Last minute plans last week fell through. I was going to pop over to Kenya for a quick trip to see my friend, Justina: Peace Corp Volunteer, Resident Mzungu. Instead, I'm going in February.

I received her response to an e-mail I sent yesterday, inquiring whether she'd be available.

"Come! There's nothing going on right now! I'm shoveling shit from the forest to fertilize my shamba," she told me.

My response: "I'll shovel some shit with you!"

I also found a historical train, called the Lunatic Express, that travels from Nairobi (Kenya) to Kampala (Uganda), and am weighing the safety factor.

I've always, always, always wanted to go to Africa.
More soon.


I really, really still want to go to Kenya (Updated April 28, 2006)

A letter I sent to all of (my friends in) the les Etats-Unis (the United States); completely stripped of all the parts where I make fun of the French just in case any of the French people I know are reading this....

....................

Bon Jour! Comment ca va? (just practicing)

I’VE OFFICIALLY MOVED TO PARIS!
And they lost my bag between London and Paris (I checked it in London because it got too heavy to carry around)…..something smells fishy in the EU…….

A COUPLE OF REQUESTS FROM YOU.
Can each of you send me your mailing address? Put it in an outlook ccard format if you know how to do that. Also, can you send me one or two of your favorite (and easy) recipes? I cook everyday and I’m already going on round two of recipes that I know off the top of my head.

SORRY TO BLINDSIDE YOU WITH THIS LONG NOTE.
This is a pretty impressive sweep of my Outlook addresses from over the years, but I thought that the update warranted some spam. First of all, big apologies many times over to the friends that I didn’t have a chance to call back and/or had to break plans with over and again. Many who did drive-bys at my place will vouch that I left an apartment for them clean for weeks after I left (especially Patty, Dan, Glo, Reverend Dave, Dennis)……while I was boarding a plane. I couldn’t get myself together before my flight for any kind of leisurely, non-stressful, free time……desolee (that’s French for "sorry").

PARIS AND JC (le bird).
I just found some time to track down internet access at Starbucks and I’m taking refuge from the rain with their wi-fi access that I had to pay the equivalent of 12 USD for. There's no free access around here and I tried to hijack some broadband from home, but no such luck; all access is secured. Imagine that. No one owns a computer around here, but the people who do know enough to secure their wireless. The Husband ordered service though, and we should be connected within the next couple of weeks. That’s right; he doesn’t own a computer either. Mon dieu!

I got in on October 27 evening and we picked up JC from cargo in the evening. Hers was a direct flight that landed in Paris at 1pm; mine stopped in London and I got in at 5:30. I thought she’d be a bit freaked out on the flight since she doesn’t know the meaning of “cage” and she flew cargo (that’s right, down with baggage, but in a temperature controlled room on an expensive ticket so wipe the horror from your eyes). My concern was that she’s only ever seen a cage from the outside (hers was a HUGE one at home) and she’s always been in full flight with free reign around my apartment. For the trip, she flew trapped in a tiny cat cage (oh, the irony) for over 12 hours, but seemed to be mentally intact when we picked her up.

Anyway, I thought she’d be devastated, but she’s adjusted fine and pooped in almost every room several times after just a few hours. She's been banned her from the bedroom, but still The Husband concedes that the women run the house, following the leadership of JC. On a funnier note, he has a shelf that holds his memorabilia from a journey where he managed to find and stayed with a Cheyenne tribe during a cross country US visit years ago. In a ceremony, he was given a large eagle feather that was blessed (?) by the Chief or Shaman or something like that. JC poo-poo'd on that too; the length of the feather out-measures the full length of her body. I had to laugh a little (but respectfully).

When we were at the pet shop buying a cage, Francois completely fell for a baby ring necked parrot and he’s talked about it everyday for the last week. We’ll be going back to get it some time this week, but I’m afraid that JC will terrorize itl, and any other creatures that we bring home because she’s just basically pushy and feisty like that. Must be amour.

Some of you are thinking “wring-neck.” I know who you are and I’m coming back in January (Hunter).

