Coconut Radio

The Myth of Paradise

2013-05-03T17:32:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I tweeted " I love you Tahiti but I gotta say that coming back to a sunny Portland is no bummer." I instantly lost around 15 followers. I'm not too concerned about losing that many Twitter fans but this made me think about something that I've encountered since I chose to move from Tahiti to Portland, Oregon about three years ago: people want me to live in (or at least revere) "Paradise" because it helps them believe in a better place.

The chance of any of these people ever packing up their lives and living on an island or even visiting that island on vacation is small at best, but when I say that I currently prefer a US city to their image of vacation land, it's like telling a child there's no such thing as Santa Claus. That tropical island is like Dr Seuss's Solla Saloo "where there never are troubles, at least very few," but like the place in that story, one set of troubles is only replaced by another. This is life, this is planet Earth and I hate to be the one to burst people's bubble but after the glow of first love fades nowhere is perfect unless you have personally achieved some kind of Nirvana.

Here's the thing: wherever you go you will probably have to work to survive and if you grew up in the US, Europe or anywhere else brimming with action it will be hard for you to slow down to the point where gazing at the sea (or road or palm trees in the wind) for a few hours will fulfill your activity needs. Not to say I don't love doing this in theory. Right now as I sit on my deck writing to deadline to the sound of traffic, hanging out and watching hermit crabs make trails in the sand sounds awfully nice but years of this with little else going on? Not at this period of my life, thanks.

It takes approximately 3.5 hours to drive around Tahiti. Think about that for a minute. Nearly every inch is surrounded by a gorgeous, tepid lagoon and the mountains hold lush plantations of bananas and papayas, as well as tall cascades gushing into crystal clear pools. I love all these places and really I don't tire of them, but over the 15 years I lived there I have been just about everywhere, dozens of times. As much as I enjoy swimming and hiking I am too complicated a person to be able to be happy doing only that, in the same places, over and over again in my free moments in between work (because wherever you go you still need money to survive). Life here in Portland means pubs, restaurant, skiing, beaches, berry picking, varied live music any night of the week and, most importantly, the ability to drive for hours to get to a multitude of other places. Right now this is what I want. Maybe as I get older I'll tire of this and want to settle back down to slow island life but I'm not done with the continent-based lifestyle yet.

Also, your shit is your shit and no matter how balmy the temperatures or blue the lagoon, it will be with you, always. Other people have their shit too and you will have to deal with it anywhere there are other humans.

Example: Last week I returned to my village, Teahupoo for the first time in 2.5 years. A few years before I left, one of the area's biggest families put up a gate blocking the area's other biggest family from being able to access their homes, land and fishing grounds without paying the first, road-owning family around $375 a piece for gate access. The whole town is in turmoil about this and guess what? After all the time I've been gone nothing has changed other than a few fists have swung.

On a more personal level, half the village comes into my yard and steals my lemons, a "friend" went in my house when we were gone and stole my kid's bunk bed and a local woman threatened to go in my house and "break everything" because we fired her as a house cleaner when she began working hours we never asked her to and then demanded money from us. None of these things are a big deal on a grand scale but to me they equal out the lonely anonymity of city life. Island problems are more personal and they'll get to you if you don't adopt a very Zen state of mind. Are you ready for your house and property to be communal areas? Do you mind having things you do meld into conversations that get warped into gossip via the "coconut radio?" If so, go try living in Polynesia.

At the end of the day for me, I'm taking a break from both the intensity and calm of island life. It's something I'm not sure anyone who has never lived on an island can understand. Tahiti is a wonderful place that I love with all my heart but for now I need more. If that works against your faith in a perfect world I'm sorry, but I suggest you try meditation.

My first travel adventure: Baja 1977

2013-01-07T10:34:00.000-08:00

I'm guessing it was 1977. I was about six years old and my parents decided we'd caravan down to Baja in our 4WD for an off-road adventure with some good friends who had three kids around my age. We lived in the San Francisco Bay Area where we'd just moved to the year before from Brighton, England. Traveling half way across the world by plane had been long and boring - I was told that this car trip would be about as long but with lots of fun stops on the way.

Of course my memories are hazy.

We drove a big green Chevy Suburban. It was used when we bought it and already pretty beat up. The back lacked cushioning but had lots and lots of green-painted, cold metallic space. The truck's name was Emmylou II.

Emmylou II had a tape deck and this seemed really high tech to us. We had two tapes for the trip: Stevie Wonder's Greatest Hits and the Star Wars Soundtrack (as in the whole movie on tape). The trip from San Francisco to Baja is around 10 hours so you do the math. To this day every time I hear Stevie Wonder I think about that trip to Baja.

I remember stopping at a rest stop somewhere in Southern California and climbing a tree that had brush-like red flowers and cylindrical nut clusters. I hid in the tree, most likely running away or to Marcus who was my age and who I adored in a bratty, teasing, six-year-old-girl sort of way, and picked off all the round, berry-sized seeds off one of the clusters. Then I probably threw them at Marcus. It was incredibly satisfying. I still love these types of trees. There are lots of them in Southern California.

Then we were in Mexico on the beach. I had a pair of swim fins that I was really excited to try out even though I couldn't swim. My mom helped me put them on and we waded out into the warm brown water. I can still remember how silky and bathtub-like it felt up to my knees. But the sand was more like mud and soon one of my fins was stuck. I had to pull my foot out but the mud just ate up the fin. My parents dug and searched for the fin but we never found it. I was sad about the fin but more than anything I was awed that mud could just swallow something like that. I gained respect for mud.

There were fishermen selling small sharks on the beach and I think we bought one then cooked it on a fire maybe. I doubt I liked it. I was an extremely fussy eater. I remember that urine-like shark flavor a little bit.

There was a small shop near where we were camping and a rotund Mexican woman shopper took a liking to me and fawned all over me. No one in the US did this much so I loved it and my parents did too. While my dad was chatting with her in Spanish I wandered through the aisles of the store and found an open package of . . . Skittles maybe? My parents didn't let me have candy that often so I grabbed the package and slipped them in a pocket. Later my dad asked me where I got the candy.

"Oh that Mexican lady must have given them to her," my mom said.

This worked fine for me so I silently let them believe it. Still I was a little scared eating the candy since in the US at that time there were all sorts of scares about kids getting poisoned by candy given to them by strangers. I hoped the Skittles weren't poisoned but felt they were worth the risk.

Everyone camped on the beach but little girl Jessie, who was two years younger than me, was afraid and wanted to sleep in our truck instead. I said I'd join her because she was the person I liked sleeping next to the most. The first night went well but the second night Jessie got bit all over her face by some sort of bug. The bites were small, red and they itched. Somehow they didn't bite me or maybe I just didn't react to them. Jessie was really little so she kept scratching and eventually she ended up with scabs all over her face. I felt bad for her and was really thankful those bugs didn't get me.

We drove inland over all kinds of crazy 4WD roads with cactuses all around and up and over dry, bristly hills. Near dusk we descended a hill and there it was: a motel. Maybe we all needed a shower or maybe we were lost but the parents decided to splurge to stay there the night. I had never stayed in a motel or hotel before so this was very exciting.

I don't remember the rooms beyond a sort of mildew smell, but there was a swimming pool that was full of frogs. They were so loud we couldn't sleep so my dad had all us kids go out and yell "Campbell Soup!" at them as loud as we could. I don't think it worked (it never has) but I still yell Campbell Soup at noisy frogs.

My last memory is crossing back over the US/Mexican border. We had to wait in a very long line of cars to get to the immigration checkpoints but there were vendors everywhere selling food and colorful souvenirs like piñatas and ceramics. My parents never bought me much stuff, or at least I didn't think so, but here they bought me a big, cartoon-looking ceramic piggy bank. I can't remember anything more about it so it must have broken not long after we got it home. It was brightly colored and would have really stood out in my room.

Overall the way I remember the trip is the sense of freedom. The beach was huge and safe and the other kids and I were probably left on our own to roam around quite a bit. Mexico was warm, salty and had a light sour, flowery smell to it. I think my parents must have given me lots of Cracker Jacks because they too remind me of this trip to Baja. Back home things were still pretty free - this was the 1970s and we lived in the suburbs - but the feel of a different type of air against my skin, exotic smells and the warmth had me hooked. Aside from a few family trips to England my next trip wouldn't be till I was 13 years old and mature enough to enjoy that sense of freedom even more.

Passports With Purpose Round Four

2012-11-29T09:31:00.000-08:00

It's mind boggling that it's been three years since the launch of Passports With Purpose and the first time that I, in collaboration with Kamoka Pearls, have donated a Tahitian Pearl (or more) to the cause. And what's amazing is that every year the wonderful folks who organize this fundraiser seem to come up with even more vital causes and raise significantly more money.

This year to me is the best yet: clean water. There's not a more basic need than that. And the location, Haiti, is where this should happen. With donations towards the unusually special array of blogger prizes (tours, gift vouchers for flights and hotels and even a ukulele) PWP hopes to raise $100,000 this year and proceeds will go to Water.org to dig wells for clean water in Haiti.

I have never been to Haiti (I lived in Tahiti for 15 years and I cannot count the times that people have mixed the two up and asked me about the earthquake) but I'm fortunate to have a colleague Paul Clammer (@paulclammer you should all follow him) who wrote the Haiti guidebook for Lonely Planet and has more recently written a very comprehensive Haiti guide with Bradt publishing. Through Paul's tweets and Facebook I've followed photos, stories and snippets that have made it clear how desperate things are over there.

Throughout my travels I've met heaps of aid workers and villagers who have things to say about aid workers and I've never heard more glowing reports than of a Peace Corps volunteer in Vanua Levu, Fiji who almost single-handedly brought clean water to a remote corner of the island. The villagers told me that within the first year they noticeably saw their children become, bigger, healthier and more thriving. I can't imagine how it would be to raise a family while constantly getting parasites or worse, and hoping that whatever came along wouldn't be strong enough to kill. Eradicating that fear and seeing the whole community thrive has got to be the biggest game changer there is.

So there it is. In hopes of helping this year's drive reach it's goals (I have no doubt it will so let's go for way past those goals) my husband Josh at Kamoka Pearls and I have donated a truly spectacular pearl. It's dark and bright with a liquid-y, deep orient that makes you want to touch it, hold it and wear it against your skin. It's mostly green with hues of purple and pink. We decided to mount this pearl with a very simple loop to show off how gorgeous it is, in no need of extra fanfare. If this were in our online shop we'd price it at $430. It's a gem.

So go over to Passports With Purpose and donate! We always donate too and last year we won a fabulous wine tour of the Walla Walla area of Washington State. Not bad for a donation that felt good anyway!

How I Packed For Five Weeks in South America in a Daypack

2012-10-11T09:36:00.001-07:00

OK so it was a big daypack but, even though I usually carry a small-ish travel pack, this was the lightest I've ever traveled.

Why I did it

I had been through the Guianas (Guyana, Suriname and French Guiana - all on the Caribbean coast of South America) once before so I knew it was going to be rough going in beat up 4WDs or minibuses, over pot-holed muddy roads and I'd perhaps have to hike some distances with all my stuff. I also knew it was going to be hot as hell.

