The Moonbeam Chronicles

Sun is Shining

2012-01-17T05:18:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time, yet here we are again. I wish I could have been writing to you over these last few months, but the truth of the matter is that some stories are better left unwritten on the World Wide Web. I'll just leave it at that.

The last month Pete and I spent our holidays in a small town called Clevedon, outside of Bristol, with his family. Although it was cold out, his family was warm and welcoming and we had ourselves a wonderful traditional English Christmas. I had a great time meeting all of his friends and I learned the lesson of all lessons: Stay away from rough cider or it will destroy you. The last few days I went to London to spend time with my lovely friend Amy from New Zealand, Shaun of my "Toy Story" days and I went to see Everton lose with Alex. Again.

As most of you know, I'm not one to stay still or stay cold, so after a few plane rides we found ourselves in Bogota, Colombia! For all of those who have never been to Colombia, yet instantly have a negative opinion of it, I can assure you that you are very, very mistaken. I myself was very, very mistaken. Thoughts of kidnapping, theft and cocaine dealers on every corner floated in my mind, but my biggest mistake was listening to people who didn't know say, "Oh don't go there, it's dangerous." Nonsense. I've never felt better.

Bogota is a great city. Yes it's a little rough around the edges but that's just part of the charm. People are friendly and the food is delicious. In the last few years Bogota has really stepped up it's game to make the city safe again, for residents and tourists. There are, quite literally, two police officers on every single corner of the city center. The streets are clean, the city is prosperous, half of the walls are covered in art, people smile at strangers as they walk and there is a sense of tradition, respect and culture. . We took the gondola up Monserratte, Bogota's holy mountain, and had a good look at the city. With a population over eight million, no wonder it's enormous.

Three days into our tour and the warm sun of South America is already shining in my heart. Since Pete and I have no desire to plan anything I'm excited to see where life takes us. In a day or two we'll head north towards Santa Marta, but as it's a twenty-four hour bus ride we've decided to break it up into a few days and stop where we feel like it. Until then, safe travels wherever you are. I'll keep you posted.

Woman vs. Nature

2011-08-24T17:16:00.000-07:00

"Rachel, you are not allowed to go anywhere with a volcano, or it will undoubtedly erupt."
-My father, on my luck with natural disasters.

I severely dislike hurricanes. This has got to stop. For a person who is never prepared for anything, natural disasters really screw with me. As always, I'm just thankful I have good friends who know what their doing.

Hurricane Irene wasn't nearly as bad as the earthquake in Christchurch but it was still miserable. We had our first hurricane scare a few weeks ago that turned out to be a light drizzle, but I was fully ready for it. Early on, Irene was only classed as a tropical storm so we were only half ready. By half ready I mean I bought a gallon of water, a pink Cinderella flashlight, bottle of champagne and foodstuffs necessary to make nachos. My new television show, Woman vs. Nature, will be coming out soon.

My friend/boss Val offered me and a few other friends a place to crash for a day or two, and seeing as how I had to get off the boat I went to her place in Luquillo. By the time the storm was over us it has turned into a full-blown, Class-3 hurricane. It poured nonstop for 2 solid days with winds blowing up to 75 miles per hour. I now understand why every house in Puerto Rico is made out of concrete. I also understand why all the water, canned food, candles and batteries were gone from the store. Really the hardest bit was waiting in an airless, concrete house with no running water or electricity and getting soaked when trying to open a door or window for some air for two days.

When we able to venture outside we found a 30 square foot piece of roof that wasn't ours in the backyard and what looked like a palm tree explosion in the front. From my other boss Juan we heard that he woke up to someone's TV satellite on top of his mini van, and our friend Aminda's windshield was smashed in by a tree. My car Maverick: The Beast was miraculously untouched and even started, although drenched with water. The boat, when were able to and check on her, is another story.

I have to say in all honesty that it has never really occured to me that there might be things in this world I couldn't do. If I learned and I tried hard I could achieve anything, and I've never questioned that until yesterday. Yet taking care of a sailboat during hurricane season in the Caribbean might be too much for me. I understand the fundamentals of sailing a boat, but the mechanics and electrics are way over my head. Not to mention the physical strength needed to tie lines and move the boat. For someone who is not used to asking for help, it's been really hard. When the boat to my port side snapped it's lines and rammed my boat repeatedly during the storm, I wasn't there. There was not much I could have done anyway but it's left me feeling helpless. Helpless like when my van Crazy Carl kept dying in New Zealand and there was nothing I could do. So I guess I'll take a deep breath and leave this to the professionals and insurance companies and take it day by day.

What the hurricane and earthquake ultimately taught me was that life doesn't care about your plans. You can be as prepared as possible, plan every detail down to the last minute, and an earthquake will still fuck up your day. Plan your day, plan your career, plan your future and life will go and do what it pleases anyway. Maybe it teaches us that life can end at any moment, and that is natural, so enjoy the sunshine. Maybe it teaches us that change is a positive force. For me, it reaffirms what I already know: Live one day at a time, love with a full heart and smile at what life throws my way.

It's a Fine Day

2011-08-18T17:00:00.000-07:00

Thursday, August 11th was my 26th birthday. Thank you to everyone for the birthday wishes, it was really a great day spent with great friends. Every year my stepmom Jaz asks me what I had learned that year and I've been putting some real thought into what exactly I have been learning lately. Now lets face it, I'm just a spring chicken barely hatched and wandering around a bit lost, but I guess wandering is just my way. As long as I keep my eyes open, there's no telling what'll happen. So here it is:
Presenting:
"What Rachel Holan Has Learned From The World,"
or
"What Would Willie Do?"
or
"It's A Fine Day To Make A Mess Of Things."

1. Smile at whatever life throws you. Smile when you wake up, when the sun is out, when you feel a bit down, and when you meet old ladies. Smile at rude people, it will really piss them off. Anything is obtainable in this world with a smile. Smiling is contagious, spreads joy, has no race, color or religion and costs nothing.

2. Put down the clicker and read a book. Or listen to some good music that really touches your heart. I am convinced that it would greatly benefit humanity if everyone threw their television out the window and went outside to enjoy the day. If you would like a book suggestion, I just finished a great one. My brother gave me "The Tao of Willie," a little book by Willie Nelson talking about life and relating to the Tao Te Ching. We all have a lot to learn from the original Cowboy-Hippie who can jumpstart your heart with his smile and his song. If you don't know who Willie Nelson is, please, for the love of everything sacred, do yourself a favor and go look up "Nightlife" or "Still is Still Moving" or "Whatever Happened to Peace on Earth." And if anyone needs any other book suggestions, I can send you a list of a hundred or so to choose from that'll change your life in a very positive way.

3. I severely dislike earthquakes. It definitely feels like I've filled my quota on natural disasters this year, but seeing as how we're mistreating our planet, I can see how Mother Nature is a bit pissed off. At the same time, the Earth has been around for millions of years, whereas our small industrial revolution has only been going about 200 years. To quote the late, great George Carlin, "It's not the planet that's in trouble. It's the people who are fucked!" There has got to be a balance where humanity can responsibly co-exist with the rest of the planet before we get wiped out for our insolence. I intend to spend my remaining years figuring out that balance and living with what this planet has graciously given.

4. Speaking of humanity, we really need to pull ourselves together people. It's just all getting a bit ridiculous and sad. A few days ago I saw two kittens sitting in the sun next to the biggest iguana I have ever seen. I cannot think of two species more different, but if kittens and iguanas can get along then dammit!-we should be able to as well. It's high time to set aside petty differences like religion, color and sexuality or we are just not going to make it. To quote Willie Nelson, "I learned: If you forgive your enemies, it messes up their heads."

5. Love is definitely worth fighting for. This year on New Years Day I took a flight back to New Zealand to be with a man I truly love. I went back with almost nothing and risked a lot but it was worth every minute to be with him again and now we're planing our adventures all over the world. It took me 25 years to realize that dating a nice man who cares about me was a good idea. They should be teaching this in schools instead of abstinence.

6. Give back to your community, even if you're only there a short while. The day before my birthday a group of friends got together to clean up the beach in Luquillo. It amazed me what people we dumping on this stunning beach, and how much disrespect they had for their own neighborhood. We picked up everything you could imagine in a trashcan from beer bottles, plastic forks, styrafoam cups, and glass shards to a couch, a toilet seat and a heroin needle. The worst was the cigarette butts. Five cigarette butts to every other piece of trash on the beach. I truly believe that there is a special circle in Hell designated for flickers-of-cigarette-butts. Listen up butt-flickers! If you are truly ignorant of the harm you are causing, or if you simply do not care, maybe it is time to wake up. Please stop flicking your cigarette butts on the ground, we all share this world together.

7. Follow your bliss. Traveling is the only thing in life that ever made sense to me. It keeps me calm and grounded, wild and saucy, and makes me happy every day. I could not ask for a greater gift than the knowledge of how I'm supposed to live my life. There are people in my life who do not understand, who feel I should come off my cloud and back down to the "reality" they live in. To them I say thanks for your concern, but no thanks. I'm just fine where I am.

8. No worries, mon. "If a situation occurs in your life that worries or concerns you, stop and think! Is there anything I can do about it? If yes, then there's no need to worry. If no, then there's still no need to worry." -Dalai Lama. Enough said.

9. There is always a balance, a middle-ground. Exercise vs. Laziness. Vegetables vs. Ice Cream. Work vs. Play. Beer vs. Liquor, etc. Trying to find the balance in all aspects of life isn't easy but I'm doing what I can. I still haven't figured out that last one though.

10. Shake it up! Make a mess of things. Call your boss or an immigration official "Bro." Throw away all your shoes. Dance and sing in the street. Hug strangers. Smile at homeless people and ask them how their day is. Get your phD in Anthropology if you are so inclined. Whatever makes you happy. Happiness is, to me, the most important thing there is. Once you have it, share it with the world.

In my own way, that's what I'm trying to do here. With you.

Wayward

2011-07-29T09:08:00.000-07:00

When speaking of his children, my father refers to us as Samuelito and the Wayward Spawn. I am the Wayward Spawn.

Wayward have been my movements of late. After the earthquake rocked Christchurch Pete and I started re-evaluating our life's priorities, such as living in a town with a low death toll. My dad offered us his boat in Puerto Rico and we jumped at the chance, and for the last four months I have been floating happily in the Caribbean. Maybe I'm just lazy or maybe it's the heat, but I've been having a hard time trying to write and describe Puerto Rico in words. Perhaps it's because this country is just so Damn Loco.

"Oh Puerto Rico, land of the MayoKetchup," as my friend Chris likes to say, is a weird mix between Latino culture and American. Although they are technically a teritory of the United States, when put to a vote to be
A. A State
B. An independent nation
C. Neither/ I don't know
the resounding majority vote was for C. They love Burger King, Walmart and enormous shopping malls. It is very difficult to be a vegetarian here considering that their four food groups are meat, cheese, fried meat and fried cheese, all dipped in butter, fried, and then dipped in more butter. Many seem unaware that throwing trash on the street has a negative impact on their island and recycling is unheard of. The Spanish spoken here is a mutated Spanglish spoken so quickly that they often don't understand one another. "Puerto Rico," my friend Shella says, "where the women eat more than the men, and the men gossip more than the women."

All of that, though, is just a tiny piece of the greater puzzle. I love Puerto Rico. I have met some of the friendliest people here, always willing to help you out without hesitation. Puerto Ricans say hi equally to their neighbors and strangers, stuff you until you're way beyond full, smile, dance, laugh and love their families. They have immense pride in their island and rightfully so because it's just beautiful here. I have a great job working at a surfer bar called Board Riders, right across the street from a beautiful beach in Luquillo and at some point will probably try to learn how to surf.

"Puerto Ricans drive like they've run out of cigarettes," says my friend Dave. I absolutely adore Puertorican people until they get in their car, then it's like going into battle. Like most people who have at one time lived in Mexico, I consider people who stop at red lights to be good drivers. It's not as bad here but it's pretty horrible. Driving here should be considered an extreme sport as every lane is a turn lane, there's no speed limits and there are potholes the size of bathtubs at every turn. On top of all this, there is no required inspection for cars. If the entire front of your car is smashed in, none of your lights or indicators work, black clouds of smoke issue from underneath and it still runs, well then you can drive it. Scary and true, and I haven't even told you about my car yet.

I can say with absolute certainty that my car could only be street-legal in Puerto Rico, and maybe India. He is a 1992 Chevrolet Lumina/Tank named Maverick and I got him off my friend Angel for $300. Angel ran him into a lightpost and the whole left side is scraped up, there are metal shards sticking out of the drivers side door and I have no drivers side mirror. To open the hood there is a rope under the floor mats that, if pulled quite forcefully, will open it. One window won't roll down unless you take the stick out of the wedge and I don't think any of my blinkers work. Don't even mention AC or stereo. The real problem is that the car won't die. He just roars to life every morning and I can't scrap him and get my $300 back.

The good thing about Maverick is I found out he can run without oil, water or gas.
Wayward indeed.

Christchurch Earthquake 22.2.11

2011-02-27T18:41:00.000-08:00

This is dedicated to the people of Christchurch who lost their lives, and to their families. Currently the death count is 148 and rising, with hundreds still missing. My heart and prayers go out to them.

When the earth shook Christchurch seven days ago I was sitting next to my boxing coach Adam, chatting away, stretching, getting ready for class. Without warning, the city went from calm to chaos in seconds. The ceiling tiles started falling, the long, fluorescent light bulbs exploded over our heads. Adam grabbed my arm roughly and we dashed for the doorway, arms over our heads, legs unable to balance on the rolling floor, as if it were made of ice. The receptionist at the desk screamed as a giant bookshelf fell over, nearly crushing her. I tripped and tumbled my way into the small space between the two doors, now holding about twelve of us and prayed for the shaking to end.

I heard later that it had lasted 40-50 seconds and I can say with certainty that it was the scariest minute of my life. Once the rumbling stopped and we all started breathing again, it took time to stand up and get over the shock of the experience. Small bursts of hysteric laughter filled the room and we knew we were lucky to be alive. Quickly we left the building, everyone grabbing their phones to try to make contact with their loved ones. I tried frantically to get in touch with Pete, knowing he could have been high up on scaffolding, but all lines were dead. All electricity down. All water off.

Within minutes the streets were jammed with cars trying to get home to see if their house was still up and their families safe. Luckily I was on my bike and it was easier to navigate through the traffic, large cracks and holes, piles of rubble and liquefaction: giant mounds of mud and sand that came out of the earth through the pavement. I remember being amazed at the damage but also at the efficiency of the police, fire department and many others who were instantly on scene, commanding order from insanity.

Once at home I joined my neighbors in the confusion. A man walked by with a radio to tell us that the 6.3 earthquake had taken down the cathedral, the symbol and soul of the city. A woman near me started to cry. Another car pulled up with news that the city centre had crumbled and that many people had died, the first deaths since the wave of earthquakes hitting Christchurch began in September. More news, more rumors, more stories circled us, but I didn't start breathing again until I saw Pete turning the corner and biking towards me in one piece. Only then did I allow myself to cry.

As the days have dragged on, all we can do is wait. We got electricity back late Tuesday night, and when the lights popped on cheers and applause erupted from up and down the street. Phones and internet started working again Wednesday afternoon, and every day I've been busy boiling what water we can get hold of. Every night we watch the news, watch the death toll rising, watch the city suffering and we know how good we truly have it.

The good news and hope lay with the people of Christchurch. Hours after the quake thousands streamed to streets asking what they could do to help. Everyone was hugging, helping, giving all that they had, bonding together in this great tragedy. News of disaster response teams coming in from Australia, The UK, The States, Singapore, Taiwan and Japan. Stories of ordinary citizens going extraordinary lengths to help out their neighbors. A man with a well in the suburbs has been pumping 90,000 litres of water a day for thousands. A facebook group formed and received 12,000 volunteers to help clean the streets, shovel liquefaction off the roads and go door-to-door in some areas offering whatever assistance was needed.

All of these stories have been a real inspiration and a real tribute to the people of Christchurch, and of New Zealand. The strength and heart of this small island nation in the face of devastation and pain shows what they are really made of, and what is possible when humanity comes together and gives for the greater good of all. This alone gives me hope for the future.

People of Christchurch: I thank you. My thoughts are continually with you.

In Piam Memoriam

2011-02-10T17:41:00.000-08:00

I'd like to start by saying "Thank you" to everyone that came here today. It's been a really difficult week for Pete and I, and your loving support is much appreciated. The death of a close friend is never easy, and in these trying times I feel it's best to be surrounded by my loved ones. So once again, thank you for being here. I will try my best not to cry.

We are here today to honor the life of Captain Archibald Jack Cooper. He was a most loyal van, and yet I like to think of him more as a friend and family member. Although I didn't know him for very long he was always there for me. There to pick me up at the airport when I came back to New Zealand, there to drive us to our new life in Christchurch, there when I needed a hug or someone to talk to. He was always a good listener.

I wish I could tell you more about his past which I'm sure was as rowdy and adventurous as his last days, but all I know is that we adopted him from Mr. John Cooper, Pete's brother, who is to be commended for all the hard work, time, effort and love he put in with The Captain. John is a mechanic and although it seemed the end for Old Arch he refused to pull the plug on his dear friend. Archie's engine was rebuilt, along with multiple other surgeries, to give the Ole Fella another chance to feel the wind on his face as he trundled, gasped and wheezed his way through the mountains once again.

To me, Capt. Arch was not only a friend but a symbol of freedom. We drove up and down the length of the South Island together. He went with us up to the beaches of Kaiteriteri and Nelson, down through the mountains in the Southern Alps, along the eastern coastlines, and navigated us through the city of Christchurch, knowing that we would be lost without him. And now we are.

I look to the Universe for some answers and some peace. It tells me that everyone has their destined time on this Earth, and well, Archie was no spring chicken. He passed away driving back from Queenstown, and I bettcha he couldn't have been happier. Full tank of gas, new oil and a wide-open road, long as the eye can see. Before we knew there was something wrong he just lost power and came to a stop on the side of the highway with a nice, loud thud: his last hoorah before passing into the Land of the Unknown.

As a parting joke, Archie left us about 20 km. north of a town called Twizel, just past Lake Pukaki. For all who don't know, Twizel is more of a village in the middle of nowhere. Population: 1,200 occupants. Pete and I hitched a ride into town and walked over to the one pub in town, banking on Small Town Kiwi Hospitality to get us out of this mess before the sun set. Not much luck there, but we did find some friendly and helpful people at Shawty's, the one restaurant in town. After hearing our story, Troy the owner left his full restaurant to drive us to his house, switch cars and get a tow rope, drive out to get The Captain and tow him back into town, dropping us off in front of the mechanic's shop. All without taking any money or beer offered.

Saint Troy of Twizel, you are an Angel of Compassion for Poor Travelers. Thank you.

The next morning we got up and found Russel the Mechanic. He takes a look at poor Arch, shows Pete the blown head gasket and where water got into the cylinders, and signs the Death Certificate for 9:15 am, Tuesday, February 8th, 2011. Unless we have $1,300 to fix him. We do not. Russel offers us $50 to take him off our hands, committing his soul to the High Heavens and his parts as an Organ Donor to other sick and dying vehicles.

The next part in this tragedy involves me sweet-talking a bus driver into driving out of the way with a bus filled with people over to our van, loading up half of our life, and taking us to Christchurch. In this includes Pete's BMX bike, my snowboard, a single mattress, our bags from the weekend, an assortment of tools, snow chains, cooking pots, helmets, shoes, a tea kettle, a skateboard, and a box of beer. After seeing out tired and stressed expressions the driver, in true Kiwi Hospitality, doesn't even charge us for all the extra space we're using. Once in Christchurch we re-load into a taxi and head for home, too exhausted to even comprehend our loss.

What now? It hasn't been easy to cope with our grief, and learning to live with our loss has been a challenge this week. Archie's death teaches us to cherish the time we have with our loved ones now. Right now. "In Piam Memoriam" means "In Loving Memory," and that is why we are here today: to remember Captain Archibald Jack Cooper in our heads and in our hearts.

To end this, I'd like to quote Kahlil Gibran in his poem "Death":

"For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."

Dance, Archie, dance. And know that you will be missed.

Bring on the Love

2011-01-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I found out that the government housing projects across the street from our apartment are specifically allocated for people who just got out of prison and are being integrated back into society. At least living in the ghetto keeps life interesting.

Oh New Zealand, Land of the Open Front Door: I missed you. How could I not miss a country where it's fashionable for men to wear short shorts and rubber boots (stubbies and gum boots)? How could I not miss the mountains and lakes, the sheep shearing contests and the traditional family meal of an energy drink and a greasy meat pie? Whilst flying into Auckland International Airport a huge weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders and before I could stop myself a river of tears gushed forth and I was sobbing. No person has ever been that happy to be in Auckland, the only part of New Zealand forsaken by the Gods. In typical fashion, the large man sitting next to me did what any self-respecting, staunch, stiff-upper-lip Kiwi male would do when faced with emotion: He pretended it wasn't happening. One more flight to Queenstown and I was back in the arms of my boyfriend Pete after a very, very long five months away. After celebrating the New Year and spending a week with our friends, we packed up Pete's van and headed up to Christchurch for work.

(*Note on the van: Pete's brother John gave it to us when he went back to England and there has been a wee disagreement as to the name of the van. Pete named him Archie, and I named him Captain Jack. I'll keep you posted on any compromise made.)

Coming to Christchurch has been an interesting challenge in getting to know the "Big City" of 400,000 people, none of whom we know. We took the first furnished apartment we found near the city center (centre), looked around and then wondered why we had taken it in the first place. To top off all the magic ChCh has to offer, we experienced our first earthquake last week. Well, three of them.

(*Note on earthquakes: To answer some of your recent questions, yes, earthquakes are very scary. The earth and everything attached to it moves and vibrates and you know that the time has come for you to die. Instantly you wish that you had been to Paris just one more time. And then it stops. You laugh manically because you have just cheated death somehow and you look up nervously, hoping the building in stable. Earthquakes: Not fun.)

Besides that whole cheating-death feeling, Christchurch continues to grow on me. Pete goes to work everyday, scaffolding on building sites from the Big Poppa Earthquake back in August, which are everywhere; the entire city is under construction. I have been looking about for some cash work but I don't have a work visa so I'm finding it a bit tricky. I'm having fun filling the time though.

Today I...

-talked to a lady about volunteering with refugees and helping them adjust to their new surroundings, so I hope that goes through.

-broke my jandal (flip flop) and walked home barefoot. I'm down to one pair of shoes (crocs). Again.

-bought a bike. He's blue and gold, blue from the paint, gold from the rust. When the sun hits it the rusty metal sparkles. It's a total piece of crap, I love it. Name: unknown.

-enrolled in Muay Thai Boxing classes again now that my wrist has healed.

Bring on the love.

American, Bro

2010-11-08T09:05:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been doing a little experiment. Not for money or any actual scientific data, just curiosity. After my year in New Zealand I've contracted a nameless rare disease which renders me incapable of calling people anything else except "Bro." Pushing myself past the borders of the small island nation at the bottom of the world, I have to ask myself: How will different authority figures around the world respond when called, or referred to as "Bro"?

Note: United States of America Border Security Guards do not like being called "Bro."
Altercation: Small heated debate in the Chicago O'Hare Airport about the safety of the country Laos. I staunchly defended the Lao-wegians and questioned the validity and factual statements of the Important Man Behind The Desk. Turns out he had never even left America and I might have stated that he had no basis whatsoever to be spouting such ridiculous twaddle, and that the people Laos are wonderful and I feel safer there than in America, Bro.
Hypothesis: He could have jailed me for days, yet I regret nothing and would do it again.

I'm always amazed when they let me back into America. Not that I should be, seeing as how I hold and shiny, blue passport and was born here. It's just that I know I'm going to screw with their system and I'm always mildly amused by the thought. So a few weeks ago I sneakily waltzed back into Austin, Texas with my Bro's blazing, to surprise my family and friends. It had been over two years since I was last home so I figured I might as well make a good entrance. My secret-keeper was my stepsister Laura, who picked me up at the airport and took me home. My mother answered the door, burst into tears and tackled me on the front lawn. My stepdad Evan laughed. My brother Sam stood stunned in the middle of a restaurant but thankfully did not tackle me as he's quite a bit taller. My best friends Anja, Ruth and Brittney all screamed, and my stepmom Jasmine screamed louder. To get my dad home she told him that a tree fell on the roof and he was home quickly to find me standing in his backyard. Initially stunned like Sam, he proceeded to not let go of me for a few hours and cried tears of joy, I'm assuming for having his roof intact.

Adjusting to American life has been the real challenge here. People keep asking me what part of Canada I'm from. All my poor, unemployed friends have these shiny, flat, touch screen phones I've never seen before and there are sixteen brand new monstrosities of condos in my beloved downtown area, which I do not recall being asked permission to build. Alas, it seems Austin is growing at a rapid pace without me.

Don't worry though, the Great Spirit of Austin remains. How could it not be? The official city slogan is "Keep Austin Weird." The Omeletry still cranks out a wicked breakfast, Polvos margaritas still kick my ass and I still know every employee at the Posse East, who welcome me back with open arms and a free pitcher of the best beer in Austin. Somehow in between my reunion with Austin I've also managed to get two jobs, which is amusing at best because we all know how I dislike working. So throughout the week you can either find me waiting tables at Cuatros on 24th and San Gabriel or behind the desk at the South Austin Gym on S. Lamar. Cuatros is great because its really chilled out, I can call my boss "Bro" and waiting tables is the easiest job in the world for someone who has the conversation skills of a late-night talk show host. The gym is fun and painful because it's owned by my good friend Randy Palmer and I have started my Thai boxing training again. Which hurts.

And yes, bowing to the technological era taking the U.S. by storm, I have purchased the biggest, cheapest phone I could find. Give me a call at 512-696-2998 if you're in the Austin area. Keep in mind that I'm still getting used to the way of life here, yet refusing to adjust to it on account that it would be bad for my soul. No, I cannot access Facebook from the dinner table, I don't have a car or TV, and I have no idea who that supposedly famous guy walking by is. Although I did accidentally flip off Kanye West yesterday. As I've stated before: I regret nothing.

I'm such a crap American, Bro.

Oktoberfest!

2010-10-03T06:49:00.001-07:00

I watched as the small girl's eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out standing up. The tent was too crowded for her to fall left, right, or face-forward, so gravity did its job and she fell backward, knocking over ten people at the closest four tables. It was in this moment that I realized I had to get out of Munich or the Oktoberfest would kill me.

Oktoberfest, stated plainly, is this most incredible thing I have ever witnessed; incredible not always being a positive thing. Imagine six million people trying to cram themselves into twelve tents that can hold a few thousand. Imagine the drunkest you've ever been, next to thousands who have had more to drink than you have. Imagine the fattest man you have ever seen, wearing the shortest shorts you have ever seen, waving a thick, heavy glass beer stein near you head whilst belting out one of Germany's oldest drinking songs. Imagine chaos.

If you look closely, you might even see a girl in the middle wearing a blue checkered dirndl (the traditional German dress). She is standing on a bench that seats six with fifteen people, toasting and singing and dancing with the rest. Her dreadlocks reach halfway down her back now and she is smacking a few people in the face with them as she dances. They don't seem to notice, the energy in the tent is all they can feel. The rhythm, the heartbeat, the central pulse pushes forward, faster and higher, beating the beat of life into every core, until nothing makes sense any longer. Then suddenly, without warning the music stops. The girl's eyes snap back into focus, she raises her glass, holding a litre of the best beer in the world, bellows "PROST!!!" and smashes it into her neighbors glass. The madness continues from there.

All together I did five days at Oktoberfest. At the end I thought I was dying because my liver was trying to kick its way out from the inside. The memories however, I would not trade for anything. I loved standing at a table with other Americans, Canadians, Irish, Germans, Chinese, and Spanish people. I love that I met half of Italy in one afternoon. I love the different cultures, languages, people from all walks of life brought together with the common goal of drinking beer and having a good time. I love that at one point I was concerned about contracting lederhosen poisoning, a highly dangerous malady concerning short leather shorts and suspenders. I love all the best friends I made and forgot in the span of minutes, and the old friends I was fortunate to meet up with. Thank you Martin who let me stay at his place, thank you Jordan and Mara for the dirndls and the beginning, thank you to Crazy Irish John, Mark and Krasna for the end, thank you Vicky and her lovely mother Tina who let me drink water on the fifth night while they drank beer, and thank you to Pete who talked to the death rattle coming out of my throat every morning and didn't laugh too much. I wouldn't have made it without you guys.

My goal for Oktoberfest was to do it right, do it well, and then never do it again. Mission accomplished: nothing on Earth could drag me back there again. Yet I am proud to have survived an exhilarating experience.

Mama Mia

2010-09-15T02:03:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago I almost died. Serves me right for accepting a dinner invitation from a large Italian family.

Currently I am staying just north of Venice in a town called Conegliano visiting my old friend Sharla, her Italian boyfriend Giorgio and his lovely Italian family. It was his uncle Luciano's 50th birthday and we were all invited out for a meal. It seemed harmless enough, but what do I know?

The restaurant was pretty, the company vibrant and the wine continuously flowing from large ceramic jugs. Luciano was kind enough to call ahead and inform the staff that I was vegetarian, and they were ready. The bread sticks and then the fresh baked bread for starters was flowing as continuously as the wine. Next the mouth-watering mushroom bruschetta and then a beautiful plate of grilled eggplant, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, polenta and a large square of freshly melted cheese was delivered to me while the rest were served different cuts of meats, cheeses, spreads and breads. I was just finishing my massive plate, about to sit back satisfied with the meal, when Sharla leans over and informs me that what I had just eaten was the main appetizer and that they would soon bring out the starters for the main meals. Meals. With an 'S'. My face fell.

About that moment Giorgio and his uncle recognize my tortured facial expression and burst into loud Italian laughter before informing the family of my misunderstanding. What followed, after everyone stopped laughing at my expense, was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. What followed was a nine-course meal of more breads, bruschettas, salads, spiced aubergine, garlic stuffed tomatoes, six or seven different cuts of meat for the other eight members at the table with whole roasted onions and lemons, a lovely, creamy fish plate for me called Baccala with more polenta than I ever dreamed possible, topped off with more breads, meats, cheeses, and potatoes.

