Nosce Te Ipsum

2/26: Mexico Road Trip: Palenque

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Sat, 26 Feb 2011 14:53:00 +0000

Saturday would prove to be the zenith of the road-trip. These are days that are conceived at a bizarre cosmic confluence where Life and Experience converge and create a torrent that can neither be dammed, crossed, nor navigated. Only ridden. These are the seldom-found days I live for. Days that toy with innate fear and contrived expectations while literally clawing at your senses and, upon reflection, leave in its wake deep traces on the soul. The sights, sounds, even the smells, remain---just mind’s eye glance away. Among the last few year's follies and escapades, this particular Saturday ranks near the top--along side my first night camping on the Pacific, the Oregon train-hop, and MasterCrafting the Willamette River on my weekend pass into Portland Aristocracy with Andre.

This day reminds me of the quote used in Sean Penn’s beautifully produced but otherwise ridiculous Into the Wild:

"...the sea's only gifts are harsh blows and, occasionally, the chance to feel strong. Now, I don't know much about the sea, but I do know that that's the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions, facing blind, deaf stone alone, with nothing to help you but your own hands and your own head..." —Primo Levi

Now, I’m not deluding myself into thinking that I was anywhere near the “most ancient of human conditions.” But, for a short time the pulse of youth quickened; the vitality born only through the discovery of life returned; the ecstasy of possibility once again sprung from the illusion that time is still a friend. A brutality of life is that when we are young we’re oblivious to how quickly life snatches that away.

To summarize: fuckin’ groovy! Yet, it didn’t exactly start that way.

We woke to our neighbors frantically asking about and searching for their dog. I told them he’d run through our campsite chasing something and we hadn’t seen him after that. After maybe 30-minutes, they packed up their VW with looks of overwhelming sadness and left--without the Lab. That was quite quick to give up, I thought, and cruel to leave the dog lost in the Palenque jungle when they were the ones who bought him in.

They hadn’t “left” him behind. The dog was dead.

The yelp we had heard wasn’t the sound of displeasure with an uninvited middle-of-the-night visit. He had decided to investigate something he shouldn't have. Probably a snake. His aggressive, reckless curiosity led him to one of Palenque’s serpents, and judging by the silence following the yelp, no whimpers or whines, it was a formidable one.

Here was a blunt reminder of our location and a continuation of the subtly black, unforgiving vibe I sensed permeating Mexico since my arrival; one demanding preparation and personal accountability. Like protecting your dog in an unfamiliar jungle. This wasn’t Marin County where concerns were confined to poison oak and scrawny coyotes sniffing out peanut butter. While not hanging from every branch, here resided camouflaged, slithering creatures that could kill you!

Snide condescension aside, I felt for the owners. They lost a pet they cared about and were obviously overcome with grief and regret. But, I must confess: beyond a sense of needless loss, I didn’t mourn the dog. My flashback to the Baton Rouge carnie camp was intense and I continued to project my resurrected shock and sickened-disgust directly onto this dog. Each of us have nerves that, while scarred over, remain sensitive and trigger sudden, unexpected bolts of pain; ones seemingly unrelated to each other with deeply rooted connections concealed even from ourselves. This served as both a reminder and elementary reintroduction to a theme that went temporarily dormant, then re-awakened triggering mild inner-seismic activity all summer.

With doggy-death as the backdrop for a morning filled with hygiene and food, the six of us jumped a flimsy fence and stumbled blindly into the jungle armed only with sketchy intel from The Hippies. (“Hop the fence, turn right and follow the stream.”) We could have paid, but the camping costs were excessive (at least by our self-imposed pauper standards) and besides, what fun would that be? Navigating authentic jungle to see the world-famous Palenque ruins for free? Hell yeah! THAT’S adventure!

We were immediately immersed in a scene from Apocolypto. (Literally. Much of the movie was shot in nearby Veracruz and Tuxla.) I immediately noticed the density of vegetation, the height and width of the massive trees, and the lack of light! I was disappointed with California’s Redwoods but these astounded me! Also, while the campground sweltered in the sun, our thick canopy shadowed and cooled things dramatically. Unfortunately, the tradeoff for cooler temps was that there was barely enough light to take good pictures.

We quickly found the stream, it quickly veered away from the road deeper into the jungle, and we suddenly found ourselves scaling small waterfalls! Standing with my head doused in clear, cool waterfalls, I was consumed with a sheer sense of BadAsstitude! Here I was, navigating a Mexican jungle, climbing seemingly random waterfalls, trying to sneak into the word famous Palenque ruins! Not Bash Bish State Park...Palenque!