Why I was happy I did it

What I didn't know prior to my trip was that packing such a small bag would allow me to travel quickly and cheaply through southern Guyana via motorbike. This was only possible because my bag was small enough to strap on the back of the bike, thus sandwiching me between my stuff and my driver. Even if I'd had my normal travel pack it would have been too big and I'd of ended up having to pay hundreds of dollars more to charter 4WDs. Packing light gave me freedom, saved me money and let me enjoy some of the most beautiful country I've ever seen in it's full glory.

How I did it

I'd like to tell you that my packing process is highly refined, organized and detailed, but that would be a huge lie. In fact, I was working to deadline on two other Lonely Planet books and finishing up my taxes until the point I walked out my door to the airport. I don't do any of that "pack everything you need then remove a third [or half or whatever]." No, I just very logically think about what I need - not what I romanticize myself needing ("Teach Yourself Dutch" book? Disco shoes? Uh uh). This of course all depends on destination - if I was going to Italy for example and eating out at nice restaurants in a relatively wealthy country where people take fashion seriously, my packing list would have been much different. The Guianas are poor countries where looking too nice makes you stand out and become a mugging target.

What I packed

Clothes:

1 pair lightweight, wicking safari pants that roll up to capris

1 pair more city-friendly capris

1 pair long cotton pants

1 pair lightweight nylon shorts

2 T-shirts

2 wife beater-style tank tops

2 spaghetti strap fitted tank tops

1 nylon wicking long-sleeve button-up safari shirt

1 long sleeve cotton shirt

1 lightweight casual cotton dress

1 bikini

6 pair undies

2 pair socks

1 headband

1 hat

1 sarong

1 lightweight jacket

1 pair hiking shoes

flip flops

Gear:

Compact, nylon, mosquito netted jungle hammock

small binoculars

Canon G12 camera

Swiss Army knife

small sewing kit

iPod

Netbook

sunglasses

small travel lock

flashlight

plug converter

chargers

Toiletries

Everything I needed for showers/personal hygiene I carried in travel-sized bottles to fit in an 8-inch toiletries case.

Big tube o' sunscreen

2 tubes of insect repellent

First aid kit (my own compilation)

Individually packed wet wipes

meds

Tide to Go

Food & Drink

6 Luna bars

water purification tablets (because my Steripen filter is on the fritz)

Tea bag

Emergen-C packets

Books

2 guidebooks (I was there to update a guidebook so had to bring these)

3 ripped out portions of 3 other guidebooks

A big hardcover reading book I promptly lost and replaced with a small paperback

And this was too much stuff. I never used the hammock (I showed it to one of my guides and he laughed at me) so sent it back with a friend after two weeks. I could have done without one of the T-shirts, never used my binoculars and only wore one pair of the socks (I usually hike in flip flops). But otherwise I used everything and was glad I had it. I never wished I had anything more.

How did this differ from how I usually pack?

When I go to countries that have beautiful oceans I pack a mask, small swimming fins and a snorkel. Also, many countries I visit are Muslim, which means I have to cover up more and can't get away wearing my favorite tank tops. I usually pack a pair of ballet flats for nights out and the plane. But otherwise this is pretty much what I bring, just stuffed into a smaller bag.

Mamasa To Toraja Part 2: Christian Politics in a Muslim World

2012-06-19T22:45:00.006-07:00

Our trekking guide from Mamasa to Tana Toraja was a Mamasan man named Domingus, which he told us is derived from the word Sunday, "Domingo" in Indonesian. The Mamasa region is known for being staunchly Christian, but because Indonesia is a very Muslim country and this is what both Emre and I were used to, we were more drawn to the fact that "Domingus" sounded Latin, not necessarily religious. Our guide however proved to be much more of the latter.

Domingus was as clean cut a guy as you could ever hope to lead you on a trek. He had a big, round, smiling clean-shaven face, perfectly trimmed short hair with a few strands of distinguished grey and he wore brown dress slacks, a long sleeve button shirt and a guide's vest with an official looking emblem on it. Over the next three days he would wear this exact outfit every day and never get so much as a smudge of mud or a wrinkle in it. He never smelled bad or had a hair out of place. Emre and I would come out the Toraja end of the trip covered in stains, feet encrusted with dirt and hair flying in every direction. I have no idea how Domingus stayed so well put together.

On our first night we saw him put up some political posters around the village we were staying in. He explained that he was a major supporter of the Indonesian Christian party and while he was on our trek he was going to spread the word about his favorite candidate to all the small villages who didn't get much news. That emblem on his jacket - ends up it was for his political party, not a guiding organization.

It's interesting to visit Christian areas in Indonesia because the locals immediately assume that white people have the same beliefs as them and therefore, they feel a certain kinship with them. Domingus and all the families we met made this assumption with me. As minorities in their own country (where they often feel discredited and mute) this kinship can be stronger than you might expect. Our group however was a little off kilter because Emre is Turkish and was brought up Muslim. I wasn't brought up anything but because I'm American no one ever bothered to ask me about my spiritual leanings and just assumed I was as Jesus loving as the Mamasans. This suited me fine. Domingus however was immediately a little suspicious of Emre and quietly brought me aside a few times to ask me about how strong a believer she was and if this was going to cause us any problems. Everything ended up happy and peaceful but it was interesting to feel what in Indonesia would be considered a sort of reverse racism. Here I was sticking up for my "Muslim" (Emre is slightly more Muslim than I would call myself Christian) friend in a country where most women wear veils. Emre later confided in me that as a Muslim she often gets preferential treatment in Muslim countries, even getting offered special discounts etc. This was the first time it ever really hit me how different we all get treated in foreign countries because of our perceived religion.

It soon became clear that even though Domingus was a perfectly good guide and knew the area well, his main goal was to spread the word about politics. Luckily, the Mamasans seemed happy to get any news or visitors at all and welcomed the news by promptly posting Domingus's posters all over the place. In fact, they seemed to genuinely respect our guide for bringing them this information. There were a few earnest conversations about the exceptional nature of the Christian candidate but for the most part the villagers were more interested in hosting two exotic white people in their homes than talking politics.

The children had no interest in politics and followed us everywhere. From our first homestay two kids followed us a good half our before the returned home. At the second homestay kids came from all around and hung around trying to keep our full attention from the time we arrived (about 5pm) to nightfall. It was pretty exhausting trying to entertain all those kids after trekking all day uphill through a jungle but they were so sweet and had such good senses of humor that it was well-worth it. Plus we got some great photos and this video:

That night we stayed up till the un-Godly hour of about 10pm in our one room shack drinking sour-sweet palm wine with Domingus, the owner of the house and our horseman (who is worthy of a whole other blog post I'll probably never write). Then to bed on our thick quilts that were supposed to be mattresses but fortunately some warmer blankets this night. We slept well.

Then the next morning it was off again but this time downhill through rice fields, tiny one-room churches on ridges and villages of small wooden shacks on stilts.

Mamasa to Tana Toraja Part 1: The Long and Winding Road

2012-06-08T22:58:00.006-07:00

I move around fast when I'm researching for Lonely Planet but every now and then there's something I want to do so badly, I'll slow down and make time for it. The trek between Mamasa and Tana Toraja on the culturally-overloaded island of Sulawesi in Indonesia, was one of those things. There are two ways to get to Tana Toraja from Mamasa: a 13-hour barf-inducing bus ride over pot-holed mountain roads, or a three-day hike through a region of boat-shaped roofs, terraced rice fields, isolated villages and jungle mountains. Walking it seemed like the obvious choice.

Traditional Mamasa houses

Unfortunately for my travel buddy Emre, the long, long trip began straight from the airport. Her flight from Turkey arrived in Makassar, Sulawesi's capital, in the early morning and I hadn't been able to reach her via email to tell her the plan, so at 5am I met her at the gate, explained what we were doing (in hopes she was OK with this which fortunately she was) and took her directly to a bus station. The minibus from Makassar to Mamasa was a rickety, non-air-con tin can of a rumbler that was soon jammed packed with clove cigarette smoking locals, big boxes stuffed with food supplies and two giant television sets. It took over 14 hours to get to Mamasa, and half that time was spent bumping over the last 60km on a rutted dirt road that wound like a coil up into the mountains.

It was dark when we arrived so it wasn't until morning that we awoke to the green-hills and cool temperatures of Mamasa Village where we had a day to explore by motorbike. The traditional roofed houses here are similar to the famous, dramatically arched ones of Tana Toraja but are less curved and shorter so they don't pack such a punch. The biggest difference however between these oft-compared regions is that Mamasa has hardly any tourists. So while popular Torajan villages are swarming with photo-snapping visitors and insistent hawkers, in Mamasa families invite you in for tea and everyone wants to chat. We saw no other foreigners and were welcomed everywhere like royalty. It was magic.

The lunch crew - near Mamasa Village

We spent the night before our trek began in a traditional house where we soon discovered the reality of what we were in for. There are no mattresses in Mamasa, just thick quilts on the floor and a synthetic blanket to cover you. It was so freezing that first night that Emre and I ended up under the "mattress" to keep warm. The floor with or without this light padding felt equally hard. Dinner had been noodle soup with hunks of home-butchered, gamey-tasting pork floating in it, that tasted as if it had been sitting in storage (no refrigeration) a bit too long. Emre puked hers up in the middle of the night. Dogs howled and a mosquito kept buzzing in my ear even though it felt far too cold for them to survive here. Neither Emre or I got more than a few hours of sleep.

Our house the first night

But rest or no rest, we were up by six, breakfasted on sugary tea and omelets, said good bye to our smiling hosts promising we had slept marvelously, and were off to theoretically walk up hill until the end of the day. We had no idea what we were going to encounter and that was just fine.

Top 5 clothing picks for women traveling to hot, conservative countries

2012-04-19T15:03:00.009-07:00

If you're worried about looking like a dork abroad, know that not dressing appropriately in a conservative country is worse than looking silly, you'll also be acting like a jerk. I'm talking about most of Southeast Asia, the South Pacific, Asia, Morocco, Tunisia, small villages in Central and South America and more - in other words, those parts of the world that maintain a modest dress code without requiring something more hardcore like a burqa.

Figuring out what to wear while maintaining some style dignity can be hard for travelers, especially women, who have to cover up much more than men and who are more closely scrutinized. The question is, how does one dress conservatively, look a little nice and avoid overheating at the same time? After over 20 years of travel in these parts of the world and looking pretty awful through most of it, I've finally acquired a few key pieces that I feel keep the balance between comfort, appropriateness and fashion.

Here are my top 5 essentials:

The peasant top

Try to find one in a feather-weight, crinkly cotton that's not too see-through. Three quarter sleeves are best and make sure if there's a tie at the neck the keyhole part doesn't show any cleavage. Avoid mid-weight or heavy fabrics and any tight elastic. Think, breathable and keep it simple without a lot of flamboyant embroidery or other standout features.

Here's a current favorite of mine from Old Navy.

T-shirt

A good cut here is key. I hate boxy shirts that add a few pounds to my look but too tight is a no-no. I go for the lightest cotton possible that's still opaque, sleeves that are longer than a cap sleeve but shorter than three-quarters and loose enough to breath. Also make sure it's long enough that you're not going to bare any waistline when bending over etc. I personally like a mellow-colored print like ikat or tie-dye stripes to hide stains.

