I am now in the belly of the beast (in reference to last post), Samara.  This place is full of highs and lows.  On a high note, I’ve been staying with Melissa and her boyfriend, at her Boyfriend’s parents house.  Hilda, Coco’s (Melissa’s boyfriend) Mom, is as good a cook as she is animated and warm.  Though she speaks fast, she enunciates very well.  She also ads a sharp “SHHH” to the end of many of her sentences in an unexplained local accent.

Coco, is full of local knowledge on everything from where to surf, to the correct way to eat a mango.  One of the most enjoyable experiences I had while here was going to a mango farm (right by his house) and gorging myself on 6 mangos at once.  The correct way to eat one, for your information, is to squeeze it all around.  Begin to bruise the fruit as much as you can, and then bite the tip opposite to the stem.  Bite a piece out of the skin the size of a quarter and suck the juices out.  Jostle the seed around inside of the leathery skin to mash the fruit into a juice further.  After, eat the remaining skin and you can avoid getting tons of bits of pulp stuck in your teeth.

At the mango farm there were plenty of  blue and red crabs to keep us company.  Perhaps the best part of the property was the viewing point of two bays, beaches, and the great pacific at sunset.  The air was crisp at this point; a pleasure that one doesn’t often get in this part of the world.

My Birthday was on April 16th and it was a great one.  We started out the day with an ride on Melissa’s ATV down to a local secret surf spot.  This huge beach had no one around.  The black sands were scorching even at the temperate hour of 7 am.  The surf was about 8 feet with no more than 7 people in the water.  This was as crowded as it got.  Usually Melissa and Coco surf this spot alone.

I pulled into a solid 6 foot barrel on Melissa’s $30 bodyboard that she bought at Costco in  the states and brought down here.  This board was twice as light as anything I had ever ridden.  It was as flimsy as a potato chip as well.  I knew I had to adjust my riding so as to not snap it in half.  But as far as shape, this board was not all that bad.  There were things that I could do on this board that I could not on my $300 board at home.  If this thing had a stringer for rigidity, it would not be a bad board at all.

As I popped out of the barrel after disappearing for 2 or 3 gleeful seconds, I though “Happy Birthday me “  Melissa had a pair of fins that fit me perfectly as well.  They were actually my prefered brand at home.  The other surfers in the line up consisted of old men (My favorite) and young rippers.  The old men don’t look at bodyboarders any differently than surfers.  They are from an age were surfing was exactly what everyone now romanticises it to be.  They would now be labeled as soul surfers, but I like to believe that the more correct term would be TRUE surfers.  They are the guys who believe in sharing the joy of surfing with everyone.  They are far from the guys who paddle out and attempt to catch 390 waves in an hour at the expense of everyone else.  They are not the ones who take one look as someone and find it their job to “determine” weather or not you are “Worthy” of catching “their” waves.

At precisely 9am, as this spot is known for, the wind began to change.  At 9:20am, the wind had completely changed directions, rendering the spot completely worthless until the next morning.  We packed up our stuff and road back into town to have breakfast and begin a record of 8 juices in one day.  During the course of a single day, I had 2 watermelon juices, 3 papaya, 1 pine apple, and 2 mango juices.  This would be my finest hour and I took the opportunity to dance my face off at the local Reygey bar.  The dance floor was flooded with American Girls and Costa Rican Men.

This brings me to the lows of this place.  In particular, Samara is an artificial universe.  Between the Massage school, ESL school, and numerous surf camps, this place is chalked full of young American girls who are away from home for the first time, and living the dream.  They come here for a little adventure and a lot of fun.  They locals swoop in with a game that would only work in this instance.  Vacation romance commences and one of a few things happen.  The girl tries to stay here at any cost, or the girl goes home.  When the girl tries to stay here, she ends up realizing that it is a lot of fun here when you don’t have to work, but when you make $2 per hour as a local waitress, you can’t make ends meet.  Many girls get abusive boyfriends and refuse to let it go because they view their world as only two options.  Make it at home, or make it in paradise.  For many American point to point travelers, Samara is the only choice for paradise.

It may be hard to follow my logic, but this is coming from people who live here.  Americans who are here begin to feel stuck.  But they often don’t have the courage to hop on over to another country.  They are faced with a false “either or” decision.  The vast majority of them end up back home within the year.

This leads to the next ugly part of Costa Rica.  The population of expats who had a not so quiet chip on their shoulder.  They think they are some sort of bad ass for being here.  As if they were ruffing it.  Their favorite phrase is “Well, it’s Costa Rica.  What do you expect.”  This uncultured common phrase is akin to the false “either or” decision.  They have been to the 53rd state, but they certainly haven’t seen the world.

You also find a bunch of Americans who love to complain about how “its just not the same down here.”  “You just can’t find the same stuff. And I NEED that stuff.”  If you NEED anything that can only be found in America, then you belong IN America.  Yes, America is the most consumer driven nation in the world.  Yes, you can find more choices of stuff you “NEED” in America than anywhere else in the world.  Yes, America is simply the most Convenient place on the planet.  But why do Americans chose to live here? “Because this is the only place I can support the lifestyle I desire.  I can’t afford to do it at home.”  Oh, please excuse me when I laugh at the 15% savings in cost of living, but if you were a bit less ignorant (not stupid, just uninformed), you would be enjoying an 80% savings in cost of living in a neighboring country by the name of Colombia.  But there you might not have have as many other expats to surround yourself with and complain about only having 6 choices of shampoo at the local super market.  People asked me where I was going after Samara, and when I replied with “Nicaragua” they had the most pleasing blank look on their face.  It started with a little shock, followed my confusion, followed by fear !

I feel a bit negative at the end of this post.  But that is from the Americans here, not the locals.

Coco’s family was nothing but awesome during my stay.

Some how, some way, Costa Rica has been a different world for me than Panama. It is just so much more relaxed here than a few miles away. Although, here in Costa Rica, there are by far more Americans than I have seen in my whole time abroad. I am staying at a hostel in San Jose at the moment that is literally 98% American (save Tom and Sarah from Wales and England).

It is the first time that I have been in a hostel full of late twenties-early thirties people who still don’t have a grasp of the international community. Someone asked Tom where he was headed next and he replied with Nicaragua. The American looked shocked. “Is your Visa up or something? Why would you go there?” This is the typical American way whilst abroad. Point to point. Why would you go on trying to see a bunch of other countries? That could be dangerous (danger is synonymous with unknown).

But why Costa Rica? Why do Americans flock here and not Panama? Why not Honduras? For this answer, I went to the two hostel owners (late 20s Americans). It was a couple from the mid west. The guy, in fact, was recently deported from this country after overstaying his visa by 9 months. He had 5 guys in suits pose to be immigration and then take him to jail. From jail they said you need to buy a ticket out of here and never come back. Three days after he got home, he was balls deep into the process of changing his name, getting a new social security card, and getting a new passport. 4 months later to the day, without skipping a single follow up with the various agencies, his name was changed, his passport was fresh, and he was on a plane directly back to where he was deported. Ya, Americans are obsessed with this place. Personally, if someone would have kicked me out of Costa Rica, I would have come back to one of its neighbors, which are 6 times cheaper.