We chanced upon stone structures lining our stream’s banks. I didn’t think much of them since they didn’t seem out of place until I realized: these were part of authentic, nearly undisturbed, overgrown Mayan infrastructure! This drove my suppressed inner-geek batshit; I could have spent days snooping here and this was just the beginning. Our hikes continued to disclose hints of something I would later learn was actually extensive: most of Palenque, (most Mayan sites in general) remain hidden by wilderness.

FUN FACT: With an intense interest in history and antiques, I considered archaeology long before radio. Problem: I thought there was no apparent path to making a decent living at it, while radio seemed "stable."Oops!

Without warning, we were on-site and climbing out of the jungle. Bewildered tourists peered into the jungle canopy clearly wondering if we were narco-trafficers, banditos, or perhaps a lost troop of the world-famous, mythical Chiapas Laughing Monkeys. I snapped a photo dripping with mischievous glee and the anticipation of what lie ahead.

We made our way thru the park, leisurely taking everything in. We hadn’t paid, so we lacked the park's wristbands leading to occasionally tense moments--at least until it was clear that the employees didn’t give a shit so long as we weren’t blatant or causing trouble! We weren’t worth the bother and besides--a few pesos would distract them.

Palenque is much larger than Toniná and Tulum. It’s also clean, manicured, and exuded familiarity after seeing the ruins in print over the years. Tour guides offered history lessons, which I eavesdropped on whenever possible while simultaneously exploring every nook I could.

After a couple of hours, which included a James nipping Chris in a testosterone-induced race to the top of a temple, the heat had zapped us. We’d seen Palenque, and our return jungle expedition revealed more hidden ruins including in-ground aqueducts doubling as bat caves and buildings long-ago reclaimed by jungle; buildings so large they were impossible to photograph effectively.

Batquaduct

Incredible!

An impromptu climbing demonstration took place back at the campground, followed by a refreshing trip to the pool, and...more climbing! The latter: Chris’s proud display of strength, courage, and industry! He tested his machete-wielding skills on a family of innocent coconut trees living peaceful, unassuming lives in trees lining the road to the campground. James had learned by now that any minuscule dose of encouragement would keep him climbing. And, climb he did...tree after tree...for an hour. At the end, he was exhausted and had shredded the insides of his legs! But, with positive payoff: several coconuts!

After a shower, dinner, an overpriced beer from the campground’s bar, and a failed attempt at Internetting, this remarkable day ended.

James decided we’d give Mauricio's “proper jungle” a shot, so Sunday's plan was to rise early (before the campground came to collect for our second night of camping) and get on the road toward Bonampak, near the Guatemala border. If Palenque wasn’t “proper jungle” I was eager to see what was! I envisioned a cross between Planet of the Apes, Apocolypto, and, if I was lucky, reenacting the Peace Corps scene from Airplane with added wild grinder monkeys.

What we got was almost as good: The Ant Farm...

2/25: Mexico Road Trip: Agua Azul & Palenque

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Sat, 26 Feb 2011 00:27:00 +0000

A faint shadow hovered over Dylancita (named for Bob Dylan) whenever we stopped: her peculiar habit of occasionally refusing to start! Particularly at military checkpoints, there was always silence and a holding of the collective breath when James prepared to turn the key. When it started, the Combi Gods were pleased. When it didn't? Well, five other people were available to push--much to the amusement of bystanders. It was a minor nuisance that somehow added an odd texture to the trip and was never a serious problem...except for two instances later in the trip. One could have been literally catastrophic.

James went about trying to find the cause on Friday morning. As handy as he was mechanically, he had a cavalier attitude toward tires, of all things! When I poked my head beneath, I saw that the left rear tire was less a tire than a ragged piece of worn rubber featuring a full, silver halo of exposed, busted bands! Horrifying! We had just spent a day snaking over mountains and bounding over topes! He was visibly annoyed when I told him he NEEDED to replace it but, moving his ego aside (so mine may take center stage), I take full credit for saving the Dylancita Party from certain peril somewhere beyond Ocosingo! I expect a medal and public recognition at some point...

In case you think I exaggerate

While in much better shape, his spare was another size, but an hour and two new tires later Dylancita was sporting new shoes and chugging faithfully toward Palenque.