Capri pants

If these go out of fashion again I may die. Mid-calf in a lightweight sturdy fabric is a must. A drawstring waist is another plus since you'll be able to adjust them so they'll stay up properly without a belt through all the stretching and washings and un-washings they will surely go through - as well as any waistline changes travel may bring to your midriff. I have a pair right now that are my all-time favorite: they have good button cargo pockets and are made of a fabric that looks like cotton but is actually a 100% silk weave that's cool, soft and sturdy. Go for dark colors. I like fairly low-waisted styles because these look better on me, but if you can pull off the "natural waist" look without looking like you were on a $2 budget at Goodwill or got a bitchin' Christmas gift from your grandmother from Royal Robbins, then go for it.

Here are my favorite capris from Hei Hei but unfortunately they don't make them anymore.

Mid-calf length skirt

I actually don't pack these anymore since I find they're not practical for anything remotely active but if you're going to be hanging out in a city a lot or plan on needing to dress nicely at night, this can be an essential. Again, find a lightweight fabric that won't need ironing and don't get a skirt so full that it may get blown up by wind and give the conservative world a peek at your underpants. Length should be mid-calf.

Long pants

In general, I only wear long pants for insect protection, cold or because they're the only clean thing I have left to wear. I also wear them on the plane so they need to be stretchy enough to sleep in and look nice enough that if by some miracle of fate I get upgraded, I won't look too sloppy to sit in business class. I like light, soft cotton or Tencel with something elastic-like in the waist that won't pinch or stretch. Again, I think "natural waist" is a sin, but that's a matter of taste. Straight leg works best; anything with a flared leg will get caught in stuff and provide a tunnel for bugs to crawl up and skinny pants will be too sexy and cling to your humid skin like soggy plastic wrap. Go for dark colored. I'm partial to slate grey.

Bonus Piece: Silk scarf

Find the biggest one you can find that can compress into the smallest folded square. I keep one in my purse at all times on the road in case I need extra arm coverage or something over my hair for religious temples or particularly conservative places. It also can be used as a real scarf to add a little flair to your outfit (think: business class) and can provide warmth in unexpected air-con disaster areas like buses and cinemas.

Happy Island Kids

2012-04-13T09:40:00.014-07:00

It's Friday the 13th today so I thought I'd dig up some pictures from the depths of my (mostly unused) photo archives, of kids on islands frolicking, not worrying about bad luck and superstition and generally having a blast. I actually didn't take the first and second photos - these two were snapped by my husband Josh Humbert who is much more of a pro at this photography stuff than me. Both were taken on Bunaken Island off of Northern Sulawesi, Indonesia. I love that in the second one these kids look like they're about to land on a bunch of rebar - don't worry, they didn't.

I took this next photo on Ko Phayam in Thailand in around 2008. I went back last year and this kid is now a great big tall man but I still recognized him. Unfortunately, I didn't see the dog. Hopefully the burying him in the sand thing didn't get out of hand. He told me at the time that the dog liked be buried because it kept him cool.

It was just me and these three kids hanging out on the wee island of Namu'a in Samoa for a few hours. We spent at least an hour of this taking silly pictures and after each one they'd shout "Wanna see! Wanna see!" I wore out my camera battery flipping through all of the pictures. It was really fun.

Here is my son gracefully leaping off the oyster platform at my family's pearl farm in Ahe, French Polynesia. Speaking of kids growing into big tall men, this was taken a little over a year ago and now he's my height.

You may remember this scene from another post a few weeks ago. These boys in American Samoa were leaping into this pit of spiky lava with a huge and powerful swell heaving in and out of it. Danger was everywhere but they couldn't have given a flying and of course no one got hurt.

And last, I love this boy. What a character and I hope you can tell from this photo. This is in Ovalau, Fiji. I stayed in a homestay and "Billy Boy," besides cracking jokes and constantly getting into trouble also knew how to drive the boat, fix the motor, cook, clean and sing loud and clear at church. He's a great kid. He's 12 years old.

Samoan fale: The world's happiest place to stay

2012-04-01T18:40:00.010-07:00

I'm not easily surprised by weird accommodation. Tree houses, cave dwellings and undersea lairs tend to make their way into my travel literature if they haven't made it in to my real life, and in most cases I'm in a country to get out and do things not hang out at my hotel. But Samoa's fale not only astounded me, they won me over so much I will confidently say that they are my favorite type of holiday lodging. Period. They are part of the Samoan experience as much as eating the food or seeing the sights.

I'd read about fale before I got to Samoa. The Lonely Planet said they were traditional style, simple open-air structures on stilts. This is exactly what they are but the simplicity of the description didn't get into my head and form an image of what a fale might actually look like. They sounded rustic, that was all.

After a few days at a mediocre hotel in Apia I set off to drive around the island. On my first night I decided to stay on a small private island called Namu'a that got rave reviews. On the way I drove past several of the most colorful villages I've ever seen, and all of them were made up mostly of the traditional-type fale I'd read about. These family-sized fale are elongated gazebo-like structures rounded at the edges with a semi-octagon shape and are usually about 20ft long by 10ft wide; palm thatched louvers are the only walls and these can be lowered or raised depending on how much ventilation or privacy is needed.

All the structures are painted the brightest greens, pinks, blues and yellows and are surrounded by gardens of flowers, tropical fruit and ornamental greenery. You can see right inside them where the floors are covered with woven mats, there is minimal furniture and usually a few people lounging inside. Still, it didn't occur to me that these were the same types of houses tourists would sleep in.

It wasn't till I reached the beach of Namu'a in my host's tiny aluminum outboard boat that it hit me. There on the most perfect, palm-lined white sand beach you can imagine were about ten small, unpainted, palm-thatched roof fale on stilts. Mine had been prepared for me with a mat on the floor as well as a mattress and a mosquito net. And that's it. The highlight of course is that sleeping in these is like camping in the open air without having to actually camp, and the fale are usually only steps from 80 degree clear blue water. At night, after a tasty meal of fresh fish, I was given an oil lamp -- the perfect light by which to drink a beer, gaze at the stars, play guitar and revel in the bliss of the moment. It's not fancy, it's not expensive, but even the most luxurious accommodation in the world cannot compare.

As I continued around the rest of the main island, I found family fale operations everywhere, usually on the very best beaches. Every one is owned by sweet local people offering meals (average price to stay is about US$35-50 per person per night including breakfast and dinner). Some fale are a little fancier than others and may include waist-high walls, whole walls or even electricity; some are out in the middle of nowhere while others are clustered together in beach villages. Valuables can be often kept in safes but the family is almost always there watching so, as long as the place was run by good people, I never felt like my stuff was going to be ripped off or that unwanted guests would come into my fale at night. Bathrooms are shared in most cases and showers are cold.

There's something about sleeping and living outdoors that raises happiness levels. Add the sound of the surf all night, always knowing the phase of the moon and feeling familiar with the stars and energy levels skyrocket - not necessarily in the way that makes you want to get up and run around, but in a way that makes you like everyone and makes them like you too. It's a natural high I suppose.

I admit that after a few days it felt good to sleep in a hotel again with a hot shower but if I had my choice of a resort or those fale on Namu'a I wouldn't even have to consider - it would be those budget fale on Namu'a every time.

Photo: American Samoa, Lava & Football Helmets

2012-03-25T13:26:00.003-07:00

I had low expectations of American Samoa. By all reports it was full of fast food chains and everyone was fat and unhealthy. I had images in my head of unsmiling people with most of their culture over-run by mini malls. I have never been so wrong about a place.

The above photo summarizes what I saw in American Samoa: A Polynesian island with beauty to rival Bora Bora and a culture as alive as in independent Samoa next door -- but with a touch of the USA. Yes there are some fast food places but these are overshadowed by the silky water of Pago Pago Harbor, the green jungle-covered mountains that frame everything and the blue water that you can see from almost everywhere. Kids like these in this picture aren't inside playing video games, they're launching themselves into a current-filled pool of jagged lava for fun. That's cool.

The most blatantly American thing about American Samoa I saw is their love of US football. The nightly news showed clips and results from the high school teams and when the NFL playoffs were on (as they were when I was there), a conversation couldn't be had without a few words about which team you were rooting for. This picture wouldn't have been what it is without that kid in his helmet.

Finding Pulemelei Mound, Butterflies and the Spirit of Polynesia

2012-03-19T11:19:00.012-07:00

"You won't be able to get to Pulemelei," a local archaeologist told me. "No pro guide will take you and the trail is nearly impossible to find."

Except for his first sentence, this proved to be true.

I asked around trying to find someone to lead me to the mound, a 12m high pyramid that's the largest ancient structure in Polynesia. Most people said things like "Oh we don't go there anymore," "It's not worth it," or other versions of "no" without saying it. After putting together bits and pieces I came to understand that the mound is on land claimed by a local company and the village. Because of this, the whole site has been abandoned for several years, weeds have engulfed the trails and most tour guides are worried that someone from either side of the land claim will get upset if they traipse a bunch of people onto "their" land.

But for me, telling me I can't get somewhere is like a dare, and I also didn't want to miss one of the most important archaeological sites in the South Pacific. No one knows what the mound was used for but it's been dated to 1100-1400 AD, is built from basalt stones, measures 65m by 60m at its base and is oriented to the cardinal directions. Apparently hundreds of other sites lay around the mound hidden in the bush. So I decided to try and find this grand and mysterious place on my own.

Luckily, the previous author of the Lonely Planet guidebook I was updating provided decent directions about where the trail started. Just before the road to the mound was another trail to a waterfall that I also needed to see, so I decided to go there first. As I slowed down my rental car at the turn off (that I thought went to the waterfall), a man sitting in a little wooden roadside shelter flagged me down. I assumed he was telling me that this was the road to the falls and was going to ask for a customs fee (villages own most of the land in Samoa and you need to pay the village this fee to see most sights in the country). Instead he asked me for a ride.

"Are you going far?" He asked.

"I'm trying to get to the falls and Pulemelei Mound," I said. "Do you know how to get there?"

"Mmm," he said raising his eyebrows in the classic Polynesian gesture for yes. "I need to pick up my car at my mechanic but I'm not in a hurry. I'll take you there first if you want."

Now I don't usually pick up strange men hitchhiking but my spider senses told me this 50-something year-old, slightly overweight Samoan man with a big smile was OK. Plus, he could take me to Pulemelei, which was like a gift from God at this point. This all seemed like a good deal.

"Hop in," I told him.

We first went to the falls, which were small and a nice place for swimming. I wasn't geared up for a dip however so we had a quick look then turned around to drive back to the main road.

"I've never been to Pulemelei," my new friend said as we bumped over a particularly big pothole. "I hope we can find it. It's funny, I've lived here for almost a year but I never even thought of going."

My heart sank. Not only did he not know how to get there but he wasn't even a real local.

"Where are you from then?" I asked.

"I lived in New Zealand for over 30 years," he said. "But I grew up in Apia."

Apia is the capital of Samoa, so he was a city kid, not the earth-under-his-feet farmer I had assumed. The 30 years in New Zealand explained his fantastic English.

Luckily he knew where the turnoff to the mound was, which was unmarked and easily missed, even with the directions in the guidebook.