But why Costa Rica? His girlfriend (the guy who got deported), weighed in. “One it’s government is understandable (a democracy) and peaceful (hasn’t had a single violent uprising in over 100 years).” Ok, I’m begining to see special value in this place, to live, but a little overkill for just a place to visit. That’s like saying I’d like to have a walk in the park, but only if there isn’t going to be lightening. “Two, It’s got the best weather in the world according National Geographic.” National Geographic is an American company (get where I’m going with this?) Apparently this girl has never been here in October (where it rains like Noah is coming to town). Think I’m exaggerating? Just try and WALK across the street. You can’t without jumping over the 3 and sometimes 4 foot deep gutters. “It’s got the happiest people in the world” It depends on whether or not they are including Denmark, or Colombia.

But how did it all start? She had some interesting information for me on the Genesis of Americas obsession with Costa Rica ( the 53^rd state) (Behind 51 Canada and 52 Puerto Rico). There was a little company called Intel who decided to set up shop here in San Jose. It chose this place because of the (you guessed it) predictable government and the 97% literacy rate (truly impressive). Ex pats love this place too because it doesn’t have property tax and it has very good health care (Two supreme headaches for people on fixed incomes.) Intel began to build up the infrastructure of Costa Rica and other multinational Giants finished the job (as soon as they learned it was a safe investment).

Speaking of safety, have you ever had a walk down the street in any major city in Costa Rica? Anything worth guarding has more barbed wire and heavy iron wrapped around it than the value of it’s contents. For a safe place (which I believe it genuinely is), it sure seams ready for the worst of home invaders. The difference is, in my logic, nearly every country I’ve seen is genuinely safe, but the rest of America seems to see most places as unsafe (unknown).

I can’t blame my people (I feel partially apologetic, partially back stabbing, and partially rant-tac-ulous). I think I am really just very interested in how this place is what it is. I have to really admire Costa Rica though as well. Even though 80% of their GDP (money that the economy consists of, for all my Aussie readers) consists of tourism, they still keep their culture strong. Panama, on the other hand, just seems like it is completely Americanized, as if they just laid down and took it.

But America has had a profound (and sad) affect on this truly beautiful place (if you can believe this next story). This is coming from locals who live on the west coast of Costa Rica, of which I have insight into because of a mutual friend from home who lives there now. For the 20 or so odd years that this place has been a vacation destination, there has been a social paradigm shift. American girls started coming here for surf school, massage school, and one week vacations. The Costa Rican men (Ticos) are particularly bold and romantic. For years they swept these women off their feet, fell in love, and were crushed when the week long vacation romance was over. “You didn’t think I would actually live here, did you?” Was the response that most of the Ticos received. But they just received it a few times before they grew wise to this injustice and converted their plans into the time frame that they were given. Soon, that pain that each and everyone of them had at a young age just grew into notches on their belt. This is why it is not unusual for a Tico to have slept with between 200-300 women by the time they are 30 years old. But wait wait wait ! That’s not the sad part. What happens to all of the TicAs (Costa Rican women) ? Over the past 20 years, as the tourist women move in and distract the TicOs, they become restless, as they are largely ignored. That’s why most Ticas on the west coast have turned to a life of prostitution (which is legal in Costa Rica). Guess who can afford the TicAs? American Men And so the cycle continues. Yuck

But how am I enjoying my stay whilst in Costa Rica? I am actually having a great time (prostitution free). The people on the Caribbean coast are very mellow, where as the men on the west coast tend to be arrogant. Hey, if my dick hadn’t fallen off after sleeping with 300 women, I’d feel pretty invincible as well. But I’m not 30 yet (there’s still time) Just Kidding !!! !!!

I went to Puerto Viejo and rode beach cruisers around for a few days, went to the middle of the country and saw an active volcano spew lava at night, and zipped down 9 zip lines in the canopy of a near bye rain forest. Topped all of that off with a 45 meter repel and horse back riding session.

To make things a bit quicker (although less enjoyable):

Lava races down volcanoes a LOT faster than I thought it would (probably half the speed of sound at times) (More in my book) (and about the jumping beetles who’s eyes light up green)

Zip lines are super cool (but as I suspected no where near as cool as bugy jumping). (Probably not going to bother in the book)

Costa Rican Horses are the most well trained horses I have ever encountered. I had to double check if mine was in fact a robot or not. It was so responsive and well mannered that I could have been Helen Keller out there and still been safe. These things were so well behaved that they didn’t even have a bit (the piece of metal that goes in the mouth of a horse to keep it’s spirit from returning.)

Tomorrow I am off to Samara, to visit my friend Melissa who I came to Costa Rica the first time with I was here. The difference is that she stayed here and has been living here for the last 3 years. Her Tico was lucky

Though posted later, this is a story about April Fools Day. For my unfortunate fate, it was not a joke at all. On the first of April, while everyone at home were enjoying corporate giants launch easy social media campaigns in the dressing of a April fools joke, I was making my way from Panama City to Bocas Del Toro. Google changed it’s name for the day, as I was humbled abroad. Just as I thought that there was nothing new to learn about traveling, just as my chip sat squarely on my shoulder, I happened upon this experience.

Let’s rewind a bit and talk about cultural significances. It feels like (on my end) that I haven’t covered much by way of how each countries people are unique recently. This all changed when I came across to Panama. The people where are a “pay now” bunch. For many of the services that money is usually casually collected at the end of (such as hostels and local bus rides), here in Panama, the fee is promptly collected upfront. For this reason the Panamanians are unique. They live in a polychromatic sense of time (we’ll get there when we get there), yet suggest payment in a monochromatic (right now! Exactly now!) format. In Latin World, this is the first I’ve seen of this nature.

Other than that interesting little observation, the next biggest thing is how American this place is. The brands that I have seen in small, remote shops are shocking: Betty Crocker pancaked and brownie mix, Squirt grapefruit flavored soda, and Nature Valley Granola bars. Oh and did I almost forget to mention the 15 types of cereals including: Cinnamon Toast Crunch (CTC), Lucky Charms (Charm Daddies), Coco Puffs (Crack Cocaine). I found myself walking down Isles and feeling like I had been tele-ported home.

The April Fools finish will be elaborated on in my book, sorry for the tease

I write this post from my hotel (that’s right, Hotel) room in Panama City. After enjoying a few hours at the Panama Canal, I am ready to move on to another, more exciting part of Panama. But what was perhaps much more exciting, was the 5 day trip getting here.

Aboard Fritz The Cat, the 50 foot Catamaran there were half Aussies (an increasingly common percentage in my travels), two Swedish brothers, One Japanese guy who has been traveling around the world by only land and boat for 14 months, a Swedish girl (of Iranian ethnicity), a Welsh guy and his English girlfriend. Much more interesting that the common bunch (and they will quickly agree) was Fritz, the 50 something, Austrian captain, who drove a car from cape town to Austria when he was 19 with a few friends.