Palenque was still a few hours away. With the late start we would not be arriving in time to fully explore the ruins even if we rushed straight there. In addition, after exiting Ocosingo’s mountains, the road dropped steadily into warmer and muggier terrain that would eventually become the jungle. Combined that with the fact that Maarja loved waterfalls, a side trip seemed in order.

I had never heard of the properly named Agua Azul, which is located 20-30 minutes off the main road, in the jungle, and at the bottom of a steep valley. Once inside, the waterfalls and crowded blue water immediately grab you. I have yet to see the research, but suspect that most gringos fail to explore beyond this impressive main vista, but the real treats lie hidden by effort. If you follow the merchant-lined pathway to the top of the falls, you discover there is much more lying BEHIND the falls along the banks of this tranquil, incredibly blue river.

We spent 30-minutes swinging from a rope into the cold mountain water before moving on only to find people living here! I saw traditional families obliviously bathing naked while others washed their clothes. The setting was surreal; as close to a 21st century time machine as you’ll find. I was quietly in awe, flooded with thoughts and ideas once again questioning that tired old imposed standard of success.

After several leaps from a large tree into the river, we were making our way back toward Dylancita then Palenque. The heat, humidity, and landscape soon showed that the jungle engulfed us, and James was now on the lookout for food: coconuts, bananas, mangos…whatever! Coincidentally, Chris was in a mood to climb (and perhaps show off) so we spent 20-minutes watching him climb a tree, machete in hand and mouth, procuring food. This would not be the final display from Frodo, and I chuckled as I thought back to Maryland in ’09 when, I swear, he muttered something in a long-extinct D & D language before darting into the woods to molest yet another fucking tree.

Chris’s bounty? We thought they were green bananas, but instead were plantains which are closer potatoes. Nothing we could just snack on, but the picture made it worthwhile, and he would have more chances.

As night fell, we found ourselves on the edge of Palenque loading up on food and liquor preparing to camp adjacent to the ruins and celebrate Estonian Independence Day! The highlight: Vodka. Lots of Vodka. When asked what kind he liked, Jan responded in his Russian-sounding accent that, “Wodka is Wodka.” I will never forget that as long as I live!

James had learned from The Hippies that it was possible to sneak through the jungle and get into Palenque without paying, especially from a particular campground close to the gate. With a little effort, we found and secured our spot. Eevi and Maarja whipped up some delicious Estonian food, and soon a kitten joined us as we sat around a nice fire chatting with the Jurassic Park sounds of the world’s loudest land animal, the howler monkey, as a backdrop. Their three-mile howls do sound like dinosaurs!

I finally seized my chance at that precious perspective from the “other side” of the Cold War. As we swigged Vodka, Jan told about living in the Soviet Union, serving in its army, and to my utter shock, his affinity for Ronald Reagan! Jan’s position was simple: he HATED the Russians. They had seized and occupied his country; any enemies of theirs were friends of his. I came away from that chat further convinced that, regardless of politics, ideology, or nationality; perhaps in spite of it; we are all more alike than we would care to admit.

Parked at the campsite next to ours was a nearly identical yellow VW Combi belonging to a group of young Americans or Canadians. They seemed nice enough, but their large, hyperactive Labrador retriever failed to grasp his place in the world; he was determined to introduce himself to our friend the kitten. Haunted by memories of Baton Rouge, I was having acutely negative reactions to this dog, and kept watch over the cat until an adorable little girl, one clearly possessing an old-soul, stopped by, saw what was going on, chatted with me despite not sharing a language, and then whisked the cat away.

As Friday became Saturday, the “Wodka” flowed, and so did the chats. Sometime around 2am, something caused our neighbor’s dog to go berserk. A loud noise preceded him streaking uninvited through our campsite, barking in hot pursuit of something. “Fucking dog…” I muttered...or perhaps slurred. It continued barking for a few minutes running from one end of the campground to the other. Suddenly...a yelp. Then quiet.

I assumed someone had physically invited him to leave their campsite. I was wrong...

2/24: Mexico Road Trip: Toniná

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 03:20:00 +0000

Aside from Canada and perhaps Iceland*, all cultures have redeeming qualities. While Brits excel at misplaced snobbery and snotty sarcasm, I’ve rarely heard them described as "skilled" drivers. Combine that with the directional lobotomy of learning to drive on the left side of the road, and it's clear: James had overcome staggering odds. He was displaying authentic skill when snaking his power steeringless Combi through Chumula’s tight, steep streets!