We bumped over a very rough dirt and stone track till we reached a river. We parked, got out, waded across and began our walk. My guidebook said the walk was 2km from here - the trail started in waist-high grass.

The path was wide, lined by trees and had only a slight slope so, despite the tall weeds and occasional prickers in my toes (I was wearing flip flops), it was pretty easy going. My friend began telling me a bit about himself: he was the youth group leader at the Mormon church and was taking a big group on a hike up the island's tallest mountain the next day.

"Maybe I can bring them here too one day if we find it," he said hopefully.

At one point a fallen tree blocked the path but we were able to find a way through brambles to get around it. A little later we had to decide whether to go left or right. We chose left. We kept walking. It seemed like we'd already walked much farther than 2km and it was very hot. I took a sip of water and offered some to my friend as well.

Then, right as I was thinking about turning around and trying the road to the right, we hit the old parking lot. Yes, at one time this road had been made for vehicles and people could just drive here. There was an old broken "Parking" sign nailed to a tree.

We waded through the lush grass of the parking lot then came to another sign that said "Pulemelei Mound 150m." We had found it!

From here we went through tunnel of jungle till suddenly I realized the thick foliage and vines in front of me were actually climbing on the mound. A small path led up the mass of vegetation to the top. It was so covered by plants that we didn't see a single stone till we reached the top.

And then, magic.

The flat peak of the pyramid has a view over the jungle we'd just traversed and out to sea. Two mango trees grow to one side and the rest is covered in purple flowers and swarms of light blue and brown butterflies. I have never seen so many butterflies in my life - it was something out of a Disney movie. And this place feels good, not creepy like some old temples and archaeological sites I've been to. Whatever this mound was used for nearly 1000 years ago, it was for happy and benevolent purposes, that I am sure of. Pulemelei Mound is not a place of ghosts, it's a place where you want to go and frolic around chasing butterflies. So this is exactly what I did.

My friend obviously felt the same way. He went and sat under the mango trees then managed to pick a few ripe ones. He gave two to me then sat and ate the others while gazing out over the view with a look of contentment.

After about half an hour, we had to go. I had a ferry to catch and we still had to get my friend to his mechanic. As we were about to descend the pyramid my friend gently held onto my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek.

"Thank you," he said.

The cheek kiss, however sweet it was, made me uncomfortable and for the first time in an hour I remembered that I was by myself out in the middle of a jungle everyone else was avoiding with a large man I'd just picked up hitchhiking. But I also remembered that a cheek kiss is a common form of greeting and platonic affection in Samoan culture. In fact, the bellboy at the hotel I stayed at my first night in Apia had grabbed me and kissed my cheek after he'd dropped off my bag and we'd introduced ourselves. So I wasn't terrified. I did however want to get back to the car as fast as possible.

The hike down went very quickly without talking much. We got in the car silently and then my friend directed me to where he needed to be dropped off.

On the way he said, "You know I could use a little help paying for my car."

I had expected from the beginning that he'd probably ask for money since this is how things work in Samoa. He'd spent a few hours with me at this point and although I probably could have found everything without him, I was happy for his company.

"How much do you need?" I asked.

I ended up giving him 50 tala, which is about US$17. It was probably too much but everything had worked out so beautifully it was a first step to thanking the universe for such an amazing experience. Picking this guy up was a risk I wouldn't have usually taken and he had reminded me of this at the top of the mound. But following my gut had made the experience more fulfilling because I'd had someone to share the moment with and chances are I'd have been even more uneasy being up there alone. Paying him didn't taint anything in the Polynesian sense - I had money and he didn't so it was normal for me to share and be generous as he had been with his time.

I hope my friend takes those Mormon kids up to the mound and I hope even more that the next time I go it will be cleared of conflict and have the attention and excavation it deserves. Once the land rights issues are resolved, the tourism department wants to put it in the running to be a UNESCO World Heritage site, which is what a place as magical and important as this should be.

Please excuse the terrible quality of this video. I took it because I felt I had to but I didn't check to see if it was any good because I was too busy chasing butterflies:

There's no place like . . .where?

2012-02-06T21:55:00.000-08:00

"There's no place like home," but if I had Dorothy's ruby slippers they'd have to take me apart and bring me to several places. I imagine myself more like Great Oz himself fumbling around in a hot air balloon, wondering where I'll land.

When someone asks where you're from, they expect the answer to be a static place, not a long complicated story. So I have a hard time answering the question without a stammer - as I imagine many others do who aren't fixed to a map point. I don't know where home is. I'm not thinking about Kansas

My family and I have lived in Portland for a year and a half, mostly so the kids can go to high school here, and the region still feels foreign to me. Yet this is where we rent a house, where my father lives and where my children are so when people ask me where I'm from during a trip abroad, I'll probably tell them "Portland, Oregon," even though I'm not from there at all.

A few months ago I spent the Christmas holidays down in Marin County, California where both my husband and I grew up. We stayed at my mother in law's 1920s-era house that's set between oak trees and has a view of the feminine silhouette of Mt Tamlpais. This is the house I've come back to as a base for the last 20 years since I met my husband, began traveling and eventually moved to French Polynesia. It's my favorite house in the world but it's not mine and one day my mother in law will sell it and retire.

I can name every little sub-district in Marin County, scarcely have to think when driving anywhere and run into people I know on hiking trails and in supermarkets. Every place here holds a story, like that pasture land named after a horse that my dad used to know as a kid (he grew up in Marin County too); or darker, that stop light that was put up after my friend's little brother was hit by a car there. Marin County is where I'll always feel I'm coming home when I visit to no matter where I actually live. But I haven't lived in Marin County for 20 years and chances are I'll never live there again (not on a travel writer's salary anyway).

The place I've spent the largest chunk of my adult life is French Polynesia where my husband and I own a house that we designed and built, and where my kids grew up. This is home, the family base and the biggest asset in my family's economic hat. It almost hurts renting it out and thinking of other people living there but it would be worse to let it rot and loose the rental income. We will probably move back there someday but I don't know when. Despite how much I love the house, the land, our neighbors and the tropical splendor, we will always be thought of and treated as foreigners in Tahiti and I'm not sure I want to live with that forever. The locals ask me about my "home" in the US, and although they don't mean it badly, they will never see Tahiti as a place I should call my own.

To complicate things more, I lived in England until I was nearly five and that's still where I have the largest concentration of family. I go back regularly and my aunts and uncles have all lived in the same houses since before I was born - right now I could describe each one's pleasant, homey smell. But I can't say I'm from England, my Yankee accent makes me come off as a fake.

So when asked where I'm from I cheat a little and pick the best answer depending on who's asking. "Portland" is the easiest as a conversation stopper (most people outside the US don't know where it is) and "Tahiti" gets me the most street cred particularly in places where it's not cool to be American (less of the world nowadays - thank you Obama). "San Francisco" (near enough to Marin County to work) is my answer when I feel like giving people what they want: something familiar.

I'll admit to feeling a little hip not being able to come up with satisfactory answer to the question "where are you from?" But deeper down I envy the people who can answer in one word without even thinking about it: "Quebec," "Wichita," "Berlin." It would be lovely to be able to have a home, that place where history, family, friends and a house collide without explanation. In my dreams there would be a golden retriever in the yard and veggie garden out back. But for now at least, life feels like a hurricane spinning us around in the air and despite how nice it would be to be on solid ground, Kansas or wherever home is, is about as real as Oz.

Food wars: Putting 'exotic' into perspective

2011-12-16T15:59:00.000-08:00

You've heard of Alien vs Predator, now how about sticking some monster food into the ring? Blindfold your cultural bias and see which food wins.

Durian vs Camembert

Common ground: Both have a stench that is tirelessly compared to old socks.

In the left corner: Durian. It grows on a tree, needs no preparation or additives and is choc-full of vitamins and minerals.

In the right corner: Camembert. Cheese is old milk that has been digested by bacteria. It's high in fat but also high in calcium and protein.

Bugs vs pork

Common ground: Both are used as insults to insinuate that a person is slovenly and disgusting.

In the left corner: Cockroaches. These bugs can live almost anywhere on essentially anything and can be raised in vast numbers. With 37% protein plus plenty of fatty acids, iron and calcium, they are very nutritious indeed. For cooking ideas click here.

In the right corner: Pork. Pigs are highly intelligent, mammals. Most pork we eat comes from pigs raised in such tight quarters they aren't able to change position through most of their adult life. To reduce infection from the pestilence in which they live, the animals are pumped with antibiotics. Meanwhile the massive amount of waste produced by the animals pollutes the air and may seep into the ground spreading health problems.

Kava vs beer

Common ground: Both dull your mental state and are used for relaxation and hanging out with the bros.

In the right corner: Kava. A bitter, muddy drink with a taste that improves as your mouth gets numbed by it. It's about the mellowest high you can imagine that's often described as an 'extreme well-being.' It makes you chilled out, no one ever fights. It's so imbedded into some Pacific cultures that a complicated ceremony has grown around it.

In the left corner: Beer. It can taste pretty awesome especially when chilled on a hot day. Ceremonially you say 'cheers' or maybe buy someone a beer as a nice gesture. But it makes some people violent and stupid. I'd hang out with a bunch of guys I didn't know drinking kava, but not beer.

So who won? I'm not about to eat bugs for dinner but I could go for some durian and a beer about now.

Cheers.

Searching for the Perfect Fijian Island

2011-12-09T09:26:00.000-08:00

It was a tough job but somebody had to do . . . OK who am I kidding? Covering the remote islands of Fiji was possibly my most fun gig out of my seven years of working for Lonely Planet. Why? Well, it's not for the reasons you'd expect. The weather was terrible - I saw the sun maybe three hours in four weeks and I only got in the water five times; I drank about six beers total, had flights cancelled and skipped several meals due to my over-full work schedule. This wasn't your cliché fun in the sun voyage. No, the reason it was so great was for intangible factors that escape tourist brochures: the real, ever-present smiles, the way everything happens in the present (so forget planning or dwelling on anything), kava drinking at night to songs everyone knows, feeling safe all the time, a red hibiscus flower behind the ear, the list goes on. Fiji, to put it straight, is as heavenly for its culture as it is for its coral gardens and rainforests.

My first stop on this trip was Labasa, a landlocked sugar industry center that the guidebook describes as dusty and of little interest to travelers. I got off the plane after about 20 hours of flying and transfers, got my bag and found a taxi. The driver was a plump Indo-Fijian woman who, within five minutes of chatting, invited me to stay at her house. I didn't take her up on the offer because I'd already booked and paid for a hotel and I was too tired to want to worry about the politeness it requires to stay in someone's home, but I was touched by her gesture. Then stuff like this kept happening - and Labasa was the least friendly place I visited.

On the boat to Taveuni I met a woman with three children who invited me over for lunch. She was a school teacher. The house had three rooms without one piece of furniture although the walls were lined with giant sheets of brown painted tapa. We sat on woven pandanus mats and ate boiled eggs, toast and milky tea, laughed and chatted while the children gazed at me, intrigued - then her husband drove me to my guesthouse so I didn't have to pay for a taxi.