When we boarded his vessel, he calmly remarked about how he “damaged the engine this morning” and how it currently doesn’t work. What he neglected to mention was how small the “damage” was. As it turned out, it was only a single screw that he had stripped. The mechanic in Cartegena was due to drop off a custom replacement any minute. What he didn’t mention as well, was that only one of his two engines were functional (and had been functional for the past year.)

Boarding the ship, he wasted no time with the sexual jokes about cabin assignments, to which one of the Aussies had a very laid back response “Have you chosen your partner for the trip” “Can I at least have a drink first?”

Lewis was a deck hand that did most of the work (including the cooking) on the ship. He as a Colombian who used to work in the circus. He handled white tigers by trade. Luis was ultra patent; he served as a perfect yin to Fritz the Yang. But there was something endearing about Fritz’s scream “Get out of the way!!!! That part of the ship is Dangerous!!! Get Out, GET OUT!!! ….. Thank youuuuu…. Very much” Was the normal cry that he announced while raising or lowering the sail.

To Fritz, English was just one of the 6 languages he knew well enough to get his point across, yet certainly never write poetry with. He would say something like “Sorry…… Get out of here!” Sorry, is Europe’s catch all for “Excuse me, Pardon me, my I get bye?, and I apologise”

Under a few hundred pounds of canopied fruits and vegetables, Fritz explained the rules and regulations of the boat. Two of which, that were most interesting, were that if we had any trash, we were to throw it off the boat instantly, and that the first night would be broken into one hour shifts (driving the boat). We thought he was certainly joking about both parts. Who in 2010 would actually publicly condone, let alone suggest littering on a boat? And what captain, in his first night, would really trust a bunch of stupid backpackers with his 50 foot boat? Fritz

Sure enough, that night, he taught the first of us how to use the navigation system, and how to reset it when it undoubtedly malfunctioned (Due to the added stress from the missing function of the left engine, placing extra stress on the right rudder). The first of the bunch yelled “Fritz!” as the navigation alarm went off successively 4 times within 10 minutes, yet the fifth yell came with the bonus of “There’s a lot of smoke”……… Smoke, the mortal enemy of all vehicles; the crippler of everything from car, to bus, to boat, to plane, to even space ship. Smoke means fire and fire will ironically sink something that is utterly surrounded by fire’s worst enemy, water.

I kept my eyes closed. I cared not to experience any of this before I heard the tone in Fritz’s voice. Though he was crazy, he was also bright. And I wanted his seal of approval before I was about to endure the worst case scenario.

“FRITZ!!! It’s Smoking!!!!” The voice came a second time. This time without the concern of offending or hurting anyones feelings. This was the voice of someone who just said something important enough to interrupt their perspective employer. This was the voice of someone who was no longer concerned for anything past their safety.

“Yaaa, Yaaaa” Fritz said in his most German accent. Blowing off the cry for help. “It’s just the bread.” (Fritz liked to bake bread fresh every night to be consumed for breakfast the following morning.)…….

Someone nudged me at 5 am for the last of the night shifts in driving the boat. Within two minutes, the auto pilot had failed 4 times, but the real gem was when I managed to turn the boat completely around. “Fritz, uh, I managed to turn the boat around….” “Yaaaaa, Yaaaaa…..” By the end of my shift, I had dropped the use of the auto pilot completely. More impressively, as the computer navigation froze, I found myself actually relying on a compass!

At the end of that night, I felt like I could easily put on my resume “Learned to sail a 50 foot catamaran in 10 minutes in the middle of the night, with some help of a crazy Austrian.” I wonder if that was his aim?

When we got to the San Blas Islands, we were greeted with three dolphins that guided our ship for no less than an hour. They danced only inches under my feet, which I dangled over the front of the boat, as the sun set in Panama for my very first time.

These islands could have easily been found in the Indian Ocean. I’ve seen such beauty in Malaysia, Indonesia, and Thailand. The water was a surprising deep blue. In the morning, true to his promise, Fritz tossed tin cans full of trash overboard as he remarked about how easy the regulations in Panama were compared to Europe. It sickened me to say the least. It was a Fritz culture shock.

Later that day we went diving for lobster and crabs, Fritz style. With a spear gun (completely illegal in the western world) Fritz ducked his head into mini caverns, blasting poor little defenseless exoskeletons. When he strapped on the dive knife (a tool used by divers to free them from sticky situations, never for combat) I joked with him about using it to “finish his kill” and he replied with a “Of course!!”. One of witch I witnessed so graphically as he jamed 4 inch the blade into the body of a crab under water and twisted, snapping the top and bottom half apart; the fishes swarmed in for a quick feed.

Fritz saw everything under water as food. We shot at the beautiful squid that elegantly passed by. He hit a Spanish mackerel with a pop shot at the last second. He killed a baby cod that was no longer than his knife. We swam along this beautiful reef and raped it of everything taste for the better part of three hours, until the sun had gone down, and we found our last lobster by twilight. We returned to the boat (just Fritz and I) with the feeling of ultra men. Displaying the catches to the other “Men” and women of the boat. I felt like I had turned my back on the community of divers who had taught me everything I knew. That golden rule of never touching anything in the water, let along blasting it with a unfair advantage in the face had been placed on hold for when I was in Fritz land. ……. It felt good………

That night we fished over the side of the boat, using the head of the Spanish Mackerel for bait. It didn’t take long to catch a 4 foot nurse shark. When Fritz called out what it was and that it was a delicacy, I felt like running over to cut the line. A nurse shark is, for all of you who are not familiar, about as noble as a dolphin in the world of sharks. This I was not going to stand for. This was an intelligent creature. When I comes to intelligent creatures, I have a conscience about killing. A couple of lobsters, who cares? But something with reason, I say no. Fortunately, the shark broke free before Fritz’s gaff was readied.

The day we finally arrived to the continental Panama, I was stricken with both sea sickness and Violent diarrhoea. I was ready to get off the boat. Driving along the intesnsly steep and windy road into Panama City, everyone waived at us. Workers stopped to give a quick waive at every car that passes. A light, perhaps meaningless hello, yet it was something that was familiar to both rural America and Mexico. I cold physically feel that I was getting closer to home. The currency in Panama is US Dollars and in the time that I have been away from home, much more color has made it’s way into the once green currency. It’s as if I was further out of touch with America than Panama. That night, I spent inside of the same hotel room that I write this post from. This place has the best bed I have slept in in 14 months, and a 3PM check out (the latest I’ve EVER heard of!!)

Tomorrow I am off to Bocas Del Torro!

“It’s so refreshing to finally see Colombians being Colombians again.”

