At the tender age of seven, I went with my family on a vacation to Puerto Vallarta. Being my first time out of the country, I was a wide eyed child attached to my mother’s right thigh observing all the usual Mexican holiday shenanigans. Poor macarena dancing, bartering with taxi drivers, turned down tequila shots for the children, beach-side braids for the females, etc. But perhaps the most impactful event of the trip, was seeing a mother turtle lay her eggs on the beach under the cover of darkness and a tentative Mexican security guard keeping the tourists a safe distance away. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fan in me was simply amazed. I proceeded to insist upon my parent’s buying me anything and everything turtle related for the rest of the trip.

Fast forward to Derawan island off the coast of Indonesian Borneo, a tiny island just big enough for a village, with surrounding islands featuring manta rays and a stingless jellyfish lake (one of only two in the world). They were the reason for my visit, but while impressive, neither of those attractions would be my most cherished memory of the island.

Waking up to the sound of waves sloshing up against wooden pillars I could see the water rolling by through the cracks in my room’s floorboards. While the wood furnishings were modest and the flower print mattress thin, for ten dollars a night, the room was quite the steal. It was built on a pier jutting out into the bathtub known as the Sulawesi Sea. Literally already on the water, snorkeling was easily chosen as the first order of business this morning. I grabbed my snorkel and fins, put on my hiking shorts (makeshift swim trunks as I’d lost mine somewhere in Bali) and slipped into the lukewarm water, having it seemingly all to myself.

Visibility was decent today in the five feet or so of water as I began making my way across the sandy bottom toward the reef 75 yards off the coast. A large dark form began to take shape ahead of me and the claustrophobic fear all new snorkelers experience in an unfamiliar environment began to creep up inside me. I attempted to calm my breathing, which echoed loudly through the snorkel tube, and focus on the object as I moved ever closer. A turtle began to take shape. A large sea turtle. The biggest I’d ever seen. I’d have to hold my arms outstretched side to side to give a sense of the shell size. He moved about languidly, munching on the occasional patch of seagrass before surfacing for a breath and moving on to his next bite. He soon noticed me following him and didn’t so much as flinch, continuing on with his graceful and lazy routine, oozing the sense of calm and wisdom of a long life. I noticed the large dented scar on his round knobby shell and assumed it was from a boat’s propeller. A child’s desire, the desire to touch, to have a physical connection with the animal, welled up inside me, but remembering that turtles’ heart rates jump during this action, I refrained, as the fear of causing the magnificent creature any discomfort quickly trumped any personal longing.

Following him along minute after minute, I was impossibly fascinated and ecstatic. He commanded my full attention and I never lost interest. This day, the entire trip to the island, to Borneo, was validated. Everything else would be icing on the cake.

Suddenly, another turtle appeared, slightly smaller in stature, but following the same routine. I decided to shift my attention and study this new found acquaintance for a bit, but as I made this change a third turtle appeared and a fourth. Before I could digest the events, three more became visible straight ahead. I swiveled in place, massive green sea turtles on every side, in every direction. I had stumbled upon an assembly of the gods. For an instant, they all sat there, still, floating in space as the small waves rolled by overhead. The moment is frozen in my memory forever. And then, I remembered to breath. As quickly as it occurred, it was over. They each, one by one, began to disappear into the water’s haze.

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Ants in Laos, frogs in Cambodia, crickets in Thailand, dogs in Vietnam… just kidding, I never ate dog. While the opportunity did present itself, I could not oblige as I love my furry friends a little too much. I never wanted to look at my dog and see four chicken legs in the place of love, joy, slobber and a small IQ.

Weird cuisine is the the name of the game when traveling through foreign lands and Malaysia was no exception. Finding ourselves on Panang, an old colonial island off the northern Malaysian coast, Austin and I were, per usual, testing out everything the street carts had to offer. Honestly, I don’t know how Austin heard about this particular dish, but he suddenly had it in his mind that we were going to consume buffalo penis. Yes, you heard that correctly, penis. My first inclination was to begin making jokes about said consumption, but I’ll let your imagination run wild off of these pure white pages. Initially, I was pretty skeptical that this was even real, but he stood steadfast in his belief and we walked out the door on a mission to find this lusted after vendor.

When I asked where it was located, Austin repeated some jumbled directions presenting us with an issue aside from suppressing our gag reflexes. How do you ask directions to the penis soup? If it was a well known soup, then it wouldn’t be a big deal, but if it wasn’t… how would we describe what we desired to a non native English speaker. Hand motions? That’s out. That could put us in jail for soliciting something other than soup. Not surprisingly, I wasn’t convinced we’d ever find the promised land.