My job looking at hotels the next day was probably the most pleasant I've ever experienced. I saw about 10 hotels and guesthouses on foot and each one I stopped at (whether they had any idea what I was doing or not) invited me in for food or drink and I ended up sitting and talking with them all at least a half hour - way more time than I usually allot. Although I'd never met any of these people before it felt like I was visiting old friends. When I walked down the street random people would come up and just start talking to me, pleasantly and without any motive beyond being natural and nice. And this went on everywhere I went.

Towards the end of my trip I met another woman on a boat who invited me to stay in her village - which happened to be near several places I needed to visit. This was a highlight as anyone who has stayed in a Fijian village will tell you - I could write an entire blog post on this alone. The point is, you get invited, everywhere, and it's safe, fun and all warm and fuzzy.

When I hired a boat man to take me around islands he caught a bunch of fish and gave them all to me just because I said I liked fish. When 16 locals were drinking kava at night and playing music, they would make sure that every few songs would be an American song I'd probably know so I could sing along. They would figure out my music tastes without asking as the night wore on and would be able to dig up classics I not only knew but liked (4 Non Blonds' What's Up was a personal fave).

In the meantime five minutes anywhere became an hour, flights were cancelled constantly so tourists were missing international connections and I lost two work days because of airplane malfunctions. And nobody, not even the most uptight looking tourists with business meetings to get to, cared. Anyone who has been in Fiji more than a week knows that there's no point in fighting 'Fiji time' and you just gel yourself into the moment where, hey, you're in Fiji, so enjoy. Stress seems silly. The Internet never works so email becomes irrelevant. No one wears makeup or fashionable clothes, there are rarely mirrors anywhere and you begin to forget what you look like. Someone everyday will beckon you in for a bowl of kava and if you don't like kava just go in and sit with them anyway and it's OK. Fiji is that place where all the world's crap has been raked away to expose a clean and shiny humanity. It's refreshing and mesmerizing and it stays with you after you've left.

I spent my last few days on Viti Levu where I learned quickly that my pure Fiji experience unrolled the way it did because I was in the outer islands and not in the main tourist center. I got pick pocketed, ruthlessly hit on by beach boys and saw every other female I met get as aggressively hit on by hotel staff and local surfers to old Chinese shop owners. It was a transition back into the 'real' world, on the way to LAX with it's unsmiling TSA agents. Luckily my home is a good place and I've been tackling work with less stress than I usually do. The happy Fiji feeling will fade, this I know, but the lesson has been absorbed and I will try to remember that all this modern stuff is nothing compared to a smile and a shared cup of tea.

Passports With Purpose Round Three: Pearls for Libraries in Zambia

2011-12-02T10:40:00.000-08:00

The day before yesterday Passports With Purpose (PWP) launched its third fundraiser, this year to build two libraries in Zambia. I was on a boat, a bus and then a plane on the day of the launch through last night (making my way from a remote isle in Fiji back home to Portland), so please excuse my tardiness, it has nothing to do with lack of enthusiasm for this annual project!

I do admit however that when I first heard that PWP was going to build libraries this year I was a bit disappointed. Yes I love books and learning and want the world to have access to this magical realm but aren't there other things that are more important like food, shelter and freedom from violence? As usual, the universe came and answered me. About four days ago, whilst on that small island in Fiji, I met an English woman who told me this story:

Angela was traveling through East Africa by bus. At a random dusty stop she heard a little boy very loudly and confidently proclaiming: "Public service announcement! Bananas contain potassium and are very good for your health! I have bananas for sale, get them here."

She found this adorable but she didn't like bananas. The little boy stopped at her bus window and asked her where she was from.

"England," she said.

"What part?"

She told him the town which was somewhere near South London.

The little boy then asked her what she thought of her local football team who he had seen play in a match on TV over the weekend - he knew the score. They chatted a little about football including the boy's favorite underdog team that happen to be the home team of another English couple sitting at the front of the bus.

"Here," said the boy after a few minutes. "Have a banana."

It was free gift but Angela didn't want a banana or get a freebee from this boy who surely needed the money so she refused.

Another boy nearby said innocently, "You don't want to be his friend?"

So Angela took the banana. With a quick thought, she decided to give the boys a magazine from the bus. The two boys immediately lit up, set down their bananas and poured over the magazine under a tree.

"All they wanted to do was read," Angela told me on that Fijian island. "I wished I could have given them a library's worth of books."

A light went off in my head; this is exactly what I was about to help do with PWP, except we're giving Zambian children two libraries worth of books. No it's not saving lives but it's certainly enhancing them and who's to say what's more important.

Now about my prize.

The "Mana Necklace" is Kamoka Pearls' signature adventure and travel jewelry and something I've worn on the road for years. Everything is sustainable from the pearl, grown with care in Ahe Atoll's lagoon in the Tuamotu Archipelago, to the kangaroo leather which is taken to quell over population in native stocks (it's also some of the strongest leather in the world).

The prize is a necklace on leather with a 10mm semi-round silver pink grade B pearl (great luster and two very small, nearly imperceptible blemishes) and an anklet with a 9.5mm medium tone grey-green-gold baroque grade B pearl (again very good luster with only a minor, scarcely visible scratch). You can see the details of the necklace line at http://buy.kamokapearls.com/collections/kangaroo-leather-line/products/mana-necklace but the anklet is a new product that isn't online yet - so this is a special pre-launch gift! The necklace is normally priced at $130 and the anklet is expected to be priced around $100 making the set worth around $230.

And if you're new here I might add that Kamoka Pearl is my family's farm run by my charming husband.

So please head over to the PWP website, bid on my prize and help build those libraries in Zambia!!!

On The Road With a Lonely Planet Author: A Kid's Perspective

2011-11-06T15:29:00.000-08:00

My first guest post to Coconut Radio is by my daughter, Jasmine. This was originally an assignment for her English class (about lying) but I liked it so much I asked her to re-word it a bit for my blog.

Here's her take on what it's like traveling with me:

When I was about ten my mom took me, my dad, and my brother on a research trip with her to Thailand. I had been on many “big trips” before but this time I was deemed old enough to be taken to work instead of being left with dad. I had always wondered what happened in the secret world of my mom’s work so I was quite excited.

Shortly after arriving in Phuket we dropped the boys off at a hotel and, even though we were jet-lagged and tired from the trip, went to research a few hostels before the day was over. The first place we went had a grouchy American expat working at the front desk who was a little too enthralled with a half finished grid of Sudoku. My mom and I went straight up and asked to see a room.

"What kind of room do you wanna see?" grumbled the woman, reluctantly looking up from her Sudoku.

"Just a two person room," answered my mom.

The lady got up from her chair and eyed us curiously. "You girls here on your own?" she asked doubtfully.

"No" I said. "We have two other people with us".

As she showed us to the room I caught a glimpse of a cockroach or some other exotic Southeast Asian bug and coughed from the strong smell of cigarettes. When the Sudoku lady finally opened the door to a simple white room lit by flickering neon lights with a bunk bed and a small, glass cube shower, I immediately went and to have a look. I soon regretted my curiosity when a dead gecko that had been smashed in the shower door fell onto my arm and made me jump backwards. The woman hardly reacted, apparently squished geckos in shower doors happened a lot here.

Since I was distracted by wiping the gecko goo off my arm I only caught part of the conversation when the woman asked my mom why we were there.

"My cousin and her boyfriend are coming and they want a good cheap place to stay," said my mom.

"What?" I said from across the room. "When? Are we going to see them?"

"Of course, we're meeting them in Koh Phi Phi remember?"

"No, you never said anything about meeting anyone."

Had I not been tired from the trip, and had that gecko not given me a shot of adrenaline I probably would have noticed the look on my mom’s face.

"Well, you could save yourself some time and buy them the Lonely Planet" said the lady, with the kind of hoarse chuckle characteristic of life long smokers.

"My cousin doesn't really trust the Lonely Planet" said my mom giving me the death stare.

"What? Doesn't she know you wrote it?"

My mom opened her mouth to say something but it was too late, her cover had been blown. The lady tried to be nicer to us by offering us tea and a free night at her hostel but she was obviously quite angry that we had come as normal people instead of with a whole crew of photographers and assistants, which is how a lot of people think guidebooks are written. Neither of us wanted to stay in that place any longer than we had to so when we finally got away from the woman who, was suddenly our best friend. We took a tuk-tuk back to the hotel.

My mom was a little angry with me at first but she said it was alright since she wasn’t going to put that place in the book anyway. The next day we had much better luck with our research and luckily the word didn’t spread about there being a Lonely Planet author on the island.

Culturally misunderstood small talk

2011-10-28T10:09:00.000-07:00

"Eh Celeste poria ia 'oe!"

This means "Celeste, you're fat," and I'm frequently greeted this way by female Tahitian friends I haven't seen in awhile.

It's not a compliment. In the past rotundity may have been a sign of beauty for Tahitian women but the Western world has seeped in too deeply and now most people would prefer to be skinny. But the conversation starter has stuck and, unless you look almost sickly thin, or you're a known athlete, people will probably tell you you've put on weight or at least "haven't got any fatter." In a way it's like saying you look healthy and happy even though you're not going to win any beauty pageants.

No one means offence by these comments but I still don't like being told I'm fat. I always get offended -- I can't help it -- but I let it go as a cross-cultural faux pas I'm only aware of on my end.

And this has got me thinking about other similar small talk that Westerners find uncouth.

In Indonesia and Malaysia the classic conversation starter is "Where are you going?"

This question isn't meant to be answered literally although most Westerners don't know that so feel it's invasive.

"Why is it this guy on the street's business where I'm going?" people ask.

It's not, so just answer vaguely with something like the classic "jalan jalan," which means just wandering around.

In the same vein if you asked an Indonesian "How are you?" they'd find it weird. It's a pretty intimate question if you think about it. Why would you casually ask about someone's mental state? It's a big can of worms if you attempt to answer it honestly.

In China common small talk may start with "Have you eaten?" I like this one (perhaps because I'm poria). It insinuates getting invited in for a meal or going to eat somewhere yummy, although it's more of a polite thing to say than attached to any real expectations.

These are just a few and I'm sure there are many more examples of funny conversation starters from around the world. Please leave some in the comments! I'd love to hear from you.

The Channel Islands: California's Ocean Sanctuary

2011-10-21T12:20:00.001-07:00

When you fly from Tahiti to Los Angeles you pass over very little land mass. If you're lucky you may peer down at a coral atoll in the Tuamotus about 45 minutes after takeoff but after that there's nothing but clouds and lots and lots of ocean. The first dots that come into view on the flight map as you're approaching Los Angeles are the Channel Islands. When the small yellow specks appear, it feels like an event after so much blue, and their names sound so much more exotic than the big stinky city where you're about to land - - think with a Latin accent: Anacapa, San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz and Santa Barbara Islands. The fact that they're so close to major civilization yet relatively unknown makes them all the more romantic. Ever since I first flew over these islands 20 years ago I've wanted to visit them and I finally got the chance this last Monday.

I went with my mother in law who used to live on a sailboat around the islands in the early 70s when she and my father in law had the first urchin fishing licenses in the region. She hadn't been back since. Her stories of those days involve wild storms, fixing broken rigging while eight months pregnant and plenty of crazy characters. Our day on Santa Cruz Island 40 years later was to be much more mellow.