Sharla looks at me with pity and shares a pearl of wisdom, clearly a victim of Italian dinners in the past. "Just keep eating until your jaw stops moving. Then you know you're finished."

After a stunning meal sparkled with laughter, I sit back exhausted and rub my poor belly. Espresso appears in front of me, to my delight, and we sit and chat and they poke at my tattoos and ask me questions about traveling. We sit and no food comes, and I am relieved. Bottles of Prosecco, Italian champagne, appear next, and then the cake. The most amazing cake in the world. In my disabled state I could only pick up my fork again, but after the first bite I could have eaten the entire thing. It was fluffy and light, rich and dense. Crispy in places and creamy in others. Lemony and buttery, chocolatey, layers upon layers of bliss. It tasted better than sex, probably closer to what babies taste like. This cake is proof that the Gods exist and love us.

We all lick our plates and sit back again, smiling. About that time my body informs me that it can't handle anymore, and Luciano informs me that the Grappa is on its way. First the regular Grappa, then blueberry. If you don't know what Grappa is, it's the pure alcoholic form from grapes. It tastes like burning rubber, but in a nice way. When they brought out Limoncella, a drink of lemon rind, sugar and more alcohol, my head was spinning and I was done.

The whole event lasted five hours, and I am grateful for having survived. We are invited to another family meal tonight, so in preparation I'm not going to eat anything today. Hopefully they'll have more cake.

Candy from a Baby

2010-09-08T00:54:00.000-07:00

The alarm went off next to my head at 6:20 a.m. I slunk out of bed and lit a candle to see my way down the stairs in the mountain hut. In the kitchen I found what I sought: a large metal pot and long wooden spoon. I tiptoe carefully up the centuries-old staircase and into a room filled with children sleeping peacefully, their innocent little faces just now visible from the rising sun. I love teaching.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGABANGBANG!!!!!!
GOOD MORNING CHILDREN!! IT'S 6:30 A.M. TIME TO GET UP UP UP!!!

It was unnecessary to get them up so early. It was also quite unnecessary to wake them up in that fashion. One kid jumped a foot in the air, a few screamed. Most just rolled over and moaned. There was no real reason for doing it, except simply that I said bedtime was at 10:00 and they had stayed up late talking.

I operate on the principle that every action has a reaction. A boy sprayed his deodorant into the girls room, therefore each girl gets a turn spraying the boys room with his own deodorant. The boys walked around with a strange powdery scent for the rest of the week. I find this method extremely fair and entertaining. I'm not a huge fan of rules, and I am definitely not their mother, so they are allowed to swear as long as it's in English. They are allowed to play in the mud if they don't track it in the house, and they can eat all the sugar they want until dinnertime. If I catch them after that, whatever they have is mine. So easy, like taking candy from a baby, literally.

And then, after a week of bonding and fun, they are gone. After a week of testing our boundaries, pushing our limits, living, laughing and working together, these little German children say goodbye and shake my hand. A few I would like to punch in the face and then sterilize, but most I would just like to hug goodbye, and thank them for the time we shared together. But no, I'm in Germany, and they just shake my hand. It's a bit weird.

After four very crazy weeks, eighty-nine children, and eight instructors and language assistants, it's time to leave the tiny village of Baad. Living in the Alps for a month has quite possibly made me weirder than I was before going in, but there's not much I can do about that now. I'm currently siting in Innsbruck, Austria and tomorrow my plan is to head south to Venice, Italy to catch up with Sharla, an old friend I used to work with at Fado in Austin.

Small world, huh?

Mountains of Patience

2010-08-19T07:32:00.002-07:00

She's speaking to me again in German. She knows I don't speak German. It's 7:00 am, I am physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted and all I want is three cups of coffee, but Silvia our robust, smiling cook continues on with our morning ritual. '"Guten morgen Silvia....ja.....ja....kaffee, bitte......danke....." I say. Great peals of laughter disappear into the kitchen for my jug of coffee. On returning it is always the same, something to the effect of "Ra-hell, you still don't understand German yet? You've been here a week! Tomorrow I try again." And then the jolly woman erupts in laughter once more.

The change from living in my van in New Zealand to teaching German children English in the Alps has been extreme. My work day starts at 7:00, we get between 30-40 kids up, ages 9-16 and usher them down to breakfast. We play English games in the morning, then are usually off hiking, rock climbing, and doing high ropes courses in the afternoons. Dinner at 6:00, then an intense hour of physical exercise I like to call "fun time" and if we exhaust them enough they'll be in bed by 11:00. My "free time" are the hours I get to sleep in between when the children go to bed and when they wake up again. As you might imagine, it's very full on.

Although quite stressful at times, I'm having a lot of fun. I wake up every morning and look up to the stunning green alps that technically belong to Austria. I'm living in a village of about 50 people called Baad in the Kleinwasertal, which is a funny area in that it's a part of Austria but only accessible from the Germany side due to the towering Alps blocking any sort of road. I'm leaning German slowly and understand more than I speak, but it can be frustrating being the only teacher/instructor there that only speaks English. My Vietnamese has not helped me one bit.

The kids, for the most part, are great. I pretty much let them do what they want as long as they aren't too loud, and operate under the basic principles that when you grow up it is socially unacceptable to be muddy so have fun now kiddos! I find that I'm not here to be a parent, but more of a mentor giving out some good, general information about life they might not get from their parents or school teachers. However, that does not mean that I'm any good at it. Enter Maxim, age 12:

"Rachel, what is a booty call?"

I choke reflexively, not knowing if I heard him correctly. I look over at Jordan, one of the other teachers, who is wide-eyed and thanking the Gods she was not the one asked.

"Well...errr...Maxim. Well, when two people love each other..."

At that Jordan cracks up laughing and I have to laugh because how am I supposed to explain this?? I have to tell him because if I don't he'll hear it from another kid and will undoubtedly be misinformed. I have to tell him because I used to hate it when people said "I'll tell you when you're older." I have to tell him because it's the right thing to do. And I did.

Maybe I'm cut out for this, maybe not. Patience has been my best friend thus far, and I haven't beaten any of the kids yet so that's a good sign. Although I have come close.

Wandering Downfall

2010-08-19T07:32:00.001-07:00

It's 5:00 am and I can't sleep.

Maybe it's because I'm still a bit jetlagged from the 41 straight hours of travel I recently survived. From Auckland to Hong Kong to London to Munich by plane, to a small town called Immenstadt by train and then to a tiny village called Kranzegg by car in the middle of the mountains in southern Germany. Somewhere in between I pulled a classic Rachel move and lost my wallet and a little bit of my heart. The wallet I can find through the airlines, the heart piece I'm pretty sure I left in New Zealand and will be much more difficult to retrieve.

Or maybe I'm awake because my head is flooded with memories from the last month. Pete, Crazy Carl and I left Queenstown at the beginning of July, boosted up to say goodbye to Nelson and my Kiwi family there then headed to the North Island. A few days out and about in Wellington with James and Stina, through Napier to Taupo with it's beautiful lake and hot springs, up to Rotorua which smells like rotten eggs, and west to Raglan, a small hippie community and surfers paradise. (*Note: If I ever dissdisappear the face of the Earth, you can find me in Raglan.) Up through Auckland to Whangarei, Kerikeri, Paihia, Kaitaia and all the way to Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of New Zealand. Back down and around the Coromandel Peninsula for a few days and back to Auckland to pick up my shiny new passport and sell Crazy Carl with a tearful goodbye. Harder still was saying goodbye to Pete at the airport and leaving the land I have grown to love and think of as my home.

Why I tend to leave the people I care about most at airports I will never know. That will be my ultimate downfall, the fact that I have got on every single bus, train and plane I have ever bought a ticket for. How many times should I have stayed? How many happy lives could I have had, if not for this insatiable urge to move, travel and grow? Whether it's a genetic defect or just itchy feet, it drains me physically, mentally and emotionally every single time I go. It's heart-wrenching to know, as I step on the plane, that I might never come back or see those special people who have made me a better person ever again. It's one of many sacrifices I have had to make, again and again, to enjoy the freedoms I enjoy and the life I have chosen to lead. And here I am, staring out the window at the sunny, green countryside of Germany, smiling and looking forward to my next adventure.

Tomorrow I leave to start work as a language assistant in a kids summer camp. I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to do, but that's nothing new is it?

Living on the Edge

2010-07-03T02:37:00.000-07:00

Like an abusive relationship I get thrown to the ground and get up for more. Telltale signs of beatings surface in the form of bruises on my knees and tailbone area. I avoid questioning as to why my clothes are ripped and torn. Mountain, you are a cruel mistress.

While we're all here, lets take a minute to laugh at the Texan who decided to learn how to snowboard. At first it seemed a good idea, some of my closest friends being snowboard instructors and me living in Queenstown, one of the best places in the world for it. Plus there was the "cool factor." Snowboarders always look so smooth and confident, striding with purpose and so sure of their passion that I wanted to be in their Cool Kid Club. Little did I know the price I would pay for my vanity.

Day one we gather at Zeb and Andys house before going up Coronet Peak, the mountain closest to Queenstown. As preparation for my first lesson, Andy sits me down in front of the TV and I play Shaun White Snowboarding on the XBox for a few minutes. If you don't know who Shaun White is either, don't ask a snowboarder. They will get angry. Up on the mountain which wasn't even open yet, we hike up a bit and Zeb very patiently teaches me the basics of sliding, turning, braking and falling. I am absolute crap but stubborn as hell, so for the next few days we spent our mornings hiking up, boarding down, and hiking back up again. Bruises and pains start to appear, as do the beginnings of addiction. It was then I realized I was in serious trouble, because snowboarding is a seriously expensive addiction.

So far I have been very lucky with gear, or perhaps destiny had taken hold once again. On the mountain I need a set of thermals, a waterproof snowboarding jacket and pants, boots, bindings, board, goggles, gloves, and an assortment of hats, hoodies, scarves, wool socks and hankerchiefs to cover my entire body and shield me from the icy torrent. All of this came to me quite serendipidously through several friends, except the boots which I bought used and cheap. With my first ever collection of winter gear I was ready for the start of the season, or so I thought. While I'm being physically abused by the kiddie slope on the first day on the lifts, Andy breaks his collarbone at the top and is instantly out for six weeks. The reality that I could get seriously injured sets in, and I finish earlier than usual and go over to Pete's house to borrow his BMX helmet which I have been wearing religiously ever since.

I know the helmet kicks my "cool factor" down a few notches, but we all know I'm not cool anyway. The mountain fashion scene is a strage beast and I want no part in it. I am there to snowboard in my secondhand gear and I don't want anyone watching me while I do it, which is exactly the opposite thought of everyone else there. The "snow bunnies" walk around wearing makeup and designer gear that they would ruin if they actually got on the lift, all the guys are wearing oversized, baggy shirts and pants that they're about to trip on, and there's a weird new trend to wear mismatching flourescent outfits that I just don't understand because it looks pretty ridiculous and hurts my eyes. I blame the Australians for that one.

In total I did five days on the lifts (not counting my training days) of Coronet Peak and The Remarkables, another mountain near town. I connect my turns now, I shred, I board on the greens and some blues, and I am so addicted to this crazy sport that I am concerned for my sanity and wellbeing. I have never visualized myself being a mountain person, but two months of boarding and I am beginning to love them. I've started saying weird things like "Epic shred aye bro! Sweet as ride!" whatever that means. The cold is bearable when the sun is shining and the mountain is covered with powder. How snow has the ability to be so soft and so hard at the same time I will never know, but we have made peace and I smile whenever I fall, knowing that the mountain is simply putting me in my place when I get a bit too cocky.

For now, these beginnings will have to do. Today is my last day in Queenstown, and it will be sorely missed. Tomorrow Crazy Carl, Pete and I are driving up to Nelson to say goodbye to the beautiful people I have grown to love there and think of as family. I only have one month left here in New Zealand until they boot me out, so I'm going to check out the North Island before catching my flight to Germany on July 27th, thus starting a new adventure and falling in love with life all over again.

And as Zeb always says: "If you're living on the edge, you're not taking up too much space."

How 'bout them apples!

2010-05-19T18:01:00.001-07:00

It's not easy to admit when an apple gets the better of you. There I am, standing at the top of my ladder frustrated, exhausted, and trying to reach the last, highest apple I'll pick that day. I swear loudly, tug at it roughly and as it falls into my hand the branch which no longer has the weight of the apple holding it down rears back and slaps me fully across the face. Never again will I speak harshly to a piece of fruit, because I think it heard me.

This has been a week filled with first-time experiences for me. First time to do a full day of manual work. First time to talk to an apple. First time to get my arse kicked by a tree. Not that I have problems with manual labor, or conversations with fruit for that matter, I've just chosen occupations where daily injuries are usually at a minimum level. My body is not used to such treatment: I am battered and bruised, my back and shoulders are constantly sore, my hands look like they're about to fall off, my feet are falling off, and I'm having a surprisingly good time.

Every day this past week I've been up by six in the morning, which is easy to do when you're in bed by eight every night. As the sun rises, I drive to the orchard and soak up the beauty of the morning. I'm currently living in Marahau, a small community of about two hundred hippies living on the edge of the Abel Tasman National Park. Marahau consists of two streets, a kayak tour company, a bar, and the most stunning scenery that always manages to take my breath away. From there Carl and I drive over the hill to Riwaka, an even smaller "town" where the apples are waiting to be picked. Our crew consists of Neil, our Scottish foreman and a motley crew from Sweden, Germany, Brazil, Argentina, Chile, America and New Zealand. After general morning pleasantries I pop in my earphones, put my apple basket over my head and shoulders and head off to my row for the day.

Once I got over the pure exhaustion of the first few days, I realize how much I like apple picking. I show up and leave when I want, I get to be outside all day, I can listen to my music or chat to the other pickers, and I decide how much I'll make that day based on how hard I work. Sure picking apples can be menial and tedious, but I find that every day is different and full of challenges. Plus the sheer volume keeps it interesting. We get paid per bin, which is a giant wooden crate that must be filled to the brim. I can fit about one hundred apples in my bag, and each bin takes about twenty five bags. If I finish four bins that means I picked roughy ten thousand apples that day, which might explain why I've gone a bit loopy and entered into polite conversation with an inanimate object.

What amazes me even more is that I've never put much thought into where apples come from. As if they magically appear in the large bin in the supermarket, perfectly round and red, I have never really wondered who picked the fruit and vegetables I buy at the store. Who worked six days a week for minimum wage in rain or shine to bring me this crisp, delightful apple? And for that matter who milked the cow and harvested the coffee beans for my coffee? Who slaved in the paddies to bring me rice to accompany my vegetables bought at the market? Next time you go grocery shopping have a look where everything was from, and maybe offer up a small prayer of appreciation to the Gods that you were born on the receiving end of things, that you were born in a country of priviledge, and that you have the luxury to take these seemingly small things for granted. And if there are New Zealand apples there, I humbly ask that you offer up a smile for me and buy the Fugi, not the Braeburns, because I'll get paid more.

Zen and the Art of Van Maintenance

2010-05-19T18:00:00.001-07:00

About a week ago I was having a little lie down and thinking about life. About how knowledge comes and goes, how some of it comes naturally and logically, while some comes through study or instruction. This may not seem like an odd moment, in fact it would have been quite normal had I not been lying under my van covered in grease with a mechanics jumper on.

Carl was sick and I couldn't help him. My basic car maintenance knowledge didn't help much because he has gas, oil and water and didn't need a tire change. I was in way over my head. Even more scary was the prospect of having to go to a mechanic where I would undoubtedly be overcharged for a minor problem and join the mass of suckers helping to pay off his holiday home. Stress found its way and snuggled up under my shoulder blade. Helplessness washed over me.

For travelers there is an ever-present awareness of being overcharged. I accept my fate in the face of poverty, or if I just can't be bothered, but usually a small amount of effort wields great results and is nicer to my wallet. In Viet Nam, for example, they are much more willing to negotiate extortionate prices if you can haggle in their numbers, so all I had to do was learn a few words to better my situation, my purse and make a Vietnamese person crack up laughing all at once! So I set about the task of speaking the language of mechanics, hoping it would help me out. After all, communication is all we have to bring this whole crazy world together.

My friend Rowan used to study auto electrician stuff so I dragged Carl over to his place for help. He said he would help and teach me if I actually paid attention, which is fair. We started by cleaning all of my spark plugs, thinking it was an electrical problem. I learned that Carl has four cylinders and eight spark plugs, which are all hard to get out, clean, and get back in. I learned that the distributor distributes electric spark from the coil to each spark plug in correct firing order. I learned that the carburetor blends an even air-fuel ratio for the engine. I learned that brake fluid is very important and that I should fill mine soon. I learned how to put my bumper back on.

After this exciting adventure in auto maintenance Carl drove for two whole days. Then the problems started again and Rowan calls back to say he is out of town but maybe it's the fuel pump. Stress ball back. Sensations of being overwhelmed flooding back. There is a mechanic a few streets away so Carl and I crawl down there and miraculously make it, and I drop every word I have just learned from Rowan so as to be only minimally taken advantage of. Tony the mechanic thinks it might be the disgusting fuel filter. I learn about fuel filters, go and buy a new one myself and we put it in together. Tony only charges me twenty bucks on account that I am an apt pupil.

Carl runs smoothly for a week, then dies again. I rip all of my hair out. My German hitchhiker Stephan and I push him to the nearest mechanic and I explain my woes. The three of us take the whole front of the van apart to check out the fuel pump. I am getting very greasy so I go put on a mechanics jumper I happen to have in the van, a lasting relic of the Wild Foods Festival. Graham the mechanic cracks up laughing and finally we are speaking the same language. I learned that there are manual and electric fuel pumps. I learned that there are external pumps and internal pumps. Mine is located internally within my fuel tank, and that I how I came to be lying down covered in grease thinking about all of my new-found knowledge while taking out my fuel tank, which is massive and very, very heavy. .

Now we get down to the real questions like why am I only learning this now after twenty-four years of life? Maybe it's the first time I've wanted to learn, but most likely it's because every other time I've had car problems I just call my Dad and he uses his magic Dad Powers to fix it! Good car care doesn't seem like the most popular information to pass from father to daughter, but hell, it's important.

Fathers of the World: Please teach your daughters about cars. Someday you might not be there to save the day and they will have to do it themselves.

To be honest, this has been one of the best adventures yet. I spent a month driving all over the South Island of New Zealand. (**Click on the link below to follow on the map) From Nelson I went up into Golden Bay to visit friends in Takaka. Then I picked up my friend Pernilla and we drove down the west coast, through Westport, to Barrytown, population 37, with one street, one beach, and one bar. If sand flies were angels, the west coast would be heaven....stunning and itchy. Heading south we drove through Greymouth to Hokitika for the Wild Foods Festival which should be listed as one of the 100 Things To Do Before You Die type thing. Everyone goes in a costume (enter Pernilla's mechanic jumpsuit) and eats weird food and drinks weird local beer and drinks. Don't try the Mountain Oysters (ie goat testicles). From there Pernilla went back to Nelson and I headed further south with Paul from Germany and Chris from Oregon. Interesting story about Chris, we met two years in a hostel in Panama. He recognized me from across a parking lot! This is a small, small world. So we went down to Franz Josef and Fox Glaciers for some hiking, then down to Wanaka and over to Queenstown. There we seperated and I went to stay with Zeb, one of the "family" from Nelson. He's a white water raft guide, and he took me along for a day of amazing rafting, which I found out I'm really bad at. I stayed in Q-town a lot longer than expected, but finally escaped to Dunedin, only to be reunited with Paul and another guy from the festival named Ben. There three of us went all the way to the southernmost tip of the south island in an area called the Catlins. Imagine waking up on a perfect, deserted beach next to a group of sea lions, seals, penguins, dolphins or albatross and you might have an inkling of what we saw. Three days down there in paradise, then I dropped the boys off in Dunedin and rocketed up the east coast through Oamaru, Timaru, a night in Christchurch where I finally found a Vietnamese food restaurant where I could order my food in Vietnamese to a very stunned waiter. One day in Akaroa to see Hector dolphins, the smallest, rarest dolphins in the world, then up through Kaikoura where you can see seals sunning on the side of the coastal highway, and back to Nelson for the goodbye party of my darling Mishaela that I promised I'd be at. And here I am.

Quite an adventure for Carl and I, plus a couple thousand kilometers. I'm hardly surprised he needed a new fuel pump after all that! Currently I'm working at an orchard picking apples, but that is a different story entirely. To be continued...

Flying High

2010-03-08T20:20:00.001-08:00

As I got to the door I was physically shaking with fear and regret. The ride had been beautiful, but I was now starting to question my motives and my sanity. Legs out the door, the wind slaps me in the face. I blew a kiss to the camera, waved "Hi Mom!" and was pushed out of a plane traveling at an altitude of 12,000 feet. I free fell 8,000 feet in fifty seconds. That's a mile and a half. That's a football field every two seconds.

The first few seconds were the worst. My body was not accepting my new environment and was rebelling. I felt twisted inside out, could not comprehend the meaning of my surroundings, could not scream as my mouth filled with rushing air. James tapped me on the shoulder. My logical brain said that meant to let go of the harness I was gripping with Hulk-like strength. I freed my hands, spread out my arms and with a jolt of clarity I was on top of the world looking down at its most breathtaking scene. It was the most amazing feeling I have ever felt, and my only regret is that it might be a while before I reach it again. I was flying.

At 4,000 feet James, my tandem buddy, pulled the cord and the parachute miraculously opened. He lifted my goggles off my face and the realization that I had just jumped out of a plane over the Abel Tasman National Park came into sharp focus. I could see Farewell Spit, the 35 kilometer long boulder bank sitting on the northernmost part of the South Island. I could see all the way from the west coast to Mt. Taranaki on the North Island. In between lay the mountains of the Tasman, the Cook Strait, Golden Bay and my little Nelson town in the distance. Looking back, it's almost like a dream. We floated down over the next few minutes, spinning in circles and screaming Ay-yai-yai-yai like a crazed mariachi band and waving to Crazy Carl in the carpark. The pounding in my head and heart as we landed smoothly on the soft grass of the drop zone was like nothing I had ever felt before. The wide-eyed adrenaline junky look took its time leaving my face, and I am forever plagued with the knowledge that I have jumped out of a plane and survived. I can now do anything. ANYTHING. That's a bit scary considering my flair for the ridiculous.

The beginning of this story really starts about an hour before I was pushed out of the plane. I have been visiting friends in Motueka and Kaiteriteri for the last few days, relaxing and swimming at the beach, socializing in the evenings when they finished work. My friend Dan came down from Takaka to do his skydiving course and I decided to leave the beach to go watch. The wide-eyed expression of pure bliss as he came down from his first jump of the day made me start to question my staunch policy on not jumping out of planes.The first twenty times I said "No!" I truly, truly meant them, yet he slowly and stealthily convinced me to go on the next jump with him anyway. Something in his smirk did the trick, something in his eyes that said "I know something you don't," and from that moment I was hooked. I've written before about Fear vs. Curiosity, and how my damned Curiosity always gets the better of me. There's just no fighting that pushy, stubborn, ever-present need to experience and grow, even if I have to plummet to my death to find out.

I've always considered myself somewhat of a pansy, except for the tattoo thing, so this definitely rates high on my Weird-o-meter, right up there with hiking up an active volcano in Guatemala wearing only flip flops as protection from the lava, the first time I ever went scuba diving and realized I could breathe under water, and riding a giant dirtbike through the mountains of Northern Viet Nam.Whether it was the bravest thing I have ever done, or the stupidest, I'm not sure. Random acts of spontaneity has always been my blessing and my curse, but I am glad for my moment in the clouds. I guess now all that's left is the age-old conundrum...What's next?

Rachel
(and Crazy Carl)

Crazy Carl

2010-03-01T15:46:00.000-08:00

I'm so in love. Not this puppy love nonsense, but that blissfully painful, butterflies-in-stomach, head over heels love. He's tall, dark and handsome. He's big and strong. I can snuggle up with him and feel safe at night. I've spent a lot of money on him, he loves a good oil down, and he doesn't mind if I drive. He's nineteen years old. His name is Carl. Crazy Carl. He's my new van.

I think I've graduated to the next level of my nomadic destiny and now live in a van. Carl is a '91 Nissan Largo, the seats fold down to make a bed and I'm dressing him up for the long haul through New Zealand. Actually I'm turning into one of those crazy ladies that scavengers through the recycling center (aka dump) muttering and trying to find cheap crap to kit out my van to make it liveable. I got into a fight with an elderly lady over a set of drawers yesterday, but screaming "I seen 'em first!" in a crazy Texas accent drove her away, which I will need to keep in mind. I'm currently on the hunt for a mattress and when I find the right one I hope to God there's no old lady there because I will take her ass out. All this erratic behavoir stems from February 11th, exactly six months to the day I have been in New Zealand. Something about that day was different, so I quit both of my jobs, got a massive tattoo on my left leg and bought a van. Slightly different to my three month anniversary when I went and purchased clothes hangers, something I don't think I've ever done before either.

That was when the wind changed. The wind. The dreaded, uprooting, chaotic, wind. When it changes there is nothing I can do except bow to its force and blow along with it. Fighting it is futile. It knows no comfort, warmth, logic or boundaries. It promises adventure, excitement, and thrill of the unknown. For those of us who chose to follow the wind, pity us and envy us. We own nothing and have everything. I feel comfortable with this lifestyle choice of mine and have embraced van-life with open arms, hoping it will embrace me too.

I walked into the bar to give my two weeks notice. Of course some sort of explanation is usually needed, but I was met with blank, confused faces when I simply replied, "the wind changed." So I launched into my "This Is The Longest I've Stayed Anywhere Ever And Now It's Time To Go" speech. Logic strikes again! I stroll over to the yoga studio and turn in my two weeks notice. "The winds changed." Knowing eyes and head nods give their approval and their blessing for my upcoming journey.

People keep asking me when and where I am going. North? South? East? West? I smile, shrug, and am happy. Blissfully happy. I don't know where I'm going, I only know where I have been. Probably I'm headed to a beach. "But what will you do??!?," they ask, stunned. I will do nothing, and I will be content. Who said you always have to do something? Doing nothing is one of my favorite things, and I'm getting very good at it. I've successfully shocked half the population of Nelson, which isn't saying much because it's such a small town. People I haven't seen in ages or hardly knew are showing up at my work to say goodbye, so apparently word has spread. I've tried talking a few friends into coming with me but to little or no avail, as per usual. It's ok though, because now that Carl and I have found each other it might get a little awkward with a third wheel.

I'll be kicking around Nelson for a few more days trying to sort out my life which never works no matter how many times I try. The amount of times I have uprooted from a place I am comfortable in does not matter, it is always hard. It is always scary. Being ok with uncertainty is the only way to get by, and I know that one day in the very near future, I will wake up, hop into the front seat and drive away, leaving friends and family that I dearly love but knowing that it is for the best.

"In the wake of your goodbye I linger,
Clinging to what might have been,
As the sun shines through the cold the truth come windward fold,
Let yourself start all over again.

In the wake of your goodbye I linger,
Reaching with my heart and soul,
But the shines through the cold and the truth come windward fold.
Don't let yourself.
Don't forget yourself.

Got to know what you're running from before you know where you running to,
What you leave behind.
I'll be gone when the morning comes,
Sun gonna paint a view,
Colors in your life."

-Big BW, Fat Freddy's Drop

Happy Jamming

2010-03-01T15:39:00.000-08:00

As the new year has come and gone, I find myself looking back on a prosperous 2009 and the promising future of 2010. I feel that my experiences around New Years Eve and New Years Day tend to set the theme for my upcoming year. Last year, for example, my brother Sam and I were cruising the beaches of southern Thailand by day, taking full advantage of the nightlife and kicked off the New Year in Ko Pha Ngan up "The Mountain" at one of the biggest parties in the world. Looking back, this has definitely been a wild year.

The last five months in New Zealand have been a gift and a half. The one thing I wish I could share the most with each and every one of you is the music that comes from these small but vibrant islands. My favorite band, Fat Freddys Drop, played on New Years Eve and I have absolutely no idea how I got the 31st and the 1st off work bartending at a busy bar, so I'll just chalk it up to divine intervention. In the afternoon I took off with Ryan and Kendall out to Marahau to swim in the sea, hike around the Abel Tasman National park and relax on the beach. Then we drove back a small ways to Riwaka, population 108, to see the show at the infamous Riwaka Hotel.

Two thousand people crowded into a tent for the show; it was maddness. I started up at the front of the stage but there were just too many people pushing to see that I bailed out the side for cover and a space to dance. The show was amazing, although not what I thought it would be. At most concerts you go to these days the band gets up, sings their CD and that's that. Fat Freddy's got up and just started jamming with every instrument I could think of. They are not a pump-your-fist-in-the-air-and-dance-wildly band, they are reggae, jazz, blues, funk, and soul. So instead of the maddness of years past, I sauntered slowly into the New Year with 2,000 other calm, dancing souls. Surrounded by so many of my friends, it was a magical evening indeed. I decided then and there that the theme of the 2010 would be Grace. Lord knows I need some.

Fat Freddys Drop, Roadie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29MgzHUhHws

We all made it back to Ryan's stationwagon in one piece and the three of us tried to sleep there for the night without much luck, along with numerous other stationwagons, vans, tents, and a boat coincidentally named Grace, alongside the highway. The night was cold and the morning was baking hot, in true New Zealand style weather. We packed up early and skipped into Motueka for some breakfast then headed back to Nelson. Ryan and I dropped Kendall off and then proceeded to Part 2 of our New Year adventure. It took two hours to reach the tiny town of Inangahua, located precisely in the middle of nowhere in the mountains. Inangahua means 'whitebait' in Maori, and if your eyes are wandering you'll miss the town entirely. If you're eyes are peeled for a massive 4-day drum and bass festival, you'll see the little sign and turn left down the dirt road.