Any stereotypical NASCAR fan would envy James’s reading ability--while publically embracing ignorance and pronouncing James's wealth of literacy (readin’, ritin’, and...rithma...addin') as "faggy".** Now, imagine their horror (and repeated flurry of the word “fag”) when they see that he also boasts a superior mastery of the temperamental clutch and idiosyncratic gears! He displayed both skills flawlessly, in reverse, while liberating us from the extortionist's inclined parking lot on Sunday.

James knew his Combi. James understood Mexico’s roadways. James was our captain. No one even suggested another helmsman until days later, when midnight fatigue corrupted judgment and our new navigator's assignment ended with a close encounter with a semi!

Launch

James decided against Tulum as a final destination in favor of an improvised visit to the much closer Gulf coast. He had also learned of a park near Bonampak, close to the Guatemala border, described as “proper jungle”; a place we could almost literally camp with the monkeys.

First however: Palenque.

Considering our pace, any further NASCAR references would be silly. Our bright yellow, early 70's, air-cooled Combi sputtered into the mountains late Thursday morning with Maarja’s uncle (Jan), Chris, and I on the rear bench seat; silently staking out our unspoken assigned seats. From then on, whenever we boarded we assumed the same spots: Jan at the left window, Chris in the middle, and I at the door. Up front, Maarja had the passenger’s seat, and her aunt, Eevi, sat on a pillow atop a customized middle console that doubled as a hidden safe. There was little spare room but it was perfectly comfortable.

We had all the luxuries one would expect of grizzled, hardened, intrepid adventurers: a gas stove complete with cookware and a small foldout table, a built-in inverter, and several Internet devices! The rear bench folded out into Jan and Eevi’s double bed while the roof hid James and Maarja’s.

Hopefully protecting my “cred” with you would-be “Survivorman" critics sitting at home eating Ruffles, Chris and I would need to find places outside for our bivies every night, all while repelling Jaguars, Black Mambas, and cannibalistic Mayan narco traffickers with nothing more than bloody fisticuffs and broken sticks.***

Intrepid adventurers, indeed!

I never tired of the twisting road between San Cristobal and Ocosingo. With its little indigenous/Zapatista villages and incredible views, it’s easy to get lose yourself in a landscape that, like so much of Mexico, was magnetic but not obliged or prone to mercy.

James hoped to stop for the night somewhere between San Cristobal and Palenque hoping for an early jump on Friday, so I shared Erik’s recommendation of Tonina, the Mayan ruins outside Ocosingo--and almost exactly half way to Palenque.

A few hours later, we descended into Ocosingo, which is situated in foothills on the edge of a large valley and is easily the largest city around. Lacking any of San Cristobal’s character, charm, and (not coincidentally) tourist dollars, there was a raw, dirty, but disturbingly alluring vibe oozing thru the narrow, dingy streets; streets that once bore witness to guerilla warfare and the federal government’s harsh crackdown on the Zapatistas. Everywhere I looked, I expected to see bullet holes and masked rebels--seventeen years later. On the surface, the city would never betray the significant Mayan ruins just fifteen miles...and light years...away.

Toniná

Like Egypt, Greece, and Machu Picchu, Mayan ruins have fascinated me since I was a kid. I’d hoped to see them in person, but assumed I would sooner see Giza than Chichen Itza or Palenque. Why would I ever travel to THAT part of Mexico? I found my answer in the back of a crowded, increasingly warm VW Combi.

Toniná is set in the middle of pastoral farmland and, with the mountains as a backdrop, its scenery reminded me of a Mexican Idaho! When the large, singular gray ruins suddenly appeared off in the distance, I was struck as much by what they weren’t as what they were. Rather than a colossal monument defying nature and testifying to the accomplishments of man, it was a part of everything surrounding it. Both literally and in the abstract, it was part of the surrounding landscape; it was built directly into a hillside.

At its height, Toniná was usually at war with Palenque and ultimately became the dominant city of the Maya Region. Despite that, Toniná isn’t a famous, sprawling tourist complex like Palenque or Chichen Itza. While potentially on-par with Tikal when it's fully excavated, what’s visible right now is one massive ruin consisting of terraces on which sit what’s left of ancient temples. A plaza area sits at the base of the main structure and once featured carved monuments and a “ballcourt”.