I WAS OUT OF TOWN FOR A FEW DAYS.
On Fri night (Fri morning for you – we’re 9 hours ahead here), we left for a little coastal/port/sailor town called Bretagne (Brrrrittany for you and me) that’s about 4 hours northwest of Paris near Normandy. It’s a cute place, but the local people were slightly trashy (it’s a port town and all). There were small children in smoky bars and a pregnant woman was smoking and drinking and shimmying against the doorjamb, rubbing it with her 7 month belly. Who says pregnant women aren’t sexy? I also met a woman with a front gap in her mouth – one that was the size of a full big front tooth. I just smiled – she was talking to one girl's boyfriend. She held the cig in the gap when she wasn’t inhaling; not unlike an ashtray slot. Ok. I'm exaggerating a little, nevertheless, I was impressed.

I get smoked out of a lot of places here, but they’re trying to pass a law to ban smoking in public places in the next few days. It’s gone through in Ireland, Italy, and other places as you know, so it’ll probably pass here too (yay), but it’ll be anarchy for the next ensuing years. The only place I’m safe is Starbucks and at home, basically. I’ve pretty quickly forgotten the luxury of breathing while eating in restaurants and have learned to withstand being really, really cold. It’s either suffocate or freeze…….

We went go-karting and at the very end of our 3rd circuit, Francois rammed me into the side really, really, really, really, really, ultra hard and left scars. It was fun.

On a different note, yes there are huge, huge riots, state of emergency declared and curfews imposed, they’re not near our place; they’re in the outskirts of town. Here, there’s Paris, and then everything else is suburb or outskirts.

FRENCH WOMEN ARE THIN, EVERYONE DRESSES UP IN PARIS, and OTHER MYTHS I'VE HEARD.
That they’re especially slim is a fallacy and I don’t care what anyone says. I'll take you down on that right here. Honestly, I’d say they’re at least normal California-girl sized, and if we supplented each of our meals with cigarettes, we'd probably be much thinner. You should’ve seen how some of these girls polished off their meals at dinner. We work out, they smoke. It's an even 1-for-1 except that they're taking me down, one second-hand-smoke-unfiltered breath at a time.

There's hardly any active exercise to be found, except for all the walking to and from. When Gloria comes ‘round, we’ll show them what skinny really is. But a day playing pick-up ball on Saturday? Never. Ever. The sports stores here don't even sell balls, that I know of.

No one dresses up here on a casual day on the street any differently than in the Bay Area except that some may dress nice for work [as in not sweats or cargo pants and beaters...] - something that absolutely no one on this distribution list knows about in the Bay Area). With that said, if you come, bring jeans and comfortable shoes because you’re gonna walk, walk, walk, walk……

The people seem to be pretty nice in general, contrary to all those know-it-all snide remarks about how "the French are so rude." Depressingly though, not too many smile freely, except the bum who asked me for bread so that wasn't really free either. BUT I got hooked up with a big Starbucks while I busily typed away (sans smoke). The boy behind the bar came one day and asked if I needed anything, then offered me free coffee AND brought it to me. Yay. I’m going back today. I think he wants to use me for my English (hardly anyone that I've met really speaks English well). I’ve resorted to basically handing my wallet over to the cashier at the local supermarche (the supermarket) because I don't know my numbers yet.

FASHION ALERT STRAIGHT FROM THE FASHION CAPITAL *** Move over material girls, BLACK PANTYHOSE may be the new rage (again) just in case you missed it the first time (Leslie). I’ll let you know in a few weeks after more observation, but I’m fairly certain.....

GOTTA GO.
More individual missives and lots of IM later. (I clearly have some time on my hands). Have to go grocery shopping. There’s nothing even close to Costco here, so we buy a small bit at a time. Toilet paper, for example. Fortunately, they don’t always wipe here so less trips are necessary for big, bulky items like that. Ok. I am Totally. Kidding. That's A LIE. Please refrain from spreading this rumour, and DO NOT make jokes about my people. I am THE ONLY AMERICAN that you know ,who lives in France, who is allowed to make dirty jokes about the French.