The Phat Club in Nelson town is the place to go see some great music. It's small, you always have a good view and some dancing space, plus the doorguy Paddy is a good mate of mine so I usually get to skip in for free. Every year the owners put on a festival in the mountains and name it after the upcoming year, hence the name Phat 10. Tickets are $250 dollars, bring your tent or a van to sleep in, food for 4-5 days and enough clothing for intense heat, freezing cold, rain, mud and wind. As usual I was ridiculously unprepared. Since we showed up on the last day of the festival Paddy put my name on the guest list and we breezed in for free, sleep-deprived, exhausted and ready to dance. In about five minutes I found everyone I knew, including Paddy who was doing security at the bar and looked a bit rough, seeing as how he hadn't slept in three days. Beer in hand, sun shining, I run into Pernilla, my crazy Swedish friend, as the melodious voices of the Black Seeds fill the air. It couldn't have been a more perfect moment.

Black Seeds, So True: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDyUcmoIkl0

I've seen the Black Seeds three times, and they are spot on every time. Why miss good reggae when it's coming to you? After Black Seeds was Tiki Taane, former lead singer of Salmonella Dub, and then Kora, a group of brothers that only get together occasionally to play some wicked reggae and dub-step. They are absolutely amazing and were my favorite show of the day. After the reggae and dub-step the festival kicked up a notch with Drum-n-Bass!!! Lineup for the rest of the evening and into the morning was Dose, Bulletprookf with MC Tek, State of Mind with MC Woody, Concord Dawn, Klute...and then my memory goes a bit hazy. Pernilla and I had stuck together and danced almost ten hours when the freezing rain came down. I was barefoot.

Tiki, Faded: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74Q-oAar5DY
Kora, Burning: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkRKbdUyvqo

I need to say a few things about D&B music. I didn't really ever like it until I hit New Zealand. I called it 'Angry Music'. There is something about it though, something expressive in the random sounds and how they fit together, a heavy bassline or a good break beat. What I really like though, is how you dance to it. There is a freedom moving on your own, not needing or wanting a partner. In moving the way your body sees fit to move at that moment, in the way there is no judgement, the music flows through you. If you want to pump your fist in the air, do it. If you want to dance around like a chimpanze, sweet as. If all you can manage is a worm-like finger roll, that's also ok. If you stumble or fall, all is good because now you have a new dance move. I was covered in mud, wet from the rain, sweating from the dancing and happy as ever, although I feel my Grace had gone right out the window by that point. I'm surprisingly ok with that. Have a wee listen to the music, keep an open mind and remember that it is now 2010 and that music will transform and grow as we do.

Concord Dawn, Morning Light: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TW__7lqo2E
State of Mind, Sun King: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=imp0BqHBxyQ

After we could no longer stand we retreated to the bonfire to sit down, but decided sanctuary would be back at the tent, where we could still hear the music until nine a.m. I got a few hours of sleep, finally, and then Ryan showed up in the morning after crashing in his mate's tent. We left before the crowds and got back home to Nelson a few hours later. My bed has never felt so soft, nor my shower so warm. After a solid week of work we had another day of music last saturday, another Phat Club production called Summer Six. The lineup was Optimus Gryme, a dub-step DJ, Nathan Haines, mostly instrumental folk-type music, P-Money, a hip hop artist, Black Seeds, woohoo!!!, Katchafire, one of my all-time favorite bands and excellent reggae music plus I have a ridiculous crush on the lead singer, and Concord Dawn, again woohoo!!! After eight hours of dancing in the intense NZ sun I was exhausted and half-dead once more. It's these shows, this music that makes my time here amazing. Nelson would be just a little town if it weren't for the music that came here and the sun that shines. Such a perfect place for me. Here's some more music, all of it from New Zealand. I hope you take some time and listen to the samples, and maybe some more after that. If we cannot share music then we cannot grow, so I'm passing on what others have passed to me, knowing that it will do you a world of good.

Katchafire, Who You With: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nf9TJ9K6I9Q
Shapeshifter, Long White Cloud: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHnMcRUQP7U
Salmonella Dub, Love Your Ways: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EntFU6BWkro Push On Thru: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHYIHqSq4JQ

Happy jamming in the New Year

Children vs. Hangovers

2010-03-01T15:10:00.000-08:00

Life has taken me through many twists and turns these last four months spent in New Zealand. Not that I was expecting anything different, just that being a total workaholic and constantly surrounded by children never seemed like a viable reality for me to take part of. Yet here I am. Today is my first full day off in three and a half weeks, in which I have been working sixty-odd hours per week at my three jobs. In the mornings I wake up around 7:00 and bicycle to school and teach/ mentor teenagers with some severe issues. Although stressful, physically and emotionally draining, it's the little things that make the job worth it. A kid finishing the program and going up in the world, a kid passing a drug test, a heartfelt conversation or a hug make all the difference in the world. Today is the first day of summer holidays, so although I will miss them I am very grateful for six weeks off. School finishes in the afternoon then I'm off to the pub I bartend in downtown, unless I have a massage client booked at the yoga studio I also work for. The Vic Brewbar is where I have spent most evenings working this past month. The reason I went to apply for a job there was because in giant letters on the wall is painted

"If we're really nice to Mother Nature, she'll make us some beer."

How perfect is that?? Macs beer is a local beer, made all naturally with the goodness the Earth provides. I love it, and it's a great place to work. So from there I'm usually biking home around 11-12 at night and then I get up at 7:00 a.m. again and do it all over. I don't usually have to get up at seven, I get woken up by Ryan who is accompanying an Alvin and the Chipmunks sing-along on his harmonica.

Living with children, working with children, then coming home to children again has been a challenging few months here in Nelson, New Zealand. I wake up to the melodious sounds of Ryan, age five, stomping around the house singing and Lilly, age 0.11, gleefully scooting about with a squished banana in hand and playing with her train that sings "I've been working on the railroad" once every forty seconds. The little innocents squwak about with smiles on their faces as Rebecca and I slump on the couch, third cup of coffee in hand, heads pounding and exhausted.

Let me rephrase, I'm slumped on the couch overwhelmed, Rebecca is Super Mom. Living here has been such a learning experience for me, and filled with so many pleasures I didn't know existed. Watching Ryan learn how to read and helping him learn, watching his mind expand when you teach him new things is pretty awesome. Once I asked him what he thought the meaning of life is. He sat down and had a good long think before coming back to tell me that The Meaning Of Life Is To Play With Toys. Correct, indeed. Watching Lilly go from scooting herself around silently to now pulling herself to standing and learning how to talk in only three months is almost like a miracle. She is my little ray of sunshine, my fairy princess, and more flexible than a yogi master. She is always happy, always smiling, always wanting to play, dance and clap, and is a total thrill junky. She wants to swing higher and faster, loves being upside down and giggles the whole way through. She's going to be a skydiving yoga instructor. So funny that a year ago I was cringing at the sight of babies. Maybe it's something in the water here. Maybe I'm growing up.

The only negative thing I can say is that children have no respect for a hangover and they should teach silence in schools.

Summer is coming to Nelson, and with it all the festivals and live music I could ever want. I take my hat off to New Zealand musicians, you are all amazing. My relationship ended three months ago and the music has helped me to get back on my feet again. Talk about learning curves, love is something they should teach in schools as well. I have somehow survived my first Round boxing with love, picked myself up off the mat and know that Round Two will come when it comes, and perhaps I will be a bit wiser the next time. In the meantime, I will continue to dance, work, play with my kids and love my life. The Music Gods have blessed me with tickets to see Fat Freddys Drop on New Years Eve and I cannot ask for more.

Happy Holidays to you all, may the sun shine for you Christmas Day, and may the moon never fade on New Years Eve night.

Status: very happy.

2009-09-14T23:22:00.000-07:00

About a week ago I woke up at 5:00 a.m. and hopped into the cab of an enormous truck with my Haydin's stepfather Hamish for a little road trip bound for Westport. I don't know if any of you have ever been to Westport, located, shockingly, on the west coast of New Zealand, but it's not much to look at. It's the trip there and back again that catches the eye.

I'll quell the rumors now and say, with a resounding "Yes," that New Zealand is as beautiful as you think it is. Maybe even more so. The four hours to Westport and four hours back to Nelson passed in one breathtaking instant, which only further fuels my ever-present, ever-growing travel bug. As always, I am having trouble putting the majesty of Nature into words that do it justice. For you, I shall try.

As the sun rose behind us in the early dawn, everything was quiet, dark and peaceful, except for the roaring engine. We sat shivering as I watched the stillness of the frosty fields transform into the rolling hills and mountains of the Northwest while Hamish watched the road. The only word I can think of is 'green.' Not your lame, run-of-the-mill crayon green, but every color in an all-green rainbow casting its rays upon the landscape. Pine forest green, avocado green, cooked spinach green, palm tree green, freshly cut grass green, sea green, pistashio green, lime green, moss green, neon light green, blue-green, yellow-green, green tea green, cactus green, and Heineken beer bottle green. All I could do was stare, mouth open, as we zipped through valleys and over hills, across rivers and past waterfalls, with the looming snow-capped mountains glistening towards the Heavens in a crystal clear blue sky.

For the morning I was so stunned that all I could utter was "Wow," over and over again. Hamish, simply sitting in his massive, vibrating office, laughs and explains the differences between driving Big-Rigs down one-lane roads in New Zealand versus giant six-lane freeways in the United States. Hamish is a well seasoned traveler, much more so than I, and now prefers forty tons of steel over a backpack. Between the two of us there is rarely a silent moment, and those first few hours flew by as the stories unraveled and laughter filled the cab. He was also a tour bus driver for many years and can answer any question I dish out about the land, wildlife, the truck, AC/DC, rugby, and how he's not allowed back into the United States for some bogus speeding tickets, leaving the States only two days before two planes hit the Twin Towers in New York. Also, if you ask what his trucks' name is, without hesitation he will reply, "Piece of Shit."

We pull into the town of Westport, near Cape Foulwind, thus named for being the closest point to Australia...no joke! The most exciting thing about Westport is, well, nothing really. We pulled up at the fish factory and preceeded to have twenty four tons of fish entrails loaded into our two trailers, which took about an hour and smelled delightful. It only took me half an hour to walk around the entire town and I was back in the truck for the glorious ride home and also for a bit of my new favorite sport: Extreme Knitting!!! Haydin's Grandmother, aka Nannie taught me how to knit when she was in town last week and it's been a wild ride. The basic rules to Extreme Knitting is to be in a dangerous atmosphere with two sharp knitting needles and still be able to have nice lines. Sitting atop thirty wheels of rumbling, roaring metal while blasting down the road, I'd say it's a bit dangerous. Every third word I uttered would be classified as "naughty" by a group of seven year olds as we wove through the hillside and my blue yarn, with Hamish continuously chuckling at how easy it was for me to push all the masculinity out of the truck with a few soft stiches.

The views behind my patterns were equally beautiful on the return journey, and a bit sunnier. The multitudes of sheep, baby sheep, cows and also sheep were spread out and eating my green rainbow, and for those of you who read my story about Wales know how much sheep amaze me. (http://moonbeamchronicles.blogspot.com/2008/12/back-to-farm.html ) Probably it doesn't make me look too cool, but I can't actually remember a time when I was cool so I'm not too bothered. Everyone who passed by us waved, everyone utilizes polite road etiquette and I am blown away. But that's just Kiwis for you.

How to explain New Zealand? No one locks their doors. That trust, that securiity, that safety is a start, but there's a lot more to them. Plus a couple of them gave me jobs, so they're alright in my book! You might have noticed the 's' behind the word 'job.' That means it's the plural form of the word, meaning more than one in case you didn't know. I have many, a multitude, nay...a plethora of jobs!

Job 1. Massage Therapist at a yoga studio. (no explanation needed)
Job 2. Special Needs Teacher. (multiple explanations needed)
-Job Description: hanging out with six to eight chain-smoking thirteen to sixteen year olds with learning disabilities like ADD, ADHD, Autism, Anger management, Depression, and also fun stuff like drug addiction, abuse, teen pregnancy, etc.
-Qualifications: none.
-Why?: only Buddha knows...because they're paying me to basically be a mentor/bouncer.
-What's it like?: stressful, but it has its moments of fun and discovery.
Job 3. Working at a hostel two hours a day for free accomodation.
-Length of Duration: eight days.
-Why?: Hostel owner insane.
-Current Location: now living with Haydin's sister Rebecca and her two kids, Ryan (5 yrs.) and Lilly (8 months).
-Status: very happy.

Status: very happy. That's a good way to be.

Fear vs. Curiosity

2009-08-15T22:01:00.001-07:00

I think there's definitely something to be said for Fear of the Unknown, even though I think its losing the battle.

One week ago, which seems like an eternity in itself, I left Asia to embark on yet another unknown adventure. As I have done many times before, I left behind friends, family, and someone I love. My mother comforted me in saying that I had made this move before and that I was equipped with the physical and mental tools needed to take the next step. I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing.

All of us nomads are well aware of our blessings and our curses. The blessings and oppurtunities to see what most people will never see, to experience daydreams and live out our life ambitions are at the top of my list for why I do what I do, why I am who I am. The top of my list of Traveling Curses would look something like this:

1. Being seperated for long periods of time from my friends, family and loved ones.
2. Living out of a small backpack with little or no privacy.
3. The almost impossibility of sustaining relationships due to frequent changing of countries.
4. Giving up material possesisons.
5. No hot showers.

Most of those I am fine with, or have learned to cope with, or have learned to cherish. Recently though, I've been wondering if human beings really can be equipped with the ability to leave a comfortable life passively, or if it's some sort of mental defect that was bestowed upon me at birth. Is it a good thing to not be afraid of the unknown? Or to pretend that I'm not even though I am petrified. I can honestly say that I have been afraid before every big move I have ever made. That means it's not Fear that keeps me home, but simply that my curiosity is stronger than my fear of the unknown.

Curiosity is a strange companion. It will find me when I am satisfied with life and pry me out of there as fast as it can. It is always near, always itching to move, learn, grow, push, run, jump, and crash into streetlights. It is addicted to adventure. Curiosity is selfish and will not compromise. It does not bind itself to people or places, it steers clear of love, it invites trouble to tea and its motives are unquestionable because there is no logical answer anyway.

I have leapt agian with Curiosity as my only guide. As I sit and reflect on my life and how I have come to be who I am, I look out the window to see the green hills, blue sky and leafless trees of Nelson, New Zealand. The crisp August chill catches me off guard when I venture out of my blankets, but the air is clean and my peace of mind spreads further with every hot cup of tea and friendly smile. My boyfriend Haydin's family has been so kind as to take me in and treat as one of their own, and for that I will be forever grateful. Curiosity has been forced into remission while I stay here and make some money to fuel my travel habits. Until then it will bide its time, it will be patient, it will wait.

But someday it will strike and at its mercy, I will uproot myself once again and the battle between Fear and Curiosity rages on. If your curiosity is screaming at you too, please feel free to join in.
My Curiosity and I welcome you.

Fear vs. Curiosity

2009-08-15T22:01:00.000-07:00

Devastation and Hope

2009-08-15T21:57:00.000-07:00

I have two stories to share: one is a story of devastation and one is of hope.

Today Haydin and I went to Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum and the Choeung Ek Killing Fields in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. As with my visit to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp in Poland, I find myself once again searching for words to describe the indescribable. Perhaps a little history to fill our heads and fuel our hearts is a good way to start...

In 1975, after a bloody, five-year long civil war between the Khmer Republic and the Kymer Rouge (the revolutionary faction), Pol Pot and the Kymer Rouge emerged victorious and "liberated" the Cambodian people. During the war, many people from villages had fled to the cities for protection from falling bombs and open warfare. Hours after their victory, the Kymer Rouge proceeded to start rounding up Republic officers, soldiers, officials, diplomats, and educated men, women and children who were either from the cities or had fled there during the war. The goal primarily being to wipe out humanity and start over again with poor, uneducated people who would not question the new regime.

The atrocities committed are astronomical. Tuol Sleng, formerly a school, turned into a prison for interrogation, torture, deprivation and death. There are pictures on the walls, hundreds of pictures, of the men, women and children who suffered beyond what I can even imagine. The look in their eyes tells the story of their plight: fear, anxiety, confusion, humiliation, pain, pride, defiance, strength, and even a few weak smiles. I like to think that the smiles were reflecting their spirit within.

There were seven survivors out of the 20,000 people taken from the prison to the Choeung Ek Killing Fields, fifteen kilometers outside the city. There, after weeks, months, or even years in the prisons, they were taken to the field and killed simply for being a doctor or born in the wrong city not in a Khmer Rouge province. After four years the genocide was stopped, mainly by the Vietnamese army, and the realities and truths surfaced. In those few years over three million people were executed, which is almost three hundred innocent deaths per day.

Today was a rollercoaster of emotions for me. I went through stages of anger and hatred to pure shock and deep saddness. I walked around with a numbness one can only feel when being truly overwhelmed. I was frustrated because I feel I should have learned something about this in school and felt very uneducated and ill-informed. I wanted to scream at the cruelty of the greedy few who destroy this beautiful world in their quest for power. I wanted to give everything to the families who suffered and lost. Every single Cambodian has a story to tell, thier wounds still healing from the horrors they endured. This tradgedy must never be lost or forgotten, and we must learn from the past so as not to repeat it in the future.

The hope I can offer comes in the ever-enduring spirit of the people of Cambodia. They are making their way back into the developing country it once was forty years ago. Our tuk-tuk driver, Softya, was a ray of light on such a dark, cloudy day. He is teaching himself English and his smiles and friendship were exactly what I needed to hold back the tears. On the way to the Fields he stopped at his house to introduce us to his wife and six year-old daughter, and beaming proudly, introduced us to them. He gives me hope for a prosperous Cambodian future, one of solidarity and of peace.

This day has forever changed me, and I will awaken each morning with a new appreciation for what I have been handed in life, and how lucky I truly, truly am.

***If you would like some more information and don't have time to visit Cambodia, I would highly suggest a few books:A Cambodian Prison Portrait. One Year in the Khmer Rouge's S-21 by Vann Nath, I have read this short book, and is written by one of the seven survivors of the Tuol Sleng Prison. First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers by Loung Ung. I haven't had a chance to read this yet but it has come highly recommended by many friends.

Northern Winds

2009-07-17T17:33:00.000-07:00

I am surrounded by white people and it's freaking me out a bit.

I have left life as I know it.
My kids have new teachers.
My lovely apartment is empty.
My vegetable lady is wondering where the hell I am.

All I can say is that recently a strong wind has been blowing from the north, and I now find myself in Hoi An, a town quite a ways south of Hanoi. Back in the traveling circuit I am no longer the solo foreigner on the road and I am having trouble adjusting.

I miss Hanoi and my way of life for the last four and a half months. It's the longest I've stayed in one place in almost two years. I miss that it's close to impossible to get a decent cold shower because it's so hot outside that it heats up all the pipes. I miss the decrepit old lady who lives in our alley who always pinches my cheek and speaks to me in rapid Vietnamese when she knows she has to speak slowly for me to understand. I miss my tofu lady I see twice a week. I miss that our alley is not just an alley but a community. Viet Nam is a community. Viet Nam is a family.

What is really getting to me is how much I miss my kids. Those little bastards have sure learned how to tug on my heartstrings, which I wasn't aware I even had. I miss how they run screaming at my knee caps when I walk through the door in the mornings, how they hug me and show me toys they have brought from home, mostly of the McDonald's quality. I love watching them progress, the proud look of accomplishment on a four year old when he can count to ten and the mischievous grin of a six year of when she can make a joke with me that we both understand. I imagine that my kids will grow and continue to learn English, become educated young adults and lead Viet Nam into its already developing future. I feel blessed to be able to take part in that process, in a special part of their lives, which I will always remember. I hope they will remember me too.

To the teachers, students, families and friends who made my life so much easier in such a challenging country, I smile from my heart and say Thank You. I will continue heading south to Saigon, aka Ho Chi Minh City, and then into Cambodia for two weeks to conclude a nine month stint in South East Asia. As I said before, the northern winds have been very strong and are taking me from Bangkok to New Zealand on August 9th so that I will arrive in Christchurch on my 24th birthday, starting a new chapter in this crazy life of mine.

May the winds blow you along your paths as well.

2009-06-14T22:44:00.000-07:00

I swear I get more Vietnamese every day.

I think the reason I haven't written in a long time is not due to lack of weird things to write about, but that the oddities of a life in Viet Nam have just become the norm. Most mornings I wake up early and try to dress conservatively because showing any shoulders, stomach or knees is considered whore-ish. In one hand as I walk out the door is a green army helmet covered in mesh with a Viet Nam flag on the side.. A gift from my boyfriend Haydin, it is so I don't have to wear other peoples helmets on the multiple moto-taxis I take all the time. In the other hand is a pink and white flowery face mask with a filter in it.. The face mask is a common accessory here in Hanoi due to the raging polution problem. The first time a giant bus hacks up a cloud of black exhaust in your face, you will wear a filtered face mask too. If it's raining, which is often, a bubblegum pink rain coat keeps me and my school supplies somewhat dry. So with my helmet, face mask, rain coat and a pair of giant purple sunglasses I look like a smaller, more colorful version of Darth Vader. The funny thing is that I still look like everyone else.

I walk down my alley to the street where a couple of xe om (motorcycle taxi) drivers usually hang out. A quick conversation in Vietnamese as to where I need to go and how much I will pay and I'm on the back of the bike zooming towards 15-30 kids waiting for me to teach them English. It really makes my day when I can have a little joke with the xe om guys, because unless they know me, most of them aren't expecting Hanoi street slang from a big, tall, white girl. (Insert: ling ta ling ting.) My Vietnamese is coming along nicely, but it has been quite an interesting challenge. For example, there are six different tones, eight accents, eleven vowels, and nothing is said the way it is spelled. As you might imagine, I spend a lot of time trying to get the right pronounciation so that I can get simple messages across. I have a theory about the Vietnamese language: it is made of so many minute differences that any deviation of the exact pronounciation does not register at all. So if I'm trying to get to my street, Ngo Van So, I might have to say it seven different times in seven different ways before they understand.

I'm not giving myself much credit, but I do speak a little. I can hold small conversations, answer questions, haggle, and not get ripped off as much as other foreigners, which I'm actually quite proud of. There's a three-way tie for my favorite phrase:

Toi la giao vien, khong phai la hach du lich.
(I'm a teacher, not a stupid tourist.)

Ling ta ling ting.
(You're talking shit. (in a joking way))

Khong phai ga viet!
I am not a Vietnamese chicken!

Basically all my key phrases are in effort to save me money and not be pegged for some oblivious tourist that will pay triple the price because they just don't know better. I'm not shocked by it though, as nothing shocks me anymore. Twelve year olds driving mopeds through morning traffic with giant, slaughtered pigs strapped to the sides while chain smoking cigarretes no longer phases me. The roads of Hanoi no longer scare me, but kind of remind me of the Super Nintendo version of Super Mario Cart, complete with slippery banana peels laid out by giant Donkeys driving go-carts and explosive red turtle shells bopping across the lanes of traffic. I've stopped flinching at chicken heads and feet floating in bowls of soup, deep-fried whole baby ducklings, and dog-meat kebabs. Seventeen year olds weilding AK-47s at major tourist sites make me laugh, as do the great lengths the people here go through to remain as pasty white as possible, while I run around trying to soak up the sun for a better tan.

I'm also never shocked when a Vietnamese friend or acquaintance of mine will bend over backward to help me out. My favorite Vietnamese person is a woman named Huyen, a manager at one of the schools I teach at. She takes me to the outdoor market so I can buy fresh fruit and veg without being overcharged. She invited Haydin, Brittney and I for coffee on her one night off a week so I could meet her husband, son and mother. She has taken me to the Van Phuc Silk Village outside of the city twice so I can find some nice, affordable clothes. We swap teaching each other English and Vietnamese phrases and laugh at the beautiful differences between our two cultures.

The differences here are amazing, but we learn to live with it, laugh about it and love it, like when the government shuts off the power in different areas of Hanoi (including mine) a couple times a week to save energy. That's always fun.

Bring it on.

2009-05-04T02:06:00.000-07:00

When the other moped hit us it didn't hurt much.
Just a tap.
It was the shock more than anything.

As I yell out a loud obscenity I realize two things:

1. The small child on the back of that motorbike is in the class I just finished teaching.
2. It's a good thing I haven't taught my five-year old class English cuss words yet.

At that moment the words I had been searching for hit me like a ton of bricks. I have been looking for a description for the drivers in Hanoi, for their insanity and carelessness, for their disrespect for the rules of the road and of life. I have found them:

Reckless Indifference.

Yes. The pure illogical, maniacal sense of invincibility. It drives me crazy. The driver of the other motorbike, I'm assuming Phuong Thuy's father, for that is my student's name, did not even give a hint of remorse for bumping my xe om into another motorcycle in morning traffic in central Hanoi. Nor did he seem perturbed that his five year old daughter who got jostled on the back was not wearing a helmet!

Viet Nam Absurdity: It is a law that everyone must be wearing a helmet on a motorbike, and it is enforced most stringently, yet children are an exception!!! I have never seen a child wearing a helmet as their irresponsible parents weave in and out of thousands of other motorcycles in their hurry to get nowhere fast.

The only positive thing I can say about motorbike drivers in Hanoi is their creativity when it comes to strapping giant loads onto their bikes. So far I have witnessed some miracles, including a full-sized coffin lying horizontally and breezing through three lanes of full-stop traffic. Twice. I can only hope there wasn't a body inside, but I wouldn't put anything past the Vietnamese. I have seen a seven-foot tall tree, roots, soil and all tied and standing vertically to a man on a Vespa. I have seen five microwaves, out of their boxes and stacked three high and one on each side of a moped. I have seen five Vietnamese teenagers all on one two seater motorbike. All of this astounds yet no longer shocks me. After five months in southeast Asia, nothing does.

In response to this ridiculous driving, I am doing the only thing I can do in protest.
I'm learning how to drive a motorbike. Bring it on.

A Nice Welcome Home

2009-04-09T02:42:00.000-07:00

I went for a run this morning through the surrounding neighborhoods, and on turning a corner I got chased half-way down the street by a tiny lady trying to sell me cigarettes. It's my own fault though, as I was jogging through the Cheap Cigarette District.

Oh how I love Hanoi.

Last week I was sitting at the Bia Hoi with my buddy Tony talking about life, and trying to put in words why we loved this crazy city so much. We look back to the street where a moped had just clipped a little old lady carrying about twenty kilos of oranges in baskets connected to a bamboo pole balanced over her shoulder. As her and her pointy grass hat goes flying, Tony looks over: "It's the chaos of it all. The beautiful chaos." I couldn't have said it better myself.

Getting settled is a lot harder than I imagined it might be. For example, I've been in my apartment almost a week and still don't know if I have an address and am not sure where to put my trash once the bin is full. Even though the apartment came "furnished" there are still a few crucial items I want, like a table. So the logical thing for me to do was go down to the Table District.

Here in Hanoi, if you're looking for anything, it's best just to figure out where the "District" is, because once you find it, there will be seventeen different shops on one street selling the exact same thing. I live, hilariously, in between the Welcome Mat District and the Maternity Dress District and yes, it IS the greatest street in the world. There are exactly twelve stores that sell the same ten welcome mats. I'm not sure if anyone has thought to mention that it might be a bit more profitable if they were to spread out around the city, because they certainly haven't figured this out for themselves. Perhaps the government allocates this space specifically for welcoming purposes. Perhaps this is newest form of the Communist Regime, to make all pregnant women get to this specific location so they can be dressed suitably. Whatever the reason, if there is one, I absolutely love it, and my favorite area is the Colorful Buttons and Ribbons District. Go figure.

My friend Peter swears there's a Prosthetic Leg District, but I think he's lying...

I love that this city makes absolutely no sense, and still functions.
I love that I am daily surprised by cultural differences, which keeps me on my toes.
I love Welcome Mats.
What else could a girl want?

Thrill-Seekers Anonymous

2009-04-03T06:04:00.000-07:00

Nothing could have possibly prepared me for the moment when I got milked by a four year old this morning. Nothing. What an oddly normal ending to a fantastically strange week.

Today we learned about animals. As it was nearing the end of the hour, we roared like lions, flew like bats, clucked like chickens, purred like cats, barked like dogs, and mooed like cows. These games are great because they are beneficial to the kids and wear them out, plus it's very entertaining for me and it kills five minutes of time. I took a moment to get up from my "cow" position to check on everyone, when I feel small hands on my stomach. Looking down I find my favorite kid, Mai Chi, pretending to milk me. The Vietnamese teacher sees this at the same time and we simultaneously burst into hysterical fits of laughter. This brings the kids to start laughing, and we kill another five minutes. Score!

I have learned that the average 3-5 year old has an attention span for 4.5 minutes. That means I have to have something new, fun and different to do every five minutes. That's a lot of singing and dancing; I am usually left for dead at the end of the class, too exhausted to move. I'm having a great time though.

Me teaching children English is just one of the oddities that currently makes up my life. Public transportation is another. Here in Hanoi I take a Xe Om to work, which is a moped-taxi. I could not possibly describe a Xe Om ride, except to compare it to that movie 'Final Destination', where the guy cheats Death and then Death goes looking for them. Apparently Death has never been to Viet Nam, or has recently misplaced his passport. The first fear-gripping ride should have been my last, but one gets bored of near-death experiences after a while, so I take them to work and back every day and am on the lookout for new thrills.

Enter: My new apartment. Nickname: "The Fridge".
It's hard to explain, except to say I'm living in a standard Vietnamese tree-house. Yes, that makes sense. Basically what it comes down to is complete insanity, which is why I immediately took it. I have a five story apartment, each floor measuring to about six square meters of hilarity, all of this connected by a series of M.C. Escher-esque ladders. I also have two refrigerators (one that works, one that holds my teaching books), two TV's I'll never use, a reading/yoga/meditation room, and a washing machine on my balcony. I'm sure that there was a family of fifteen living here before me, but I'm quite content with my new-found haven, all for the low low cost of two hundred dollars a month!

