March 2010 Archives

Vagabond Dreams Outtakes are "deleted scenes" from my book. Think of them as a "Special Features" disc for a DVD yet to be invented. This incident took place in Bluefields, Nicaragua, on the Mosquito Coast, exactly 10 years ago...

I walked to the Enitel building to place a call before dinner. I hadn't sent a message home in weeks. I expected end-of-world explorer's reports, yellowed clippings of my obituary: Last seen on a jungle boat to the Mosquito Coast.

The line crackled and fizzed. My father's voice was an echo far away, like talking to someone at the wrong end of binoculars.

"I'm in this town called Bluefields, in Nicaragua," I shouted, enunciating carefully to make myself heard over the tired wires. "We were out on an island so I was kinda cut off."

"Are you getting enough to eat? Do you have enough money?"

Back home, Nicaragua still conjured images of extreme poverty and revolutionary violence.

I tried to sound tired and hungry. "Well, we drank fifty-cent beers on the beach all day and ate five dollar lobster for supper. Every night we drank a bottle of the world's best rum under the stars. Oh, and there was a shortage of rooms, so I had to sleep between these two European girls." I paused. "I'm getting by."

There was a long silence.

"You still there?"

I heard a grunt. "You lucky bastard."

"Yeah, well I knew this place would be okay when I saw they had ice."

"What do you mean?"

"Ice is civilization."

"What?"

"Never mind."

The line went dead.

As a professional travel writer, people often ask me about the tools of my trade. I'd like to take this opportunity to tell you about my notebook.

"Your notebook?" you might ask. "What the hell for? Isn't one piece of paper as good as the next?"

Au contraire, mon ami. Ask a craftsman who works with wood if one hammer or chisel is as good as another. Ask an accountant about calculators. Ask a serious cocktail drinker about peripherals like bitters and grenadine.

Quality matters, and it's even more important when you're using these tools every day. You need tools you can rely on. Tools that work so well you don't even think about them.

 I don't travel with a laptop because there aren't any power outlets on my sort of trips (please don't plug it into the back of a camel -- that isn't a USB port...). Sand tends to clog up the keys, and it'd likely get stolen anyway. When I'm on the road, I'm strictly a pen and notebook kinda guy.

It always amazes me how difficult it is to get good pens. My handwriting is small, and so I need a fine point: the finest possible, something that won't clog up, won't smudge, and won't burst or leak every time I travel by plane. It's gotta flow smoothly across the page to capture those thoughts that come out so quickly I don't even know what it'll say until I see it written out.

I've never managed to find a single serviceable pen at Staples or at any of those business supply chains. I import all my pens from Japan. I discovered a little stationary store in Tachikawa while I was living there back in 2000, and I've never found their equal anywhere else. These days my pen of choice is a Uni Jetstream 0.7, made by the Mitsubishi Pencil Co, Ltd.

 My other essential piece of travel equipment is my notebook. I'm currently using a black Moleskine made by Modo & Modo of Italy.

Yes, I know. Every wannabe travel writer carries one of these, chiefly because of the erroneous marketing campaign that associates them with Bruce Chatwin. The moleskin Chatwin wrote about was entirely different and is no longer extant -- this company is playing off his name and his aura.

That pretender quality bothers me and I hate the marketing, but I was given this notebook as a gift. I've found it to be a good one. The narrow line spacing suits my small handwriting. I like the large number of pages, and the built in elastic that keeps it closed. The cardboard pocket inside the back cover is an especially helpful feature.