As I walk down the freshly night street of Cartegena, I feel as happy about Colombia as I ever have. Several cars are parked illegally in the middle of the street, blasting music for the community. Vendors aren’t pushing. Everyone is smiling. Everyone is strolling. This is the Cartegena that I heard so much about before. We go to our local guy who makes us Zapote milk shakes while dancing to salsa music. We just finished a heaving serving of fried chicken at our local spot. I am leaving on an ultimate high note.

Earlier today, I had reached a low note in my travels. I found myself trapped on a beautiful island with feather soft white sand, warm turquoise water, tons of pushy (if not conning) trinket sales men and women, and a few of the most abrasive travelers that I have been with in a while.

The night before, we slept in damp, flee (if not bed bug) ridden hammocks for $2 (the trip record for cheapest paid for place to sleep). I can still feel things crawling on me. The guys who I was with knew Spanish and provided tons of laughs, but also offended many people on the island of Playa Blanka (which is not actually an island, but the only obvious way to get to it is by boat. So everyone thinks it is one.) I realized after a few hours that it was the tone in their voices that created such problems. Like the old poker saying “look around the room for the fool. If you can’t find one, you are him!” This was more akin to “If you are having a bad day, week, or month where everyone seems to be picking a fight with you, take a moment and look at yourself critically. You are the common denominator.”

Another thing…

I recently gave my passport and $400 to an Austrian. This was because he demanded full payment and my Passport in order to take me to Panama in his 30 foot catamaran. It’s gonna take 5 days and we are going to stop at the San Blas islands to go fishing, and snorkeling for two of those days. There are going to be 15 other passengers on this voyage. The captain is a retired chef !!!

You see, I’ve had enough experience with trust to know that, though it sounds like a terrible idea (letting someone hold my passport for 5 days before a trip and paying him in full first); it isn’t actually that abnormal for this region.

Speaking of blasé traveling. When I asked for a receipt for the boat ride (to prove we had a boat ticket back to Cartegena from Playa Blanca) the man just wrote the number 6 (six travelers) and the word Manana (tomorrow) on the ticket. No date included. No signature.

But Fritz, the captain of “Fritz the Cat” (my boat to Panama), he signed the receipt (that he practically wrote on a napkin). After he took my passport and $400 bucks, he asked for my name for his role sheet. I thought, “I’d better get a receipt from this clown” So he said in his most eccentric tone (think thick German accent) “Ok, one coming right up!” as he wrote: the name of the boat, date of the trip, and that price I paid, signed, on a piece of scratch paper that he pulled out of his pocket. Yikes ! Judgment. This is a key skill to poses in travel. (He checks out online)

On the way back from Playa Blanca, of course, there was a problem with our “tomorrow” ticket. But we made due. They made us sit in the back of the boat, where we proceeded to be drenched by the waves that crashed over the back. It was the most fun boat ride of my entire trip. Bucket after bucket dumped directly on us; the salt burnt our eyes, as we screamed for more. The front of the boat caught the occasional sprinkle with a cringe. This is my life. Devoid of problems. Only opportunities to laugh, smile, and remember.

I’m still on the Caribbean coast of Colombia. This time, closer to the Venezuelan Boarder. I’ve found, what will remain in my memory for the ages, as the most normal place in Colombia. For this reason, it will remain my favorite. Miles away from the Hookers and Cocaine, Taganga’s main draw is it’s beaches and national parks. If you were to be as feeble as to purchase a Lonely Planet for Colombia, you would see a picture of Tyrona National Park on the cover. The perfectly picturesque, coconut tree lined, mountain rainforest nestled, prehistoric beach. This is about as close to Avatar’s Pandora as we are ever going to get.

The food is phenomenal here, from the unknown fruit smoothies for a dollar, to the double serving of Fillet Mignon dinner that my dutch hostel chef makes for a measly $7. Oh and if you wanted a whole fresh fish platter, that’s $5. But that’s not the only benefit of this place. There are normal travelers here. Never has a destination’s offering points been as in Colombia. The formula is simple: provide a beach, and you will attract beach people. Provide prostitutes, Cocaine, and a big city, and you will attract monsters.

Side note: after the one year mark, yes, it does feel like I’ve been traveling for a LONG time, but that doesn’t mean that I am ready to rush home.

But this place is still Colombia, so it still has more than the occasional “Memorable” traveler. I spent a dinner with a group of 8 single travelers when I first got to Taganga. Turns out, two of them were “former” drug dealers from England. Oh goody!! Some insight into an industry where information to the outsider is scarce. I found them about as interesting to talk to as a Pilot. Without further delay, I give you Pete and Luke.

Pete, a lanky six foot two, keeps his hair short to show off his high cheek bones, and muddle his receding hairline of early thirties. He has been to prison 2 times, the last time was for 3 years, of which he attributes his bi-sexuality. He winks when he mentions the former, intentionally leaving the truth playfully ambiguous. Well spoken and likeable, Pete has all sorts of stories to share.

Luke, it about five foot seven, much cockier, louder, and dramatic. He hasn’t served time, at least none that he will admit to. He is ethnically African though still struts a posh English accent. He can make a series of clicking noises with an auditory authority that would suggest he has spent many years in sub Saharan Africa. He is a pessimist, a bully, and snob in his own right. Think of the movie “Hitch” and the scene when off the Manhattan socialites are refering to all of the new trends as “Disgusting”.

Pete now runs exports for “Coco and Coffee” in Colombia. “Well I know the nuts and bolts of the business from my drug experience, so why not just use those skills legally.” You might be wondering what Pete used to import. He was the 4th largest importer of Marijuana in all of the UK. He got caught with just under 1000 kilos of Weed the second time. Here are a few funny facts to speed things up: Pete sucks at numbers. He used to misplace upwards of 100K pounds in bank accounts because he was so bad at keeping his own books. Weed is a significantly different industry in the UK than Cocaine. In the UK, there was an “understanding” . No one wanted to start a gang war, so no one ever really put hits on each other. They knew it would start a chain reaction of revenge killings. Imagine that, Weed bosses who possesed the refinement of the cold war. Pete was the first guy to start a website in the UK where you could buy Weed directly. He had 5 guys who’s jobs were to pull cash out of cash machines all day long. Each one of them had between 20-30 ATM cards. The people buying Weed online wired money directly into various accounts, to which the money was pulled out manually by ATM card. But this business was not dreamt up by Pete. It was a syndicate of nerds who handled everything from mirrored web sites to ghost proxy servers based in Russia. Their prerogative was to keep the Website as Unfindable as possible. They were the original Anti-internet-marketers. Pete was just the supplier.

Interested yet?

More to come, perhaps, in my book.

Next I went to Tyrona. This is a proper rainforest. In fact, during the two hour hike out to the beach, it rained heavily the entire time. It was quit surreal being somewhere as proverbial when it was being what it is known for. But the heat was on, the rain was much welcomed. I felt like I might as well have been in the Amazon. Deep and bright shades of green rested in a canopy, greedily stealing the sun’s rays.