Now I just have to figure out how to get down the ladders at seven a.m. without breaking my neck, which I guess, is just a part of my new thrill-seeking nature.

***My good friend Adrian Hartwell just brought to attention that tomorrow is the anniversary of Martin Luthor Kings assasination. I would just like to take a moment to honor a man who inspired a nation, improved the world through his words, and loved with an open heart. May his memory never fade.

Saving The World

2009-04-03T06:03:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday the power was shut off at the Hanoi Backpackers Hostel from 8:30-9:30 p.m. to make a statement supporting Earth Hour. Although Hanoi was not technically participating in the world event to curb energy waste, it felt good to take part in something that is bringing awareness to the masses about the realities of global warming.

The world needs a Band-aid. No need to worry though, because I've solved the worlds problems. Again. Yesterday I talked to my friend Adam in Birmingham who says there are two million unemployed people in England. Two million! I sat down, drink in hand, and pondered.

I'm confused because I have just gotten two jobs and am now feeling a bit greedy. I'm still in Hanoi, Viet Nam, and today is my first day of work. My official job description is "Teaching Five Year-Olds How To Sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." I know what you're thinking...."Rachel hates children." Well, I don't hate children, they just scare the living crap out of me.

The Vietnamese are ravenous for English teachers. I have no experience, no diploma, no training, and my only real qualification being that my skin is white. (My second job is teaching a month-long workshop on traditional Cuban style Salsa dancing at a dance studio, which I am qualified to do.) Viet Nam is a rapidly developing country, and speaking English is the way forward for them. It is impossible to sit in the park for less than ten minutes without someone walking up to ask if they can practice their English, and I am more than happy to help. I truly believe that every day it is increasingly more important to speak more than one language, as that's what connects us all in the end. I can't think of a better gift to give a child, plus they're paying me twenty American dollars an hour! Cash! To play with toys! Sweet.

Rachel's Plan to Curb Unemployment and Help the World (please keep an open mind):

To all of you unemployed Americans, Canadians, English, Irish, Welsh, Scottish, Australian and New Zealanders: Come to Asia. No, I'm actually serious. Think about it:
-Low cost of living and a high salary.
-When will anyone else pay you twenty dollars an hour for being completely unqualified except for being born in a country whose language they want to learn?
-It would cost more to stay unemployed, or at a low-paying job you hate, and having to pay more for living in your country, when here in Asia they are begging for "teachers".
-Korea, China, Viet Nam, Thailand and Malaysia are offering big bucks for anyone willing to help.
-Did I mention you get to play with toys?

Let's do the math, get a calculator if you must. I'll do this in American dollars because that's what they pay here.
$20 an hour x 3 hours a day= $300.
$300 x 4 weeks= $1,200 a month/ 900 Euros/ 850 Pounds/ 1,750 Australian Dollars

That is only working fifteen hours a week. Full time is way more, and if you have a degree from Uni, any degree, or teaching experience, they pay more. Considering a meal on the street is thirty cents and a nice one in a restaurant is three dollars, the cost of living here is way below our norm, and the possibility, probability, of saving money here is fantastic! I am a genius! The only thing to do now is to uproot yourself from the society you've always known, throw your TV out the window, and set out on an adventure I cannot tell you the end of. I will only say that it will be one of the best things you will ever do, plus you get to live in Asia!

But that's not human nature, so I doubt anyone will take my great advice into account, which saddens me. If more people listened to vagabond hippies we wouldn't need to bring attention to our global problems by turning off the lights of the Eiffel Tower! People would already know! Now I'm getting a bit carried away, so I'm going to sit back and take a nice, deep breath.

I understand that for most people it is not easy to uproot and that I am a freak of nature. Instead of preaching the wandering ways, I will simply offer advice, information, and perhaps a nudge in a direction that might be very new and different. If anyone is interested, or perhaps is considering the possibility, please do not hesitate to ask. I have gathered an odd assortment of knowledge on the inner workings of acquiring jobs in other countries and would love to help if I can. Or you can check out www.newhanoian.com and see how many jobs there are for yourself.

I think I'm going to go buy a cape.
Adam Fumagalli, I expect to see you here in less than a week.

Going Hmong

2009-03-18T19:19:00.001-07:00

The Hmong tribe villagers of Sa Pa believe that painting a red circle on your forehead using water buffalo's blood will cure a headache.

On arrival from our bogus journey through the mountains we find ourselves surrounded by small, fiery tribal women hawking their wares for us tourists who quite obviously have just gotten into town. Usually I push my way through with my hands over my head for protection from "The Village People", but there was something different about these women. Maybe it was the fresh air in my lungs or the pure joy of getting there in one piece, but I really enjoyed their company and laughter. I bought a pretty scarf from one of them that I had been eying ever since my arrival, and they promised to come back later to show us around. Weathered travelers know that people will say just about anything to get you to buy stuff, so I wasn't actually expecting to see much more of them.

I was surprised to be awakened from a nap by Haydin to inform me that there were some village ladies downstairs and that they had invited us out for drinks. My travel radar went off again, knowing that there are a lot of scams where you get "invited" out by locals, only to get stuck with a hefty bill at the end of the night. We all went with them anyway and sat down at a Bia Hoi.

Bia Hoi is a genius idea. These old ladies have kegs of beer out on the street, and you buy a pitcher of beer for the price of a bottle in a bar. They have tiny plastic chairs you used to sit on in kindergarten and it's the social event of the town until the kegs run dry. So we sit and we chat and I find them to be beautiful, amazing women. Sue, Sa, and her daughter Cue all speak fantastic English, as well as Vietnamese, their local Hmong dialect, and an assortment of French and Spanish as well. I almost fell out of my chair when I told Sa that I lived in Mexico and she replied with "Hola, como estas?"

It's hard to describe these women, but I can definitely say that they glow. Their traditional dress includes a pair of velvety shorts, a tshirt and a beautifully stitched outer coat. All of this is tied together with a hand stitched belt that took over a year to make. Add a little hat, a scarf and matching velvet leg warmers on a four foot tall tribal lady wearing all the rings, earrings and necklaces she can without falling over, and you have an idea as to what my new friends, or should I say my new mommies, look like. Or you can check out the picture I attached.

Yes, I've been adopted. After hours of talking, laughing, sharing stories and learning about each other, we all split the bill evenly and they invite us to their village for lunch the next day. We meet up and walk the seven kilometers that they walk every few days to get back home from Sa Pa, talking the whole way. Sa holds my hand and says, "Rachel, you must come live in the village and I will get you a husband. It's best to be Hmong woman in the village because the man must pay the dowry to marry the woman. You get paid! And my husband also takes care of the children and our pet water buffalo! Ha! It's best that men do the house work too, and I spend my time in Sa Pa having drinks with you! Ha!"

I have an announcement to make: I'm moving into the village and never leaving.

The last three days in Sa Pa I have seen them everywhere, always greeting me by screaming "Daughter!" from across the street with huge smiles, hugs and kisses while I scream "Mommies!" as they skip up. These women took us into their homes, cooked us lunch, taught us about their culture and language, dressed us up in traditional Hmong clothes and introduced us to their husbands, mothers and children without a second thought. Today, at our request, they brought us blankets and belts for us to see and buy because I want one, I love these woman, and because I'm wearing the most beautiful hand stitched belt in the world right now. When the time came to say goodbye it was a sad event. They each give me a big hug, Sue gives me a pretty little purse made by her six year old daughter and Sa gives me a pair of silver earrings. She knows I don't wear earrings and explains that they're not for me. They're for my other mommy.

Tomorrow Haydin and I are back on the motorbike headed east, which is why I'm writing this now. Mel took the train back to Hanoi yesterday and Andrew left on his bike this morning. We'll do four more days cruising around the national parks in northeastern Viet Nam before getting back to Hanoi. From there I might just hop on the train and come straight back! Sa apparently has a husband lined up for me, and I've promised to teach them how to read English if they teach me how to sew.

But only if I get my own water buffalo.

Rachel's Guide to Being Hard Core

2009-03-16T01:02:00.000-07:00

To quote Bill and Ted, I just had a most excellent adventure.

Adventure comes in many forms, from a good hike to parenting to just trying something you wouldn't normally do in your daily life. A few days ago I did something I never would have dreamed of doing, purely for logical and safety reasons. It's amazing what you'll do when you have nothing else planned, so I said yes and hopped on the back of a giant dirt bike for a three day journey through the mountains of northwestern Viet Nam with Haydin from New Zealand, Andrew from Canada and Mel from England.

There are a few reasons why this is so wild and crazy for me, the first being that my mom is going to kill me because I have been conditioned my entire life to know that motorcycles are dangerous. Others might be that I know absolutely nothing about bikes or riding them, I am a nervous wreck just watching other people ride motorbikes, and I am ridiculously not hard-core. And still I said yes. The only preparation I could contribute to the trip was to switch from my Buddha necklace to my St. Christopher necklace, which seemed important at the time. I also became the Navigator, because I'm pretty good with maps and talking to people who don't speak English, which made me feel special. Other than that I was completely lost, and on sharing this with fact with Mel I realized that at least I was not alone. So together we put on our "Brave Face", tried to figure out how to put a helmet on, and jumped on the back of a roaring bicycle from hell.

Day One: Ache.
Getting out of Hanoi (a city of four million) in morning traffic was enough to put me over the edge, but I was committed so I tried not to scream too much. Instead I just held on to Andrew so tight that he was having breathing problems. Out of the city however, we had a good day of zipping around mountains, water buffaloes and giant trucks, getting about three hundred kilometers between us and chaotic Hanoi with only minor brushes with death. I don't know if any of you have gone three hundred kms. on a dirt bike, but they are ridiculously uncomfortable. You can't move at all, so when your butt goes numb with pain you have to deal with it or stop to allow circulation to flow once more. At one of the rest breaks I decided that our bike was named Clyde, after my grandfather, because he is strong, smart, and I had the sneaking suspicion he wanted me to go back to University.

Day Two: Pain.
I fell off the bike. Three times. We started off well and I was pumped, purely from the elation of still being alive. But then the child on the bike swerved the wrong way and Andrew decided to hit the mountain and spare the little bastard. My right leg ended up a little smashed up, but other than that we were ok. Actually I'm completely lying. I was really shaken and lost all my confidence for the whole day, making me a nervous wreck and an annoyance to everyone else. After the other two minor slides I was so depleted of all energy that I almost didn't make it. Andrew, Haydin and Mel were all very supportive, but I learned that I'm not much of a motorcycle rider, seeing as how I don't like peeling around blind corners on Vietnamese "highways" and am not much of a thrill-seeker.

Day Three: Excellent!
Haydin talked me back onto the bike for the last leg of the journey, and for that I am very thankful. He said that it's easier to just let go and enjoy the flow of the ride, rather than try to control things that are beyond control to begin with, and he was right. So I woke up early, meditated, practiced my yoga, and charged my iPod. During meditation my Muay Thai trainer Ay appeared and said, "No crying!" which is something he used to say to keep me going when I was down and exhausted. My head clear and my confidence returned, I stopped crying, figuratively, and got back on. With 'Rage Against the Machine' flooding my ears, the wind on my face and my friends beside me I felt alive once more.

The ride was amazing. If you have never seen the rice paddies in northern Viet Nam, then my words can do them no justice. I can only say that they are emerald stairs towards the heavens, shining as the water catches the sun's rays, as far as the eye can see. Little figures in pointy straw hats weave amongst them, and the countless views of peace and perfection are forever seared into my memory. Viet Nam, with all of it's symmetrical yet curvy green rice fields, reminds me of an M.C. Escher painting.

When we reached Sa Pa, our final destination, Mel and I hugged each other in peals of joy and laughter for having survived. Andrew and Haydin just laughed at us for being so ridiculous. I wouldn't have made it without Mel there, and we have jointly decided that we are now "Hard Core", which is pretty cool...

Being self-proclaimed Hard Core always is.

Frolicking Regulations

2009-03-10T22:30:00.001-07:00

I've lost my voice from screaming/haggling in Viet Nam.

I don't know if I was trying to test myself or I just wasn't paying attention, but I definitely took the wrong way to cross the border, or the right, non-tourist way, depending on how you look at it. Either way, it took me five days through the mountains of Laos in the back of a tuk-tuk to finally reach the most stringent border crossing I have ever faced. After losing one travel buddy at the border due to a small paperwork error, I continue on into Viet Nam with a crazy Canadian guy named Andrew who taught the border guards how to play the didgeridoo while I danced so they wouldn't take his camping knife away, although they did make him promise not to stab anyone, which is fair.

Andrew and I make a good team because we're both poor and really stubborn, which is a good quality when trying to get through Viet Nam without being charged six times the going rate. The one bus a day that left the border town headed towards Hanoi tried to charge us one million Vietnamese dong, which is about fifty American dollars and an absolute atrocity. After refusing their price, screaming in English, Spanish and Thai, we storm off in a huff up the highway with our backpacks, fully intending to hike the fifty kilometers to Hanoi rather than pay this ridiculous sum. The bus driver, determined to get our foreign money, circled around the town and came back to try and get us again:

"800,000 dong!"

"No! Screw you! 300,000!" And again we start walking.

"800,000!"

"You don't seem to understand haggling. NO! 400,000 or go away!"

The bus continues to follow us slowly, filled with people, I might add. The Vietnamese loved the show and were in no way perturbed by the hold up. The Norwegian couple on the bus who payed the money were not entertained in the least. Finally the driver and his helper give up,and the bus blows past us. My thumb pops out and I am satisfied to hitchhike, until we round the corner...

"600,000!"

Andrew and I look at each other and shrug. Take a chance, knowing that no car may pass us the whole day, or pay the blasphemous fee and have the whole thing done with. At 300,000 dong each, it's still a rip-off but a lesser evil. We take the deal and the driver bursts into laughter, takes our money and shakes our hands. His knowing nod and smiling eyes say, "I'm proud of you for taking a stand. You're just another crazy foreigner but a good negotiator, and damn do I respect that."

Excellent. And it only took an hour.

Viet Nam is a whirlwind of chaos and regulation at the same time, slightly different from the tranquil back roads of Laos. The constant honking or horns and motorcycles zipping by me in the busy streets of Hanoi has really stressed me out. In Thailand they drive on the left side of the road, in Laos the right, and here in Viet Nam they all tend to stick to the middle of the road and the sidewalks. When going to visit Ho Chi Minh's tomb we had to check our cameras, walk in pairs in somber silence, and got poked a lot by "Official" looking seventeen year-olds wielding pointy guns in military uniforms whilst walking past the nation's savior who has been dead and embalmed for nearly forty years and looks like a wax statue. So basically Viet Nam makes me feel like a slinky in a room full of ironing boards.

The perfect example of Viet Nam, I feel, is outside the old prison in Hanoi, where I believe John McCain spent some time during the war. There at the entrance is a sign listing all the do's and don'ts for visiting. In big, bold letters at the bottom it reads: NO FROLICKING.

I am outraged and intend on frolicking my ass off.

Mo' Money Mo' Problems

2009-03-02T19:43:00.000-08:00

I got yelled at yesterday by a swarm of tribal ladies in a village in northern Laos called Muang Sing. They were genuinely concerned that I was sitting peacefully drinking coffee and reading without my newborn baby in sight. It was when I burst in to hysterical fits of laughter that the situation turned sour.

It took ten minutes in broken English and Thai for me to realize that their reasoning behind this madness was that my breasts were so large that I must be breast-feeding. After pacifying them with the small amount of Thai I speak they sat down at my table and started asking me questions about everything, like where I was from and if I wanted to buy one of their bracelets or some opium.

I love northern Laos. Yesterday I took three different buses for a total of eleven hours to get one hundred miles. The roads are packed dirt, sand and rocks, and not kind to your sanity. Around every corner is yet another postcard-perfect views of rolling mountains, roadside villages, grass huts, pebble-strewn streams, and children playing with the dirt in the middle of the highway permanently seared into my memory. There are no rest stops, so if you need to throw up, just open a window, which happens sickeningly often. If you need to go to the bathroom and speak Lao, you can ask the driver to stop on the side of the road for you. If you need to go to the bathroom and don't speak Lao, you're basically screwed.

I'm feel very confident in saying that the Lao-wegians are the most chill people I have ever met. Northern Laos is a lot more impoverished than their central brothers, so they have been very interested in me and my "western" gadgets, like books. Every time I pull out my book, which is always near me, they crane their necks to check out the pictures on the cover and the print inside they cannot read. On Bus Three I tired of 'Tai Pan', by James Clavell and went into by backpack for a 'Moby Dick' reunion, and that nearly blew their minds.

They also LOVE my iPod. On Bus One I was sitting next to one of the young tribal girls. My music called to me, and her eyes widened like tea saucers when I offered her one of the ear pieces. We started off with 'Job 2 Do', which has the number one hit song in Thailand right now, and which I am totally addicted to. (For anyone interested in Thai reggae music, check out the CD called 'No War' by Job 2 Do, it is amazing!) The Thai and Laos languages are very similar, so she understood the words, even though I didn't. When she stopped quivering with excited fear over the music coming out of my iPod, I switched it up to figure out what other music she could like...

Rachel's Study of the Musical Taste of Fifteen Year-Old Tribal Girl From Laos:

Positive: Nina Simone, Lauryn Hill, and Ben Harper.
Negative: The Prodigy, TLC, Tom Jones and Biggie Smalls, aka Notorious BIG.

Someone should give me a PhD.

Sunny Little Paradise

2009-02-28T03:28:00.000-08:00

Last night the electricity went out over the entire town of Vang Vieng while I was eating dinner with friends. The waitress walked over using the light from her iPhone to bring us candles, assuring us that this happens all the time, and it should be back on in half an hour or so.

I love Laos. Stuck between the paddy field mentality and the influences of a modern age, it is everything I could want. Two weeks ago I took a wooden longboat trip up the Mekong River from the border of Thailand to Luang Prabang, which took two full days. It is quite a rare thing to travel for 48 hours on a boat and not see a bridge anywhere, but only a handful of houses. The tourist industry here is but an infant, which is why so many backpackers are drawn to the peaceful mountains and the ever-calm "Lao-wegians" as I call them, because the "Laos people" just sounds weird. No one hassles you on the streets because it's hot and they can't be bothered to try to sell you something. If you want a taxi you're probably going to have to wake one up and then convince him to work for a bit. The guy running the internet cafe I'm in right now is asleep to my left, so I'll have to wake him up to pay him. The honor system is definitely at work here.

And then there's Vang Vieng. Some genius figured out that if you build a few bars and rope swings by the river and buy a couple hundred inner tubes, then the foreigners will come. So for a few dollars a day you can tube down the river, which is the only thing to do here by the way, and be pulled up to a bar by guys on land with bamboo poles.

There are good and bad points to this, the good obviously being that it's ridiculously fun and it might just be the best party I've ever been to in my life. You meet some amazing, fun people, the rope swings are wicked and the mud pit is great for wrestling your new best friends in. The somewhat bad side to this is that you have a bunch of young people swimming around when they're too drunk/stoned to realize that it's a bad idea. Apparently there were three broken legs from Swing Five last week, and yesterday the rope from Swing Three snapped and some Irish guy got thrown half-way across the river. It's now the most popular swing.

Another interesting thing about Laos is that, unlike Thailand, they aren't at all strict on drugs. Rachel's Travel Tip #47: Do not try the Marijuana-Mushroom-Opium-Whiskey-Red Bull Milkshake while trying to float down a river. It's just...wrong. Instead, perhaps just order a cocktail, but beware because they are only served in buckets, quite literally.

Now Laos sounds like Spring Break in Cancun, but I can assure you it is nothing but divine. The people are so friendly and helpful, the purple-green mountains surrounding me are ever-present and the baguettes are always fresh and warm, being the lasting remnants of the old French rule. The balance of the old ways and new is beautiful: how many of the villagers still bathe and wash clothes in the river but have a camera phone to take a picture of you from their moped as you walk down the dirt road into town. Although it is still technically a Communist country, I have never seen or experienced any indication as such and feel comfortable and happy in my sunny little paradise.

Hopefully we'll have electricity tonight...

Jing Jai (True Heart)

2009-02-13T21:59:00.000-08:00

I finished a month of Muay Thai training on Wednesday. Two to three hours a day, six days a week for four weeks. Now I'm not quite sure what to do.

I was thinking about doing another month before I looked at my bank account. Then I was thinking about doing a week or two more, purely because I like this new healthy lifestyle and the boxing community is more of a family than a training regime. Plus I adore Pai. I fall in love with Pai every day, with all of its funny quirks and good energy. I also have my vintage clothing store that I am settling down with nicely, so when the thought to leaving Pai and Thailand entered my mind, I was completely unprepared.

Confused, I asked my friends, family, absolute strangers and my dog Crystal what I should do, and all of them responded with some version of "Follow Your Heart." So I asked my heart what to do. At that particular moment my heart was napping, so it took quite a few days to get a response. When I did it was loud and clear, and this is what it said:

"Rachel, you have done what you said you would do, and that is an accomplishment. You completed an entire month of Muay Thai, and that is an accomplishment. You know Pai and you have many friends who will be sad to see you go, which is an accomplishment. If your biggest problem in life is whether to stay in Pai or go traveling in Laos, I'd say you have a pretty good life. It is now time to move on, and when you are ready the next adventure will find you."

Turns out my heart was right.

Accomplishment is a many splendored thing, and I was floating on a cloud my last day of training. It was such a high, such a rush to follow through and complete something I told myself I was going to complete, even if I doubted myself most of the way. And I miss it. Two days of freedom and all I do is get up early and want to go back to Ay kicking me and laughing, but pushing me to be just a little bit better, knowing that I could do it. I will miss Bee yelling at me about my left side-kick technique which is never right. I will miss Tong flirting with me, Egg teaching me phrases in Thai I should never use in public, and Tree singing while preening his chickens for the next cock-fight. I will miss all the guys and girls I train with, always joking around and laughing but so supportive of each other when needed. I will miss waking up and walking through Pai early, when the mist hasn't quite yet risen and the absolute beauty of the morning surrounds and swallows me in the greens of the mountains and the golds of the monk's robes as they collect their morning alms. As I write this, I fall in love with Pai all over again. As I write this, I smile knowing I have an excellent path ahead of me, albeit unknown. As I write this, I know I am ready.

It's a night bus and a two day boat trip down the Mekong River into Laos, landing in Luang Prabang. After exploring Laos I'll head up into northern Vietnam, travel down the coast and cross into Cambodia. If time, money and visas allow, I'd also really like to get to Myanmar. So much is uncertain, but that is simply a part of life.

"You cannot escape from your heart, so you might as well listen to what it has to say."
-Paolo Coelho, "The Alchemist"

******I have finally got up more travel pictures!!! Check them out here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/20085426@N05/sets/:

Soi ching ching katoi tuan

2009-02-06T05:39:00.000-08:00

It was when the eight year old knocked out the other eight year old and the crowd started cheering that I started biting my fingernails.

Maybe I'm just a weirdo, but that sort of stuff makes me squeamish. Here I am kissing my little Buddha and praying that everyone comes out unscathed, which kinda defeats the purpose of being at a Muay Thai fight at Tha Phae Stadium in Chaing Mai. What can I say? I'm a lover, not a fighter.

Two people from my gym fought last Monday: Mary from Canada and Joe from England. About fifteen of us piled into a mini van that could comfortably fit eight and drove down the treacherous "highway" through the mountains from Pai to the big city to cheer them on, farang style. Mary was the seventh fight of the evening against a giant Austrian girl with a killer right hook. She, however, had a stunning victory for her very first fight, and now I'm not so sure about Canadians being all that peaceful. Joe was the eighth and headliner for the evening, fighting one of the best Muay Thai fighters in Chaing Mai. He was ready, held his own, got some major kicks in, but lost to points to a guy who has been fighting since the age of six. Not really fair, is it?

All in all the evening was fantastic, except for the loss of my fingernails due to stress from watching my friends take a beating, even though they were dishing it out as well. I have realized recently that I have zero agression in me, I have no desire to punch anyone not wearing sparring pads, and I severely dislike getting punched. All that said, I'm in my third week of training and I absolutely love it. I feel fit, energetic, more confident, and I've developed quite a tolerance for small, annoying pains like knuckle bruises, which I now only have three of.

Life in Pai is fantastic, and I've got my little routine down well. I have moved from my bamboo hut and am now living true Thai style in the back of my shop. It's great, cheap, challenging, and I'm getting creative with what people might call "roughing it." I get up at seven a.m. every morning and go fill up my shower bucket, which is next to my sink bucket. The water is really cold, so once my bucket is filled I go put it out back in the sun for my shower later. Then I go about my morning and head off to a two to three hour training session, which I'm finally getting the hang of. The rest of the day is split between arduous tasks of reading my book (Moby Dick), napping, practicing my fire spinning, talking to nice people, occasionally going to the pool, playing with my dog, napping, etc.

Oh yes, I have a dog. Her name is Crystal, and technically she has me. She takes me out on walks all the time, and introduces me to everyone as they all know her and keep wondering who the new farang in town is. Which brings me to how much I love Thai people. They are hilarious, and they think I'm just about the strangest thing that has happened to them, so we get along well in comical disbelief.

Reasons I Love Thai People:

1. They are always smiling, laughing and singing.

2. The slight chill of the Pai evenings has everyone coming up from Chaing Mai for the weekends to parade around in their winter clothing, such as earmuffs and snow boarding goggles when it is literally 90 degrees (30 Celsius) every afternoon.

3. They take pictures of everything that is not beautiful scenery, such as post boxes, unimportant cafe signs, and me. Yesterday I saw a family of seven take a group picture in front of the cement Pai Bank sign, with the photographers back to the mountains. They also hugely enjoy taking multiple pictures of themselves in different lights, never forgetting the Stereotypical Asian Pride Pose of a peace sign in Every. Single. Picture.

4. Their respect. Bowing is such a huge part of daily life, and I love the intricasies of the proper bow. If someone is older than you then palms together at your heart as you bow your head is appropriate. Lower head bows for monks. If you're not sure about age and don't want to offend someone, a simple head bow will do. Farang are included on this should we choose to participate.

5. Muay Thai is the national sport, and kids can start learning at the age of six. It also wields great respect and has been something of a shock to me to get bows from people when I walk through the main street in my Thai boxing shorts at 7:30 every morning. To them a foreigner training in Muay Thai is pretty shocking, especially girls, and yesterday a policer officer gave me a slight bow, which was totally unexpected. I had to stop mid-stride for a low bow as a compliment to his, and we parted as new friends.

6. Thai food is the second best food in the world, the first being Mexican. My favorite person in Pai is a tiny lady named Na, who runs Na's Kitchen and is the best and cheapest restaurant in town. For a full meal of Pad Prie-Waan, which is a sweet and sour sauce with tofu, fresh veggies, pineapple, cashews, an egg and rice is less than an American dollar. I love this woman as she is always singing and skipping about her kitchen, and calls me Lay-chee because Thai people can't pronounce r's. We have become quite good friends seeing as how all the Muay Thai fighters eat at her restaurant/house every night.

7. Thai language is really difficult to learn for Westerners, but is actually quite a simple language. There are no past or future tenses, and instead of saying something like, "Where are you going?" they just say "Where go?" I'm learning more everyday, especially from my trainers, and today Egg taught me "Soi ching ching katoi tuan," which means something like "You're very pretty for a fighting ladyboy."

Ahh, Thailand, you had me at "Sawadii kaaaaaaa." (Hello.)

Vote for Change

2009-01-27T20:32:00.001-08:00

I just got the chance to sit down and watch Barack Obama's inaugural address online, and I have to say that it brought tears to my eyes. Here I am, sitting in an internet cafe in Thailand wearing my Texans for Obama t-shirt and crying. A girl from Holland sitting next to me asked if I was ok, and the only response I could muster was to point at the screen. She smiled, gave me a hug, and said, "I think the whole world is proud of him today."

I'm still sitting in the same chair, but an hour later. I watched Obama's speech twice and then sat in stunned silence thinking about what he had said. I'm having problems trying to write down my thoughts because my mind is racing and my heart is beating loudly in my chest. So instead, I will try to write down what this speech means to me.

It has been a long time since I can honestly say I am proud to be an American. A very long time. My first big traveling trip was ten months in Europe in 2005-2006, where I spent a large percentage of my 20th year listening to people complain about my country, how George W. Bush was destroying the world, and how it seemed to somehow be my fault even though I didn't vote for him. It also did not help that I was born in Texas at all. I felt devastated and ashamed, and started hiding my accent and the fact that I am American. I absorbed their hatred, holding America accountable for the actions of a greedy and mis-lead government. Although it has been hard, I am trying to forgive and move on.

I have known from an early age how lucky I am to have been born in a first-world country. As a child I was introduced to Mexico and to the poverty, over-population, polution, and corruption they deal with on a daily basis. I know that being born with the freedoms of speech and religion are something we take for granted every day, and there are so many people in this world who smile through sufferings we cannot even imagine. And through it all, I still felt judged and ashamed to be an American.

Three years later I have a different outlook on the world at large. I know that the media has stereotyped and destroyed a lot of beauty that America holds. I know that over the last eight years our actions have landed us in a heap of hatred and anxiety, and I have felt trapped, as if we might never escape. I feel that our over-consumption and greed will come back to haunt us if we do not rectify our mistakes soon. I know that America is a beautiful country filled with beautiful people, and I feel so blessed and lucky to be a part of this turning point in our history. I mailed my voting ballot from London and popped open a bottle of champagne there at 10:00 a.m. that cold November morning while Brittney and I stared at the TV screen in awe and disbelief that Obama had actually been elected. It felt good, so good, to be proud of my countrymen and woman again, and to know that it was a step, even if just a small one, in the right direction.

What can we expect now?

Barack Obama is not a saint. He cannot snap his fingers and make the world a better place. He is a strong man who was handed all of the world's problems and is expected to fix them fast. Yet these problems are not just his, and not just Americas. We, as Citizens Of The World, all have a responsibility to do what we can to help make and inspire change. We cannot wait for the politicians of our country and other countries to make all the decisions and sit idly by hoping some good might come out of it. Blaming other people in other places will get us nowhere, nor will blaming ourselves. We all know the tasks ahead of us will be tough and many, but with inspiration in the form of my new president, I have hope.