The back pocket of mine is stuffed with: a photo of my dad who died 5 years ago next month; a photo of my cat; two photos of my girlfriend; a copy of the liner notes of Starfish by The Church; some old business cards from press trips; and the following poems:

Ithaka by Constantine P. Cavafy  [to remind me of the purpose of travel]

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon-don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find the things like that on your way
as long as you keep thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon-you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony.
sensual perfume of every kind-
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

And this little untitled poem by Steve Kilbey [because I love the atmosphere he creates]

i am already in another world
with you
we meet on the shore
the sun is so weak
the sky is so close
what did you bring with you
i ask
you smile
you point to the birds
oh
i say
anything else
you smile again
you open your tiny white hand
you are holding a little box
open it
you say
inside its empty
the box was my life
you say
the emptiness is love

something huge moves in the sea
when i look back
youre gone

As a writer it's easy to rant about the decline of the English language, the erosion of literature, and the dumbing down of pop culture.

Some embrace what they see as the "changing, dynamic nature" of the language. They adopt it and try to harness its supposed vibrancy, but this usually comes off as overly topical and is completely dated by the time next season's TV premiers roll around. These writers miss an important distinction: Fresh and cutting edge is not the same as stupidly inexpressive and totally lacking in descriptive vocabulary.

I'm not going to take shots at the complete overuse of "like" -- that'd be too easy. For me "like" still indicates a comparison or a simile, and is not merely the prelude to "know what I mean?" No. I'm sorry. No matter how many times you say "like, like, like, yeah" I still will not understand what you mean (if you mean anything at all).

I've learned to ignore "like", mostly by kicking in the TV and staying away from the shopping mall. But there are far worse word usages that are much more difficult to avoid. They've even invaded some of the print magazines it's been my habit to read. I can't hold it in any longer, and it's my fucking blog, so I'll just let fly with a list of the words and phrases that piss me off.

The word "utilize" never fails to make my top ten. When did this replace the simpler and much shorter "use"? I've never yet encountered a situation where "utilize" was necessary, but I've encountered plenty of situations where those of questionable intelligence attempt to snowball others into thinking they're clever by using big words when a small one will do. "Your task is to utilize this tool in the most efficacious manner." You're not fooling anyone, you know.

"At this point in time" falls into the same camp. Just say "now".

The annoying proliferation of business terms into the daily lexicon is another obvious target. Phrases like "touch base", "think outside the box", "24/7" etc. have lost all meaning. Please never say them to me.

And how many times have you ordered something in a store, thanked the clerk, and heard "not a problem"? Of course it's not a problem -- it's your fucking job! What ever happened to a simple "you're welcome"?

Overuse of the word "literally" is next in line. Please stop using this for emphasis. "Like, oh my god? Kevin literally drank his face off last night." No, he did not. He would be dead or in hospital for a face transplant. Literally.

This also kills me: "I mean, I love her to death, but..." Is that any way to demonstrate your affection for someone? By caring so deeply that they die of it? Or is this an actual physical description? Your carnal relations were conducted with such vigour and duration that you killed her? I think you'd better clarify before someone indicts you...

Finally, the misused phrase that pisses me off the most: "you need to." How many times have you heard a bullying airport security screener yell "Sir! You need to get into that line!" No ma'am, you're mistaken. A need is something that comes from within me. You want me to get in this line, but I feel no deep seated internal need to stand there. "You need to look at this and give me feedback by Friday." Nooo....you want me to look at that, but the last thing I feel a need for is your painful convoluted prose.

Anytime someone insists I need to do something, I experience an unshakeable urge to do the opposite. I sit down, cross my arms, and refuse to budge. Few things annoy me more than being told what to do.

I'm not against inventiveness when it comes to language. Far from it! I make up words all the time, and I use made up words that serve a definite purpose. Take "fucktard" for example: a clever combination of "fucking" and that 80's staple insult "retard." I can't tell you how many times each day I find a use for that one. Another excellent made up word is "fuckery", as in "I'll keep an eye on things and make sure there's no fuckery."

Use these words instead. You'll have plenty of opportunities as you read through this list.

There, now doesn't that feel better?

Vagabond Dreams Outtakes are "deleted scenes" from my book. Think of them as a "Special Features" disc for a DVD yet to be invented. This incident took place in Panama's Darien Gap...