Instead of a homemade cement-hull sailboat a la 1970, we set out on a modern catamaran complete with snack bar and commentary over the loud speakers. It was cold and foggy at our starting point at Ventura Harbor but the ocean was calm. Pelicans flocked on the rocky breakwater as we puttered out into opaque white nothingness.

A few minutes out we stopped at a red buoy where a group of sea lions rested while others swam around in the blue-brown silky water. The commentator promised we'd see more marine life before we reached the islands, possibly even whales. Then off we went into the mist.

Despite the fact that I get seasick on just about anything and everything, I didn't feel so bad this day. After about 45 minutes of un-eventful cruising a couple at the front of the boat spotted something that looked like whales. I went outside on the bow and soon saw two large fins surfacing and plunging like wheels in the distance. As we came closer the commentator announced that these were Risso's dolphins. Soon a few more swam near the boat, close enough that we could clearly see the black and white speckled markings covering their torpedo-shaped bodies. The adults of this species are easily ten feet long, with a particularly long dorsal fin. After a few minutes of oohing and aahing we motored away again.

Only a few minutes later we came into a massive nursery pod of common dolphins. Mothers, tiny babies, sisters and brothers all swam over to play in our wake. It was like a giant soup of mammals splashing or gliding just under the surface showing off their streamlined bodies. They continued to follow us as the silhouette of Santa Cruz Island started to immerge from the fog. Pelicans glided over us to rest on a white-stained rock. As we approached the dock at Scorpion Cove, the sky cleared just enough that the sun could reflect on the water exposing kelp beds through the pristine, clear bay - this cove is only about 20 miles from the California coast and yet the ocean is nearly as clear as Tahitian waters.

Santa Cruz is the largest of the Channel Islands with 96 square miles of near-treeless grassy hills (the highest peak is 2,000 ft), rocky coves, streams, beaches and sea caves. Now it's a protected area but it was once a cattle ranch and Scorpion Cove is strewn with rusted old farming vehicles and equipment that look like modern art pieces. Before Europeans arrived, the island was inhabited by the Chumash Native American Indians for some 9000 years and you're constantly reminded of this my the shell midden in the trails running all over the island.

We only had two hours which is far too short to get anywhere on this big island. Like the Galapagos Islands the Channel Islands' isolation means that there are 145 species of plants and animals that are found nowhere else in the world. I can't say I saw any of these, but we did get a good hike up to the top of a dry, grassy hill where the fog cleared letting us see the steep coastline and some of the old farming buildings in the valleys. Down near the dock we picked figs and dodged cawing black crows, mad that we were stealing their fruit. Then reluctantly we got back on the boat.

A day trip is lovely but doesn't do these islands justice. Now I want to go back with camping and diving equipment, a kayak and at least a few days to explore. In many ways these islands are what California would have looked like without the effects of development and as an ex-native, this landscape feels like home. Only 250,000 people make it out to the entire park per year making this one of the least visited national parks in the US.

Despite twenty years of dreaming, my expectations of the Channel Islands were met. With their complex history, natural beauty and a near-mystical allure, how could they not?

Our round-trip boat ride to Santa Cruz cost $56 on Island Packers (www.islandpackers.com). For more information about the park go to http://www.nps.gov/chis/index.htm.

How I Became a Lonely Planet Author

2011-10-10T13:38:00.000-07:00

The question I get after "what's it like being a Lonely Planet author" is "how did you get your job?" My response is usually, "long story," because it is. People don't like this answer for obvious reasons so, in continuation of last week's low down on what it's like on the road as guide book author, here's how I got my job and some thoughts on how you can get a job like mine. Spoiler: it's not easy.

For me it started in 1998 when I lived on Ahe Atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. All we had for communication was a short wave radio and a satellite telephone (that cost $10 per minute) that we used mostly as a fax machine in emergencies. Just to put where I was in perspective, this atoll had no roads, no plumbing and only one little store selling canned food. When you see those cartoons of a stranded guy sitting under a coconut tree surrounded by shark-infested waters, that's pretty much where I was. I also had a two year old and a newborn baby. So, imagine my surprise when I got a fax from an old school friend asking if I'd be interested in writing the French Polynesia guidebook for Lonely Planet.

But it wasn't in the cards that time. My friend (unknown to me) was working as Lonely Planet's publicity manager and when she heard they were looking for Tahiti writers she thought of me. I faxed her back to let her know I was interested but by the time the communication had gone back and forth, Lonely Planet had found someone else. A few months later I got offered Tonga from the Australian office but this time the communications seemed to just dissolve somewhere between my remote atoll and the satellite, so once again, I lost the job. Looking back this was for the best since there's no way I could have done what was needed to be done from my remote location and with two very small kids.

Fast-forward to 2001 and the Book Passage Travel Writers and Photographers Conference in Corte Madera, California. My family and I had recently moved to the much bigger island of Tahiti and I had started travel writing. I'd had a few things published and decided to attend the conference while visiting friends and family in the US. I had no idea Lonely Planet was going to be there and my school friend no longer worked there but I had had the seed put in my head that this was my dream job. Lonely Planet offered a workshop and I decided to take it.

On the last morning they told us all to wear good shoes and a sun hat and to get there at around 7am - the reason was a surprise. They drove us all into San Francisco and dropped us all off for about an hour to update a guidebook section. We had that night to write it all up and whoever did the best job would win two tickets to Europe and a chance to become an author; I think there were about 30 of us. I'll skip the details here, but I won.

We decided to go to Spain and Morocco that fall with the tickets. Unfortunately, a day before we were supposed to take the ferry from Spain to Tangiers, 9/11 happened. We were frozen, stuck in Spain with our two young kids, not knowing what to do. Instead of going to Morocco we got the first flight we could back to Tahiti. My husband's pearl business was severely effected by the plummeting economy and I suddenly had to work full time for him to try and save the business. Meanwhile, Lonely Planet's book sales dropped so dramatically that they closed the Oakland office where I'd just theoretically got a job, and everyone I'd just met was laid off. My chances of becoming an author again became just a dream.

Three years later, once the economy had settled a little bit, my family and I traveled to Mexico. Again, I'll skip the details of the trip but we ended up in this little coastal village called Chacahua on the Oaxaca coast. There were maybe four other foreigners in town and we became friends with an American woman at our guesthouse. Her name was Carolyn and, randomly, she was a managing editor for Lonely Planet. She also remembered me from the contest. We hung out for a few days and at the end she told me that, especially with my history with the company, that there was no reason I shouldn't be an author. Things had changed a bit by this time though so, via Carolyn writing a letter of introduction, I had to be accepted to write a sample chapter that would be reviewed by the recruiter. I was given the OK and then the sample took about two weeks to write (I did it once we were back home in Tahiti); after a few months of review and interview, I was accepted into the author pool.

Great, you think, but no. Getting accepted into the author pool doesn't guarantee work. A publishing schedule is sent out once a month and authors have to pitch for each individual title. Luckily for me, Tahiti was on the list and I secured my first gig within a few months. And the rest is history. Once the books I'm currently working on are out I will have contributed to over 30 Lonely Planet titles.

So how can you get a job? Honestly, it's harder today than it ever has been. The company hires very few new authors and only those who specialize in regions where they need people. To check the list go to www.LonelyPlanet.com/jobs - there were no listings when I wrote this post. This is your only hope.

I was lucky to have had connection, be in the right place at the right time and specialize in a region Lonely Planet needed but ultimately I can't imagine what I would be doing if I hadn't got this job. I kept the goal strongly in my head for years. You may not agree, but I'm a strong believer in the power of will mixed with gratitude to make things happen. I think anyone who wants this job badly enough and has the skills and work ethic to go after it, will eventually succeed. It just might take a long time.

Of course if you read my prior post about the realities of life on the road you might decide to keep your day job. For me though, through the hard pillows, blistered feet and days tied to my computer at home it's still what I love to do and what I hope to continue doing it for a long, long time.

Life On the Road For a Lonely Planet Author

2011-10-02T18:52:00.000-07:00

It sounds like a dream job. Many people seem to imagine that Lonely Planet writers spend days on the beach with giant cocktails in carved out pineapples; nights involve lavish dinners, more cocktails and everywhere they go people are doing everything they can to make their stay in the country perfect. Often I hear hotels and restaurant I've visited complaining that I never even came through. This always makes me snicker because they must think I show up with a name tag, giant camera and a clipboard or something. Or maybe they just assume I'd introduce myself - that would be nice but honestly I don't have time to chat at length with dozens of hotels and restaurants everyday.

The reality of how authors research varies from author to author but, in my case, most places I go to never know I came through. I probably stayed in their cheapest room and I can't eat everywhere so usually I'll just stop in to a restaurant for a juice or maybe just ask to see their menu. They probably saw me and felt bad that I was on my own and wondered what would lead a woman my age to stray so far from home. They may not have noticed me at all. Other travelers never guess who I am either.

I often get asked "what it's like" and what I do on an ordinary day. So here goes. I'm going to write this as an average day in Southeast Asia since that's where I spend the most time. Warning: It's long and a lot less exciting than you think it will be.

7:15 I wake up in a hard bed with a really bad pillow, wash-up in the hostel's shared bathroom, and put on clothes I washed in the sink the day before that have been drying draped over chairs and whatnot. I turn off the fan and get out the door in 15 minutes.

7:30 Breakfast at my favorite local joint. This will often be a place I've put in the book for years. It's busy and I'm hardly able to get a table but I'm the only Westerner there. So much for Lonely Planet ruining places. If it doesn't serve banana pancakes and looks too foreign, people won't go there. I enjoy an amazing meal, check my email on my phone, read a local paper and map out my day on the back of a map I picked up at my hostel. I take a moment to enjoy the exoticness of where I'm sitting and I'm thankful of my situation; I pay then go.

8:15 Nothing is open yet which frustrates me because I'm in a hurry to get stuff done. I walk around town to see which Western style breakfast places are open so I can recommend them for people who like to eat before 10am.

9:00 I start looking at hotels. I have a list of new places I've found on the Internet, by traveler's recommendations, at tourist offices or through local friend's suggestions. I've mapped them all out as I heard of them. As I'm on my way to a place on my list, I pass another place I've never heard of, pop in and ask to see a room. The people don't ask who I am or why I'm there and enthusiastically show me around. I ask them a million questions and they tell me all sorts of fun stories about the place and give me their business card. It ends up being the coolest place I find all day. I sneak into a hidden corner once I'm back outside and jot messy notes in my notebook.

10:30 After an hour and a half of wandering around, looking at hotels and seeing what's new I start to see other travelers eating their Western breakfasts around town. I note which places are the busiest, check the menus and get a table at the one that looks the best. I order a cup of tea, catch up writing notes in my notebook about everything I've seen that morning then text a local friend to see if they can meet for lunch. Meanwhile, I chat with a nice English couple at the table next to me who give me a great detailed, review of a bike tour I won't have time to go on myself. They of course have no idea that they just gave their input to Lonely Planet.