A favorite quote from Barack Obama's inauguration speech:

"Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land- a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, that the next generation must lower its sights. Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America - they will be met.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."

Hope over fear.
Unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

This is what I wish for my country and for all countries. I have faith in the good of this world, that it will triumph through adversity, and that we will someday be able to put our differences aside and share this beautiful world we live in together in peace.

If you want to watch Obama's speech or read it:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/obama_inauguration/7840646.stm

Taking Names

2009-01-19T04:11:00.000-08:00

Currently my favorite phrase in Thai is "Farang mai ting tong," which means "White girl not crazy." Although I'm sure some would beg to differ, including myself actually.

For some unknown reason I have recently signed up for a month of Muay Thai boxing training. Why have I signed up for this? Only Buddha knows. Perhaps it's because I was getting sick of the travelers' party scene. Perhaps I'm looking for some semblence of health and fitness. Perhaps I am ting tong. The good news is that I actually think it's working.

Today I finished my fourth day of training. We train once or twice a day, two hours each session, six days a week. I haven't had a drop of alcohol in six days. I can barely lift my arms to type this. I have come to terms with a new pain: shin pain. Shin pain feels like your shins are bleeding from the inside, but only forming bruises on the outside as you kick the trainer's gloves or punching bags over and over again. I have a bruise on my right ribcage from my third day when I missed a block out of pure exhaustion and got kicked. As I whimpered softly in pain Tong, my trainer for that day, felt my ribcage and looked up with a smile. "Not broken.......jab! Uppercut!" I haven't missed a block since.

A typical rundown of a two hour training session, not including the run that usually starts at seven, starts with a jump rope, which is good because from third to fifth grade I got blue ribbons in a jumping rope contest. Which actually means nothing. Then we warm up together, which I like because it includes a lot of yoga and that's the only thing I'm better at than anyone else. After we line up to practice techniques with our jab, punch, uppercut, cross, elbow, straight kick, knee, and side kick. A trainer will then grab you, strap on some boxing gloves, and go for a one-on-one endurance session on pain. For two hours we are constantly punching, kicking, weaving, and blocking, so of course we end with a measly 300 push-ups, pull-ups or sit-ups, all of which I cannot do for the life of me. I opt for 200 crunches with Tong yelling, "higher...higher!" and me yelling, "Mai! Chai yen yen!"

That brings me to my second favorite phrase. "Chai yen yen," means "Take it easy."

I love all the trainers, but Tong is my favorite. The only English he speaks are words like punch, block, elbow, kick, good, faster, and sissy. He always laughs at me because I'm incapable of having a badass Thai fighter face and look more like a fatigued Minnie Mouse. We spend most of our time laughing at each other, which is cool considering he used to be the number one Muay Thai boxing champion of Thailand. After a while Bee will seperate the giggling idiots and he'll make me work hard on my technique, or lack there of. It's Bee's gym, and he used to be a number one champion also. So was Tree. And Ay. And Egg. So basically I'm paying for some of the best Thai fighters in Thailand to kick my ass into shape six days a week. And when I can finally pick my broken body off the mats, it's time to go to work.

Here in this tiny little town called Pai in the northern mountains of Thailand I am running a vintage clothing store. I met an English Reiki Master named Allen who was given this little shop, and has no idea what to do with it. So he just kinda gave it to me to advertise, take care of, and generally be creative with. It's a nice place to relax, wind down, read my book, practice my fire spinning and meet some cool people. We split the profits, which isn't much, but it's enough to keep me alive. He's also given me a great deal on some Reiki lessons, which is energy healing, that would add on nicely to my massage practice.

Yesterday my friend Andy, who is doing the training with me, cursed me for being able to land on my feet so quickly, seeing as I've been here for a week. I'm not sure why or how this always seems to happen, but I'm thankful that it does. I'm happy here in my little town with only three streets. I live in a bamboo hut, which is absolutely freezing in the mornings but beautiful in the sunny afternoons. I train, I work, I eat great Thai food, and I'm usually sleep by nine or ten at night.

Rachel the Social Butterfly is taking a break.

Rachel the Muay Thai fighter is kicking ass and taking names.

I just found out that I'm sparring on Monday. And yes, my toenails are painted shiny pink. We'll see how long I last.

Outwardly Looking In

2009-01-13T03:28:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to write for a while, but I've been looking for the right words. I want to talk about my generation, our generation, and how we express ourselves. Some may chuckle to themselves, some may raise an eyebrow in silent disagreement, others I am hoping will agree.

Last week I got my fourth tattoo. I love it. I will always love it because it is important to me. It means something to me now as it will in fifty years, because it connects me to my favorite person in the world: my younger brother Sam. To describe it is simple. It's at the back of my neck, written in Thai. The top word says "Nong Chai" which means Little Brother, and it's followed by four lines of the Awakening prayer:

"Evoking the presence of the Great Compassion, let us fill our hearts with our own compassion towards ourselves and towards all living beings."

My brother was there to hold my hand for an hour and a half, while a small Thai man stabbed me thousands of times with a small piece of bamboo with intense precision, in traditional Thai bamboo tattoo style on the island of Ko Tao in Thailand. It's not this tattoo that inspires this writing, it was actually my first. I want to talk about my generation and how we define ourselves. We are what I like to call the Tattoo Generation. We express ourselves outwardly, through our clothing, hair, piercings, tattoos, ideals, peace protests, poetry slams, rock concerts, and style. What were once private issues whispered in the safe confines of your home are now splashed across bumper stickers, tshirt logos and the headline of the newspaper.

Yet we are not the first to spawn these great ideals of change. My parents' generation of the sixties were the first, and I am merely passing on what they taught me. They taught me that change is possible. That breaking from the norm with some radical new ideas may just be what this world needs. That if we are unhappy with our governments, we have the power to have our voices heard. That it's the differences in all of us that make this world unique and will lead us forward into the future. Today I feel a different type of revolution taking hold.

I believe that in ten or twenty years it won't matter how you appear outwardly, but who you are inside. I wish we could be there now, but I find judgment at every corner from those unwilling to open their minds. Yes, I have dreadlocks, a giant tattoo on my forearm, upper back, lower back and ankle. Yes, I think they are the most beautiful pieces of art anyone could have on their body. No, I never want to be or work where someone would overlook my skills or personality because of them. No, I would never change for anyone but myself.

Some people will say that I'll never be able to get a "real" job, and to that I can only say, "Promise?" I laugh to think at what my mother is thinking right now. She is the foundation of sensibility and logic mixed in with her wild spirit, and yes, she's almost always right. She says that when I'm old all my tattoos will be big, splotchy blobs, and she's probably right, again. The point, though, is that those big, beautiful unrecognizable blobs will be the reminder of my youth, my carefree, happy youth. I will take these years, live them and love them, and occasionally paint pictures on my skin of loves, lights, and memories. Every tattoo is a little piece of me that I want to show and share with the world, and I can see nothing wrong with that.

What I think I'm asking for, from those who disbelieve or disagree, is a little peace and a little acceptance. You don't have to like it. You don't have to agree with it. But seeing as how you can do nothing about it, I'd have to say it'll be a lot easier for all of us to move forward, together, if we could embrace our differences instead of fight about them. There is enough hate and judgement in this world. We should be standing together.

Stayin' True to Myself

2008-12-19T02:16:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at 4:33 a.m. I got off a bus in downtown Bangkok. Being near a popular destination for travelers, Kho San Road, I headed that dirction to find some accomodation and some rest. For those of you who know it, Kho San Road is a pretty wild place. By day it is filled with hawkers and tourist traps, cheap clothing stalls, and the occasional fake ID place that does anything from student travel discount cards, Australian work permits and UK drivers licenses. By night it's the social scene in Bangkok, for tourists and locals, and if you're still looking for beer at five or six in the morning Kho San is your place. As usual, there are a large number of pretty, young Thai girls with their arms draped over a number of white men, young and old, who will pay them for a nights' company. And, if you take a closer look, you might get a little surprise.

Every "westerner" hears the horror stories of the Lady-boys. Some of them look so much like women that the only way you can tell they're men is when it's too late. I personally feel, since I'm not really a fan of sex exploitation, that's it's hilarious to hear these stories and that karma has simply found its way with these unsuspecting louts. But then, here I am about to tell you MY Lady-boy story...

As I was saying, it was early in the morning or really late at night, depending on how you look at it. The people I had gotten off the bus with had found the hostel they booked for, yet there was no room for me. I headed back out and checked four or five hostels to no avail. After a twelve hour journey, including a hellish boat trip and an overnight bus I couldn't sleep on, I sat down on the curb to rest, think, and look at my map.

There were a lot of people on the road, but I was having a hard time communicating through my exhaustion and their drunkenness. You may think this to be a hazardous predicament, but I have to honestly say I have not once, in almost a month here in Asia, felt any danger whatsoever. The people here are fantastic, smiling, lovely people. And that is why I didn't feel any hesitation at all when a group of young girls walked up to me and sat down for a chat. They asked me why I was sitting there, if I had a place to stay, why I wasn't with my husband or boyfriend (in that order) and seemed generally distressed that I was traveling alone because they thought I was lonely. And truth be told, at that moment I was a bit lonely and truly relished their company.

They couldn't have been more that 18 or 19 years old, all dressed in modern, western party clothes, and seemed to be having a great time in each others' company. They all spoke English reasonably well, which is more than I can say about my Thai, and their conversations seemed quite clever, even if it was five in the morning. I was pretty damn sure they were prostitutes, but hey, who am I to judge? I liked them, and we sat there talking about everything, from American politics to the best beaches in Thailand.

The conversation took an interesting turn when one girl said something to another in Thai, and they all started giggling while one of the girls blushed. As she turned back to me, she translated in to English:

"Jay here, she want show you new boobies. Just got them. Grade-A boobies."
"What?" I reply, confused and not clear if I had heard correctly.
"Jay is full girl now, just get boobies last week!"

***Now, this was not said in a sexual way. More like a girly confession right before a pillow-fight at a teenager's sleepover; something you would only admit to your best girlfriends.

The young girl blushes again, but looks at me with a proud and excited eye, expecting me to fall into the role of girlfriend confidant. I am stunned and amused. Ok.

"So Jay, I like your boob-job. Have you always been a girl, or is this a new thing?"
(They erupt in giggles and now I'm not sure I've said the right thing. Jay smiles and speaks.)
"Oh Ray-chu, I am always being a girl in my head. Just born male parts. Now work very hard have new boobies!" she squeals.
"Excellent. I'm very excited for you."
"Would you like to see? To touch na?"
"No."
"Oh yes you must! Very nice for touch, see?"
"Wow. That's your boob. I'm actually good thanks."
"Please touch, see they are nice, na?" chide the girls together.
"Shit.......ok."

And that is how I came to touch a transvestite's fake tit yesterday at 5:30 a.m.

To be honest, the entire time with the "girls" was pretty funny, and I'm glad I met them. It's funny the life lessons you learn whilst traveling, even if unexpected. Jay was simply being herself, and I think that's all anyone could ever be. I liked her and her friends, all confident seemingly care-free, although I'm sure their lives were a lot harder than they let on. The story ends with them taking me to a cheap, clean traveler's hostel who did have a bed for me. Instead of sleeping I sat and wrote down this story.

As I sit here, relaying it to you, I smile. I have loved Thailand from the first five minutes of being here, and like all new loves, it contiues to teach me and surprise me. Jay's lesson to me about being myself, knowing myself inside and out, and loving everything around me is one I will cherish. I think we have a lot of doubt in ourselves sometimes, about what we feel we can and cannot accomplish, or our outward appearance attacked daily by tabloid media telling us what we should or shouldn't look like. I am going to try, although it won't be easy, to be more myself everyday.

Today I put on a pair of baggy pair of thai pants, a tank top, and spent the whole day reading my book under a tree. I feel that is me, and I haven't wanted anything more all day. Whether I met you in Austin, London, Mexico, or some other part of the world, the reason I'm emailing this letter to you is because I think you have a beautiful soul. And I think people should hear that more than it's said.

You are a beautiful person with a beautiful soul, and I thank you for being a part of my life, and for improving on it.

Lean On Me

2008-12-12T03:49:00.000-08:00

Written 7-12-08

I was so sleep deprived while writing my last letter, and I forgot to thank a few people. I find that being constantly surrounded by the greatest friends anyone could ask for makes every day so much better, and I am thankful for the companionship, laughter and light you have bestowed on me so graciously. Alex and Gini Lowe, for your constant hospitality, love, and the Merseyside Derby. Natalie Kissane for your friendship through multiple cups of coffee and conversations. James O'Mahony, Baker O'Sullivan and Jason O'Sullivan for your laughter and potatoes, you crazy Irish bastards. Shaun Edgerley for the terrorist firetruck Lego hour and for knowing how to push all my buttons. I expext my UK Government Drinking Pass anyday now. Brittney Covey, for your spirit. Jim and Sandy for your inspiration and unwavering support. John Martin, Tony, James and Sue for your matching jumpers and the Pineapple Express. (Tony, I will never forget how you ripped off your shirt to Eye of the Tiger in O'Neills) To Dougie McGilvray for the haggis, Shaolin Soccer and your fabulous accent, I promise that one day I will show you Austin. Simon McKay for your smile. Rishi Dave for your laughter. Simon Day for your fantastic shoe collection and your stories. And to the regulars still drinking at the Selkirk pub, you are all crazy. I find that it's my friends who teach me the most about life. Through our actions and dedication to each other, or simply being there for one another when needed is the greatest gift anyone could give. I was thinking a lot about friendship the other day as I sat on a bus headed back to Malaysia from Singapore. I spent an amazing few days with some wonderful people, the time dubbed "Fear and Loathing in Singapore" by the collective group. When it was over we said our goodbyes and walked off down our individual paths. It's quite an intense stir of emotions, the Traveling Friendship. Like speed dating you bond, travel, and experience the most amazing things together in a very small window of time. In the end though, we are all nomads and must move when the wind compells us. Sometimes we move in the same direction, sometimes not, and it's always a little heart-breaking when the seperation happens, no matter how long you spent together. It's funny how I even meet half the people I meet. Jean Michel and I met in the Qatar airport and were joined at the hip. We picked up Michael from Sweden at a hostel in Malaca, and all went to Singapore together in a spontaneous flurry. There we meet Zack from Alaska who was sitting at the next table drinking a beer while we ate breakfast. In a grand total of two days we ran all over Singapore like kids who ate a bag of sugar and were set free in a toy store. When it was time for Jean Michel and I to pick up our backpacks and head to the bus station, a silence fell over us for the first time in days, and I was thankful to not take the bus trip alone. What were we going to do without each other? Who else would understand our inside jokes and unexplained laughter? And two days later in Kuala Lumpor, I packed my bag and walked to the bus stop myself, bound for Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands.

Saying goodbye to Jean Michel was heart-wrenching. Just like leaving my friends in London, I wondered what it would take to fill the void. We were like siblings, the two of us, and who knows when we will see each other again. I often prefer to travel alone because it forces me to meet new people and I hate compromising, so the trip alone and the last few days have been nice for me. Such is life. As I've said before, it's my friends who teach me the most:

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN ASIA (so far)

1. If an Asian looks you in the eye and tell you something is spicy, for the love of all things Holy, please listen to him.

2. They don't like toilet paper here, and instead prefer a hose that blasts out water to clean yourself with. I don't like it, and like every self-respecting traveler I now carry toilet paper with me everywhere I go.

3. Malaysia is a predominately Muslim country, and I've been struggling to keep my shoulders, stomach and knees covered in a very HOT country. I still get stared at lot, but at least I'm making an attempt to be respectful of their religion and customs without wearing a sari or burka.

4. No one goes to a doctor unless they are dying. It's easier to go to a pharmacist who will diagnose your symptoms and give you cheap medicine. I know this because I'm apparently allergic to something here and currently look like I have the chicken pox.

5. The word for 'Thank you' in Malay is 'Terima kasih,' and I get a big smile and a 'Sama sama,' (Your welcome) every time I say it.

All is good.
Life is good.

So Much To Say

2008-12-12T03:48:00.000-08:00

Written 28-11-08

I really wanted to write to you about Scotland. About the beautiful architecture, the flowing rivers of scotch, the haggis and black pudding I ate, Edinburgh Castle, the music and dancing, the arctic temperatures, the pikey market called The Barras where people sold valuable items such as stolen children's bikes, Viagra, used doorknobs, and had a live auction for cuts of steak and designer perfumes. I wanted to write about Dougie and Cat in Glasgow, who took me in and are the best tour guides and friends anyone could ask for, Felix in Edinburgh for showing me the beautiful city, and all the amazing people I met.

Then I wanted to write about the petrifying fear I felt before leaving London, even though I tried to hide it. About my lip trembling on the plane, knowing that I am not brave, only curious and a bit distracted from reality. About how I know virtually nothing about where I was headed and definitely didn't speak the language. About feeling my heart sink to my stomach at the thought of all the wonderful people I left behind in London for yet another trip.

It was exactly this last thought as I waited in Qatar for my next flight to Thailand that I was informed about the riots. Political unrest blocking my way to the sunshine. How selfish of them! Those of you who know that Qatar is a predominately Muslim country also know they don't serve beer anywhere near the airport, so those were a few s l o w hours, but I managed to pass the time by befriending a fellow traveler, Jean Michel, who has become my new travel buddy and French tutor. We are finally allowed to head to Bangkok and an hour before we land are informed that they have re-closed the airport and that we're headed to Kuala Lumpor, Malaysia.

Perfect timing, Rachel. Way to go.

As usual, the Universe in its infinite wisdom has decided to mess up my plans. After countless hours waiting in airports we find out that Bangkok is closed and that we're headed to a hotel. The Crown Plaza, to be exact! Never would I abandon my traveler ways, but I was a bit overwhelmed by all the shiny expensive things and might have gotten a bit carried away. As I sit soaking in my giant bathtub with my fancy bubbles and oils I reflect on the events of the last few days, and can't help but feel a little guilty for staying in a five-star hotel while the people in Thailand hope a grenade doesn't go off near their house.

The last few days I've been reading a lot of news, and it's not just Thailand, but all over the world. One hundred and thirty dead in Mumbai in a dozen bombed buildings. Hostages still being kept hostage. Indian-Pakistani tensions. It's frustrating to sit here, to try to write down my thoughts and fears for this planet. There are so many ugly things in this world, all the killings, bombings, bloodshed, and for what? Politics. Religion. Hatred. Wealth. Poverty. Resentment. Fear. To never be able to turn on a TV or read a newspaper without hearing about destruction and despair.

The worst of it is how easy it has become to turn away. To tune out the bad news. To ignore what is going on in our world, the world we are supposed to share. What can I do? I don't have the answers I'm looking for, but I truly believe that each person makes their own mark in this world. Each person tries to make a change, a difference, even if it's in the simplicity of a smile or picking up a piece of trash on the street. What I think I'm trying to find here is a little inner-peace, to know I am doing something worthwhile and helping where I can. We can't all go join the United Nations and fight injustice with our bare hands, but I know, without a doubt, that we do what we can in our own special way.

Because what would this world be like if we didn't help each other out every once in a while?

Back to the Farm

2008-12-12T03:44:00.000-08:00

Written 18-11-08

Within the last week I've developed a strange habit of yelling "SHEEP!" quite loudly and randomly. It could be that I've somehow managed to contract Tourettes Syndrome through my love for Tim Howard (Everton joke), or it may be because I'm in Wales and there are sheep everywhere!

I don't just mean you see them occasionally. I mean they are literally EVERYWHERE, and give me so much inner-happiness with their fluffy nature that I am quite comically ecstatic all the time. Now, I have never been a fan of livestock, but people seem to think that because I'm from Texas I know a thing or two about farming. I'd like to set the record straight and state, quite forcefully, that I have never felt the urge to milk a cow, get anywhere near a pig, and have never ridden a horse to school...I had a Honda Civic. But these Welsh sheep are hilarious! You can even give directions by them, such as "Go down the unmarked one way highway, turn left at the orange-spotted sheep to the farm with no address, but only the name Bodragolwyn." Ahh Wales, you have my heart, even if I have to put on eight layers of clothing to go near a window.

It has been so nice to get out of the Big City to the small island of Anglesey in the Northwest corner of Wales. My cough has gone away, I can breathe through my nose again, and everything here is ludicrously green. That is probably due to the fact that it rains 326 days a year, but man is it breath-taking. I was going to try not to use words like picturesque, quaint, and hobbit-like yet I have to because they just describe perfectly the lush, rolling hills, the 400 year old cottages people still live in, the mountains in the distance, and of course the sheep.

Not far away from the farm I'm staying on (Bodragolwyn) is the town Bodorgan, which boasts seven houses and a shop. Near there is a town famed for its name of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

That's right. Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. The longest name of a place in the world.

If I remember my Welsh correctly it translates as "The church of St. Mary in the hollow of white hazel trees near the rapid whirlpool by St Tysilio's of the red cave," which makes sense, obviously. And people say the Welsh are crazy? I find them quite divine, even if I can't understand them.

I'm going on and on about the countryside, but the town of Bangor, about 20 minutes from where I'm staying, is actually quite a cool, modern place. My first night, to my amazement, I was taken salsa dancing and then to a "Wild West" night, which is always an amusing stereotype of how the rest of the world perceives the south. Bangor is also host to a large university with one of the best marine biology schools, which is what my friend Adrian is studying.

Adrian. We met in a hostel in Antigua, Guatemala and bonded over our mutual love for the song "This is how we do it" by Montel Jordan and our ability to make complete fools of ourselves in public. He invited me to come out and stay for a bit, and I've been having fun all week trying to revert back to a state of health long lost in the Maddness, also known as London.

The peace of the morning here is intense, curled up with a cup of tea and a book, I can watch the cows graze outside the window, watch the sun and rain come and go. Nice long walks with Adie's decrepidly-old dog Buno are great because we walk at the same pace, me having to waddle because I'm quite literally wearing three pairs of socks, tights, leggings, trousers, four shirts, a jumper, a waterproof jacket, boots, mittens, a scarf, a wooly hat, and looking oddly like the Stay Puft Marshmellow Man. Along with Adrian being an amazing tour guide, dance partner and chef, I have been completely spoiled with our common obsession for cheesy action films, which is a great excuse for watching all four Lethal Weapon movies in one day.

Screw productivity.

Toy Story

2008-12-12T03:43:00.000-08:00

Written 4-11-08

I have found the most magical place in all of London.

I stumbled upon it while walking down Regent Street, a quite busy, posh street in Central London. One might wonder why this magical haven of mine is located next to all the pomp and snobbery London has to offer, and yet, there it is. I speak of course of the Hamleys Toy Store, a six level maze of pure joy in shiny packaging. I ventured in slowly, afraid that a man in an Official Uniform would stop me, look down condescendingly and say I was too old to be there. After a few seconds of holding my breath, I realized that there were no flashing red lights or intruder alarms and that I was in a safe place.

Remember when you were a kid and your Mom told you everything was going to be ok? In your heart you knew that to be true, simply because she had said so and you trusted her with the blind love and innosence of childhood. These days, with all of our "grown-up" education and knowledge, our realities and skepticisms, we find ourselves constantly looking over our shoulder. So when, in the huge city of London I find myself feeling that warm security of my childhood while standing in a toy store, a smile lights up my face and I feel the sudden urge to call my Mother.

A few days later, on my day off, I took my friend Shaun to see the toy store. I needed someone to share the memory with, someone to play with who would understand how alive I felt. We dragged each other around all 6 floors, me squealing wildly at the princess dresses on the third floor, he telling me about the model planes he used to build as a kid while wearing a Storm Trooper helmet on his head. I sat on the floor and played with a train set next to a three year old. We put on Hulk hands and had a boxing match. I could go on and on about the mischief we had but what I really want to get across is the sheer beauty and simplicity of the experience. Of playing in a toy store with no reguards to maturity or caring what people thought. Of letting loose my inner child and letting her soar.

After three hours of excitement and joy, we made a small purchase of a Firetruck Lego set and walked over to a pub to put it together. It was busy, so we sat on the floor near the fireplace and dug in. Yes, there were some who did not understand my incessant giggling or Shauns intense concentration on the wheels, but a lot of people walked over to talk to us about our Lego set, offer advice, or help us out. The person who sticks out most vividly in my mind was an elderly man sitting close to us, watching our progress. After a while he came and knelt down beside us to talk. He showed me a picture on his phone of a movie star's face, completely made our of Legos. He has taken his granddaughter to see it, and in talking about it, his eyes were lit up. He grinned a sly, mischevious grin, and in it I could see the youth he had held onto all his life.

The youth of the world are changing. A twelve year old ordered a latte in front of me yesterday in a coffee shop. I wanted to give him a hug and then take him to the zoo but instead I sat and thought about how fast kids these days want to grow up. How my young, beautiful cousins all wear make-up and want to be like Hannah Montana, who is in my opinion the spawn of evil. And how many thirteen year old girls wanted to buy the Playboy Bunny costume for Halloween? All of this frightens me, especially when I sat for three hours and made a samurai sword for Halloween out of a cardboard box, a roll of duct tape and some glitter.

The wisdom I have learned and want to impart is this:

1: If you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?

2. Hold on to your youth for as long as humanly possible. Because once it's gone its hard to get back. We all need a little silliness to warm up this "Real World" we live in. So I ask you to ask yourself...

When was the last time you flew a kite?

The Peace Within the Glare

2008-12-12T03:41:00.000-08:00

Written 21-10-08

I'm developing a glare.

The "Londoners Glare" I call it. The "Hey I'm walking here Taxi Man, and if you run me over you'll have to pay for my funeral" glare. It comes quickly, unexpectedly, when you're already in the middle of the road. Oh yes, I know he sees me. I don't quicken my pace. Head held high, I take my time to cross the street and at the last second, BAM! I flick my chin towards him, my eyes narrow and I speak calmly through them. I'm not afraid of you, Taxi Man. I dare you to try it.

Brakes screech.
I saunter on, confidently smiling. In this supposed pedestrian-friendly city it's almost impossible to cross a street without someone blaring their horn and politely asking you to step aside for them to pass, even when you have the right of way. People are in such a hurry to get where they're going that they don't take time to look around them.

Londoners hate me. On the sidewalk, or "footpath" as they say here, nothing drives a Londoner crazy like some carefree-looking individual walking at half-pace watching the clouds or noticing the architecture of the buildings without any real direction or time constraint. I very frequently get trampled by people wearing very expensive suits. These people who don't take time to look around often miss out on the wonders London has to offer, so I try to do them a favor and slow them down when I can, which I'm sure they appreciate.

When you slow down, crazy things can happen. Take for example, yesterday. It's my day off and Natalie and I have decided to go out for a stroll. We stop at a crossroad and are waiting for the little green man to tell us it's almost safe to cross the road when I look up and there's a man pointing at me. A bus blows by and my line of sight is broken for a second. I look again. The man in a suit and green tie points and screams, "Austin!"

Now, again and again, the Universe has communicated to me that the World is actually quite a small place. I am not one to question the power of nature, nor my place or my destiny. But when, in a city of 18 million people, my friend Andy Jones screams at me at a random street corner in central London, I listen. I have not seen Andy, a friend and regular at Fado Irish Pub in Austin, Texas, in months. Nor did I know he was in London. So either by a freakish coincidence or my personal belief that everything happens for a reason that here I meet up again with my friend.

After exchanging phone numbers and making plans to meet up, I walk away in stunned silence. Thinking back to the earlier morning, my mind wanders. What if I had stayed in that coffee shop, instead of getting my soy latte to-go? Would we still have met up, if it was destined to be so? Or would have life moved on, and our paths would never have crossed. So many things happen in life that I cannot explain, nor would want to if I could. These words like coincidence, fate, destiny, chance; they are only used in effort to describe the indescribable. And so I find myself at a loss, once again awed by the power that surrounds us, yet cannot touch or taste, smell or hear. We can only feel it down to our very core. There, in the center of our being, is where we find our peace.

Today was a beautiful day. The last of the sun has been shining and I feel light and free. From now on I will let the Universe guide me. I will remain open to the signs sent to me. In following my path, I hope I will cross yours soon. And I hope you will follow your heart, let it be your guide, so we can meet again. At peace

Come On You Blues!

2008-12-12T03:39:00.000-08:00

Written 1-10-08

Last week a meeting of epic proportions occured in the Skies.
The Gods converged.
Conversed.
Blessed.
A single Diety stepped forth.
Pointed his mighty finger towards the Earth.
With a booming voice, he said, "She will go to Goodison Park."

And she that was blessed was me.

The message from the Heavens came to me not in the form of a burning bush or angelic light, but a text message from my friend Alex. It read, "You are the luckiest girl alive. We have tickets to the Merseyside Derby in Liverpool next Saturday!"

The Merseyside Derby, a football game played every year between Everton FC and Liverpool FC, is one of the most important games of the year for fans who hail from Liverpool, or support one of the teams in the city. This being my first Premiere League game, and also being against our biggest rivals, my trip to Goodison Park, Everton's field, is comparable to a trip to Mecca.

So my friends and I drove up from London last Friday and spent the weekend in the glorious city of Liverpool. We got in late and were up early for the match, my body buzzing with enegry and delight. Getting down to the field early, I set off with Alex, Rob and Mitch to grab a pre-game Guinness, partly for tradition, partly to calm all our nerves. I was amazed to be surrounded by so many Everton shirts, as I've never experienced that before. Usually I get a lot of inquisitive or amused looks when I wear my blue and white jersey about and spend a lot of time staunchly defending Everton honor. That Saturday afternoon I smiled like it was going out of fashion.

Into the stadium and the game began. I was sitting in the same building with David Moyes, Tim Howard, Mikel Arteta, Tim Cahill, Joleon Lescott, Phil Jagielka and countless others I have watched and supported religiously for three years. It was Heaven. And Hell. An hour and a half of stressed out excitement of what will happen next. I have small bruises circling my knees because I was gripping them too hard with my fingers. I screamed words I did not know existed in my vocabulary. I befriended a six year old sitting next to me who was yelling cuss words I didn't know existed. I comforted Alex, who was sitting on my other side and went back and forth between moods of depression and rage. And in the end, we lost.