Banana trees and low bushy plants lined the dirt path that led beyond the village's last tambo. Jungle pathways were never entirely clear, no matter how recently someone had used them. The forest reclaimed everything with a creeping growth that was almost visible. Keeping those vital roadways open meant that each person who passed must absent-mindedly cut back the encroaching growth. The constant ringing of these slashing blows became the music of our march.

Beyond the outskirts of the village we picked our way across a churned-up clear cut of decaying logs, tangled branches, and muddy hummocks, a place where the ochre and black topsoil of the jungle had been laid bare with simple tools. Green brush smouldered in small piles, releasing slow, reluctant wisps of acrid smoke that hung in the thick moist air. This was El Coco's larder.

A solitary man worked the far side of the clearing, painstakingly, by hand. The dull ching of his machete as it cut through thin branches and the heavy thunk as it bit into stumps echoed off the broad leafed plants that hemmed us in.

Beyond the clearing we were completely swallowed up by the green-tinted light of undersea. The machete's efforts were silenced as suddenly as though a heavy curtain had fallen. The forest deadened all sound, absorbing even the soft puffs of our breath.

At first the Embera tried to shepherd me around danger. They guarded me nervously, as one would a toddler taking first steps. But I soon caught them whispering about how silently I contorted around the foliage rather than crashing through the undergrowth and moving it around me.

They hadn't expected it, but I was more at home in the jungle than I was in the village. I'd grown up in the woods, camping with my friend Rob Wilson in lean-tos we build with a hatchet and twine. Studying the forest's silence, blending in with the sights and smells that surrounded me, seeking understanding rather than domination. It was a way of looking at things, a way of moving that we held in common, and it brought us closer together.

Massive outsized trees with wide buttressed roots propped up the canopy, lending the forest the aura of an enormous outdoor cathedral. Vines, mosses and epiphytes hung down in tangled green confusion, living off the larger trees in a symbiotic Gordian knot, as the weak always do upon the strong. It would have been impossible to extract one component without damaging all the rest.

As the shock of that first glance wore off, I began to notice the details: the intricate veins on a leaf's broad canvas; a flower that lent a pastel flicker to the deep sea of green; twigs that looked like insects, and insects that mimicked twigs. Monkeys and squirrels leaped and swung through the mid-ranges, while smaller birds flitted from branch to branch. At our feet, highways of leafcutter ants crisscrossed the muddy path and vanished into the undergrowth, nearly invisible one way but signaling their presence with bobbing green-flags in the other.
 
Whenever the screech of a birdcall pierced the silence, Chung froze and turned his face to the source of the sound. He touched me on the shoulder and extended a slow arm, then whispered a name close to my ear. I squinted to pull the hazy outlines of a shape from a background of shades of green, but sometimes it was so far away that I couldn't even make out the faintest blotch.

In the jungle, everything was wet. The thin soil was forever leaching water that the trees squeezed from the moist air, or the rain deposited in frequent downpours. This runoff collected in hollows, carving miniature canyons that threaded their way to the Jacque and eventually to the ocean. The vegetation was thicker at the edges of streams; it arched over the water in a tightly woven canopy, and damp leaves leached to our flesh like wet paper when we passed.

We forded small rivers, knee-deep, 8 or 10 feet across. Sometimes we crossed slippery log bridges with arms outstretched, and other times we waded through limpid pools, their cool waters flooding my boots and wicking up the legs of my pants.

Once a trail met ours, and Ricardo pointed down it and named a hidden village several days away on foot. These were the trade routes of the jungle, connecting fragile habitations, allowing them to share the simple goods they grew and wove to make life easier, or just to pass the time.

It was a necessary network, but after walking for so long in silence, with only the dim light of the forest all around us, the thought of other humans felt sinister somehow. In nature I could be reasonably sure of what I was dealing with. I found the human world of opaque motives much more difficult to navigate.