Arriving at what we thought was the correct cluster of street carts, we began scanning menus, but nothing was catching our fancy so the fateful moment was inevitable. Austin asked if they served buffalo penis. Except he said it slowly, sounding extremely unsure of himself and his chosen words. The Malaysian local flashed his crooked teeth while his eyes quickly lit up, “You mean Torpedo Soup!” While saying this, his made a swift punching motion with his right arm. Not knowing how to respond to this joyous outburst, both Austin and I looked on at each other in confirmation. This was definitely the place. “We’ll take two please.”

Would I recommend Torpedo Soup? For taste alone, hell no. But if you enjoy pushing odd gelatinous shapes around in your soup and taking wild guesses as to what part goes where, then I’d say be my guest.

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Central Sulawesi, Indonesia

Aaron was gone, his minibus rounding the bend and heading South. My travel companion of the last few weeks continued on his own journey and I found myself alone, again. Every minute that passed created more space between myself and everyone I’d ever known. When I’d talk to another English speaker again, I did not know. I’d seen this moment coming for weeks, but it was now reality. Time to proceed on my own.

I’d booked a bus to the coastal city of Palu, a place rarely frequented by western travelers, but a necessary stepping stone to the passenger ships embarking on the 16 hour float to Borneo. My departure time arrived and I loaded into the drab grey minibus. It had the usual 1980s VW bus look with three rows of shabby seating and wheels that appeared much too skinny and worn for the weight it carried. Only one other passenger accompanied me, a silent local man who didn’t offer much in the way of conversation, so I was left largely to my own thoughts, a few hours of watching the impossibly green rice paddies race by as I hurtled into my future.

Suddenly, we stop. The driver summons me out of the bus and I oblige. Perhaps it’s another rest stop where I stand around eating banana chips, never knowing when we’ll resume the trip. Nope, this time is different. He hands me my backpack and encourages me to get on a waiting motorbike. This is a first. I repeat “Palu” to him several times in different pronunciations and he gives me all his assurances that that is in fact the correct course to my destination. I, on the other hand, am not entirely convinced and ill at ease, but seeing no alternate choice, I jump aboard. Less than a kilometer from the bus, my driver swerves off onto a bumpy and winding one lane dirt path. WTF. Where are we going? I hold on tight, senses alert, waiting for whatever comes next.

People begin emerging from all around me. Not in a menacing, walking dead fashion, but something big appears to be on everyone’s mind. The crowds increase and the motorbike comes to a halt. Once I dismount and remove my helmet, people begin to notice my light skin tone and the smiles begin creeping onto their faces. Not too unusual for these back parts of Indonesia as this is far from the tourist hoards of Bali, however, what is unusual is the rushing river looming before us and the once proud bridge, now collapsed and washed downstream. As I assess my surroundings and return smiles all around, my driver eagerly directs me to a rope hanging across the width of the river. A few brave souls are already pulling themselves along toward the other side, water rushing past waist deep, belongings on their shoulders.

It dawns on me. He wants me to ford the damn river.

In the US, the trip would be canceled and you’d get a refund. In Indonesia, you get a little encouragement to get your feet wet. What choice did I really have? This was a one way type of trip and I wasn’t turning back now. I grabbed ahold of that rope and pulled myself through the murky water, full backpack and all. My shorts were completely soaked through as I emerged on the other side with a bewildered smile on my face. Not missing a beat, another local Indo appears to take me to another run-down minibus with too-thin tires. This one ready to take me further into the unknown.

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Munich was turning into a disappointment. Where were all the travelers? Where was the excitement? We hadn’t done much research, and for that we had only ourselves to blame, but here we were, in Munich for four nights, and it just seemed sleepy. Munich is really an industrial city. We knew it was no Barcelona, with the midnight dinners and sunrise bedtimes, but visions of Oktoberfest and giant beer halls brimming with revelry were not coming to fruition. The architecture and history were great, the streets clean, pleasant and likely indicative of normal German life, but for better or worse, we wanted more. We wanted an experience. Something to look back on more fondly than a few snapshots of old buildings.

Leaving the Hofbrauhaus, a solid buzz in tow, we began wandering the streets of downtown Munich, looking, hoping, praying that someone would come up with an idea to keep the night going, but most establishments were closing up shop for the night. God forbid we go back to the hostel and order a pizza. A lovely time no doubt, but not exactly why we traveled around the world. Nevertheless, here we were headed to the underground, searching for any excuse not to get on the train.

Looking back, I don’t know how the conversation begin. I assume it had something to do with our American accents standing out in the German city. Regardless my friends and I found ourselves in a plaza talking with a group of young locals somewhere around their early twenties. They loved the fact that we were from California and we loved the fact that they loved us. After the usual drunken pleasantries and the passing back and forth of some information you’ll find on our resumes, we had formed the initial stages of a drunken friendship. They soon told us of their nights plans, a “party in the forest,” and promptly invited us.