Losing is something Everton fans are used to. People often ask me why I support them, why I don't pick a better team. But what these people don't understand is that it wasn't my choice, I was born an Everton fan, just like they were born to support their team. There's a mile of difference between the football I know in England and the sports I know in America. Here football isn't a game, it's a way of life. You live and die by your team, no matter how many times they might falter. Once your team has picked you, you cannot change. I am an Everton fan because when we actually win something, it's the most beautiful feeling in the world. Because it calms me down when David Moyes, the coach and the scariest guy in the world, looks like he might die of a stress-induced stroke and the vein in his forehead pops out because he's yelling so much for my team. Because I sat there in Goodison park with thousands of other Everton fans, and even after we lost to out biggest rival, there wasn't a single person who took off their jersey or denounced the team for losing. Their loyalty was unwaivering and always will be, and I find that admirable. That is why I am an Everton fan.

Thank you Alex Lowe for teaching me about football and introducing me to Everton.
I hope you are proud of me.

Nil Satis Nisi Optimum

Enter the Texan

2008-12-12T03:36:00.000-08:00

Written 9-9-08

I wanted to email everyone before the world ended.

I don't know if anyone's been reading the news, but apparently the Swiss have built this 17 mile-long underground machine that will simulate the Big Bang. And they want to turn it on tomorrow. England, being the tabloid capitol of the world, is filled with doomsday prophecies of it creating a black hole and sucking up the world slowly from the Swiss-France border. That means I'm screwed and the Kiwis will be the last to survive.

Personally I agree with the Mayans that the world will end December 23rd, 2012, and on that day I'll be in Guatemala with them. Until then, I won't hold my breath to much. This insane tabloid media is one of the many things I love in England, among other quirks.

For example, the tube, the Underground. I was on it the other day, and it was packed so full you could barely breathe, and this guy decided that he can make it on, even though there's another right behind this one. Inevitably half of his body gets smashed in the closing doors. The conductor, on seeing this through all the cameras littered around London, opens the doors and yells at him over the intercom, then closes the doors again and smashes him again! So 1. this man was in such a hurry that he couldn't wait 30 seconds, thus preventing the accident. 2. the conductor smashed the guy twice on purpose probably just because he was having a bad day. 3. no one did anything. i was frozen in fear in my seat, but people were ignoring the incident, as usual. No one looks at each other in the tube. No one touches each other in the tube. I had a dance party with my friend Adrian in the tube once, simply to make an idiot of myself in public and thrown them off, but no, I was surprised. No one flinched or gave away any indication that something was off in their stuffy, uncomfortable world. I was amazed.

So unable to spread cheer in the tube, I have turned to my pub. Oh yes, I got a job in a pub in Camden called the Oxford Arms, and yes, I live upstairs. North London is a fun place, and Camden is very much like Austin. There's a giant market, lots of crazy clothing shops and tattoo parlors...you see where I'm going with this. I really like my pub but it's a little strange being back. I'm trying to re-learn the English-Irish-Scottish venacular which is always challenging, while I have been forced to say "y'all" at least 20 times. I was also asked yesterday if my father is Clint Eastwood.

The only response I could muster was "No, but that's my horse's name."

Buddha Bless

2008-12-12T03:29:00.000-08:00

Written 10-8-08

I don't know what the problem is, but for the last three days people have been nagging me about Jesus. Literally once a day for the past three days someone has tried to convert me to Christianity. Apparently I have a big sticker on my forehead that says SAVE ME JESUS! It's beginning to piss me off.

Maybe it's the dreadlocks. Maybe it's the little Buddha hanging from my neck, or the Tao Te Ching I just started reading. Or maybe, just maybe, I was simply being happy as myself and someone wanted to ruin my day. Now I have lots of friends who are Christians, and hey, I think Jesus was a pretty cool dude...he walked through the desert in flip flops spreading peace, the ultimate hippie. But you don't see Muslims or Buddhists or Jews wielding pictures of dead babies in front of abortion clinics or thumping their religious texts at people in the street, so I'm going to pick on the Christians.

Now I have my respect for religion. I'm happy that people can find something to believe in, something to push them forward and keep them motivated. The problem is, and we've all experienced this, is when they try to push that religion on me, because I don't want to hear it. Now when some old lady I don't know from Odessa, Texas tells me, and this is a direct quote, that I'm too pretty to go to Hell, and if I accept Jesus into my heart, we can see each other in Heaven...well, that is the absolute last place I want to be.

So here I am, trying to be respectful not only because she is a human being, but also because I'm at work and will get fired if I explode on her Jesus-Freak ass. Instead I smile calmly, mumble something about how Heaven is what you make it, and wander off to the back where I can vent my frustrations to the poor and unsuspecting kitchen staff. Lets take a look at what this small, insignificant conversation has accomplished:
1. I hate this woman, and I don't even know her.
2. She has upset and offended me, which is pretty difficult to manage
3. I now love Jesus even less than I did two minutes ago
4. She is setting a bad example and giving a bad name to good Christians

I ask the universe for an answer to my question: What made this woman believe, to the absolute core of her soul, that I am wrong and she is right? That there was only her religion, yet she was not educated enough to know about the other religions very prevalent in this world? That she was above rude comments towards strangers whilst breaking the rules of the organized religion she beholds so righteously? How dare she...how dare anyone?

An excerpt from Letters From The Earth, by Mark Twain:

"For there is nothing about a man that is not strange to an immortal. For instance, take this sample: he has imagined a heaven like himself: strange, interesting, astonishing, grotesque. I give you my word, there is not a single feature in it he actually values. It consists- utterly and entirely- of diversions which he cares next to nothing about, here in this earth, yet is quite sure he will like in heaven. Isn't it curious? You must not think I am exaggerating, for it is not so. I will give you details.

Most men do not sing, most men cannot sing, most men will not stay where others are singing if it be continued more than two hours, yet they will all be singing in their heaven.

Only about two men out of a hundred can play a musical instrument, and not four in a hundred have any wish to learn how, yet they all play harps in their heaven.

Most men pray, not many of them like to do it. A few pray long, the others make a short cut. All nations look down upon all other nations. All nations dislike all other nations. I ask you to note all these particulars."

I write this Sunday night. Monday, August 11th is my 23rd birthday. All I want for my birthday is a little peace. Peace of mind to know that my beliefs are for me, that your beliefs are for you, and that someday we all might be able to coexist together in this beautiful world without all the violence and hatred. To have peace of mind knowing that I lead a good life, that I am a good person and that I will be just fine living well with my own morals and values.

"When I do good, I feel good.
When I do bad, I feel bad.
And that is my religion."
-Abraham Lincoln

Peace.

Keep Austin Weird

2008-12-12T03:26:00.000-08:00

Written 18-7-08

This letter is dedicated to the Celtic Cowboys, a Gaelic football team in Austin, Texas, who have provided me with countless hours of entertainment and unwavering friendship. Thank you.

I love Austin.
I adore Austin.

As I was sitting under my favorite tree, drinking coffee at my favorite coffee shop, I realized that my love for this beautiful city could be expressed in one solitary word, one sweeping exclamation of what I felt in the recesses of my heart: Leslie.

Leslie. Every Austinite knows about Leslie, or has met Leslie, or has some amazing funny story about him. Leslie is Austin's own famous crazed homeless transvestite. He strolls the streets in pink leather thongs, fishnet tights, high heels and a long white beard, greeting tourists, posing for pictures and generally causing shock and laughter with every step he takes. Today he was wearing a University of Texas burnt orange longhorns top tied under his voluptuous fake breasts and the shortest miniskirt I have ever seen.

He walked over to me today whilst I was reading under my tree to talk about Mark Twain (I'm reading Letters from the Earth-it's fantastic). I was at that moment struggling with a word, nepotism, which usually happens when I read Twain. Together we ventured forth to find a dictionary and he only broke the conversation once to answer his Bluetooth. Although I have talked to Leslie many times, this morning was the catalyst I needed to be able to explain Austin at it's finest.

In 2000 Leslie ran for mayor and actually managed to get 15% of the votes for the election. Considering he's a homeless cross-dresser who showed up at the debates in a leopard print thong, that's pretty damn good. In his actions we can see the beauty of Austin, in the open minds of the community, in the official city slogan "Keep Austin Weird."

Austin is a safe haven for all the beautiful individuals this world holds. And it keeps us here with unheard-of festivities...

Austin is home to the month-long South by Southwest International Music, Art, and Film Fest, the Austin City Limits Music Festival, the Bob Marley Reggae Festival where you can sit next to your bong in a public park and no one bothers you. Let's not forget Eeyore's Birthday, a celebration of that lovable, pessimistic character from Winnie the Pooh, through a massive drum circle, costume contests, and beer from all the local breweries. Pecan Street Festival...Blues on the Green...First Thursday...Barton Springs...the list goes on...

But what about a simple Saturday afternoon when you can walk to a park and see a mix of Irish, American, and Dutch friends play Gaelic Rules football against an Aussie Rules football team, sweating under the Texas sunshine to practice for tournaments in Chicago and Colorado...where else but Austin, Texas could you find such madness?

Let's not forget the University of Texas, one of the biggest universities in the world, with over 80,000 students enrolled last year. Along with UT, we also have St. Edwards University, Concordia, Huston-Tillotson, Austin Community College, and Texas State University just down the road. Imagine the night-life!

For me, Austin has all the diversity and strength of a big city while maintaining a small community feel and atmosphere. The only problem is that it resides in the dead center middle of Texas, one of the most closed-minded, polluted hell holes I have ever been to. Yet in our sanctuary, our oasis, we work hard everyday to Keep Austin Weird.

I am so blessed to be from such an amazing place. I hope that every one of you will be able to experience something like it in your lifetime.

The Truth Shall Set Us Free

2008-12-12T03:22:00.000-08:00

Written 21-5-08

There is something terribly wrong with the world.

It revealed itself to me, not in a dream or vision, but wrapped in silver. If you must know, technically it came from a silver colored package labeled "American Airlines Premium Snack Mix."

I thought I was safe. It's professional packaging, the American Airlines Corporation logo ensuring the snack to be of "Premium" quality. Through the comfort of conformity I felt the peace of knowing what was to come. At first I struggled to open it, as if it didn't want me to discover the truth behind the shiny plastic exterior. After great effort, tugging and swearing, it yielded to the power of my stubbornness, not to mention hunger. Little did I know what lay ahead.

The package boasted "a blend of pretzels, honey roasted sesame sticks and cheddar corn bites." On examining the contents I found fourteen pretzels, three honey roasted sesame sticks, and zero cheddar corn bites. What false advertising! What abomination of truth! With only these three options listed and only two available, I turned to the ingredients list for a clue. To my astonishment I was to find fifty-seven different listed ingredients and no answers, so my gaze shifted back to the contents of my tray-table. Something I hadn't noticed before catches my eye. My jaw drops.

How extraordinary. The perfect exercise of social hierarchy. Using salt, the arch-nemesis of all sweet-flavored treats, the pretzels had taken over. Their hard, stale exterior, their burnt demeanor could not hide the caste system which they abandonned their morals to. Were they jealous of the sesame sticks' sweet nature? Or skin color? Or difference in appearance? Or were they simply made to believe that they, the Mighty Pretzels, were born above the rest, ordained by a higher power, or in this case the King Nut Companies and Kanan Enterprises?

I speak of the injustice and demolition of culture of the honey roasted tribe, but where are the cheddar corn bites? Were they natural with a cheesy zest, as the name suggests? We will never know as it seems every crumb of their existence has been wiped off the side of the bag, now only an echo of the past. Perhaps Kanan Enterprises can team up with Hallmark and have a holiday dedicated to the mixing of pretzel and corn bite traditions, before mass-murdering them and taking their bag space!

Faced with injustice, what would you do? The American Airlines Corporation Superpower chooses to ignore it in the greedy pursuit of saving money. We are taught to not forget the past, or we will be doomed to repeat it. I call out to all of you: Women, Men, Pretzels, and Kings, and ask you to stand for what you know in your heart is right. To not take for granted the difference in tastes and cultures we have been blessed with in this Life. I beg you, put down the guns and the rock salt, the invisible social constraints, and embrace the differences that make the world unique.

I could have been hallucinating. At the time I was on my fourth airplane of the day. And yet, the prophet Chex Mix once said, "Love thy Neighbor." My eyes are open, I see the light, the truth, and it has set me free. How pure and simple it all is.

A Pirates Life for Me!

2008-12-12T03:16:00.000-08:00

Written 14-5-08

Today I got promoted to First Deckhand Helper Monkey, which is a big promotion on the boat, so life is good, except for the mound of dishes I need to do.

Boat life has been really interesting. Small periods of hard work while sailing coupled with hours of free time, in which I’m usually reading or exploring. Fresh water and electricity are coveted, and in order to get to something, you have to move eight other things. It’s also a weird feeling that since I’m staying with my dad and stepmom I have three meals a day cooked for me, which is very new because I usually don’t eat that much, and when I do it’s been beans and rice for the last six months. This also explains the dish duty, since I can’t cook.

So let me tell you a little bit about the islands, which are surprisingly very different. We left St. Lucia last week with the moon smiling down on us, as only half-moons can. St. Lucia is definitely touristy and the locals have learned to cater to the “yachties”, people who live on boats. Once a guy paddled up to our boat standing on a surfboard selling coconuts and mangos he had just picked from the jungle, while listening to his iPod. The people there love anything having to do with New York on their clothing, but when asked, actually don’t like New York at all. As per usual, my dreadlocks seem to attract to the local crowd of Rastas, but again, on asking questions about the Rastafarian religion, they only seem to be aware of the part they can smoke. One old Rasta man stopped me in the street for some light conversation, and on discussing my dreads he turned to my father to ask his thoughts on his daughter’s hairstyle. My father’s reply was simply to shrug his shoulders and calmly say, “It’s only hair.” The old man, stunned into silence by the sacrilegious words of my father, completely forgot to peddle what he was peddling in the first place and walked off in a daze.

On top of all this fun, I also get to spend time with my good friend Richie, whom I met over two years ago while working at the Selkirk Pub in South London. Richie is as crazy as they come, an excellent friend, and a good pub crawl guide to St. Lucia. He has also turned me on to my next career opportunity…

The Tobago Goat Racing Championship!

The Wisdom that is Richie speaks: “The trick is that you have to run alongside your goat, so you either need to be able to keep up with your goat, or be strong enough to pull it along after you.” I, being an expert on goats after sitting near one on a bus in Guatemala, have decided to pursue this new career headfirst and see where it takes me. I have no doubts that I will be towards the back, with my goat dragging me.

On my way to the races, we stopped next in Martinique, which is in the complete opposite direction of Tobago. The sail north took about five hours, with not so friendly winds coming out of the east. It was, however, quite an experience that cannot go without mention. An hour into the sail, a dolphin jumps out of the water next to us. I mean fully out of the water. Then another. And another. Perhaps there were twenty dolphins, perhaps more. They came past us in waves, of all sizes and lengths, playing tag with our boat. I was mesmerized and afraid to blink. A brief thought about going down to get my camera flickered through my mind, but I wouldn’t have traded one minute of watching the dolphins for anything this world has to offer, so there are only pictures imprinted in my memory. They were a dove gray with white speckles on their sides, and a surprisingly pink underbelly. The power in which they moved so effortlessly through the vast ocean, and their choosing us to play with, was truly a miracle. Barely paying attention to the threat of falling off the boat in attempting to watch them, I was straddled around a wench and holding onto the starboard jib line (to use some nautical terminology), in complete awe. They skipped and jumped in unison, jumped clear out of the water at the bow of the boat, inches before it went over them, and followed us for a good twenty minutes. As they bade their final farewells, we all sat, glassy-eyed and dumbstruck, thinking about what we had been privileged to witness, and I will remember my dolphin friends until the end of my days.

We arrive in Fort du France, to check in and look around. Martinique is a French state, and as I speak zero French, I picked up a phrasebook and learned a few things. By far, my favorite phrase is “Je suis le gran fromage,” which, gloriously, means “I am the big cheese.” The phrase I ended up using the most was…

“Je parle seulement un peu francais. Parlez-vous anglais?
No?
Hablas espanol?
No?
Uhhh…Parla italiano?
No?
Well shit…”

I ended up loving Martinique, despite the frustrating language barrier. It was a lot like France with a Caribbean twang. All the little towns were architecturally beautiful, painted in all the bright colors of the islands. The boulangerie was packed every morning with people enjoying the smell of fresh baguettes, croissants and pastries that fill your senses. On the third day we reach Saint Pierre, where they happened to be hosting a Marche Rasta, with a craft market that made my mouth water and live music that kept me dancing all night. The one bad thing was that there were some French white girls that put my dreadlocks to shame, and as I’ve never felt that my dreads were inadequate before, I have started thinking long thoughts, willing them to grow.

Yesterday we landed in Domenica. The sail was uneventful, seeing as how the only thing to top the dolphin experience would be a whale or something. Domenica is really a beautiful place, considered by the boaters to be somewhat “off the beaten track.” It is definitely less developed, into eco-tourism, and English speaking country (Thank God) and was also where the second Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed. If I run into Johnny Depp anywhere, I’ll be sure to let you know.

The Times They are A-Changin'

2008-12-12T03:13:00.000-08:00

Written 29-4-08

Fun Fact: Until 1996, the main form of currency for the Kuna tribe of the San Blas Islands was the coconut.

The San Blas Islands are a group of some 400 islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama, about half of them inhabited by the Kuna tribe, the other half not inhabited at all. On most islands there is no electricity or plumbing, as I'm assuming it's difficult to get the wiring and pipes working when your house is made out of bamboo. So basically paradise. The women are adorned, bejeweled to the max, their whole forearms and legs covered with strings of beads, their bodies in batik sarongs, and red head scarves. It's easier if you just look at the pictures I have attached, because it would be otherwise impossible to describe their beauty enough to give them credit.

I, being the only white and non-Kuna person on the island, was kind of initiated into their tribe, and now have beads wrapped down my arm and no idea how to take them off, since it was sewn on. I wasn't planning to anyway.

However, that was last week's news. The most recent would be to tell you that I'm no longer backpacking. I set out to see Central America, and I have seen all seven countries, plus Mexico. A few days ago I took a flight from Panama City to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and I have to tell you, it was HORRIBLE. People were walking way too fast, talking way too loud, and being way too rude to their fellow traveler at his crazy airport. This was the first time I've been back in America in almost five months, and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die after talking to these crazy old ladies with thick New York accents and freakish tans. After waiting hours in the airport where time aparently stands still, I boarded another flight for Puerto Rico. The plane was running an hour late, and due to mean-spirited....no, evil people working behind the desk in the San Juan airport, I missed my third flight of the day. I spent, quite literally, a small fortune on a hotel room at the airport because I wasn't allowed to sleep on the floor, and the next day I finally caught a flight to my final destination, St Lucia.

For those who may not know, my transient, hippie father and stepmother live on a sailboat in the Caribbean, so I'm here to hang out and help crew the boat through the islands for a while. It's interesting to actually have a place to put my stuff, and I've spent the last couple days moving in and getting used to boat life.

St. Lucia is an interesting island. Yesterday, "Hey Rasta gal!" was yelled at me from across streets and waterways nineteen times. You have to have a license to have a pet boa constrictor. Nobody and nothing works on Sundays, including the stoplights. Everyone drives on the left side of the street, the Happy Hour drinks are really strong, the mango supply is endless, and the sun is shining. I wasn't expecting it to be so expensive here, but then I don't have that many expenses, which is quite nice.

The plan: Who knows. But you'll know when I figure it out.

"I guess my feet know where they want me to go,
Walkin' on a country road."
-James Taylor

A Little History for the Masses

2008-12-12T03:09:00.000-08:00

Written 20-4-08

Good Morning class.

(Good Morning Miss Rachel.)

Today's history lesson is about the Panama Canal. Yes, I am now in Panama City, staying with friends of mine I used to work with at Fado: Kyle, Langdon, and little Maddox. I actually learned quite a lot yesterday about Panama, Colombia, and the United States' involvement in the building and keeping of the Canal. Well, I didn't know this until yesterday, but Panama used to be a part of Colombia. The Colombian government gave a contract to the French to build the Canal, but they were unsuccessful due to 22,000 workers dying of malaria. The architect worked out a deal to see the commission to the States, but the Colombian government refused. There would be a lot of financial loss for both the French and America, so they promised to back Panama if they decided to gain their indepence. When a revolution claimed Panama, Colombia sent troops to quell the rebellion, but didn't even reach land because there were American battleships blocking the way. A treaty was made to give America rights to the Canal, with pocket money given to a few Panamanian elite. It took 10 years to construct, with 75,000 workers finishing in 1914, and is one of the top engineering feats of the 20th century. America held the Canal until 1977, when Jimmy Carter gave it back to Panama. Most were skeptical that Panama would be able to keep it running, but Panama apparently has some outstanding safety records, and actually increased the flow of boats.

Today's Panama Canal is really interesting. It runs between the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, with 3 different locks, each lock also having 3 locks. Some interesting information for you: It's not that easy to get through the Canal. It takes 24 hours to be cleared, and comes with conditions. The captain must yield the boat over to a trained Canal driver, and if anyone was interested in this career oppurtunity, know that it takes 10 years to train the drivers that get the boats through the Canal. (The boat I saw yesterday cleared the Canal with only 2 feet of space on either side. It was HUGE.) Once the boat is in the lock, the water is drained into these giant underground tanks, stopping when the boat is level with water in the next lock. Basically it's a giant staircase for 200,000 ton boats. Another fun part about crossing the Canal is how much it's going to cost, and don't think you can pay with a credit card. The Panamanian government only accepts cash, or a transfer from your bank account straight into another one off-shore. Yesterday's boat cost 170,000 dollars to get through. (Kyle says they do this because it's harder to track exactly how much the Panama govt. is raking in per year.) Last year 14,721 boats went through, accumulating over 165 million dollars that they admit to...and did I mention that the national currency of Panama is the American dollar?

I also learned an impressive amount of information on that crazy bastard Noreiga, American politics, and the war in Iraq, as Kyle's father is a Colonel in the army, and raised his family not far from where I'm staying now with them. But that's for another day...

Well I must say I've been having a blast here. Kyle and Langdon have a 2 year old little ball of energy named Maddox. She is absolutely beautiful, and I've figured out that my personality suits 2 year olds. The first day I was here we watched Aladdin twice, with a stack of Disney movies waiting in the background...so basically I'm in Heaven. We speak in english and she's learning spanish, paint our nails, dance to Bob Marley, and color all day! I'm telling you, the 2 year old lifestyle is the good life. Plus I think that the world would be at peace if everybody had enforced nap time.

I hope you enjoyed my little history lesson. There is so much information and so much history out there to be learned that we are just not taught. If you want some more information, don't wait around...go look it up!

"Those who do not understand history are doomed to repeat it." Or something like that...

Pura Vida

2008-12-12T03:06:00.000-08:00

Written 13-4-08

Today was one of those days where I have to bow to stereotypes and say, with my best hippie voice, "How amazing is Mother Nature?" because it's only way it can be described.

I find myself in the midst of tranquility. Archipelago Bocas del Toro, Isla Colon, Panama to be more exact. This morning, accompanied by a few new friends from the hostel, I hopped on a water taxi for a short ride to another island, bound for the beach. After swimming in the ever-clear waters and tanning in the ever-present sun of the Caribbean, I took a little walk away, exploring further.

The landscape of the islands is pretty incredible. From the ocean you have about 10-12 feet of beach, then instantly dense jungle. It's quite breath-taking. All alone, as I step over tree roots, sea shells, and budding palm trees just sprouting from the coconut, my mind wanders...

"If I was to be hit in the head with a coconut, what a way to go. I guess it just means that it is definitely your time. Unstoppable. At least I would have died knowing I had great life, I was barefoot, and walking around on a tropical island..."

Well, I just googled "death by coconut" and turned up some interesting information. Apparently about 150 people per year die due to coconut related incidences. Also, for further knowledge of completely useless information, that is 15 times the amount of people eaten by sharks per year. Ahh, the internet...technology always amazes me.

Back to the story. So the walk was amazing. Just me out there, with only the sounds of the wind, sea, and a strange clicking noise from small crabs to keep me company. I walked as slowly as possible so as not to miss anything, my toes skimming the top of the warm water as i stepped lightly over delicate seashells. I don´t know if you´ve ever taken a good look, but seashells are very intricate in design, and always astound me and make me appreciate the detail that goes into the tiniest of things. Heading towards a hill that looks out on the ocean and other islands, I climb over roots surfacing from the forest and try not to step on the thousands of holes made by the crabs, who seem to have it made with their beachfront property. I make it to the top, sit town, and try to take it all in. I am so fortunate for my life, for the experiences I have, for the people I am blessed to know, for my barefoot lifestyle.

The Costa Ricans have an excellent saying...Pura Vida. Pure Life.

I think they, along with the lovely people of Panama, have figured something out. I sat there, thinking of all the people that I wished were sitting next to me, experiencing it with me. My family, my friends, my loved ones. But then I realized that they are with me, in my heart. You were there today, sitting on that little grassy hill with me, staring out at the ever-moving, ever-changing Caribbean ocean, watching the world go by.

All you have to do is close your eyes.

Into the Wild

2008-12-12T03:02:00.000-08:00

Written 9-4-08

I don´t know if you´ve ever heard the howl of a wild Howler monkey,
but it scares the shit out of me.

It starts out low, like someone gurgling water at the back of their throat. It rises slowly, as if someone has just slammed on their brakes on the road, it rises higher and higher, louder and louder, until you are damn sure that Godzilla has just killed 100 goats and is now sharing them with Chewbaca. The weird thing is that they´re only about a foot tall, but the noise they make shakes the trees all the way down to the roots. This all happens to be taking place in a tree about 50 yards away from me as I sit on my balcony in Manzanillo, Costa Rica.

The beach and the caribean waters that I have missed so much are a 3 minute walk away. When the water comes up to your shoulders, you can still see your toes. The beaches are completely empty, except a handfull of people that are half a mile away from where you happen to be sunning. It´s is absolutely beautiful. And let´s not forget the jungle. I tried to take some pictures, but they simply do not do it justice. Costa Rica wins the vote for greenest country. The single, small road that goes to Manzanillo, which I believe means Chamomile, is lined with the greenest of green, the palms, the banana trees, the explosion of color with every flower on every tree just takes my breath away.

Club Med

2008-12-12T02:58:00.000-08:00

Written 1-4-08

This last week I find myself in a strange place.
I call it Club Med.
My friend Mash calls it his apartment.

My lovely friend Mash, whom I met 2 years ago when working in the Selkirk Pub in south London, has taken Andy and I in and spoiled us rotten. He lives in a small, surburb-like town called Santa Ana, outside of San Jose, the capital city of Costa Rica. He also has a sweet-ass job of being an online marketing guy for an illegal online gambling company...which I think sounds like a lot of fun. By "illegal" I mean that there are a lot of gray areas. Anyway...usually it's best to just skip the big cities when traveling, as it's hard to get around and there's usually a good chance of getting your stuff stolen. So here I am, chillin in Suburbia.

The other day I even went to the mall, which was horrible beyond words...but that's a story in itself. Costa Rica is a very interesting and perplexing country. Apparently they don't have addresses here, or street names...or street signs, really. Mash's address reads:

Rachel's friend Mash
200 meters east of the Red Cross Sign
Santa Anna
Costa Rica...or something to that effect. On the completely opposite side, there has been this crazy modernization. There's a whole lot of fake breasts, shiny cars, and small trendy shopping centers. Costa Rica has been hit by a technology boom, and has become hard for travelers, because it's just as expensive as the States. I do have to admit, though, that I like going to the cash machines here. There's nothing like taking out 50,000 colones ($100) that just makes you feel kinda good, like you're sitting on a gold mine.

It's a good thing Mash took us in, because I'm just now getting well again. I contracted some crazy Nicaraguan stomach virus and needed some serious R&R. We were staying on an organic farm in the middle of an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It was brought on either by the straight-from-the-utter-still-warm-milk or the tap water labeled "filtered." May I also add that not even the Nicaraguans drink their tap water.

Here at Club Med we have use of a swimming pool, washing machine, internet, a kitchen, HOT SHOWERS, and a private room where people don't steal your stuff.
I am in Backpacker's Paradise.

Oh, and last night Mash, his girlfriend Natale, and her brothers took us out for a nice dinner, and I tried blood sausage, which is apparently a very traditional Costa Rican dish. To be polite, I only gulped down one glass of water instead of four after trying the sausage.

Here's to vegetables!

Feel No Pain

2008-12-12T02:55:00.000-08:00

Written 21-3-08

Yesterday my iPod was stolen.

At first I completely freaked out, not just that someone had stolen it, but also invaded my space in a hostel dorm room. For a traveler, we have an almost non-existent personal space bubble...only our backpacks and our beds for the night, and they are sacred. Not only had my space been raided, but my music. To take someone´s music is to take away their soul. Someone has some serious Karma to work off.

We realized that someone had been through our stuff because Andy´s bag had also been looked through, and immediately started tearing our stuff apart looking for anything else not in its place. My stuff was all on the floor because my backpack is still drying, but that´s a story for later. I have been all over in Europe, Mexico and Central America, and this is the first time I have ever been robbed.

My iPod is missing.
FREAK OUT.
Breathe.
My camera is still here.
I have all my credit cards.
There was no cash for them to take.
My passport is in the safe.
They didn´t touch the rum.

Ok...I think I´ll survive. I thought I´d be a lot more upset, but when you have virtually nothing, then you have nothing to worry about. Now if they had taken my camera or passport, I would have gone on a war path and heads would fly. In retrospect, though, they probably have a nicer camera than mine. No one in their right mind would take much from my backpack, because they would be sorely dissapointed.