SO WHAT ARE MY PLANS NOW?
Start French classes, finalize my residence papers, and start connecting with some contacts for possible job possibilities. There’s not much TV watching going on because all of our channels are in French, and American shows (Elimidate, for example) are disappointingly narrated over.

LASTLY...
If you have any contacts here for work or otherwise, let me know! Thanks to those of you who’ve already sent me some leads!

Off to buy groceries for the day (and walk back with my laptop on my back and my hands full in the rain……. With no umbrella...)

A bientot, bisous, and chatter soon.

Immigration from a completely different perspective.
I've moved.

More soon.

This is an e-mail I sent from abroad after a journey in the Burmese jungle....


WHAT: A perspective of Burma little known to anyone..even the Burmese.
Where: Burmese jungles to stay with people of the Karen nationality, and KNLA's Brigade 5
When: April - May 2003
Why: Because it's our responsibility to know the goings-on in the world.
How: Trucks through riverbeds, and washed out, muddy roads, Boat down the beautiful Salween between Thailand and Burma, Foot up and down mountains and everything that comes with silently and cautiously trekking through the Burmese jungle.

.......and after a few weeks of all that, i'm not dead, so i must be stronger at this point. The hike in was difficult. And vertical. So, so, so vertical. Switchbacks don't exist in the mountains and jungles here, but even if they did, the time spent to take a switchback is far too dangerous. The preferred alternative is to go straight up and down the mountains. We were caught in a false, but convincing start into rainy season, so it was river-like muddy and vertical. Bamboo forests, teak forests, slash and burn, climbing over trees, under trees, up mountains, and despite my newly discovered fear of leeches that wrangle and wriggle through those tiny vents in my shoes, I don't think I've ever seen/experienced anything so inherently beautiful. And natural. And rich. The people, the territory...all of it.

I spent a few weeks with the 'Karen' (Ka-yin) in their Burmese jungle villages, and was reminded at every turn of how different my world at home is from that of theirs. From transportation, or lack thereof, to eating on their feet quickly and silently 'just in case' there's an ambush by the Burmese military where their villages are burnt down, and family members either murdered, gang raped, or taken as porters to both carry Burmese military supplies, as well as human mine detectors.

Imagine living everyday of your life for 54 years, if that's your age, in fear that you could lose your home, husband, wife or children today - in the most violent of ways. One man in the KNLA told me that he joined the Karen Army after his village was attacked and burnt down. From his hiding place in the trees, he saw a close friend shot after being taunted and forced to rape his own mother. The friend was laughingly called a "mother fucker" by the Burmese soldiers before they pulled the trigger, he said.

They have no belongings aside from the most absolute necessities - minimal cooking and eating utensils - mostly cut from bamboo. They are clearly resigned to the possibility of an imminent attack - it is evident in lifestyle and in their stories. Some villages haven't been attacked for up to 3 years, but this doesn't mean that they won't be ambushed today...some are attacked multiple times yearly. Some were most recently attacked last week. As we were on our journey out of the jungle back toward the Salween, we were held back for the night because the KNU had intercepted a signal from the Burmese military revealing plans to launch an offensive on a Karen village two hours ahead on our path. This is a frequent occurence. Some people have resorted to living under trees, rather than rebuilding their huts because the attacks are so frequent. Others are more persistent, building and rebuilding their lives. Carving more utensils. Weaving more clothing. Slashing and burning for more soil. Reaccumulating the essentials for life.

Imagine living everyday of your life on your toes, ready to leave your home to be decimated at a moments notice. One 70 year old woman told us,

"We work everyday, rain or shine, from sun-up til sundown. We're dark and dirty, we can't afford meat, and we pick whatever vegetables we can find to eat. We work hard, make (weave) our own clothes, but the only thing that bothers us of all this, is the Burmese military."

My westernized mind naturally put this into the perspective of an American...Fresh, organic vegetables, a deep dark tan that so many of us strive for, and the craft of weaving some of the most beautiful, colorful, vibrant clothing that I've ever seen. Another 73 year old man said to my Burmese friend, 'If you were to become the next oppressive ruler, I would have to fight you too.' At 73, this man will not give up the fight for his people. I think often of how we would handle these adversities.....We can't quite know, can we? We can't imagine....