We arrived at the camp site, just as the sun sank into the Caribbean at 6pm sharp. When you are so close to the equator, there is only 15 minutes of play in the sun set and sun rise in any given year. But first we were greeted with two birds that I swear I’ve seen in the series “Planet Earth”. Hopping around us in a weird dance, they had a most peculiar song.

We bunked up in tightly packed hammocks for two nights, which would be the start of 7 days in a row of sleeping in a hammock. In those days, I would learn the subtle intricacies of getting the maximum flatness out of a sleep structure that prides itself on it’s concave formation. I also met Uriah.

Uriah is a pretty modest thirty something from San Fransisco. He would describe himself as a Musician, but in reality he is a bass player for White Snake! With his long black hair, he looks like he has some Filipino Heritage. He says it’s really not as glamorous as you might think “I’m a contract worker, like anyone else. Sure I’ve been playing for white snake for the past 5 years, but I am their 77th member of the band. The only original member is the singer. He’s the rich one from all the royalties. I drive a 88 civic, have a bunch of room rates, and cook at home when I’m not on tour. Ya I’m living the life, but it’s not extravagant by any stretch.” His openness to his life without a bragging flavor reminded me of my step brother Patrick who I stayed with in Paris on this trip. You remember? The fashion photographer who took me to a Marie Claire Casting call.

Exiting Tyrona, we elected to take boat. It reminded me of types of boats that they used to storm the beaches of Normandy on D-day. With a deep open hull, this boat was built to be overloaded. We cramed no less than 35 people on top of each other for the one hour journey back to Taganga, in which I spent no less than 55 minutes scoping the coast line for the best attempted landing point, had the boat to tip and sink, leaving me for a swim for my life. Roomers had surfaced the day before of a ship with the same design in pieces on one of the shorelines, with a fresh coat of paint.

The boat swayed back and forth as swells passed underneath it’s hull. I had a full plan of swimming out to sea first, to clear the leviathan, before then turning towards shore, had the boat capsized. These are the thoughts that pass thorough my head when I realize that I am in a bonnified stupid situation.

We made back to shore safely so that we may go on the 6 day, lost city trek, the next morning. That night, though, something happened that was both memorable and mentionable.

We went out to a bar/club/hostel called the mirrador (viewing point) that was in fact a viewing point of Taganga. Entering the crowded establishment, three local girls walked by and smiled saying “Hola Chico!” I said hi back, but before I could break out the spider senses, one of the girls reached down and squeezed my balls, hard. What. In. The. Hell!!! I’ve HEARD of girls walking bye and giving a little grab to “Size” someone up, but this was down right mean. In a flash, I was sitting on the ground, balls in my stomach, trying to figure out what in the hell had just happened. It would be, the first and only mean act a Colombian has ever commited towards me.

The next day, we started the trek. It was hard work, but beautiful. Our guide Pedro, was equally as attentive as he was gentle. For the next 6 days, we would be pampered, bitten, and awed by the forest’s beauty. At night, a symphony of frog’s and toads sang as we ate excellent food made my our cook Jose and picked through no less than 8 varieties of bugs who made homage towards our candle light. An electric light orchestra of fireflies backlit our dinner table. This would be my first interaction with them.

During the trek, we met all varieties of animal, both domestic and wild. Turkeys, chickens, Long heard Cows, Donkeys, Dogs, cats, Snakes, Scorpions, Red Monkeys, Centipedes, birds, buzzards, pigs, boars, lizards, spiders, and fish and ticks. In the first 3 hours of the trek, I picked off 3 ticks. But Pedro was sure to let us know that they were not the variety that gave you lime disease. You didn’t even need to burn them out with a cigarette. Just pull them out. Pedro showed us a tiny stick that stood next to the path. On it perched no less than 12 of these little creatures, waiting for something to walk bye and brush the stick.

But all in all, this jungle was forgiving. The mosquitoes were responsive to repellent, the ticks were non dangerous, the snakes were non poisonous for the most part. Pedro dissipated it a tree only to return with a fruit that I had never seen. He cracked it open and inside were a series of large seeds covered in a thick white, sweet white film resembling something that we all originated from. As it turns out, this was a Coco plant.

We happened upon 10 solders in the jungle who were there to keep the trek safe for the tourists. They were young men, extremely nice, and loaded to the teeth. I asked one of them what type of gun they had in Spanish and two minutes later, we were posing with the whole lot. Each one of them carried m-16 Esq guns with 4 extra clips of bullets. They would spend 2 months out in the jungle at a time. Their fatigues were advanced camouflage (strait from the US government). This Squad was good for no less than 1000 bullets had shit to hit the fan.

The Lost City itself is much less post-card-able. It reminds me a lot of the jungle book though. This matched with it’s mandatory 25kilomiter jungle trek to get to it will leave it off the of the heavy tourist trail for quite some time. After finishing the trek, I didn’t have the sense of accomplishment that I got from “The W”. I didn’t cary my own food, nor shelter. I didn’t guide myself, and I had a shower every night. Though I loved it, I would quickly look for a Do It Yourself option next time.

There were two other individuals who I met whilst in Taganga that I’d like to mention. I’ll start with the negative. A eastern European guy who worked for a university who had a very interesting view of reading. “This is not an argument, just my opinion. Reading is a wast of time. It’s just someone else’s stories. Why would I wast my time with that? While I am reading someone else’s story, I am ceasing my own. The same goes for movies. Why would I go see Slum Dog Millionaire? I would rather just go to India myself.”

Wow, someone that works in the intellectual community who is ANTI-intellectual. That philosophy (you know, the one that states you have nothing else to learn) is such a breakthrough when you are 13 years old. It’s just about as good as the one about being invincible because you haven’t been killed yet. Or the one about the world being flat (which was a myth by the way. It was put into a book for dramatic effect. Sailors have understood and acknowledged the curvature of the earth for thousands of years.)

The next guy was an Aussie. One of those enterprising young men who believe in themselves beyond repair. He has been everywhere between Beijing and Istanbul for free. He decided to become a tour guide and has been on the entire silk road (read a book) twice. Now he runs tours through Europe during the sumer time and travels in the winter. I picked his brain quite a bit and found the positives for being a baby sitter for the new traveler.

Now I am back in Taganga, relaxing from my trek, and drinking smoothies!

Cartagena

As far as I know about Caribbean cities, this one must be the most beautiful. Though the cruise ships are now stopping in this port (saturating the place with tourism and altering the culture), the people just outside the main tourist drag are just as impossibly friendly as the rest of Colombia. This place is laced with bright colored buildings and colonial style churches. This used to be where the Spanish hid their extra gold, so the whole place is an old fort complete with 20 foot high sea walls and cannons to fend off pirates. I’ve been spared with cloudy and windy weather here for the past few days. It is said that when the sun shines in the dead of day, the breath of the sea will stick firmly to your face.