Oh course we accepted the invitation. A forest party? Are you serious? It could be nothing but a few people in a backyard but who cares because the possibilities were endless. Regardless, we would soon find out. Isn’t moving into the unknown what traveling, and dare I say living, is all about?

We were now along for the ride, at the will of our new friends. Their backpacks loaded with beer and no open container enforcement in sight, we followed them onto one train and then another headed in the apparent wrong direction, before boarding a third in the right direction, and eventually returning to the dimly illuminated foreign streets far from our origin. By this point, I was solidly in the drunk category. I was beginning to believe it was the best night of my life and these were the best people on the planet. We talked of school, California, the intricacies of the English language and, of course, girls, as we walked through a local neighborhood becoming more rural with each passing step.

The street eventually turned into a bike path and then abruptly we left that for a trail into the woods. Using our phones to light our way, we swatted away branches and stepped over roots and fallen trees as we made our way into the darkness. I vividly remember becoming aware of a thump. Thump. Thump. A beat. A beat coming from the blackness ahead. It grew louder and lights became visible, then a mass of swaying and grooving bodies also appeared. We’d found our forest party.

I was immediately dragged off to the pop up bar for some Jagermeister. New found friends feeling the need to christen their friendship with a cup of poison together. Turning them down would be sacrilegious when one found himself in the middle of a German forest party. The drunken revelry was only heating up, and as our voices grew louder, the drinks grew stiffer. And so I lost track of time.

At last I found myself holding onto a tree for dear life. Swaying back and forth not in rhythm, but in an attempt to stay upright. All that talk of using my absolutely brilliant pick-up line, “Hi, I’m from California” never materialized, but I was fine with that. The time crept ever closer to five as the people began to thin out. It was time to head back to our bunks as well. Tomorrow would be one long headache, but the Munich forest party would stay with me much longer.

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Holy cow, that’s a big lizard. Crossing the trail not 10 feet in front of me acting like he owned the place, which I suppose he did, was a giant water monitor at least 6 feet long. I had an iguana growing up, and to the everyday individual, and really anyone that came over, the thing was enormous, but I’m pretty sure this lizard would eat my iguana for lunch. Mr. Monitor casually moved along and into the bushes looking back a few times to make sure I didn’t come too close. I was in Sungei Buloh, a wetland reserve in Singapore, killing some time by exploring the swamp.

Being in the tropics, it was no surprise when dark clouds formed and the rain began. It was that light sprinkle that builds momentum quickly and turns into a downpour. Fortunately, as I walked along the raised boardwalk, I came across a covered section with a few benches. Removing my daypack and getting comfortable, I imagined myself blissfully listening to the rain in a sort of inward contemplative solitude. However, as I sat I soon noticed a lone individual walking in my direction. It was clear he was an elderly Chinese man, having the hunched over, hands behind the back type swagger and when he arrived at the covered section he too, naturally, took a seat in hopes of staying dry.

I wasn’t stoked on the prospect of sharing my meditation chamber, but having no choice, I decided to make due. Leaning over the edge of the railing I watched the raindrops patter against the murky water’s surface and listened as the chorus of drops drowned out all other noise. I also noted that the tide had been working hard to drain the swamp, revealing thick dark mud. In my calm and relaxed trance, quick movement suddenly caught my eye. Circular ripples moving outward pinpointed the alien culprit. For all intensive purposes, it looked like a fish, but it couldn’t be a fish, because my mom taught me that fish swim and this one wasn’t swimming. It was skirting across the muddy surface. He also looked like a bully because he was telling all the other alien half-fish to scram. I imagine they told him his eyes were too close together. Leaning further over the edge to get a better look at this odd species’ social behavior, I felt my imitation Ray Bans free themselves from their perch on top of my head and proceeded to watch them fall silently to the murky ground below. Dammit! How many sunglasses have I already lost on this trip? Not another pair! Annoyed, I glanced over at the Chinese gentlemen who showed no acknowledgement of my recent loss, then back at my glasses, resting there. They seemed so close.

Screw it, I’m going for it. Removing my shoes and socks, I climbed over the railing and began working my way down the thick metal wires giving support to the 15 ft wooden structure. Reaching the bottom, I surveyed the area for any of the alien walking fish and seeing none, took a giant step into the mud, immediately sinking in past my ankles. I could feel the mud ooze between my toes producing an altogether unique and cool sensation. Not wishing to linger for a therapeutic mud bath, I made quick work of snagging my shades and climbed back into the shelter. Tracking clumps of mud along the wooden floor, I glanced over at my lone companion who didn’t look phased in the slightest, not even mildly amused. Literally, a completely blank face. But I know what he was thinking, “Crazy white people.”

After my feet had sufficiently dried off, I began making my way back to the entrance when some folks began pointing toward the swamp in an excited fashion. I followed the direction of their fingers and realized just below the water’s surface sat a full size crocodile. That was the time an old Chinese man watched me climb into a swamp… with crocodiles.