These people are resilient. And committed. They have a choice...move to the Thai side of the border into a refugee camp where the dangers are a little less (though the Burmese have decimated a refugee camps in the past), or stay and defend while they wait out this war of 54 years. Either way, they aren't nationalized - neither Burmese, or Thai, the Karens seem to exist in some type of purgatory, waiting. Tyson, a 22 year old young man who seems to inexplicably pick up everything taught to him: film making with Holly F. (film maker also on the trip), command of the English language, guitar playing, singing, building and who knows what else said to me, when I asked about college, "Of course I'd like to go, but I don't see how. I have a 10th grade certificate from a refugee camp."

In this world, one would think that the wheel hadn't been invented; nothing is wheeled. No bicycles, much less cars, no horse carts, and everything that must be carried on the hike from 'town' into the jungle (2.5 days for us not including 4 wheeling for 9 hours total, boat rides for 4 + hours total) is done so by the Karen with large baskets that are suspended from their heads, mounted on their backs. In those baskets are clothing, firearms, food, and sometimes, even chickens. To get anywhere, one treks the 80 degree mountains. I think that basic living for them, is still an outrageously, unimaginable different kind of basic for us. If I were reading this, I don't know that I could envision a life basic enough. Or hard enough. Or frightening enough.

I got an email from Tyson just last night, saying that a KNU officer that I knew stepped on a land mine a few days ago, and lost his leg. Tyson was also sick with malaria for 2 weeks in the jungle. While we were there, another soldier had a land mine explode in his face. The nearest clinic is rigorous 2 hour hike and climb away from the camp, in either sweltering heat or pouring rain at this time of year. This note doesn't do much justice to accurately paint a portrait of 54 years of Karen life in the jungle....the Karen war. I realize in retrospect just how lucky I was for not contracting a deadly illness as so many do. For not stepping on a landmine and losing a limb. Or encountering burmese military in this **'black' warzone, for this is an open hunting area and hunting season lasts all year long. Every year for 54 years, to be exact, and even an American has no influence in this corner of the world. A passport is just paper, and those of us caught with the Karen are supporters. For the mere 3 weeks that I was there, I was relatively safe, though not fearless. There are so many Karens who know this as as a full blown fear, and as a way of life. They don't hike out of the jungle and hop a plane to the Bay Area to resume their lives.

** Karen controlled territory. Burmese military regularly infiltrate the land, burning down villages and terrorizing the residents.

Generation gap, cultural gap, age gap and language barriers. My mother's stereotypical, third world, domestic expectations of me bled all over my first world life as I made sense of a cultural buffet as a Burmese-Chinese-American. The uphill battle toward womanhood was extremely volatile as my mother tried her hardest to instill traditional third world insights and domesticity. At the same time, my brothers and American society did their best to raise an independent youngest sister who wouldn't take shit, and who would punch back with the perfect fist if I ever ran into trouble.

The Independent in me was reinforced in school as my body moved naturally to catch, kick and throw balls, run across the tops of monkey bars and jump off roofs of Argonne Alternative School bungalows. Always holding Office in classes since the third grade, I was outspoken and bold. My boyish qualities contrasted starkly with the "be seen, not heard" behavior that was expected of me when I was told that I couldn't go out past nine p.m "because you're a girl" or why my brother could "because he's a boy." My mother and I clashed like lightning on a tree, neither able to find the words to express our frustration or talk through fights not because we wouldn't spit the venom if we could, but because of the inevitable gaps in our relationship that are borne of our differing cultures.

After far too many years of pain, hyper-independance and frigid emotions related to family disasters, I embarked on a long, overdue trip to Burma feel the stories of my roots. I had grown up with threats that often began with, "If you were in Burma now....." and "The kids in Burma don't talk back....." While these empty words made my eyeballs roll, I was conscious of the stories of a different time and world, but they were just that. A long ago time, and a world that I couldn't connect with.

Years later, I did travel back in time to the world that my family often spoke of to see for myself. After many trips there, I recall a conversation with my mother one time in the car.