11:00 There are a few places I have to see that are way out of town. I hop on a bus then walk about 10 minutes to find the first place, which has great reviews on Trip Advisor. From the mildewed outside and depressing, hard-to-get-to location I can tell it's a dud. I wake up a TV-hypnotized receptionist and she takes me to a stinky room with a stained carpet and a lint-filled air-con vent. A few confused looking older Americans are dining on white toast, jam and coffee in the cafe downstairs. I thank the receptionist but don't bother to get the price because there's no way I'm putting this place in the book.

12:00 I walk high-speed back to the bus stop. The bus never shows. It's about 90 degrees Fahrenheit and 100 percent humidity, my face is bright red and I feel awful. It starts to rain. I walk about ten minutes in my plastic-bag-like emergency rain poncho while cars whiz past and I'm sure they're all laughing at me in my silly poncho that makes me look like an orange balloon. A big truck sprays muddy water all over me. I finally hail a taxi.

12:40 I meet my friend who I haven't seen in two years at a new hole-in-the-wall she says is really good. She says I look like hell and laughs at my wet, muddy legs and plastic bag poncho. We talk about her love life, my love life then she orders all the stuff that's supposed to be so good. It's fabulous so I take extensive notes about it. We stuff ourselves while chatting about what's new around town. After lunch I decide to throw my ugly poncho away and buy an umbrella.

1:40 It's raining and my friend has the afternoon off so she asks me where I need to go. I've been to most of the museums etc in town before and from asking around I've found nothing has changed, but there's a new shopping mall in a district I don't know well that I'd like to check out. We go but on the way stop at a temple I've never heard of where they do some sort of ritual that people come from all over the country to take part in for good luck. We go in and do the ritual, I talk to the abbot who tells me the fascinating history of the place. I take notes but once in the car I realize I'll never have the space to put this awesome place in the book - plus it's out of the way and a little spooky so, like my breakfast joint, hardly anyone would go there anyway. I consider returning to this place one day for one of the hundreds of non-fiction travel books I've thought about writing.

3:00 We get to the mall and it looks like every other mall in Southeast Asia. I jot down the names of some of the stores, we get an ice cream then head back to town.

3:45 My friend drives me to all the other out of the way hotels I need to go to. They are all really boring. She also helps me find a cheap umbrella. Meanwhile I get a text from another friend who wants to know if I want to go out to dinner with a bunch of couch surfers. I say OK.

6:00 I go back to my hotel, shower and write a few emails. What I'd really like to do is take a nap but I'm afraid I'd sleep through dinner.

7:30 I meet my local friends, three couch surfers and a random expat Kiwi English teacher at a food stall area. My friend has told them all about me so they all ask me about my job. They of course want to know how much money I make and assume I have to save all my receipts that I'll send back to Lonely Planet who will reimburse me for any and all expenses. I tell them that I actually work from a lump sum and if I spend more I earn less. No one seems to really care so I try and change the subject. I excuse myself during dinner and take notes on the new stalls that have opened since the last time I was here.

8:30 I've managed to pick the brains of every person at dinner and have a few good suggestions for the next town I'm going to and another review of the bike tour I can't go on. I suggest we get dessert at a place I want to try.

9:00 We go get dessert then check out a local night market. Then everyone but my local friend and the Kiwi guy goes home. The rest of us decide to go check out a new bar.

9:30 It's sort of dead but we all sit and have a beer. By 10pm more people show up and by 11pm it's rocking.

11:30 We move on to a club down the road that has a surprisingly decent cover band from the Philippines. I go up to dance, get hit on by a 50+ year-old Australian military dude and a Nigerian gigolo then decide this is more depressing than fun and I'd better go home. A drunk Asian girl I was dancing next to hugs me like we're best friends and tells me I can stay at her house next time I'm in town. I thank her but know I'll never see her again. My friends walk me home.

1:30am Back to my board-like bed with the too-tall pillow of rocks. I set my alarm for 8am so I can catch the 9am bus out of town. I toss and turn for about half an hour recapping my day, turn on the light briefly to check for bed bugs then fall asleep.

After each research trip comes the write-up which, in general, equals the time spent on the road. My fellow author Leif Pettersen has captured this type of day on video better than I ever could in words. To see it click here. Enjoy!

Flower: Ko Lanta's One-Hit Wonder

2011-09-19T08:40:00.000-07:00

She was around six foot two and skinny in a way that comes from ill-health rather than from exercise or lucky genes. The light bruises on her arms told me drugs were probably to blame and the poorly drawn eyebrows, thinning short blond hair and stubble on her chin told me she was less worried about personal hygiene than your ordinary transvestite. But she had an effervescent smile, and my spider senses told me she was a nice person.

"Oh the tuk-tuk's a great deal, best on the island, but it's for two people and you have to drive it yourself and there's really no point if you're by yourself," she told me in a fast, nasal, up and down drawl.

I had just stopped by to ask about a sign outside her door advertising a cheap rate on a tuk-tuk. This was on Ko Lanta in Southern Thailand so I had expected to meet a Thai person, not an American cross-dresser. I was still a bit taken aback.

"Where are you from?" I asked for lack of anything better to say.

"San Francisco and LA mostly. And you?"

"I grew up in San Francisco." I said.

"Really? Wow I haven't met anyone from home in ages. Do you want to come in and have some tea?"

Maybe it's because I'm from San Francisco and used to the freaks of the world, and I'm usually quite cautious when I travel alone, but I was intrigued by this person so didn't hesitate. In we went for tea.

"By the way, my name's Dok Mai which means flower in Thai," she told me, so I told her my name too. She smiled at me in approval.

Her home was on the ground floor of a shabby mixed commercial and residential block with a big parking lot in front. The floors were cheaply tiled and a stand up fan was blowing on a synthetic-upholstered floral couch. Along the wall were a few professional looking guitars. There was a lot of space and little furniture.

She brought us tea in a flurry of apologies for the state of the house, which was a little sloppy but mostly clean -- then she wasted no time to start talking, as if she hadn't spoken to anyone in months.

"Let me tell you about me," she said.

This made me happy because I wanted to know about Dok Mai and I was get tired of talking about myself with every new person I'd been meeting. Sometimes it's refreshing and relaxing to just get get talked at by another person without having to go into your own story. I was however a little worried about how long I was going to get stuck listening.

First Dok Mai told me about how she had run away from California because she had racked up a $1000 per day coke habit she wanted to leave behind. A friend suggested she get away from her problems by going to Kata Beach on Phuket, so without doing any research Dok Mai bought a ticket. She loved Kata more than anywhere she'd ever been but then someone told her about Ko Lanta, she went to visit and found she liked it even more than Kata. She'd been there ever since.

"I'm a musician you see," she said about ten minutes into the story. "Have you ever listened to KROQ in the Bay Area?"

"Wait isn't that an LA station?"

"Have you heard a song called You Want It You Got It?"

"Sounds familiar."

"Someone told me they still play it. Here I'll sing it for you."

She went and grabbed an acoustic guitar and began strumming. She cleared her voice, then out came a sound I had not expected. The tune had real soul, a universal appeal and her playing was flawless with a hypnotizing style. But it was her voice that was the most astounding. Imagine Aretha Franklin meets Boy George trying not to wake the neighbors. What I was suddenly watching was pure talent, that thing that performers search for their whole lives and rarely find, and this was just in a living room. Dok Mai was absolutely mind-blowingly good. I can't imagine how beautiful she'd have sounded on stage.

She finished and I applauded as enthusiastically as I felt. I was also pretty sure I'd heard the song before.

"That was amazing!" I said.

Dok Mai nodded knowingly.

"I'm playing in a cover band at the Somewhere Else bar tonight if you want to come?"

I did want to see her sing some more so told her I'd try and make it but that I had to go.

"Come back any time," she said as I left. Her eyes were a little glossy and she seemed a bit more out of it than when I had first arrived. I wondered if she hadn't taken a hit of something while taking the tea dishes back to the kitchen or something. Despite the awesome show, I was starting to feel uneasy - I was happy to be getting out of there.

When I got back to my guesthouse that night I saw Dok Mai sitting at a table at the onsite bar. Whether she had come to find me or not I don't know, but the fact she was there resurrected that uneasy feeling; I slipped into my room without her seeing me and didn't come out till she left about a half hour later. I'm not sure what I was worried about but despite her artistic brilliance something had gone off and I didn't want to get in any deeper with Dok Mai than I had already. Her show was at a beach about 45 minutes away and I didn't have a car or the expensive taxi fare, so that cinched my decision not to go. I never saw her again.

Since, I've tried Googling "You Want It You Got It" to no avail. It's a great song but I don't even know what name she had when she released the song. I hope that Dok Mai is continuing to find her peace on Lanta, however she chooses to find it. She is a nice person, just perhaps with more baggage than most people, myself included, can deal with. Maybe next time I go back I'll get to see her sing on stage. I know she won't remember me so I'll just keep my distance and enjoy.

Stuck in a Tunisian Restroom

2011-09-10T14:13:00.000-07:00

I've been lucky on my travels not to have run into to serious trouble. One of the more laughable situations I've been in was getting stuck in a bus station restroom in Tunisia with my 12-year old-daughter, Jasmine. We could have been in there for hours if she hadn't saved us.

We had just taken a several-hours-long bumpy and dusty bus ride from Le Kef, in the north, and had arrived to transfer in Gafsa to get to our final destination of Tozeur. Needless to say we had to pee. Badly. So my husband and son watched our bags while Jasmine and I set off to find a bathroom.

Gafsa is a transportation hub so there were what seemed like hundreds of people darting to catch their bus or waiting for one in the extreme dry heat. The whole station was covered in a sticky black film from exhaust, desert dust and dirt from people's shoes. It smelled slightly like a burning tire.

We navigated past a staircase and around a few corners, all eyes on us as the only white people, till we found the ladies room. By this time we really had to go. The door was wide open so that anyone walking by could look into the stalls so I absent-mindedly kicked aside a small brick that was holding the door open for some privacy. We were the only people in the bathroom, which seemed strange.

We visited the stalls, washed our hands then went to the door to leave. There was no knob. I pushed on the door. It didn't budge. I tried to pull the door from the broken knob mechanism. No go. Hmmm. I checked the locking bit where the door connects with the jam and could see it was well and truly locked. Without some sort of tool, we were screwed.

"We're stuck," I said to Jasmine.

Just as I was about to start banging on the thick, probably sound-proof door and yell for help, Jasmine pulled her Swiss Army knife out of her day pack. I didn't even know she had brought it with her.

"I'll get us out, " she said confidently as she sprung out the tool she needed, stuck it in the knob hole, turned it and opened the door.

Wow!

I guess there's a time when a parent sees that their kid has grown into a capable individual - and perhaps cooler and smarter than they are - but I have to admit I never expected this to happen in a stinky public restroom near the Sahara.

And she helped me remember something I already knew: carry a Swiss Army knife because, like dental floss and duct tape, it can fix things, save you or even impress your mom.

The Middle of Somewhere

2011-08-14T22:34:00.000-07:00

About 20 minutes from downtown Portland is the Columbia River Gorge, a temperate rainforest cut by a spacious, fast moving slab of brown river and sided by gargantuan waterfalls tumbling between pine tree cliffs; the terrain gets drier as you drive east on Hwy 84 till eventually it turns into endless rolls of dry farmland. And this region, a mere 150 miles out of liberal Portland is cowboy country, where everyone drives tank-sized pick up trucks that are graced with bumper stickers that say things like "Obama bin lyin'."