Checklist:
6 shirts
3 skirts
1 pair of ridiculously colorful Mayan trousers
1 pair of flip flops (same pair I climbed the volcano with!)
1 pair of $200 professional salsa dancing shoes
1 sleeping bag
1 bubblegum pink hammock
2,000 books
3 journals
1 travel-sized Buddha
1 travel-sized can of mace
3 wraps/sarongs used interchangably as towels, shirts, skirts, head wraps, shawls, picnic blankets, and yoga mats.
1 bottle of shampoo
1 kid size penguin-shaped toothbrush

Only a small percentage of the population would find the contents of my bag appealing...dirty hippie backpackers, or perhaps someone starving to death. We are living in a material world, and I am a non-material girl. I thought for a moment that the had also taken my sunglasses, but who takes a pair of Rey Bens???

Action:
Go downstairs and tell the travelers to lock up their stuff.
Talk to the security guard.
Put my camera in our lockbox.
Rum.

By this point I´m ok...just really pissed off. We were watching a movie downstairs with a couple other people and my purse was laying on my bed. They just nicked the iPod and nothing else. Gracias Dios. The night guard came up, asked a couple of questions. When I had first told him, he got very defensive, as if I was blaming him for this. After asking me a few questions, he casually mentioned that there were "Nicas" in the next room. I assumed he was refering to Nicaraguan people, and gave him a confused look. All he replied with was "They aren´t the same."

This gets me on a new topic: locals vs. travelers.
After talking some more with the backpackers, we realized how much a hostel seperates us. In some places, people from that country aren´t even allowed to stay in them. I have always felt the Traveler Code: travelers don´t steal from other travelers, mostly because we have nothing to steal. Most of the time it´s true. That puts us against the local population, which feels that we are billionaire white people with too much time on our hands and not enough common sense to go back to our own country and live like kings. On the other hand, I´ve made local friends who meet me at a hostel, and ask me why I´m staying in a dump. On hearing it´s only three dollars a night, and that I have a fifteen to twenty dollar-a-day budget, they get a little shocked.

This week is a special week, as you all know. I´m in a beach town in southern Nicaragua called San Juan del Sur. It´s a cozy little town, but apparently the hottest spot for Semana Santa weekend. All the Nicaraguans from Managua and the interior come to the beach towns (if they can afford to) and the general chaos of having thousands of people in a tiny town insues. There are rules we as travelers must set for ourselves. Do not walk alone, especially at night, but in the daylight there is risk as well. Do not go to the bank alone. Leave everything of value locked in a safe or lockbox. Carry only small amounts of money, etc. I knew these precautions before we got here, and yet I still wanted to come.

The last song I listened to was "Unforgettable" by Natalie Cole. At least now someone has some good music to listen to. The last time I lost an iPod in England, I found new music, not replacing the old, but adding to the collection. I´ll probably try to buy another one is San Jose, Costa Rica. A lot of travelers have laptops, so I can get new music from them, expanding my horizons, so to speak.

"One good thing about music is
When it hits you
You feel no pain."
-Bob Marley

How true.

*In case you´re wondering why my backpack was drying, it´s because on the bus from Leon to San Juan, my backpack was stored beneath the bus, which is very common. On getting it out, I realize that it was bleeding. No, I wasn´t bleeding, my backpack was bleeding. I´m guessing someone stored some meat or something down there and it leaked out, but it was gross and i had to scrub it out.

Welcome to my life.
Welcome to Nicaragua.

Sacreligion at its Best

2008-12-12T02:52:00.000-08:00

Written 16-3-08

I just got back from church.

Today is Palm Sunday. I woke up to church bells ringing in my mind. My most appropriate outfitt is a long, white skirt, a long tank top, and a scarf around my shoulders. I set out, following the bells, as if they were calling out to me. I was led to the main plaza in Leon, and up the steps to Catedral de Asuncion. It was packed, and everyone was there: the bored teenagers, the wrinkly old women crying, the small children running through a sea of legs, and they all held palm leaves delicately in their hands. The whole place smelled of cobal, and it was vibrant.

As I made my way towards the front, the bishop came into view. He seemed as if he would be tall, his red smock flowing, his pointy white hat starched with such rigidity that I felt as wrinkly as the old lady standing beside me. On his neck hung a golden cross that would have made 50 cent wince with jealousy, and he looked bored. In all the time I stood there, he barely moved. Someone else was speaking from the pulpit, a choir singing, a guitar playing, and his staunch, slightly tilted head never moved from it´s Holy Spot. He seemed so seperated from the event, I wonder why he was there at all.

For those who know me well, I am not religious. Spiritual, yes. I go to churches to see the architecture, the art, the statues and carvings. I go to churches to find peace of mind, to sit quietly in reflection, to think. All the religions, to me, seem the same. Everyone is looking for an explanation that they cannot see, or feel, smell, or touch. They look for a higher power they can relate to, even if they do not know what It is. To the Christians, It is called God. In Islam, It is called Allah. To the Buddhists, It is called Karma.

I was feeling out of place and mind in the big cathedral, so I decided to move on. I was graced with the tinkling sound of little bells ringing, the ice cream vendors outside waiting for business to pick up once the mass ended. I found my way onto another street where a smaller, older church came into view. Iglesia Virgen de la Merced. I walked inside and sat down, feeling the cool breeze wash through the old building. Birds sat on old ironwork chandeliers, chirping. A tiny lady sat next to me, looked up at me, smiled, patted my leg, and called me "Chelita," which is an affectionate name to call someone with light skin.

I sat there, staring up at a powerful figure. She looked serene, staring down at me: The Mother, The Protector, The Giver. Some call her Mary, others The Mother Goddess or Mother Nature. In latin countries she is Maria, Virgen de la Guadelupe. She stood in front of a simple, silver alter, with candles burning and palm leaves strewn before her feet. I sat and spoke to her in my mind, reveling in her smile. As I was in a church, I decided to cover all my bases and call upon St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, to ask for protection. For safe passage for my fellow travelers, and for my loved ones at home and all over the world, having their own daily adventures.

St. Chris and I talk a lot, as he is quite prominent in my life right now, so I figured I should give him a shout-out. As I get up to leave, the people stare, as usual. This is nothing new, as I´m a tall white girl with dreadlocks in Nicaragua. I put on my serene face, a half smile, head held high as I stroll into the sunshine, feeling better.

I wonder if anyone noticed that the shawl around my shoulders was Hindu.

This week is Semana Santa, Holy Week. May you be blessed with the deity of your choosing, from any established religion to a yoga mantra to a really good cup of coffee that helped to ease your mind.

San Isidro Five-Star Resort

2008-12-12T02:46:00.000-08:00

Written 13-3-08

Yesterday was a long day.

To start, Andy and I dragged our lazy asses out of bed at 4:00 am.
We stayed at this dodgy hotel connected to the bus station in San Salvador, and were warned the night before by the armed guard at the front door not to go out. I have also been warned by many travelers that it's just not a real safe-haven, just as bad as all the other capitals, once the sun goes down.

So on the bus we go, and it was nice. I didn't want to chicken bus it through two different border crossings in one day, because you never know when one is going to stop and when another one is coming. Even though we were on a nice bus, it was a ten hour ride. Anything turns sour after ten hours, so it wasn't the most eventful morning. It should have been longer to Managua, the capital, but our destination was Leon, so we were dropped off in a town called San Isidro to get another bus west towards the coast.

San Isidro turned out to be an intersection. I'll give it a little more credit: San Isidro is an intersection in the middle of nowhere in Nicaragua with three tiendas for food. So glad we stopped to take pictures. A few seconds later a chicken bus roars up, and we run for the entrance. A rule about chicken buses is that it's not their fault if you can only get yourself half on, or only your bag and not yourself, so you have to fight for your space, and if you're lucky, a seat. Most people let us pass because we're the gringos checking out the tourist trap that is San Isidro.

On to the bus we go: Andy, myself, and a Canadian guy named Mark we met on the bus headed for Leon himself. I liked traveling with Mark, because not only is he nice and funny, he is fucking huge. Enormous. It's nice sometimes...

So the bus costs 34.50 Cordobas, the national currency here. I don't miss the dollar at all...the currency here is so much prettier. Anyway, the bus ride was about $1.75, which was nice in comparison to the $25 bus we just got off. Looking at the map, I figured it would take about an hour to get to Leon. Looking at the road I realized it would take a lot longer. It took three and a half hours.

The bus was fun. Sweaty, dusty, bumpy, and people staring at you. I made friends with one of the bus workers who gave me some great information on Semana Santa, Holy Week, which is next week. (Apparently everyone in the entire country stops work next Wednesday until Easter Sunday...so I need to actually do some planning and try to get reservations before the buses stop running.) There was a drunk guy in the seat in front of me who kept bobbing and weaving...I'm amazed he didn't throw up. There were two kids sitting two seats ahead of me...
I smiled and they stared.
I waved and they stared.
I said "Hola" and they stared.
Friendly people.

I have to say, it is nice to see thin people again. I mentioned the modernization of El Salvador before, and with it comes all the McDonalds, Burger Kings, and Pizza Huts filled with overweight Salvadorians enjoying a new way of life, the Dollar Menu. This was mostly in the big city, but I haven't seen so many obese people since Texas.

As the red sun sets, we watch from our windows of our school bus as the sky changes from orange to pink to purple to a gray-blue that covers the hills and trees like a blanket. The rush of being in a new country has hit me, and I feel alive, even after a thirteen and a half hour bus trip. We arrive in Leon and find ourselves in a great hostel, where I run into Jesse, and old friend from Tulum. We go out for live reggae music and Flor de Caña rum, Nicaragua's finest, and voted best rum in the world.

...and today is a new day...

Losing My Shoes and My Mind

2008-12-12T02:44:00.000-08:00

Written 9-3-08

i am in a place where the only people who wear shoes are the construction workers in their flip flops.

i am in a place where i speak spanish and pay in american dollars.
i am in a place where street signs and 9 year olds are sponsored by Sprite.
i am in a place where the closest internet cafe is a 15 minute drive.
i am in a surfer's paradise, and the sun is shining.

As you may, or may not have guessed, I find myself in El Salvador.
Playa El Tunco, El Salvador, to be exact.

El Salvador is an interesting country. There are no Mayan women walking around with ornately colorful outfits, but a more modern style. actually, it looks as if everyone is stuck in the early 90's. the national currency is the american dollar, which i was completely unaware of, and a little disgruntled by. apparently El Salvador has quite an economy, and a growing sector of upper class wealth. oh don't worry, the chicken buses are still glorious, the women still carry baskets on their heads, and the street food is heavenly. maybe modern times have hit El Salvador, but we are still in central america.

it's funny how in different countries you get different looks from the local population. in Belize a greeting and a smile, and most times a guide to where ever you might be headed. in Guatemala a polite nod or greeting, knowing that you are yet another tourist taking pictures and spending money. in El Salvador you get a funny look. they are almost amused and slightly confused as to why you are there. they are just now getting used to seeing travelers, and if you don't speak spanish, you're basically screwed.

the big towns disagree with me, but the beaches are fantastic. El Tunco is a popular destination for beginner surfers, so with it comes a plethora of professional surfers waiting to give them a lesson. there is one road, two restaurants, and a handful of surf shops. we are staying at an amazing hotel called Hotel Mopelia, run by an eccentric guy from Belgium named Gil. breakfast costs $1.50 and the hammocks are plentiful. the beaches, strangely, are black. they are also covered with smooth, round rocks that come in and out with the waves. you know when the tide is changing because there is a loud clacking sound of the rocks being moved into different formations. with that in mind, it's not the ideal place to lay about, the risk being pelted by massive waves and stones upsetting the peace of sunning and all.

well i'm off to find my shoes, the same shoes i climbed the volcano with. they are still alive.
Me and my Mexican flip flops, seeing the world.

Elocution Lessons

2008-12-12T02:37:00.000-08:00

Written 27-2-08

last week i went to school.

my friend James, who deserves mention, is this giant, lunatic Kiwi with a tendency to drink a bottle of tequila, then take off his shirt and give people rides on his back across the bar while drinking his second bottle. he is also a great friend and we get along well. anyway, his girlfriend was volunteering at the public school here in San Pedro teaching english, which is the poorer school. over beers, he told me about how they have fun, teach the kids how to say "Nice to meet you" and draw animals and stuff. it sounded fun after a couple of beers, and i suddenly blurt out "I wanna come help!"

this is absolute absurdity, as i don't even like kids. my left eye starts twitching when i'm around small people for too long. it could be a viable medical condition...i'm looking into it. before i know it, i've volunteered myself to be up at 7:00 am. i have no idea what came over me, but i actually dragged my lazy ass out of bed, put on something "conservative" and met James for breakfast before the maddness. we show up at the school to meet Lara from New York, the teacher we were helping.

the first class was ok. we introduced ourselves, and answered questions about what part of the world we were from. or Lara and I did, James speaks about 3 words of spanish. he acts more as bouncer, sitting next to the troublesome kids, trying to keep them in check. now when i say "troublesome," that's the understatement of the year. the kids were dirty, underprivledged brats who would do anything to take advantage of you, especially once the their teacher left for however long they wanted. James was quite literally pinning a few of them down and threatening to shake them. some of them sat there like little mobsters threatening other children, kicking them, punching them. some of the boys called me over to ask who my favorite "Luchador de California" was. Stone Cold Steve Austin was the only one I could think of off the top of my head. they grinned maliciously, and comenced to talk about a fight they had heard of where he almost ripped off the other wrestler's arms. special kids...at least Lara was awesome at commanding attention, and some of the kids actually wanted to learn english. there were these little girls...the kind who melt your heart (even mine) when they smile, who after every english exercise would walk up for you to check that they had written the sentence properly.

at one point, on a verb exercise, there were 25 little Guatemalan children chanting
"Lara is funny!"
"Raquel is brave!"
"Jose is strong!"

I also want to point out that James' name in spanish would be Jaime, but he thought it was Jose. since the first day they have known him as Jose, so he can't change it now, or else cause some serious confusion. i have special friends. after we taught the first class, we were so drained of energy that during our break we had to grab a beer. at 10:00 in the morning. it was James' idea, i swear. we went back for a second class, and i can honestly say that the first class was a bunch of angels going to communion in comparison to this group. the good thing though, is when your patience runs thin, they don't understand when you call them a group of "hellish little bastards." if they had understood, the gang-banging 5th grader in the back row might have shot me.

we made it out alive after the second class, and i had to go lie down, my left eye practically swollen. and yet, i felt a proud. thanks to me, about 40 Guatemalan kids know how to say "Hello, nice to meet you. My name is Santiago. You are pretty." as if there weren't enough of that going around in central america.

i should have just taught them to whistle and cat-call while following me down the street.

The Absurdity of it All

2008-12-12T02:35:00.000-08:00

Written 14-12-08

two days ago i climbed a volcano in my flip flops.
and the lava didn´t even melt them!

this is dedicated to all the people who said i´d be crazy to try it. you were right.

Location: Antigua, Guatemala
Name: Volcan Pacaya
Status: Active
Terrain: Sharp

The Story:
i´ve been wanting to climb this volcano in flip flops for quite some time now. i´d heard about it in Belize, and since the only pair of shoes i have are my flip flops, it seemed like the natural, logical choice. i started out from the hostel with a good group of friends. my friend Victoria who i met in Tulum, three Aussies: Ross, Nick and Tim, Andrea from Sweden, Lauren and Sterling from California, and Paul from Holland.

it took an hour to drive from Antigua to Pacaya. we talked and laughed the whole way, swapping travel stories, completely forgetting we had to actually climb a mountain once we got there. or i did, at least. as i´m sure all of you know, i´m not really a hiker. more of a stroller, so Andrea, Victoria and I decided to take it slow. that´s the only way they got me to go, actually. volcano strolling.

we arrive at the bottom in a tiny village called San Francisco. as the vans pull up, we are immediately accosted by tiny children wielding walking sticks and trying to get us to buy them. it was the best three quetzales i have ever spent. i would also like to take a moment to recognize Ross, one of the Aussies, who is my flip flop partner in crime. Tim also started in flip flops, but bailed on our sacred mission ten minutes into the climb, and went back to the sanity that is running shoes.

so the group takes off up a steep incline. the terrain was rocky, and what i thought was dirt turned out to be very fine ash. we´re surrounded by trees, a quiet, calm air fills my lungs as i stumble around, panting and swearing. we hike in the woods for about half an hour, and finally make it to the top. but that was only half the battle...actually, that was the easy part. by this time i must also mention that my feet were black, the ashy dust mixing with sweat.

as we stand on the hill, catching our breath, we look out over a desolate wasteland of sharp, jagged black rocks as far as the eye can see. in between are small patches of glowing orange, tempting us to go further. we climb down a steep incline into the volcano, me slip-sliding the whole way. i make it to the rocks, which are painful to walk on for the people in running shoes. everyone kept looking back, giving me encouraging words of support, as they shake their heads and laugh at the obsurdity of it all. the guide was a little shocked...

"Chica...donde esta tus zapatas??!?"
"No te preocupes...mis pies estan muy fuerte."

he did not look pleased.

so after a long, difficult journey towards the lava, i finally arrive and meet up with the rest of the group. Andrea and I planned ahead and had brought marshmellows for the group. this got me back in the good graces of the guide, who immediately popped five or six onto a stick and hopped over to the lava for some roasting while he talked on his cell phone. we hung out there, took loads of pictures, and gradually people for the nerve to venture towards the heat.
and for all of you who don´t know, lava is HOT.
the heat waves burn your body, even if you´re standing a couple meters away.

i eventually hobbled over to roast a marshmellow, but i believe the shining moment for our group was when Lauren, in true genius form, tied a joint to her walking stick and walked over to light it. we sat around, basking in rays of glory, as we puff away in a crater of a volcano. definitely the best i´ve ever smoked, seeing how it was lit by lava.
that´s just really hard to beat.

as the sun threatens to set, we make our way back, me in the rear, taking my time. there were a couple accidents of people falling, and i was amazed that i came out unscratched, unscathed. i should have been bleeding from my feet by now. up the steep hill, we take one last glance of what we had accomplished, and we all exhale a big sigh of relief. as we head down the trail of ash we laugh and trip over rocks in the fading light. our heads are clear and our hearts are light. we just roasted marshmellows in the lava of an active volcano in the middle of Guatemala. and then the lesson we have learned hits us:

we can do ANYTHING. probably not the safest lesson to learn, but coming down, i felt so exhilarated, so invincible. i learned to sew, and i went into a volcano in my flip flops.
i can do ANYTHING. imagine the possibilities.

we hit the bottom of the trail and are accosted once again by children, this time trying to get their sticks back. my stick saved my life countless times...there is no way i am parting with it. i had to hold it over my head and run to the van so as not to get assaulted by the puppy eyes of the dirty Guatemalan children trying to get their sticks back.

back at the hostel i arrive to high fives and people staring at my dirty feet in an amazed disbelief. the party continues on from there...

tomorrow i´m headed to Lake Atitlan, probably San Pedro. if anyone is there, or knows of a good place to stay, let me know.

i´ll be wearing my flip flops.

Mayan Wannabe

2008-12-12T02:31:00.000-08:00

Written 12-2-08

yesterday was market day in Antigua. the crowds started arriving at eight. by nine, the energy was high and the crowds were flowing. i had just arrived via night bus from Flores with two guys: Paul from the Netherlands and Fabio The Italian.

Paul is a goofy looking guy, well traveled, and a fan of pushing my sensitive american politics button. Fabio is so ridiculously Italian that even now, i smile at how funny he is. Fabio sees the world through his fingertips. the tomato he buys must be the best, the reddest, the ripest. when he smells spices, he stops, savoring the moment, eyes closed, hands outstretched while he slowly draws each individual smell through his Italian nose, as if the sweet aromas were gracing him with their presence. he wears a tight designer shirt, tight designer shorts, and a fanny pack/bum bag hanging loosely and classically from his Italian hips. he motions with his ever-lit cigarette, to the seeds, fruits, vegetables, colors, people, and breathes in the air of someone who enjoys life to the fullest extent, seeing the beauty in the crowded, sweaty market and the toothless old mayan women.

and he is absolutely right. it is beautiful.
i think my favorite thing about the market, besides the colors, is that this isn´t a tourist attraction. everywhere you look there are guatemalan people laughing, hugging, haggling over a one quetzal price difference, buying, selling, and generally feeling the energy that pulses through antigua every monday, thursday, and saturday.

"tomatelechugacebollazanahoriaypapas!"
"piñacocomanzanauvamelonyfresas!"
"camisascinturoneszapatasytiempoaireportelefonos!"

sometimes i wish i was born mayan. overlooking the fact that their people have been persecuted and mass-murdered for hundreds of years, i have a purely selfish reason for wanting to be mayan. i want to be able to wear so much color it hurts the eyes, actually pull it off, and not be the strange white girl trying to dress like a mayan. their clothing is so....cool! pretty printed tops, handmade with love, care, and tradition, long printed skirts wrapped around their hips, sashes around the middle, and ribbons twisted in their hair. i watch with envy the little girls running shouting laughing through the vendors, upsetting old women, chickens, and yes, goats. there was actually a guy walking through the crowds with two goats yelling "leche! leche!"
it was kinda gross.

i made it out alive with no money and a couple of bags. i have a small excuse because it´s cold here and i have zero winter clothes. i needed to make a couple of purchases. along with colorful fabrics and such, you´ll all be shocked to hear i purchased sewing equipment. i guess this is a good time to let you all know i´ve taken on a new task:

I´m going to learn how to do fire spinning.
it´s a good thing my hair is really flammable.

my lovely friend Juan Carlos is an amazing fire-spinner and taught me a few basics. my friend Brad gave me two practice spin ball things called poi, and then my friend Flo just randomly had some extra chain. this was meant to be. so i bought some cloth, thread, and needles and tried to sew some little finger grips. and i actually did it! it took some time, a lot of fuckups and a lot of beer, but i did it! now i can practice and make stuff up, and don´t worry, i won´t be lighting anything on fire soon.

there´s a possibility i might try to climb a volcano in my flip flops today.
if i can sew, i can do this too.

Not Exactly Greyhound

2008-12-12T02:25:00.000-08:00

Written 7-2-08

i´d like to dedicate this email to all the bus drivers in the central America region.
thank you for not killing me yet.

yesterday i finally left Rio Dulce, where I spent an amazing 3 days. but that´s for later, because i want to talk about my bus trip to Finca Ixobel, where i am now. the bus looked like an old school bus, painted white, with the words Fuente del Norte painted on the side. as usual, i pay and step onto an overcrowded bus and have to stand. on the rear view mirror were a couple of stickers: the middle one said "Jesus Live," with a Yosemite Sam sticker to the left and a Storm X-Men sticker to the right. hanging from the mirror were no less than 4 crosses, rosaries and all, swaying with that sway only a crucifix can...creepily. on the side window is a final sticker of tweety bird dressed like a little yellow thug, a little gold chain around his feathery neck, his blue attire shows an obvious supporter of the Crips.

the driver gets in and crosses himself three times. this little old man beside me with crinkly eyes and a red leather machete holder does the same, and i can only go with the flow, praying to whoever might be listening that i would really appreciate making it to my destination. alive.

i´d like to share some wisdom in Guatemalan bus etiquette. first of all, men do not offer seats to women. or at least white women. as soon as i stepped my white ass into this 3rd class Guatemalan tank, the entire bus was instantly confused and disoriented.
"Why is she here?"
"She white! that means she´s rich...what is she doing on a 3rd class bus?"
"What will she do next?"

I get watched a lot on buses. mostly curiosity, i think. one of the first things i do upon getting on a bus where i´m the only white person is find a child and make him/her smile. then i step on someone´s foot and apologize profusely in spanish, letting them know i understand their language.

the bus is going full swing now, and seriously, NASCAR should really look into hiring Guatemalan bus drivers for their races. they go pretty slow on the straight parts, but they hit a curve, they downshift, downshift, open up the monster engine, then let it fly. it´s like a rollercoaster without seat belts, and if anyone didn´t know, i HATE rollercoasters. proper positioning for standing should be to spread your legs, bend and wedge your knees in between two seats, and hold onto the handlebars on the ceiling. basically your biceps will be flexed the entire ride, as there are always sharp turns, ups, downs, and an occasional slamming of the brakes. at this time, your adrenaline is pumping and it´s a good time for some bus music.

Rachel´s Favorite Guatemalan Bus Music Pick: Rage Against The Machine.

you have to turn it all the way up though, so everyone around you can hear it. the guy in front of you will step forward, the guy behind you that keeps stepping on you will move backward, and you won´t be bothered. (yesterday, near the song Wake Up, i looked around to find a 14 year old boy looking at me with a slight smirk on his face. his head bobs to my music. i wink at him and smile. we understand each other.)

Know Your Enemy comes on next. some lyrics:
the D
the E
the F
the I
the A
the N
the C
the E.
Mind of a Revolutionary.

Defiance. i figured out why i am standing on a 3rd class bus in Guatemala. i can travel with almost no money all the way across central america. i defy a cushy life for something completely unknown. i defy the necessity to go to college, get a degree, pay off loans, get a house, get a career, get a kid, then die knowing i spent too much time at the office in a cubicle, wishing i could have done something else instead. i defy the "american dream." i defy all the people on the bus, who thought i would give up or complain. i defy the people who judge others by their appearance or lifestyle. i defy people who blame me for the world´s problems because i was born in texas.
i am here to spread the word.

back to the bus. after an hour of standing, some people get out and i grab a seat. literally 10 minutes into enjoying the bloodflow coming back into my arms and hands, this tiny old lady hobbles on. her face is surprisingly smooth, except for the corners of her eyes, which are wrinkled and hold a slight twinkle. she wears a red knit dress, handmade and beautiful. there are no seats and no one offers theirs. i sigh, get up, and offer her my seat, which causes a small murmer throughout the bus.
i defy people who think i have no manners. My Momma raised me right.

the bus starts again, and i´m preparing my stance when i feel a tap on my shoulder. the old man with crinkly eyes and the machete is there behind me, offering me his seat. our eyes meet, and we thank each other with our eyes first, then I thank him verbally. he stands tall, taller than i thought he was, as the bus zigzags up and down the hillcountry of Guatemala. i sit there for half an hour until the bus stops in Poptun. as i get out, i thank the old man once again, smile at the old woman, and look over to the kid who likes Rage Against The Machine...he smiles back.

Empanadas and Machetes

2008-12-12T02:18:00.000-08:00

Written 3-2-08

Copan is a mayan ruins site close to the Guatemala border, and along with it is a small town with the same name. although i thought i would only stay a day, i took 3 to kick back, relax, and enjoy. first day i hit up the ruins, which of course, were amazing. i met two ladies in the gift shop, and we decided to split the price of a guide book. the guides were expensive, but we didn't want to wander around like total idiots, staring with our mouths open and not know what for.

Tina, Linda and I set off! Tina and i ended up off on our own, hiking up the big steps, around hills, and generally pretending to be "outdoor-sy." after the main ruins, Linda went back to town and Tina and I walked further up to a second set of ruins and hiked around trails for another hour or so. on our way back, we stopped at a gas station for the premise of getting a soda, and each eventually chose beer instead.

***note about Tina.
Tina is 68 years old. she has a granddaughter my age. she is a kick-ass traveling granny and we had a blast together. i would honestly love to travel with this woman and get into mischief, which would inevitably come our way. the only problem with this friendship is that either 1) Tina is fit and awesome for keeping up with me hiking all day, or 2) i'm at the exercise level of a 68 year old. the problem here is that i know option number two is probably true. kind of a buzz kill, you know?

***note about Honduras.
I have never seen so many guns in my life, and i'm from TEXAS. Honduras is an amazing country with amazing, kind people, rolling lush green mountains in every direction, and great street food. but the gun thing is a little weird. the reason i bring this up is because Tina and i made friends with the gas station attendant, who was missing his 4 front teeth and was toting a pump action 12 guage shotgun. the type of guy you want as a friend...he even let us take a picture with him. we were laughing so hard i could barely stand.

so, back to Copan. the streets are cobblestone, and the local fashion trend is a cowboy hat and a machete. seriously, along with the guns, everyone and their mother has a machete. some have little belt holsters, some wrapped in fabric and carried, most just randomly swinging. i looked into buying one, but it was too expensive and i don't think i would have been able to talk my way into taking it to another country. oh well...

the next day i hitchhiked with a couple of botanists living in alabama to a hot spring, which was pretty cool. my father is going to kill me for saying this, but it must be said. hitchhiking is fun. i have never done it alone, and i'm always following safe good vibes with it. that said, hitchhiking is a way of life here. most people don't have cars, and it's very common. and fun.

i finally left Copan, and took a shuttle to the border. there was this english kid in the van with me, 18 years of age i believe, without a single word of spanish. he also had stayed in Honduras about 4 months over his visa time. the guys at the border didn't know what to do. finally, after lengthy discussions translating, i get fed up and ask this scared kid how much money he has. i throw down the equivalent of $25 and explain that he'd like to pay a tax for the problem. the look at each other, pocket the money, and take us into a back room with no windows so he can get a special stamp...it said Welcome to Guatemala. Get the Hell out of our Country.

so yesterday i bribed a border cop. again. this is becoming quite a habit. after i make sure everything is ok for the kid, i go get my legitimate stamps, and we head out. it took 3 buses, but i made it to Rio Dulce. on the way, literally hundreds of motorcycles are passing on the other side of the street-highway thing. upon asking the driver, we find out that every year around this time there is a motorcycle rally at the border town of Esquipulas, and every motorcycle enthusiast in Guatemala is headed there. on a funny side note, if i translated it correctly, the name the riders call themselves is the Fighters of Zorro.

i rock up in Rio Dulce last night and am invited by some english guys to this dance bar, where i salsa dance til the sun rises. this morning i woke up and hopped on a boat to Livingston, where i am now. it's a tiny Garifuna village, not all that impressive. what was impressive was the boat ride. jungle lining both sides of the waterway, little hotels only accessible by boat dotting the shore. i tried to take pictures but i gave up because it was just too beautiful and the pictures weren't doing it justice. Guatemala has been, so far, great. the landscape is rich and beautiful beyond belief, the people are friendly and happy you're in their country, and i've made some great friends.

and i haven't even seen any guns yet.

sweet.