"You should do something in your spare time...find a hobby or something, Mom."

"I don't know what I would do."
"What do you mean you don't know what to do? How's that possible? What do you like to do?"

The American girl in me - the one who has been given the luxury of life choices with minimal discrimination, freedom of speech, Title IX, suffrage, women's movements, the ability to catch, throw, jump off of rooftops like a boy, read, learn to fix my own computer, as well as dress myself up like a girl - just plain could not fathom what it meant that she "didn't know what to do." I hesitated for a moment as I tried to understand what that really meant. Recalling my many trips to third world countries, I connected the vignettes of her life in Burma with the realities that I witnessed and finally-FINALLY "got it."

As an eldest child, my mother had no free time. She helped run the house and helped to raise her three younger siblings. She ironed a family's worth of clothes by heating the iron on the stove - no electric irons, cooked, cleaned, babysat and worked. Women rarely left the house alone and certainly never traveled by themselves. And people don't have socialize 1-on-1 with members of the opposite sex.

On a trip to a small town in Burma in 2002, the owner of the guest house asked his eldest son to take me to through the back fields to the carnival. As we walked there to meet his friends, he was careful to keep his distance from me fearful that I would be mistaken for his girlfriend, and he would be mistaken by the local girls as "taken", I'm sure. We met friends there whom I had met earlier and he was visibly relieved. We got on a ferris wheel, sitting on very small benches two by two. When I turned to say something to him, he had moved as far as he could to his side of the seat, nearly hugging the handrail. In Burma and many traditional countries, onlookers would've thought that we were planning to be married.

I realize now, much later and perhaps too late, that I was the epitome of the "girl gone wrong" in my mother's eyes. In my American life, my 3 older brothers w basically taught me to do well all the things that typical girls generally can't do. I grew up with disdain for these girls whom I perceived as "weak" and "boring." Girls who were more similar to my mother when she was young, than to me. Partially because of this, all of my friends were guys and I was everything that she was taught not to be. I played sports. I wore shorts while I did it. I ran around. Laughed heartily. Talked back. Wouldn't cook.

These differences are just what they are, I've come to realize. The effects of my families' evolvement into the world and a different culture. Ironically enough, it was my doggedness and refusal to succumb to what my mother and other women of her generation and culture that lead me right back to the country - as a lone female - to discover and see for myself.

Photo Credit goes to someone else.



From the warring jungles of Burma, to the clandestine border towns of Thailand, to the jungle paradises of Borneo, to the concrete jungles of New York, and then to.....Paris? Yes, Paris. Who would've thought I'd pay good money to step foot on in Europe - more specifically France - before I turned 60?

* * * * *

He e-mailed from an Internet Cafe today and I feel my lifeline tugging me in that direction. The country is changing in my absence. There were no Internet cafe's when I was last there 1 year ago and now that there is, access is priced out of range of the average local. Back then, it was accessible only to the powerfully rich or the government and at Western hotels.

Before he left Finland, I asked him to take stacks of photos to my friends there. Finally, they would receive photos of my last trip there nearly 1 year ago. As well, it serves as a mutual introduction. He will have an amazing time as he follows my trail to see my friends with the gift of memories and portraits in hand.

One of the places I sent him to was a monastery in Rangoon. I connected with beautiful, curious U Acchariya who has been a monk since the age of 11 and lives there today. Acchariya is 25 years old. He wrote,

"I still remember you and the the water festival where we met. how is
everything with you? How are you? and how is studying? when are you coming
back here? thanks for your pictures i like them so much. all your friends
are missing you and i am waiting for you to come back. I got your email
address and i'll write you more later."




I had arrived at the monastery dripping wet from head to toe with two new Australian friends. It was Thingyan... the Burmese New Year Water Festival. A campus filled with young monks, their curiousity was peaked when an American female who spoke their language stepped into their domain. We talked about life in America, boyfriends, the Internet, and American "girls who wear bikinis." "Do you wear one?" they asked laughingly, cigarettes dangling from the corner of their lips.