One thing I must comment on about Colombia is that their fruit selection puts ours to shame. America , I have learned whilst abroad, is the land of choice and convenience. There isn’t another place on the planet where you can find 100 types of morning cereal. But when it comes to fruits, Colombia makes America seem more like Australia (the land where you will be hard pressed to find more than 4 types of shampoo in the biggest city). I consider myself a cultured eater, but there were over ten fruits that I had never seen or heard of in the market the other day, I felt like a child. I took the liberty of trying each one of them.

The streets are are crowded with both taxi and horse drawn carriage. The place can seem to be a bit of a circus at times. But as interesting as this city is, who I met, was about to change my life forever. Before I go on, I must say that even after traveling for 13 months, I still meet people who can teach me something completely new.

Chris is a normal, unsuspecting guy. Always with a bit of a goofy smile and his large earphones around his neck; his sustained eye contact probably makes most people a little nervous. I met him at my hostel in Medellin and again in the airport on the way to Cartagena. His story is so incredible that if he told it all at once, you’d probably never believe him. Over a 10 hour period, I was able to pick what I believe is a large piece of it out of him.

Just as I thought that I have achieved a lot for my age, comes along Chris. I realized that I was dealing with someone different when he pulled out his passport. It looked more like an overstuffed wallet, the kind George from Seinfeld had, than anything else. It had had extra sets of pages sown into it 3 times already. “Wait a second! How many countries have you been to?” “About 90, but that’s not the point….”

As I flipped through his novel of a passport, I could count that he had been to many countries multiple times. He had been to China 5 times alone and had already lived in Japan for a year. Chris is 25 and has more or less been abroad for the past 6 of those years. 2009 was his longest time home (he spent 6 months). He had been to everywhere, even Iran. Of course, when I asked him if there were any places that he hadn’t seen that he had on his list, he said “Oh of course. Tons of places.” His first time abroad was when he was 18 years old (mine was 2). This could quite possibly be (for his years) the most cultured person I’ve ever met.

“But how did this all start? How did you get so motivated to travel?”

As it turns out, Chris was on a “semester at sea” ship when he was a sophomore in college. The ship was a mid range sized cruise liner which sleeps about a thousand people. Leaving out of BC Canada, it was set to make stops in 10 countries around the world in the course of 3 months. During it’s crossing of the Pacific, Chris’s boat was caught in the middle of 3 converging storms. In 7 short days, his life was changed forever. It started by an intense rocking for the first two days. Motion sickness pills began to loose effect on the 3^rd day. The seas were getting worse. One week into the trip, people had not slept a single night. The ship was rocking so violently that people were being thrown into the walls. Bolted down pianos had been tossed loose. Millions of dollars of damage had been sustained. The seas were a sustained 30 feet. On the end of the 5^th day of the storms, a rouge wave white capped (broke) directly in front of the bridge. It smashed through the thick windows and flooded the electronics (critically injuring some of the captains men). Within seconds, one of the 4 engines had shut down. Minutes later, the other three failed. They were dead in the water, with no ability to even steer the boat into a favorable angle to combat the crashing waves.

The captain gave the order for everyone to put their life jackets on. This is the last order that comes before an abandon ship. For 2 days, 1000 passengers would remain in the life jackets, waiting to die. The cranes which lowered the life boats into the water had also been destroyed by the surging waves. “Something on the 6^th day clicked, and has not changed since.” “I realized that I had better make the most of my life if I ever made it back.”

On the 8^th day, an un-named crew member was able to get one of the engines running. The boat eventually limped into Honolulu.

Chris has spent the rest of his life traveling. He has received both a bachelors and a masters degree whilst abroad.

Like a kid, I asked him all the questions that people usually ask me. But in the wake of our conversation, I realized that in most cases, travel outside of 60 countries, is a lonely place. After you have been to the most popular 60 spots, the only people you run into are usually researchers, guide book authors, and the occasional scientist. The game will change significantly for me if I continue to new destinations. It will soon turn into quite a lonely planet.

Something I had never even thought about until I met Chris. By the age of 26, I have been to almost all the places that people go regularly. A huge part of what drives me to travel was about to dry up if I continued to find new spots.

Most interesting and peculiar; it was a lot like when the computers approached the year 2000.

I am off to on a 6 day trek to “The Lost City” which should be amazing. One day longer than “The W” . We will see how I fare in prolonged jungle survival. Perhaps I will weigh in on my Patagonian treks VS my Colombian.

Uhhhh what?

Here we go. It was going to happen sooner or later. Here I go on having the time of my life (mostly uninterrupted) for the past year, soaking up all my positive karma points. It was time that something happened to set me back into the balance.

Keep in mind, I’ve never been robbed, Mugged, Had anything stolen, lost anything, had bedbugs, or even so much as missed a bus/train/plane in my last year. I attribute this to how alert I am while traveling. Most would just chalk it up to Jesus.

So what happened anyway? Well my friends, like most sicknesses in life, there isn’t any single event which swayed me. As George Bush Senior would say “Thousand points of light…”

Put it this way, I wish I could just trade the following events for a clean cut mugging. At the rate of my karmic swing, that shouldn’t be too much longer either.

Did I mention that the other travelers are a bunch of rats here? Hey don’t get me wrong, I love to party, but if that’s all you are somewhere to do, please stay at home. “The people make the place” is a common phrase that you will hear travelers refer to quite regularly. In my experience, this is only magnified by one’s expectations going into a place. For instance, I for some reason had the highest of hopes for the country of Portugal. This left me completely rutted when I actually went there. The same is appearing to solidify in Colombia.

While Bogota was full of frat boys (from all countries) looking for cocaine, Medellin so far, has raised the bar to twilight zone worthy. I got out of the 9 hour bus ride to find out that my hostel was in fact, no where near the email promised. I found this out from the local cops (cops are good here). As I approached a cab, a guy who sounded exactly like steevo (from Jackass) approached me. In a quick pace.

“Hey do you speak English?”
“No” (Some how I could smell the fish from a million miles away.)
“Ok, here’s the deal. I am from Los Angeles California and I was robbed a few days ago. I need some money to get to the US consulate.”
“Wait a second, you’ve been at the bus station for 2 days? You speak fluent Spanish?” (I though to my self)
“You need a ride?”
“I just need some cash.”
“Sorry man.” (what the fuck, I could just feel it was off in the speed he approached me, lord forbid he need a ride into town (where the consulate is)).

So he pivoted to my driver and proceeded to tell him that I was terrible person and that he should dive me into the middle of nowhere and kick me out. (thanks pal)

Luckily the cab driver was more interested in my money than to rectify the stranger’s plight. As we arrived, I noticed that the cash in my pocket had mysteriously vanished (only $10). If it was in fact this guy from LA, he was really, really good.

That would be enough to shake me up. But this is a story of a thousand points of light that left me feeling as off put as I have since I have left home.