My Heart Will Go On

2008-12-12T02:09:00.000-08:00

Written 1-2-08

a couple of days ago in Utila i lost my chicken.
or maybe i just misplaced him.

well, anyways, i had a chicken. we shared something really special. the sunrise.

for some unknown reason this chicken would stand outside my door and cluck loudly until i woke up and threatened to kill him. one day, however, i was not awakened by the melodious sound of my pet, but by a sound so horrific, that i actually missed my morning chicken alarm clock. it was Celine Dion´s "My Heart Will Go On." at 6:37 a.m. and it was LOUD. i wrench open my door and storm out, looking for the perpetrator who robbed me of sleep. i walked 3 blocks, turned down an alley, and finally found the house. the people there are lucky as i was seperated from them with a small body of water, or else i might have killed them. and what a way to go...

Death by Celine Dion. i can see the headlines now...

after that, my chicken had disapeared. the next morning i slept in, which was a really strange feeling. same the next day. where is my chicken? and then, as much as i tell myself not to, i started thinking:
where´s my chicken?
ohmigod...what did i have for dinner last night?
chicken fajitas. shit!

Celine Dion killed my chicken, and i possibly ate it! I decided that the only thing left to do was blame Canada. that always works. but, my friend David decided to take the blame all on him, as he´s Canadian. so a guy named David Charles William Thompson killed my chicken. mystery solved.

on a seperate note, i have left Utila. it took 3 days, but i finally managed to gather the strength to leave that god-forsaken pleasure rock. the last day though...the last day was great.i woke up at 5:45 a.m. determined to leave. everything was ready to catch the 6:20 ferry to the mainland. i´m doing my final checks when i realize that i don´t have my passport. (little light pops on in my head with a small bing noise) it´s in the safe at the dive shop, which doesn´t open until 9. the Gods wanted me to stay one more day, they have spoken. so i go back to bed.

later on i sheepishly walk into the dive shop, where everyone gets a good laugh, because i was so adamant the night before about leaving, and no one believed me. so here i am, being laughed at, but glad i get one last day in paradise. some people we know talk of heading to the other side of the island to check out some fresh water caves, so after lying in the sun for the greater part of the morning, we head out. i am warned just before leaving that it´s quite a hike. it´s a good thing i was wearing my hiking flip flops and off-roading sarong that happens to be bright yellow.

so off we go! eventually, after the mud and rocks and climbing over a bunch of coral, we descend a rotted wood ladder to the caves. the first one is nice, cool, and refreshing, and we wash off the mud and talk of the beauty of the place. then Erik, one of the guys with us, says he has been through the other one. i didn´t even know what he was talking about until we went back to the ladder. there was a small hole behind it, big enough for one person to fit through at a time. Erik goes first with a pack of matches, and soon there´s a small trail of light a couple hundred meters back. we crawl, on hands and knees, around stalactites and stalagmites, around corners, and over rocks, until the cave opens, and we see the beauty of nature, slightly illuminated by candles left by unknown visitors. there are very few words to describe what we experienced in there, but i will do my best.

when i am finally able to stand, there was a small pool. then there was a small ramp, almost a stairway, up to a bigger pool, where we all jumped in. using our masks, snorkels, and some underwater flashlights, the cave beneath the surface seemed to unfold to us, allowing us to explore just a little further.
it was magical.
surreal.
other-worldly.
spiritual.
exhilarating.
fun.

all of us were spellbound by this small place on this earth we were truly blessed to find. we would try to speak, to share what we were experiencing with the others, but no words came. instead, we just took another deep breath and went under to enjoy the calm of the water; the serenity. when we crawled out again, we had to hop back into the first one to get the mud off. then we hitched a ride back into town on some big construction truck. with the wind blowing in my hair, and my friends beside me, i felt truly lucky, truly blessed to be where i was. i was trying to think of someone to thank for the day, but i couldn´t think of anyone in particular, so i just took the responsibility myself. with a great day followed a great evening. i went to a barbeque, hung out with some great people, got lost on a pier watching shooting stars, then went back to town to meet my dive shop friends.

***sidenote for the travelers: if you go to Utila, go to Utila Water Sports for diving. they will take you in, the dive instructors are kick-ass amazing people, and my experience would have been nothing without them. also, when you get off the ferry, you´ll get hounded by other dive shops, and it´s really annoying. Utila Water Sports is the only dive shop that doesn´t go there, so it´s smaller and a lot more personal. you won´t regret it.

the next morning i miraculously get up, and get ready to leave, helped by 2 Canadian girls that have been constant companions on the island, Codie and Brandy. these girls deserve comment, because they´re forestry workers in Canada. they make roads, take care of wildlife, tell loggers how many trees they can cut down, then make them plant 7 for each one they take. all around, these girls are the ultimate strong women, and we had so much fun together. plus, they could totally kick my ass, so when they showed up, i knew i needed to get a move on.

after a ferry, 2 buses, one of which broke down on the side of the highway and we had to catch a lift with a chicken bus, here i find myself in Copan, a town on the Honduras-Guatemala border, near some Mayan ruins. i have more stories already written in my head, but that´s enough for now...

I´m headed to some hot springs.

Jah be Praised

2008-12-12T02:03:00.000-08:00

Written 25-1-08

the word for "butterfly" in Garifuna is "whey-buga-buga."
or at least that's how its pronounced.

some will find that useful tidbit of information valuable beyond measure, while others will simply stare at the screen thinking, "what the hell is she talking about? where is she?"

Belize.or at least i was...The Shortened Story:(because if i told the long one it would be more like a short novel.)

i guess i'll start where i last left you...in an internet cafe in tulum, lost, not knowing where to make my next move.

enter The Aussies.

literally, as i'm sending you the email, this old white 1978 VW Combi van pulls up outside, and 2 guys hop out and walk into the internet cafe. you can tell they are living in the van because they have this crazed dirty-hippie wanderer look in their eyes, slightly hidden beneath long hippie hair. these are my people.

so they walk in, and their accent is obviously aussie. they sit behind me and start talking what they need to do to get the van through Belieze and Guatemala.

again: THINGS HAPPEN FOR A REASON.

my ears perk up. i finish my sending and listen to them talk. they seem like cool, laid back sort of people. i decide that i would be pissed off at myself forever if i didn't go over and say hi. so i leave my computer, pull up a chair, and introduce myself. i said i had overheard their conversation and was wondering where they were headed. we talk for 10-15 minutes, i'm feeling good vibes, so i ask them if they pick up hitchhikers. they look at me, look at each other, look back to me and say, "why yes, we do."

their names are Steve and Harley. they've driven from new york all over america making a documentary about...well...im not really sure, but it's going to be sweet. they're headed all the way to Rio and have spent the last 3 months in mexico with Betty, the van. she is beautiful. they say they are leaving the next day, so we meet up and take off. first night in Chetumal, then up early to bribe a border official to let me into Belize because i didn't have the right piece of paper or something. stopping briefly in Corozal, we get to Belize City in the afternoon. i decide to take the ferry over to Caye Caulker, a tiny island known for great diving. as i get off the ferry, i run into all my friends from tulum! it was crazy....but so is life i guess. there i also run into my friend Dougie from Scotland, and he decides to come down south with us.

***info about Dougie. hes from Glasgow, so no one here understands him. when he introduces himself, it sounds like "Doog-ay" and everyone stares at him blankly for a minute, then turns to me, where i then step in to translate. although i've tried to stop, it's pretty funny. another thing about Dougie is that hes just a genuinely nice person and a really good friend, plus he's as lazy as i am, so we make a good traveling team.

so, the next day we head back to the mainland and go south to Dangriga, then end up in this small townn called Hopkins, where we all just get lost for a couple of days. we found this funny little place to stay called Kismet Inn, which means "meant to be." i like that, and we met this crazy lady named trish from new york who has been there about 10 years too long.

***side note about Belize:
Belize is awesome.
wait. scratch that.
Belize is Fucking Awesome.

i wasnt expecting this caribbean rasta feel. everyone there speaks 4 languages. creole, which is like "Rasta english", english, spanish, and Garifuna, which is more to the south and completely indecipherable.

Creole: "Hey you, Rasta gal. How long you growd dem dreads? Dey be lookin right fine, gal. You knowd snorkel? I do tors, jah no? I be de best tor guide dis side Belize. See dis? WWJD. It mean What Would Jah Do. Jah se we needs Belikin. An ifs Jah se so, it be so."

**there are 3 beers in Belize. Belikin, Belikin Stout (my personal favorite), and Guinness. strange, no? so 2 days ago Steve and Harley leave Kismet heading west to Guatemala, and Dougie and I head south to Honduras. instead of taking a bus trip at 6 am, 2 boats, and another 2 bus rides to get to La Ceiba we just head up to Belize City again and catch 2 tiny planes. I already don't like flying, so it wasn't very fun. the second flight was only about 20 minutes long (praise Jah) but it was the bumpiest, scariest ride ever! i was curled up in a ball clutching a life vest under my left arm and Dougies arm in my right. Dougie was staring straight ahead, holding onto his bottle of Famous Grouse, his choice brand of Scotch he found at the duty free shop, and smiling. it was as if he actually liked that heart-stopping feeling when your heart actually plunges into your stomach and you know you're going to die. and the bastard was laughing at me! i shudder again at the thought.

so i made it, alive even, to Honduras. La Ceiba is this dodgy city on the coast, but we needed to go there to get to Utila, where I write this email from. So yesterday we rock up to this sweet little island off the Honduran coastline. people come to Utila mostly for diving. i also keep hearing horror stories about coming for 4 days and staying 3 years...and im a little afraid for myself, knowing i could easily get stuck here. everyone has been so nice, we found Kris, who Dougie and I both met in Tulum, and yesterday we did a fun dive to get a feel for the place. the second dive was my favorite because the area is known for seahorses.

***note about seahorses. they are very possible the cutest animals i have ever seen. they only get about 3-4 inches big, and they're little tails propell them around these little bushes. another thing about seahorses: they are also probably the most boring animal i have ever come across. but still rediculously cute.

so here i am, sitting on a little island of paradise, wondering what to do. i have 2 options....1) take what money i have left and stay here for a month to 6 weeks and do my dive masters course. Utila and Thailand are the 2 cheapest and best places to do your dive courses in the world. plus i've already met some great people who say it's easy to get a job and stay for a while. 2) take what money i have left and go all the way to south america backpacking. both options are up in the air. i'm going to stick around here a few days and figure out what the hell is going on. until then, you know as much as i do.

including how to say "butterfly" in Garifuna.

you're welcome.

Words to Live By

2008-12-12T01:59:00.000-08:00

Written 15-1-08

"Once the travel bug bites there is no known antidote, and I know that I shall be happily infected until the end of my life"-Michael Palin (of Monty Python)

"It had been another gringo folly, an alcohol-soaked sunstroke vision of paradise driven by ego and lack of any geographical knowledge whatsoever of the region."-Jimmy Buffet

"Perhaps," Mr. Sedgwick said. "I see you´re in a hurry to get someplace. It´s a great mistake to hurry."
"Why?" Joe asked, puzzled by almost everything the traveler said.
"Because the grave´s our destination," Mr. Sedgwick said. "Those who hurry usually get to it quicker than those who take their time. Now me, I travel, and when I´ll get anywhere is anybody´s guess. If you two hadn´t come along I´d have stood there in that river for another hour or two. The moving waters are ever a beautiful sight."-Lonesome Dove

"Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me."-Carl Sandburg

Two days ago, I got a strange vibe from Tulum. This is the first time this has happened in over a month. Then the goddamn travel bug started itching. Again. I sent out hope into the world, looking for a sign, and a few were returned. Yesterday I decided to go to Honduras, by way of Guatemala. The vague and hazy plan is to get my Dive Master´s license in Utila, a small island off the Honduras coastline. It´s really cheap to do there, will take 4-6 weeks, and it´s a definite possibility. Plus is met a really nice dive instructor working in Utila who I got a really great vibe from, and if I want to get my certification, I want to do it there. Plus I hear I could get some work there easily. Basically, I´m just following good vibes and feelings.

Besides, Tulum is leaking. It´s been raining on and off for 2 days, and I have a feeling that if I stay here, the Tulum Black Hole will swallow me with it´s beautiful beaches and flowing booze machines, and I´ll just die here. I´ve been here for over a month now, I feel very comfortable here with my friends and a good job...so it´s quite logical that I need to get the hell out as fast as I can, so I can once again wander around, with that lost look and feel I often find hanging out near my eyes. You know the one I´m talking about. When only my right eyebrow raises, and a thin smile rests on my lips, as if amused, but completely confused. So yeah. I think I´ll leave in a day or two. I want to go hang out on the beach a few more times. Chill with my friends that are still here. Then pick up by bag and my hammock, and, as they say, "get the heck outta Dodge."

Obviously, I have no idea what is going on, or what is supposed to happen. So if you have any info about central and south america, or you have friends i can stay with, or you want to come with me, please please please let me know. I am simply following the signs. If you have no information, don´t know anyone, nor do you want to come with me, please remove yourself from the rock you´ve been living under.

It´s just better for the world.

Bliss and the Art of Marriage

2008-12-12T01:57:00.000-08:00

Written 9-1-08

the other day was the most beautiful day.
well, all my days here are beautiful, but this one i´m going to write about.

to start, i have a new job. i´ve finally managed to get a job doing massage therapy. woohoo! i work at a hotel called Paraiso, and i do massages under a palapa hut right on the beachfront. so in the mornings i get up and bicycle 3-4 miles to the beach. i wear all white, work 6 days a week (which is very average for mexico), but don´t worry...i´m not working that hard. i´m out on the beach from 9-5, and i´m averaging 2-5 massages a day. in comparison to my other job, i´m basically a millionaire. we do either half-hour massages for $35 and full hour massges for $55, and i get 30 percent, so i´m averaging 100 pesos for a half and 200 p. for a full. not bad, considering the average wage in tulum for working all day is 100-200 pesos. i have had to completely forget about the dollar, or i´d go crazy at how little money i make in comparison to working in the states. anyway, i´m ridiculously happy at the new job. john conway and david lauderstein: don´t worry, i´m working with good body mechnics.

so, back to my nice day. i´ve been practicing yoga in the mornings with one of my massage compadres, Layin. we have become really good friends, and he is really a beautiful person. he leads the practice and meditation, in spanish of course, and i follow to the best of my ability. he thinks i say "shit!" too much when i fall from the tree stance, and i think he yells "aye-ya-yieeeee" too much like some crazed mariachi when he hits a nice stretch, so we make a good pair. with his help, i did my first yogic headstand, with my forearms in the sand holding me up. i faced the ocean, with the water in the upper part of my vision, the cloudless sky in the lower....and i have to say, that it was probably the most beautiful sight i have ever seen. after we finished, we stood facing the endless ocean, palms together at the heart center, and meditated. i pictured my upside-down reality, my sea above me and the clouds below, and there i found an absolute bliss that can hardly be described by anything but ecstacy.

after the meditation, i went over to the massage beds, and fell into a nice shavasana to figure out what i had just experienced. it was as if...as if i was just meant to be there at that moment to experience such an amazing sense of spirit within myself. the days have been floating peacefull by since then, and i am, as usual, loving life here in tulum.

on a complately seperate note, i have an announcement to make:
I AM OFFICIALLY A LOCAL.

yesterday i got into a cab with some friends to go salsa dancing, and the cab driver recognized me! he said that he always sees me riding on my little green bicycle...how fucking cool is that?? we talked the whole way to the party, and by the time i got out of the cab i was on some elated high, glowing, because i realized the time had finally come. i am a local. a mexicana. fuck yeah.

on a third unrelated topic: i almost got married last night. again. apparently my roommate Will is a minister, which is very handy knowledge for a crazy person. so my friend Rob is this crazed english dj who has been coming to tulum off and on for the last 4 years. he is absolutely nuts and i love him dearly. the only thing that came between me and another special marriage was alcohol. funny how that was the reason for my first marriage. basically we were all drinking heaviy because it was Rob´s last night in tulum, and we just forgot. that´s the only real reason i didn´t go through it. oh well, maybe next time. as my friend Adam Linehan once said,"Rachel, there are more men in the sea." how true.

a story about Rob:

on new years eve there was a crazy party on the beach and a couple of us slept out there. wait. that implies it was planned. more like we passed out there. and i say slept, but really it was more of a 2 hour nap. unimportant. so anyway, i wake up at 8 in the morning to the all too familiar sounds of techo music, the "m-ch m-ch m-ch". we walk towards the sound, and there unfolds a beautiful beach party on new years day. one glance towards the dj table, and there is Rob, mixing away. it is quite apparent that he has not slept, which isn´t uncommon, and so the party continues on. at one point the music stops. confused, we look back, but Rob isn´t there. he fell over, face planted in the sand, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. and there he stayed.

i love Rob. mom, that could have been your son-in-law. well, the second one anyway. and yes, we finally picked him up. ahhh Mexico, it´s because of you i always have good stuff to write about. i hope all is well in whatever part of the world you happen to be in.

may you never fall face first into the sand and waste a perfectly good beer,

Taco Stand Fatigue

2008-12-12T01:54:00.000-08:00

Written 5-1-08

i am such a slut.

(now before we all start laughing, taking offense, or general confusion, let me explain. also, i want to say that the term ´slut´ is really deroggative and demeans women who perhaps break from the mold of what people think women should be and act like, and is used overwhelmingly too often in conversation. but an intro like that just get´s people´s attention, which was what it was intended for. )

i am a taqueria slut. there are 3 taco stands within a 2-3 minute bike ride from my house. i go to see Amairani, my 14 year old grown-up mexican friend, at her taco stand when she´s there, i go to the one nearest to my house when i´m running late for work, and another, because the main guy there´s name is Modesto (Modesty in english) , the GREATEST name in the history of names. he also knows my name, and everytime i bike, walk, or generally saunter by, he always says hello. it´s becoming quite difficult juggling these taco stands without letting them know i´m cheating on the with another stand. it does, however, make me feel very devious at times.

and yes, as i mentioned, i have a bike. the bike of all bikes. his name-
THE DUDE.

because my bike really is a dude. it´s lime green, with light blue polka dots, presumably hiding rust spots. i bought it off my friend Chai (pronounced Chey, an asian-australian girl) for 500 pesos, and i´ll tell ya, that bike can move. i ride it every day a couple of kilometers down to the beach and back for work. it´s an all-terrain piece of shit that for some reason has held together...it´s a good bike, and i´ve become quite fond of him.

Riding a bike in Mexico is a lot like playing Russian Roulette. In the end, you just kinda close your eyes and hope you don´t die. it´s been an interesting trip, learning the ins and outs of the car-bike relationship in Mexico. the bumper sticker "Be Kind To Bicyclists" circling around Austin right now has a whole new meaning.

i have also developed a bad habit. in Tulum, the stars here are unbelieveable. it´s unlike anything i have ever seen, and they light up the sky, with or without the moon. my bad habit is to stare up and become mesmorized by them when i´m walking or riding my bicycle. it creates a potential hazzard, as i´m usually walking-biking down the side of highway 307 trying to get home. again, Russian Roulette is a bitch.

i´m sure you´re all wondering what taco stand i´ll end up with in the morning. that´s my own damn business, pervert.

Mexican Feminism

2008-12-12T01:52:00.000-08:00

Written 2-1-08

i got whistled at by an eight year old today.

i know because i asked the little shit.

there i was, peacefully walking down the street, when i hear the all-too-familiar cat call whistle from behind me. usually it doesn´t phase me, but for some reason i turn my head and find myself staring into the eyes of two small boys. The one who did the whistling was obvious: his head was held higher, plus there was a look of glowing affection and pride in the other boy´s eyes, admiring his friend´s bravery.

i could barely speak.
and there was this child, looking up at me with this smirk on his face. his father would have been so proud. i snapped, turned back, and towered over this little boy.

"Pardoname??? Cuantos años tienes, niño?"

Blank stare. "Ocho, señora."

("Señora? you little fuck! i am not old enough to be a señora!" i think in my head, now furious...)

"Tu necesitas aprender respeto por mujeres, kiddo. Donde esta tus padres?"

(At this point, his little friend´s mouth is hanging open, having never been talked to like this by some crazy white tourist. I have stunned them into silence. My work is done.)

I excuse them with, "Va a escuela!" and they run off at quite a fast pace.

***The thing with Mexico that I´m having a really hard time with, is all the honking, whistling, and general cat-calling. I did, however, decide that when all the whistling stops, it probably means i need to go on a diet. but for the time being, i have created a new system for myself. everytime i get a whistle or whatever, instead of getting offended, i realize i have been mis-interpreting the signs. what they´re actually saying is "Wow. Thanks for walking down the street today. I recognize that you are a member of the community, and I respect you for that. oh, and your hair looks great today."

the new system has been working out really well.

A Story for the Morning

2008-12-12T01:49:00.000-08:00

Written 24-12-07

There is a little Mexican man who rakes the sand on the beach in the morning. It´s hard to determine how old he is, because life on a Caribbean beach masks the aging process. He rakes soft and slow, like a calm yogi master, tending to his own spirituality. He makes circles around the palm trees, the young and the old, protecting them and caring for them. I watch him bend down, gracefully for an old man, to pick up a bottle cap and put it in his pocket. There is a look in his eyes that I cannot describe. I wonder why he rakes every morning. To find trash? To make it look nice for the tourists? I´m sure that is why he is paid to rake, but I hesitate in thinking that is truly why he does it. I walk down a little closer to him to watch. He smiles, nods, and we appreciate one another´s company in the silence of the morning. The waves crash, the birds cry, the sun is shining, and the palm trees are swinging in the light breeze. In this moment, I cannot help but feel that this is one of the few stable things in my life. With so much uncertainty, it is comforting to come to the beach in the morning to see the trees and the sun and the sand; these things will always be here, sturdy as a rock, whenever I need them. I lock eyes with the old man, only briefly, but enough to catch a fleeting look, as if he is wandering around inside himself. I imagine, as he lightly rakes, that he pretends to be some great Japanese Zen master, raking the sand and earth in a garden fit for an Emperor. He rakes his consciousness into patterns of life, love, and spirituality. And I imagine that somewhere out there, there is a small Japanese man- age unknown- who rakes away, daydreaming of raking the pristine white sand on a Caribbean beach, and wishing he was lucky enough to be there instead.

Jungle Fever

2008-12-12T01:48:00.000-08:00

Written 20-12-07

ok, so i did the coolest thing ever yesterday.
i met this cool chica named Cathy. she´s an english biologist who´s been living in the jungle here for the past 5 years tracking and studying monkeys. can you think of a cooler job?!?!?? so yesterday we rent a car and drive out to Punta Laguna, near Coba. we almost died trying to drive down this dirt road, which is one small path carved out of the jungle. at one point a mayan fell out of the jungle onto the path very unexpectedly, and we almost hit him. i think he was drunk...it would explain the confused, blank face as he realized that he wasn´t in the jungle anymore and was being stared at by 5 tall people who were not mayan.

so anyway, we finally reach Punta Laguna. by we, i mean Cathy, our guide, myself, Sugar, Emma, a cool english girl working at the hostel, and Abraham, this crazy Ethiopian dude who´s been living in Tulum for about 5 years. (on a side note, Abraham is one of the funniest people i´ve ever met, and he hasn´t worn shoes in 4 years!) so the 5 of us show up in this Mayan village. Cathy runs around saying hi to everyone, and we start out looking for monkeys. the indiginous monkeys are howler moneys and spider monkeys. for those who know me, i am not a jungle trekker person. i´m a beach lying person. so an hour of walking around in the jungle almost killed me. plus i was wearing corona board shorts and flip flops, as i don´t exactly have the right clothes for this sort of thing. i might also mention that Abe was barefoot for all of this. so after listening, pausing, walking, pausing, listening...Carthy leads us right to them! they were all over the place! i learned more than i ever wanted to know about moneys, like their babies don´t leave the mother´s back for 4 years! i also learned that monkeys do not like it when you try to impersonate their noises. Sugar made the mistake of trying, and he got peed on. twice. i also learned that they only eat part of the figs in the tree, and throw the rest down. so after getting pelted with half-eaten monkey figs, we left and went to the lagoon to swim. Cathy was kind enough to explain that the alligators didn´t come there often, and that there were only a couple of alligator-related deaths a year. thinking logically, we pushed Sugar in first to make sure it was safe.

so we leave Punta Laguna and head to Coba for lunch. there we hear of this alligator that hangs out at a pier in the Coba Laguna. we go over, pay 10 pesos, and there´s this giant black alligator, just kinda hanging out. i was scared at first, then i realized that this was the laziest alligator in the whole world. it hangs out and gets fed chicken by stupid tourists. i could have jumped into the water, bleeding foot and all, and it probably wouldn´t move. it´s gotten so lazy that unless you throw chicken right near its mouth, it won´t even eat it! we dropped a piece directly on top of it´s snout and it didn´t even move! fucker! it was fun anyways...

so life in Tulum is nice. except for the Jehovah´s Witnesses.
they keep bothering me.
they came to my door again today, and i finally got fed up!

"yo creo en el padre del navidad." (i believe in santa clause.)
a little shrivelled up woman started crying. i felt kinda bad, but it was just so funny. so i sicked my african roommate Harry on them, who doesn´t speak a word of spanish, and they left pretty quickly. once they had left the street and it was safe to go out, i went to get some tacos.

i forgot to tell you about my new friend. she´s a 14 year old girl named Amairani, which i think is a really pretty name. she gets up every morning at 5 and goes to tulum with the other taco stand workers to get ready for the day and her only day off is sunday. (by the way, these are the best tacos in the world! and they cost 6 pesos each) once i made the mistake of asking her why she wasn´t in school, and she looked at me like i was crazy. obviously, she had already finished school! she was 14, and her parents were looking into getting her married soon! how can she be a wife and in school at the same time? crazy white people...

she does want to learn how to speak english, so when i go i teach her a new phrase. as of now, every time i walk over there, she says, "Hello, Raquel. How are you today? What would you like to drink?" that´s as far as i´ve gotten, but she learns fast, and she corrects me when my spanish is incorrect. and she thinks i´m crazy.

life goes on, as crazy and spontaneous as ever. i met a swedish guy yesterday, who told me all about the Rainbow Gathering in Veracruz in january. i´m going to go, because...why the hell not? i need a "Rainbow Family" name. Freddie, the swedish guy´s "family" name is the Nordic Eagle. that´s pretty sweet.

La vida buena, Rachel style

2008-12-12T01:39:00.000-08:00

Written 16-12-07

i was in a mexican hospital last night.
but that story can wait for a minute.

so mexico is...is hard to explain in words. i feel very at home here, very happy, and very safe. i want to thank all of you who wrote in my book, especially those who wrote LEGIBLY. i read the whole thing twice in the airport. the second time i was huddled up in a ball trying not to cry and freak out the people around me. a little old lady even came up to me and asked if i was ok. i wasn´t ok. it was there, sitting in the cold airport, that i realized what wonderful, amazing people i was leaving behind. i love each and every one of you with every inch of my heart, and yet, it´s time to continue on.

an unknown author in my book wrote, "The Mayan´s say the world ends in 2012...go ahead, have another drink." whoever wrote that in there, thanks. i also counted how many people told me to have a drink for them. it totals 22. i covered that last night, so i don´t want any of you to worry. coincidentally, that has something to do with the mexican hospital experience. but again, later.

so, i am in Tulum. i have somehow, in less than a week, pulled off finding myself a job and a place to live. i have no idea how i accomplished this, it all happened rather fast. i am working at a dive shop called Acuatic Tulum. the crazy guy i met last time, Catana, hooked me up with it, as he is a dive master for the company too. basically all i do is walk up and down the beach and talk to tourists. i´m a little less intimidating than some crazed-looking mexican dude walking up to them and trying to sell diving and snorkeling trips. so i hang out all day, talk to people, i have this funny little walkie-talkie to keep me in touch with the dive shop...and, life is good. i get paid a little commission off what i sell, and yesterday i made money! i made 210 pesos, which is roughly 20 bucks. to celebrate, i went out and spent it all, which is funny because i told myself i would eat only rice until i sold something. so i´ve been eating rice mostly for the past week, which my roommates think is hilarious.

yes, i have roommates. i was adopted by 3 guys, Will and Sugar (his real name is adam, but his last name is sugadesh or something...you see where i´m going) are from England, and Harry is from Malawi (for those who don´t know, it´s a country in Africa). so we all live in a house, and i sleep in my hammock in the living room. the house is very odd. it came furnished with orange 80´s patio furniture, the pipes talk to me at 5:37 a.m. and there are exactly 7 different locations where i can hang my hammock, with hooks already in the walls. i counted today.

so these crazy guys just kinda hang out, plus they came up with the brilliant idea of a party bus. they actually bought a bus, and every weekend, they go pick up people from the hostel here called the Weary Traveler. it´s a good hostel, and i stayed there my first 3 nights, until i was found. this party bus leads to my hospital story. those who have kept reading, i applaud you! for those who are new to the email lists, this is pretty standard. so, last night there was this huge party on the beach, which is where the party bus takes you. we were all having a great time, when i step on a giant piece of glass. it was then that a girl standing there informed me that she had just broken a glass, and to be careful. the glass went through my flip flop and into the bottom of my left foot. needless to say i started bleeding and cursing like a pirate. Will, Sugar, and Harry picked me up and threw me into a taxi where i shouted "HOSPITAL...DOCTOR...AHORA" i think i got to the hospital faster in that cab than any ambulance could do, mainly because i was bleeding on the back seat and he wanted me out of the car. so we pull up to the hospital, which could have been an apartment really. there was no doctor, but the was a nurse. well, i assume she was a nurse, and i had to look past the Rolling Stones tshirt she was wearing and not yell, but only because she seemed to have to tools to stop the hemorraging. she said i didnt need stiches and to be honest, she did a good job. Harry almost threw up because apparently he doesnt like blood, which is something to keep in mind. Sugar was cracking jokes to keep me laughing and not crying. Will cracked open a bottle of beer he had in his pocket and gave it to me. It was here, in that moment, that i realized i was going to be just fine. its saturday night, and my 3 roommates, virtually strangers, are sitting with me in a mexican hospital, trying to make me smile. it would have been a nice moment, except for the bleeding.