Leaving the monastery hours later, Acchariya walked us to the bus, about a kilometer away. We were again attacked by prococious children and drunk men, all celebrating the New Year. Monks are generally spared and I hid behind Acchariya, taking care to respect the tradition of keeping physical distance between females and monks. Acchariya opened the outter wrap of his saffron robe, and there I hid, all the way down the street. We laughed to each other at the ridiculousness of it all and I watched him watch the bus until we were both of sight.

Antti's note was a small surprise. I had informed him that if he really needed e-mail, that he could go to the Trader Hotel, but this virtual connection with a monk who lives in Burma...the casualness of his tone...the prospect of simply being able to e-mail a Burmese friend baffles me. Beyond words. It strengthens my resolve to go back to live the changes for She certainly is changing.

But I forgot to tell him not to send mail to my "Know Burma" account from there, where all emails are routed through government servers. Some things don't change...like the regime in power.

Sihanoukville: Cambodia


I receive random e-mail from strangers inquiring about my travels, specifics about certain places that I've visited, etc. I often respond vaguely to questions - even to friends - because much of it really isn't what most people generally want to hear about. Trips to Thailand have never been about cheap shopping, beaches or long stays in 5 star luxury hotels on the cheap. Exactly the opposite on all counts, in fact, with visits to towns that many don't even know about because there are no beaches there. No "jungle treks" organized there. No "waterfall" hikes. No resorts or Thai massages. How do I explain that I'm just not interested in room service? And that I'm usually really, really happy if I can get hot water, even if it comes out brown sometimes?

I received in e-mail recently from someone who found his way to this travel journal,

"Ah...the problem of people at home understanding this compulsion...and understanding the process of absorbing and learning that goes along with it. So many times I'd come home from some long absence, even sometimes, after being involved in really harrowing stuff, and be asked, "so, how was your trip?" and I'd stumble for words--because how can you sum up, let alone accurately convey--the intensity, aliveness, expansiveness, joy, beautiful aloneness, shadows, darkness, horror, excitement, happiness, pensiveness, challenge, risk, reward, revelations, reflection and all the rest that goes into those compressed months? You try, and then the people you talk to will say something like "wow. That's awesome...amazing...what do you want to eat for dinner?"

It's odd how little I talk about this stuff at home.... "

How do I effectively explain to someone what life an active warzone for "guerillas" really is, from my limited observations? War isn't necessarily guns and explosions at your home everday; it's the fear of attack that weighs in your heart and every moment of your consciousness. War, although there may be no explosions at the moment, means not idly sitting back for even a 1 hour lunch. It means no long showers. It means sleeping with the proverbial one eye open in preparation of attack. These are just a few living definitions of war. Times of war surpass, for lack of a better word, immediate physical threat. War is psychological. How do I effectively explain what I felt as I learned all of this; eating each meal on my feet, showering speedily, and being ready to run at all times? At. All. Times.

How do I explain the punch in the stomach that I felt when I heard that one of the Officers whom I knew had a leg blown off by a landmine just 3 weeks later? Or that I saw a boy who had his face blown off moments earlier by a homemade landmine? None of this is a reality that we could ever imagine; me included at one time. How do I effectively explain how lucky I felt that it wasn't me? How can I effectively explain the simultaneous feelings of admiration, fear, sympathy, rude awakening to life and priveleged guilt of knowing that I will most likely hike away from this war, barring any attacks, in my $90 New Balances that soldiers washed by hand in the stream upon my arrival, with my $80 Chaco sandals strapped to my $100 Camelback, in my $90 Patagonia quick dry pants, when for the last three weeks, I tiptoed around a field that surrounded the camp because I was afraid to step on our daily vegetarian meals from those same fields that I was trouncing on.