I checked into the hostel and one of my room mates was an old Dutch man, wearing nothing but a wash cloth over his spread eagle pose. Why not right? Perfect! He was actually quite nice, save his lack of dress skills. I opened my locker (a sliding door under my bed) and it was full of a bag of sugar, slashed open. I get it, Like a joke. “Here is the mess of cocaine that you must have been looking for if you came to this town.” I went down to get a dust pan and the bar tender cleaned it out. The the door wouldn’t shut so I went back down to meet a early 30s guy sitting behind the counter.

He had a smirk across his face. “Do you work here?” “Ya, I own the place.” “Oh ya, if I had a nickel for every time I pulled the “ya, this is my party.” card at a place I’ve never been to.” “Why don’t you believe me?” as he incorrectly guessed my nationality 6 times “Because you have my smirk of when I am assuming a false identity.”

It turned out, he did own the place. He was from South Carolina “These fucking Colombians are so stupid. They have a 2 for an IQ” “Great, a racist hostel owner who hates the people who live where his hostel is.” I thought.

This place is TOP rated on hostel world. What the fuck is going on here? He was really nice to me, but how in the hell did he get so damn far from his trailer park? This just punctuates the theory that Colombia is FULL of terrible foreigners. I’ve said it once before and I’ll say it again, everything I hate about Colombia, has nothing to do with Colombia.

But not everyone was a dick at this hostel. One guy ran his fingers through my hair as my head was craned over staring at my Iphone. That’s funny, if I wasn’t having such a weird day, I could have sworn that some guy just made a disgusting pass at me. I walked down to the bar and the same guy looked me up and down 4 times in a row, point blank. Hey, I voted no on Prop 8, but this shit was ridiculous. “So are we going out tonight?” “Fuck NO! I’m going to spend the night shaving my head and praying to Jesus to FIX your gaydar to other gay men.” I thought. Normally I would have just taken it as a complement, but I was on edge to say the least.

And what am I left with? Spiders crawling under my skin from the collective mind fuck that was my day.

Hey Colombia, Strike two. Cartejena is next. The third will result in a hasty push to Panama. But what the fuck? It’s not even Colombia who is to blame here. If I wanted spring break, I’d be in Cabo right now.

I will hold this post for another day, hopping that my luck will change, and that I can delete this memory.

Well the next few days went by and I thought it was a good idea to keep the post for memory sake. I met a decent group of travelers. One is a hostel owner as a matter of fact, but I will maintain that this country, sadly, attracts some real scumbags and weirdos when it comes to travelers. Mostly men, some young Aussies looking for cheap cocaine (since it costs $300 a gram in Australia and only $10 a gram here), and older men of English, Irish, American, and Dutch decent who are here to enjoy some Colombian prostitution. Yuck, ready for this?

Some of the young guys get prostitutes here and EVERYONE (But me) does Cocaine. Not really the locals though. I can’t explain it. They are ready to move on from what makes their country famous, but the tourism is still centered around it.

On the other hand, a lot of people have been doing the coke around me and if done in moderation, it’s really not a very exciting drug. I don’t know why it is so taboo.

Really, the one thing that can phase me is being sick whilst abroad. Especially when your sickness sets in in perfect timing with my arrival to a new country. I chose the salmon in the plane ride from Santiago to Bogota; this didn’t help matters. A small cold which was building in Santiago, set in full force once I made my way out of the Airport in Bogota.

I had about $30 extra in Chilean pesos which every exchange office in the airport would not budge on a 30%-50% commission rate; not off to a good start. But before I could make it that far, I had to explain to the customs official why I intended to stay in Colombia for 60 days if I didn’t actually know someone here. In broken Spanish, under the gun, I attempted to say “Because everyone I have ever talked to said they stayed for one month, but wished that they had stayed for 2.” The sentence came out a little more like this “Because, My world friends…. hear…. one month…. no better ….. two days”. Angry, the agent sent me to an English speaking agent who was as charming as one could imagine.

I got into a cab, to which the driver had no interest in me as a person. I was merely a package meant to be delivered. I listened to his conversation with his girlfriend/wife/mistress over the cell phone as he ignored me. “hello my life” he said in crystal clear Spanish. The roomers were true, this country had the best Spanish speakers on the planet.

The driver cycled through heavy gas and heavy break as if to tempt my nausea to a new level. I looked outside to the sky and saw a murkiness that I have only experienced in Shanghai before. Things were not off to the best start.

In my hostel were bilingual and super nice staff. The backpackers were more of beer packers. Somehow it seems as though I had warped strait back to the East Coast of Australia, where everyone was just out to party. Who cares about where you are; what was the price of beer ?!?!?!

I was surrounded by vocabularies of Fuck, fucking, and fucker. Everyone had a hard time making a sentence without those crucial bricks. In addition, everyone was overly paranoid. The type of people who really didn’t belong in a place like Colombia. They would be better off on the east coast of Auz.

I wanted out, my two month pledge was looking more and more like a two week pledge. These were the exact feelings that I had my second month of travel. Where the hell where the quality people I had met in Antarctica/New Zealand? Why have they been replaced with beer packers?

Fortunately, the city of Bogota is about a 1000 times as interesting as Byron Bay or Sydney. And it is a place where you can eat well for $1.5!! But still, divorcing my physical wellness from my impression of the country is a hard feat. I don’t feel super aware like I usually do when walking around the streets. I feel vulnerable.

I went out too late for street vendors last night and ate at a burger place. The employees worked with an attention to detail that would suggest that they were in the middle of a job interview. It instantly popped me back to Japan. It was this realization that solidified my stance that everything that I didn’t like about Colombia so far, had nothing to do with Colombia.

None the less, if something didn’t change soon, I would be heading north in search of greener pastures, much sooner than I had previously predicted. I tried to psychoanalyse which would be the best place to go next in search or better company. Several options swirled around, but I have decided on Medellin (even though it is a party city). I think it will be a good place to start my journey. If it is a miss again, then I continue north towards my eventual sailing trip to Panama.

Easter Island

If you are after a set of surreal surprises, this might be your first choice. Think of Hawaii mixed with Chile. Where there would be a family having a luau in Hawaii, there will be a family having a luau but singing Polynesian songs in Spanish. Weird right? Another thing, I thought this place would be full of locals who loath tourists, as Hawaii is typically subject to, but the locals here couldn’t be much nicer. They are happy to see you. Even in the water.

I went for a walk to get my bearings and happened upon a surf spot. Excited to see the familiar formations, I ran down to the water. Awwwww, it sure would be nice, I thought. But I don’t have a board or fins. As it so happens, there was an enterprising young man who had all the equipment I needed. Board, fins, fin socks and even a rash guard. But I don’t even have any sun screen for my face (this was so spontaneous.) Of course, he gave me some of his own.

