplessness? Well, I might be asking myself the same thing. But, given a world of alternatives - sitting in a meeting, waking up early for work, driving in traffic, paying my taxes - standing in the rain with no need to be anywhere of consequence any time soon, or really any time at all for that matter, really seemed like a nice way to spend an afternoon.

There is a writer named J. Maarten Troost, who has written two books about his time living in the South Pacific. In his latest book, he recounts moving back to Washington D.C and taking on a banking job before chucking it all and moving back to the South Pacific. In assessing his life, he looks back on a day living in Kiribati where he spent an entire day attempting to move a dead pig from his yard. Not a pleasant activity, but as he mentions, that was a great day, because at least something interesting had happened.

That, is why I love travel. Something interesting just always seem to happen. No matter how mundane.

Okay then, now that I've gotten that out of me, I'm off to catch a plane to the Kelabit Highlands of Borneo. Will probably be out of touch for a bit, but the modern world has surprised me before, so you never know.

Dude Standing on the Roadside remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Kidding aside, having arrived in Kuala Lumpur and having been greeted at the train station by a guy I previously only knew as user name Hien, I instantly knew this Internet invention was a good thing.

"The wire is on fire!" zzzzzzppp. Power off. This is what just went down here at my hostel on Borneo. I'll be damned, she was right. The wire from the washing machine, was in fact, on fire. And she did in fact cut the power.

Man, I love this stuff.

Anyway, back to good old Hien the Internet buddy. To quote Billy Madison, "man, am I glad I called that guy. After a marathon of travel that took me from Denver to LA, to Taipei and finally to Kuala Lumpur; I arrived at one of the cleanest, most user friendly airports I've ever had the pleasure of passing through. Beat the hell out of LAX, I can tell you that. That said, I had no idea what to do with myself in KL.

Lucky for me, Hien and his cousin Jennifer met me at KL Sentral, which is where a super fast train whizzes you to from the airport.

Since I fear another "wire is fire" moment here, I'm not going to get into too much detail, but suffice it to say, my two days in KL were activity filled from the moment I arrived, to the moment I almost missed my plane to Borneo because Hien was doing his best to track down a Durrian for me to try before I left. Oh yeah, a durrian is apparently a fruit, the smell of which most Westerners seemingly compare to old socks, but Hien assured me the SE Asians love it. But I digress.

Although, we did way too much sightseeing to adequately describe it here, what I think I found the most intersesting in my first two days in Malaysia was learning about the three primary ethnic groups who live in KL. And we saw them all, as well as where they worship. Malaysia, though not a Muslim State, is a deeply Muslim country and the influence is everywhere. I'm also here during Ramadan, which has been quite interesting to watch as they "break fast" when the sun sets each day.

The second main group living in KL are the Indians. Each morning, Hien would arrive at my hostel and we would eat breakfast at the Indian restaurant down below. Apparently, corn flakes and coffee are not a big hit in India, so each morning I ate some interesting variety of a pancake with curry sauce. Quite good, actually.

And the third main group living in KL, are the Chinese. Hien was kind enough to take me to several Chinese Buddhist temples and I think these experiences were among the highlights for me.

Since I'm realizing that even I wouldn't be reading down this far, I'm going to leave it at that. But a big thank you goes out from me to Hien and Jennifer. You made my stay in KL exceptional and extremely memorable.

"Internet Buddies" remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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What I'd really like to write about here is something much more tangible and concrete; cosmic signs and celestial allignment. That's right, are the moon and stars trying to tell me something? I'm not so sure about that. I personally like to think of the moon as that really cool guy with sunglasses singing about Big Macs and Fries. Now there's a sign. The moon is telling me to buy Big Macs. Easy enough for me to understand.

But let's take a look at a few of the recent signs this jokester moon has been throwing me over the past several weeks as I prepare for my trip to SE Asia.