Though this "top of the line" "gear" was well worn through many previous travels it was ineffective in this extremely extreme game of REAL LIFE and a dollar sign wouldn't save me. Where I slipped in monsoon muds, falling flat on my back several times and smashing a camera as we hurried through the jungle, soldiers ran down the nearly vertical hills in rubber flip-flops. The kind that we buy at the supermarket for about $2.00; they come in either blue, green or red soles. Each of the 100 times or so that I landed in the mud, I had to ask myself what my expensive gear was doing for me, if it couldn't save my life in a likely threatening situation. When a good friend asked prodded me about how I have evolved to such a complete disinterest in consumerism and materials, I had a hard time explaining effectively that my previous trips had planted the seed, but this Life or Death trip sealed the deal. I had the best equipment of the all the villages combined but I would still need 15 year old soldiers with deep shrapnel scars and rubber flip flops and to feed me daily and save my life. When I offered a band-aid to one who discovered bad leech lesions, he declined, stating that he'd probably like it and not have any when I left. We're talking about a band-aid, people.

How do I explain that when I finally left, I was more bored at the brigade camp than scared? War is boring too! When sun goes down, there's nothing to do but talk to each other through translation by the light of quickly melting cheap candles, listen to the playing of a very badly damaged guitar. Even during the day, we hiked different villages, but you get there, and it's more of the same, most of the day. The comraderie is nice, but how do you effectively explain the conflicting feelings of boredom and outright fear for your life through brutal death? How do you explain

I have grandiose dreams of inspiring others with my true stories of the inherent goodness of people, and what life is like in another world where all of our expensive possessions amount to nothing in the extremely extreme game of Real Life. I'm not just talking about the difference in cultures amongst first worlds and their luxuries: San Francisco-New York-Paris-London-LA-Wherever. I'm talking about haves and have-nots. True needs and perceived needs. Life and death. I'm talking about being afraid to step freely because I knew that our vegetarian dinner may consist of the tiny leaves from underfoot if they could harvest nothing else. I'm talking about 15 year olds who have watched their family members killed. About 7 year olds waiting to grow into the insurgence.

In my mind is the reality of different cultures and foreign lands, etched permanently to be recalled when I get caught up here at home in the grind; and I do get caught up just like everyone else. I eat out every day, I live in one of the nicest towns in all of the U.S and I safely walk the streets at all hours. I take long showers in one of two full baths. I do get caught up.

Hopefully though, I've inspired someone else with these stories and anecdotes. If that's the case, then this travel log is doing it's job. Even if we don't talk about my adventures, I hope that you venture out to seek your own and share them with me.

This log will continue with backdated stories and additions of lessons that I've learned along the way through people.

Christmas and New Years were spent abroad, and I'm home now.

Whenever anyone was looking for me, they knew to find me there.

(1) Mangroves at low-tide. Notice the bottom stairs. (2) Mangroves at high-tide. Notice the bottom stairs at the left-hand corner. (3) A hideaway shelter in the Mangroves for day-long hangover naps. (4) Mangrove roots at low tide. 5) Mesmerized by the tide incoming.

If there really is a heaven, there's a strong possibility that it was modeled after Bako National Park.

The rare large nosed Probiscus Monkeys exist only in Borneo in the Mangrove forest.

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Macaques will steal your food while you are looking, break into your room by prying windows open, and take your first-born if he isn't tied down... (1) Just shoo'd away from the cantina where he was trying to steal food. (2)This one. She and I had some words. (3) A mother and her baby. I sat for hours watching them before a male Macaque jumped boldly onto my path as a warning to step away. (4)Sneaking into the cantina.





Pit Vipers will kill you. Okay. 'Nuff said....




I helped some Swedish National Geographic Photographers find the tracks of the bearded pigs. I'm a hero. I also gave him the title for his story. I'm a genius. Here's a link to the wild pig. It was fun to tag along and see him in action.



More monkeys on Bako. Sightings for these primates on Bako are rare, however a fortunate few have one last chance to witness the migration in mid-May 2004. They travel in small herds foraging the swamps and forest for frogs, chinese broccoli and tigers (beer). As well, this species has been known to prey on meek Chinese/Burmese/American creatures. They are indigenous to Finland, however, their propensity for tropical climates lead their migration to various Paradise locations. Their navigation skills are poor and the Finnish monkeys have been sighted wandering aimlessly in Kuching, Kuala Lumpur and Malacca. A first Thailand sighting was reported in late in 2003.