I paddled out in the turquoise blue water, temperature 80 degrees. The surf was 4-5 feet, peeling both left and right. The bottom, volcanic and dotted with the occasional turtle. The spot was equally lined with bodyboarders and surfers. I chatted with a 15 year old kid who was bodyboarding. He said that both sports were equally popular and respected on the island (what a thought, equality in the sea. Something we haven’t ever really had in America.) Hajive had only been bodyboarding for one year and he was already great. I blamed it on his location of perfect playful surf year round. I also met an Aussie who no lives in Poland. He is the third pilot I’ve met on my journey. He flies a falcon class private jet. Seats 8 and sleeps 6. With a 9 hour range, this little bird flies higher and faster than commercial jets and has Avionics that blow Commercial jets out of the water. His boss is on vacation with his family and they are flying all around the world. Today Easter Island, Tomorrow the Galapagos. The day after that, Miami. Pretty cool life to live. And he doesn’t have the normal setback of a corporate pilot (being on call for 3 weeks at a time) because the boss is Swiss and is extremely organized. He knows 8 weeks in advanced what his schedule will be which lends to a sustainable marriage and family.

One of my room mates is a Dick and he is from Italy. I though I’d mention him because he just got out of the shower (after spending 1.5 hours doing god knows what. Last night his alarm went off for 2 hours strait before he finally got up to turn it off. It a 200 beep tempo, I was certain I would piss on his face, had this ever happened again.)

After a spontaneous surf session, I attempted to find my way back to my hostel. Something was about to catch up with me as I began to become lost. I had been traveling so casually for so long that I had become lazy. Who needs to remember the name of your hostel anyway? I found myself attempting to ask for directions to a hostel who’s name I didn’t bother to remember. How hard could it be? In broken Spanish, I said the following “Do you know where a hostel is that starts with a letter K in the first word and starts with the letter T in the second word of the name?” The problem was, I didn’t remember how to say “Letter” “Word” or “Starts” in Spanish.

Three hours later, I found myself speaking with some concerned neighbors who wanted to know exactly why I was wondering around in their back yard. But they didn’t meet me with American arms. They gave me the benefit of the doubt and attempted to send me on my way. Eventually I found an Internet café that I used to look up the name of my hostel. Four hours later, I was home, with a laugh. In case you wondered, the answer is yes, there is only one town in Easter Island, and it’s pretty damn small.

The next day I thought I’d have a hike to the top of the local volcano. I went in the afternoon when the island would be a bit cooler. Much to my delight, I didn’t see a single tour van, but I took the coast. I repeated my wonder through people’s back yards strategy and got to see a ton of beautiful coast line that I am willing to bet most visitors don’t ever get to see.

It was a single journey, much the same as my trip as a whole. I was met with stunning electric blue that can only be found in the Pacific. In a sense, I was home. Who ever said this place was a barren waste land certainly hasn’t been here. “But all the trees are cut down. That’s the whole point of the island. The people destroyed the natural beauty in order to transport the statues to and from each site.” is what I could imagine hearing from some smarmy cock sucker at some future Christmas party. Some dick who thinks he can get away with claiming to be cultured because he reads national geographic ever so often. And no one ever calls him out on it, because they pay attention the the international community even less. Well I’m here to say that the whole place ISN’T a waste land. It’s a lush paradise here. Tons of trees and greenery can be found in parts of the island. And it is a lot drier than you would think for an island in the Pacific. There aren’t any mosquitoes in the island and there tends to be a beautiful breeze that blows through it’s entirety during most hours of the day. It rains every day for about 30-45 seconds. And did I mention that the people are amazing?

As I made my way up the volcano, 3 car’s full of locals offered me rides. On the third, I was quite tired, so I accepted the offer. Expecting to pay this unmarked taxi, I reached into my pocket at the end of the ride, but the man took no interest in payment. I walked around the sacred grounds for the better part of 2 hours all alone. The golden sun swept across the fields of barley as I gazed across the vast expanse of the Pacific from 1500 feet above. There was an energy here that one must not attempt to explain or describe, only encourage others to experience. Here I was again, in one of, as far as I am concerned, the wonders of the world, with nothing else around, but me. This me I had learnt to listen to over the past year of exploration. This me that was not just what fit into what I came from. This me who my previous world has yet to meet.

I turned around to make my way back into town as the sun was setting. Expecting a 3 hour twilight that I had received whilst as low as Antarctica, I figured that the two hour walk back into town was not going to be in total darkness. Of course, a Chilean family offered me a ride back into town. They were both teachers who Lived in Santiago. They looked for my hostel as I at pop rocks with their 4 year old daughter in the back seat. Eventually they found were I belonged and dropped me off. Not a bad day at all

This whole hitch hiking thing was growing to be a great way to get around, but the next day I shared a rental car with a few English kids and a Kiwi. We went all around the island to check out the Moai (the statues which make this place world famous). I’ve got to say that I’m not a big ruins person. I am not really into staring at some broken pottery and relishing it’s importance a thousand years ago. I look at beauties very literally. Wow, that wave is really blue. That fist is sleek. And so on. I like to say that most of the ruins I have seen are called ruins for a reason, they are ruined. But here is different. The Moai are incredibly aesthetic in their own right. If someone told me that a guy generated the design with a computer 3 years ago, I would still think they were really freaking cool. They just look so impressive.

Another think that one might find impressive is the abundance of horses here. In packs that appear wild yet well kept, their rich brown color sticks out in high contrast with the electric shock of the pacific. At any point on the island, you can witness these majestic clusters galloping like it’s their job. Roads shut down during rush hour for these packs and it is well worth the wait.

If you are a horse guy (Bud), then you would love it here. You can easily get a ride on this island, and if you could speak Spanish proficiently (Bud), then you could probably easily negotiate a few one of a kind days with the local cowboys, herding these guys.

But I had something left to do before I could go. I had to get into this electric blue. I elected to go on a dive for the high price of $60. I chatted with one of the dive operators who asked me a few questions about my experience. I told him that I had been on 50 dives, which is almost true. When he asked me when my last dive was, I had to give a bold faced lie. “3 months ago was my last dive” , times by two and add a month for accuracy. “Do you need to see my certs?” “Nope, I believe you” in true Easter Island fashion.

We took a small boat out to the dive site which to my glee was the site I had gazed upon a few days before all alone at 1500 feet above the sea level. The dive master said that the visibility would be somewhere between 40 to 60 meters, 80 if we were lucky. “Eighty?!?!?!” That’s twice as clear as any thing I’ve ever been in. When you think about it, the water is so pure here because there isn’t anything around for the better part of 3000 miles to provide sediment. The ocean drops for thousands of meters in each direction once you get away from the island, so any sediment from the island itself is typically vanished into the depths of effectively infinity.

When I dropped my face into the water I was greeted with a color just past blue. It was so deep and rich that my brain had trouble classifying what exactly it was. I thought back to when I was a kid trying to pick out a color for my font on the computer. It was almost as rich as purple. I’ve settled on violet as the color, but I guess you will just have to take my word on it. Swimming in the sea of Ultra Violet, I found myself ignoring the formations and fish, to stare off into the color.

Easter Island is the type of place which proves what type of a traveler you are. If you are interested in getting the proverbial pictures in front of the Moai, this place will keep your interest for only a day. If you know how to get excited about a place, then a week might seem like a rush.