1st sign: A small golden retriever I was dog-sitting knocks an old woman off of her bicyle; or more perhaps more accurately frightens her with his playful golden retriever antics. Whatever the case, the woman falls down and breaks her hip and elbow. In America, we have this pesky little thing called a lawsuit which looms over me. Sign? Add in the fact that the dogs' owner is from Taiwan, and woooohooooonannoonanoo. Definite sign: Asia is trouble.

2nd Sign: On a recent raft trip in Utah, I'm running around barefoot and I cut open the bottom of my foot on a rock, probably requiring stitches. Not one to end a good raft trip, I rub a little sand in there and call it good. Sign? Well, walking is generally a pretty helpful thing while travelling.

3rd Sign: Hobbling around on my ankle from the injured foot, my back is thrown out of whack to the point where I needed to be essentially carried to my car to get to the chiropractor. Sign? Again, being able to stand upright often comes in handy while backpacking around Asia.

4th Sign: While attending a UN Conference in New York, the Prime Minister of Thailand receives word that, well his services are no longer needed back home. That and the Thai military has tanks surrounding his old haunts to ensure that he doesn't just go ahead and try to govern anyway. With a 4 day stop-over in Bangkok and it being the city of my departure home, could this be another sign? Images of tanks in the streets aren't exactly "money shots" for Chamber of Commerce ad execs.

So of course all of these signs are out there telling me perhaps my timing is bad, and oh yeah, I should probably buy a Big Mac. But here's the deal - where are the signs that tell me YOU CANNOT GO. Having read a lifetime of Taurus horoscopes telling me things like "be skeptical of people in red hats today", I've never really put a whole lot of stock in what the stars are telling me. Not that I don't believe in them entirely, but a little more information would be helpful astro-counselors!

So I look at these signs like this. The dog woman has turned out to be incredibly reasonable; only looking for reimbursement of out-of-pocket expenses; my foot has healed up just in time and my back feels just fine now. If there are a few tanks in the streets of Bangkok when I get there, well imagine the photo-ops. So unless I get a sign in the next week that tells me, buddy, do not get out of bed today, I'm going with the theory that the Moon Man is just trying to tell me to be careful. If you're going to be jumping around on rock outcroppings, wear a pair of Nike's dummy. If you don't want trouble in Bangkok, definitely do not offer to keep an eye on someone's dog over there and then let it go urinate on a tank.

So for all of you worried about me out there, you have my word that I have seen the writing on the wall and will take all precautions necessary to arrive home safely! But I'm not going to buy a Big Mac whatever that smooth-talking Moon Man says; they're just kind of gross.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere the Signs remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So Mental Malaria. It's got a nice ring to it doesn't it? It kind of came to me after trying to explain to my parents (and some friends) why exactly I had chosen to zero in on places like the Kelabit Highlands in Borneo and then onto the relatively mysterious Myanmar. In truth, I'm easily distracted and lost focus in my travel books reading up on the usual places in SE Asia - could a first symptom of Mental Malaria be short attention span?.

Anyway, the title beats the runner-ups: Typhoid Tales, Dengue Days; and my personal favorite (though perhaps less phonetic) Explosive Diarrhea of the Mind. In hindsight, had I chosen Explosive Diarrhea of the Mind, it just would have added too much pressure; pun intended. I mean if you're going to put yourself out there as someone who has explosive diarrhea of the mind, wouldn't you either have to come off as slightly deranged or potentially psychotic? Well, thinking I may just fall somewhere in between, I'm settling on Mental Malaria - I hope you like it. And this way, if I do happen to say something mildly inflamatory or in bad taste, you out there are free to wonder 'My God, maybe the poor guy does have mental malaria; perhaps we should send money to get this guy straightened out with the right meds'.

In all seriousness, here I am in Vail, Colorado USA preparing for six weeks in Southeast Asia; more specifically Kuala Lumpur, Malaysian Borneo, Bangkok as a mid-and post-trip foray, and then into Myanmar (otherwise known as Burma for Seinfeld fans). I'll be gone from Sept. 30 - Nov. 12, 2006; and in case you're wondering, I've got a pocket full of Malorone. Here I come!

What is Mental Malaria? remains copyright of the author john7buck, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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