Perhaps it's because I've been out of the US so long that I love this hay-covered, gun-slinging, Republican America. I might feel like an over-educated, city-slicker driving around in my Japanese-made mini SUV, but it's this alienation that makes me feel like I've gone somewhere, like I've stepped away from my normal reality and been transported into another culture or even another era.

My family and I stop to get gas in Union, a dot of an Eastern Oregon town with charming Victorian buildings. The guy behind the service counter is friendly enough but eyes my family (and our Asian friend Sandra) a bit suspiciously; the only other patron is about six feet tall, 250 pounds and is wearing a shirt that reads "All of God's Creatures are best with meat and potaters." As I wait to pay for my gas behind Mr Meat, I read a hand written sign for the local raffle on the wall - - prizes include a side of beef, a side of pork and a gun.

And this makes me giggle inside, then think for a second because I realize that I'm enjoying the Americana of this gas station as much as I would a junk store in Penang, Malaysia or maybe a carpet shop in Tunisia. I'm not from this America and I don't really feel comfortable here but it sure is fascinating. I feel like a tourist as much as I ever have and it's great.

Looking for last minute fishing equipment we get directed to a store in Pondosa about 20 miles down the road from Union. Actually it ends up that the store is the only thing at all in Pondosa. It's a homey early 1900s building shaded by an elm tree and we're greeted by an old dog and about six fluffy cats. The door looks like it leads to someone's living room more than to a store but sure enough, opening it triggers a "ding" and out comes a white haired woman who soon calls to her husband to ask if they have any fishing line.

Nope, they don't have any fishing equipment but as we look around we realize this place is more of a museum than a store. You can get a cup of hot chocolate for 50 cents, the few boxes of tea and canned goods are covered with dust and next to register hangs a flash bar for a Polaroid camera (still in the box) as if this is the most likely thing customers might need as they check out. Old pictures of Pondosa (which was once a thriving mill town) grace the walls and the owners keep us in the store for a good half hour telling us about the history of the town.

Pondosa's biggest claim to fame they tell us is that it's the geographical center of the US when you factor in Alaska and Hawaii. We are all impressed. Pondosa is awesome, this store alone could merit hours of exploration. On the way out we notice a small silver earring taped to a display counter with a note that says "Did you lose an earring?" The note looks about 10 years old.

We go to a nearby camp site next to a reservoir where we're kept awake by coyotes howling all night then, the next day, drive another 20 miles down a dirt road to a trail head where we hike into the mountains and camp for a few days (a whole other story).

On the way home we stop in Pendleton, a more yuppie cowboy town, where women wear tight jeans and high heeled cowboy boots and the most popular place in town is the rockin' steakhouse with a mediocre cover band playing outdoors. This is the kind of place I could imagine staying in a B&B to experience truck driving, cowboy hat-wearing hunting culture with a gentrified buffer - kind of like folks in a resort and a tour bus might see Istanbul or Beijing. It's cool but I like Union's gas station better.

When I get home I Google Pondosa. Turns out the only folks claiming the town is the center of the 50 US states are the couple who own the store. All other data points towards Butte County, South Dakota although apparently the exact geographical center depends on several variables (I'm not sure which). But I don't feel duped by Pondosa and I know that lovely couple truly believe it is the geographic center of the United States. Whether it is or not, Pondosa is still the middle of somewhere and I'd sip a hot cocoa with its warm-hearted two-person population any time.

The Worst Pick-Up Artist in the World

2011-08-01T14:33:00.000-07:00

"You travel alone?"

While traveling in Southeast Asia I get this question daily. Some people are curious about why a woman would travel solo, others are concerned about my safety, while an annoying few, like this five-foot two-inch, long-haired fellow in Sulawesi, try (not very subtly) to feel out my potential as a quicky romance or a free-travel-with-benefits sugar mama.

This guy had just checked me into my bungalow on a fairly remote island, and I was obviously by myself, so there was no way to lie. Yup, I was alone and although he was a potential nuisance, I was going to be stuck with him on a small beach for a few days so instead of chucking him off my deck I chatted with him a few minutes about where I'd been and where I was going (these are the questions every Indonesian asks to make polite conversation). Then he left and I un-packed a bit and had a shower.

I settled on my terrace with a book and had read about five words when my new friend was back. This time he was carrying a photo album.

Without asking he grabbed a chair, pulled it over a little too close to mine and looked me in the eye. "I like older women," he told me in a heavy-lidded voice.

I guessed he was about 25 and somehow, during those all those years of life, he hadn't figured out that this was the worst pick up line ever.

"Here is Daniella my Italian girlfriend," he said, opening the photo album, his knee touching mine. The first picture showed a picture of him and a pretty blond woman on a motorbike. "She is older than you I think. Forty-five?"

You might wonder why I hadn't shooed this boy away after his first sentence. First, I think I was muddled about how old he actually thought I was (I was 37) but mostly, he was so bad at wooing women that I just had to see where it was all going. It was a social experiment.

"Ah, yes, I'm younger than that. She's very pretty."

"We meet here, she stay same room you. She like me. Take me to Bali and Lombok. Here we are at Bali guesthouse." He flipped through the pages glancing up at me from time to time with expectant eyes, perhaps to see if any of his moments with Daniella would inspire me to leap out of my chair and make passionate love to him right there on the terrace.

That didn't happen. He closed the album and once again looked into my eyes, his swirling with bedroom thoughts.

"You like me?"

"I'm married, no thanks." Social experiment over.

"Everybody married. Husband not here."

"No, I'm really married and totally not interested."

I was obviously not the first person to tell him this and in the end he was an OK guy, just a young horny one trying to get a free ride. He got up, giving me one last sultry look.

"Ok, I here you change mind and please don't tell my boss."

Over the next few days we hung out and drank beer together with all the other people staying at the guesthouse and I watched him fumble through a few other single women that turned up. Each time I saw him with his photo album I'd tease him and he'd laugh. I half wished Daniella would return, the only woman capable of falling for the worst pick up artist in the world.

Beer & Passion at Beard & Moustache Championships

2011-06-23T12:53:00.000-07:00

The crowd is drunk and antsy for the show to start. Then, suddenly, a medium build man makes his way across the room and there's a noticeable drop in the rowdy volume. I know instantly this has to be Jack Passion and, with his lush orange beard tumbling gently to his waist, I now completely understand how he became the two-time world champion bearder in the full natural beard category.

Here in the Pacific Northwest, college students, soccer dads and grandpas are letting their manliness blossom in the form of facial hair. But while ordinary whiskers may be commonplace on the streets, they're nothing compared to the au natural, waxed or styled extravaganzas found at beard and moustache competitions scheduled regularly around the US and the world.

The Stumptown Stash and Beard Collective, Portland Oregon's beard and moustache chapter, started in June 2010. The interest however has been overwhelming. On January 24, 2011 the group hosted the first West Coast Beard and Moustache Championships drawing in competitors from around the state and as far away as Pennsylvania, Texas and California. The event, scheduled at the undesirable hour of 4pm on a Sunday by the folks at the Crystal Ballroom (who expected a poor turn out), saw people lining up around the block for up to two hours, causing the contest start an hour and a half late.

But this wasn't a problem for the competitors for whom beer and enjoying it with their fellow beardsmen is as important as showing up for the event.

Shawn Hasson, a young hopeful from Fresno in Scottish garb and endowed with a several-inch-long curled and waxed moustache tells me, "Really these shows are about meeting and hanging out with other bearded guys."

With a two-year-old moustache he's new to the scene and pays his own way to and from the shows but the fun, he says makes it worth the cost.

Around the ballroom beards are omni-present, from casual scruff and women in stick-on moustaches to the obvious stars with their long or flamboyantly styled facial hair. Many of the professional bearders are dressed in gimmicky costumes. Abe Lincoln is there as well as a garden gnome, several English gents with curled handlebar moustaches, some cowboys, a mafia looking fellow with a thick black moustache and dark glasses and a grey-haired guy in lederhosen and a beard down to his waist. They walk around happily getting their pictures snapped with their fans.

I talk with the mafia-looking guy, Steve Scarpa from Southern California who tells me his bearding career started in 2003 when he was "discovered" by Phil Olsen the president of Beard Team USA in the audience at a beard competition.

"Then there were 30 or 40 members," he tells me. "Now there are a couple hundred. It's exploding."

Scarpa introduces me to Brian Snoderly one of the founders of Stumptown Stash and Beard Collective who happens to be walking by. Snoderly has a manicured beard and moustache, a silver bar through his nose and the biggest "plug" earrings I've ever seen. It ends up Portland's bearding group was started by Crystal Ballroom employees, the venue of the night's contest, and the proceeds will go towards a scholarship fund at Portland State University. But Snoderly tells me, as everyone else has, that the shows are more about camaraderie and beer drinking than anything else.

"Steve Scarpa tattooed the Beard Team USA emblem on my calf last night do you want to see it?" he says pulling up his pant leg.

Just then another bearded man walks by and says "Showing everyone the tip of your penis again are you Brian?"

Much to my surprise, the star of this world, Jack Passion, who brought near-silence to a room of drunk people less than half an hour ago, stops to join our conversation, or possibly to get a glimpse of the end of Brian's penis. As you'd expect from a guy with a long ginger beard, Jack is easy-going and ready to talk with his fans, including me. He dispels the rumors I've heard that he's not competing this year to give other beards a chance and tells me, in what seems a forced breach of his humbleness, that he's "unbeatable." As for beards becoming more fashionable he says that "men love to be appreciated as men," and that from the night's turn-out, the Pacific Northwest has got to be a center of the facial hair fad in America.

But do chicks dig beards? Passion's Facial Hair Handbook website assures that "your beard or moustache will get you laid!" but at least at the West Coast Championships I notice that it does more than that: most competitors are accompanied by their undeniably attractive wives or girlfriends. Yes, there's something about a beard that gives a guy an honest, cuddly dad-vibe, and that's something many women would like to take home for more than the night.

The show starts with the natural beard and moustache competition and as the first contestant prances down the catwalk in a tight 70s shirt, kicking like a Vegas dancer, the crowd cheers as if Katy Perry just walked on stage. Next is a man's man kind-of-guy wearing a baseball cap and a button up blue shirt - he gets a cacophony of hoots from the crowd including a loud yell "Now that's sex!!!"

Once the twenty or so contestants have strutted their stuff the audience yells their favorites to the judges and I start to understand why I saw earplugs on sale by the bar. Following come the Partial Beard, Natural Moustache, Natural Full-Beard, Natural Full-Beard With Styled Moustache and lastly, the Freestyle Beard categories. Some of the contestants just walk the catwalk, perhaps caressing their facial locks, while others get in character by shooting fake guns, playing a toy electric guitar or ripping off their shirts exposing beer guts and tattoos.

The crowd never settles and every contestant gets catcalls and enthusiastic support. But even after the awards ceremony, I have to agree with the beardsmen I spoke to. This isn't an event about winning, it's about growing facial hair, getting appreciated for it and hanging out with other people who understand the pleasure that comes from tending a garden of whiskers. And then of course, there's the beer.