It was built in step-pyramid style, and despite the hazards of the skinny “steps”, you can climb all the way to the top; something that could never happen in the US because of liability concerns; “someone might get hurt!” For our risk...and effort...we were rewarded with stunning, 360-degree views of the lush green valley, high jungle, and wall of ragged mountains, including those we spent the afternoon crossing. From the top, Toniná was as beautiful as Ocosingo was nasty; I sensed, perhaps even felt, why this group of Mayans built their city here.

There were only a handful of others exploring with us, and the next couple of hours were spent climbing on, in, and around the main structure and imagining things like where sacrifices might have taken place! You could overlook this complex that housed thousands of Mayans and imagine the multitudes massed beneath you. Or, as you approach it’s base at ground level, look up at the imposing structure and almost see King Garra de Jaguar, (Jaguar Claw).

The campground was less a “campground” than a large back yard. However, it was empty and, after James and Maarja negotiated the price down to next to nothing: perfect.

Gathering wood, we met some friends who would be persistent, painful companions over the next several days: fire ants. They weren’t an issue sitting around the fire Thursday night drinking James’s liquor, but that would soon change--especially for Chris--and we’d learn first-hand just how single-minded and organized these relentless little fuckers could be!

Jan

On the rare occasion when Jan decided to speak, it was in reasonably good English with a thick, Russian sounding accent; one that begged the phrase “Moose & Squirrel”! He possessed that rare, calm demeanor born, not of self-consciousness, but self-confidence. Jan didn’t feel the need to engage or impress anything upon anyone. He wasn’t one to offer (or suffer) the banalities of small talk.

Tall and thin, but still brawny and roughnecked, Jan owned a construction company in Estonia and, despite being 60, was an incredible physical specimen. You could tell he’d worked hard and could do anything with his hands. James had repeatedly told us about his one-armed wood chopping demonstration in San Cristobal. One arm? If I tried that, someone would lose one...and probably a foot!

For the historically unaware, Estonia was seized and occupied by the Soviet Union, becoming part of the Iron Curtain so many of us grew up fearing, patriotically, as the Devil. In the early ’70‘s, Jan was conscripted into the Soviet army under Brezhnev, but he was no Communist; he hated the Soviets. Since we were each propagandized to be old enemies, I was fascinated and hoped for my first chance to reconcile Cold War fact with its abundance of fiction. But, that would have to wait a night...until we toasted Estonian Independence Day with a large, fitting amount of Vodka!

Climbing tequila-buzzed into the bivy, I saw that, since leaving Marci’s, life in Mexico started on a remarkable and extended upswing. That would only intensify; I had embarked on what would prove to be my most memorable days in Mexico.

*The UN and Amnesty International: "There is nothing culturally redeeming about/exported from Canada or Iceland. Celine Dion and Bjork may, in fact, be classified as weapons of mass destruction constituting crimes against humanity and COULD justify invading Iraq and/or Afghanistan."-Classified Joint Internal Report , submitted to President George W. Bush 8/15/00, obtained by Wikileaks 2010

**The author loves and respects southern "culture".

***May not have happened quite this way.

2/19-23: San Cristobal-Flux Capacitor...Fluxing

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 06:25:00 +0000

With entirely too much beef and chicken that would go missing in the hostel's kitchen, we had an excuse for a Saturday barbecue with James and Maarja. Several of us spent the afternoon gorging and discovered that Maarja’s Aunt and Uncle, Eevi and Jan, would arrive in San Cristobal in a few days. James and Maarja wanted to do something special with them, so we discussed a six-man Combi-roadtrip to Palenque. Suddenly, abandoning San Cristobal on Monday seemed rash, and as the day ended we had made plans to take the Combi on a more immediate mini-trip: to a nearby indigenous village, San Juan de Chumula, on Sunday.

Chumula is a popular "getaway" tourist destination 20-30 minutes away. We were joined by Gaili, an attractive Estonian photographer in her early 30‘s couchsurfing with Jose Luis. Popular or not, Chumula spewed the most negative, black, and unfriendly vibe of any spot I’d encounter in Mexico. There was the barely concealed scent of a strained tolerance--one they only sold for gringo dollars and a sale I refused--aside from a bag of guavas I shared with village/street kids.

The entire Chumula “attraction” seemed to revolve around the church and its adjacent marketplace, one significantly smaller than San Cristobal’s. I may have missed the point, but from my perspective the church was a tourist folly to be avoided since it cost money just to step inside! Then, once you've purchased access to their church, photography was strictly forbidden and prosecutable, as were photos of the dozens of church/government leaders scurrying around in fuzzy, furry, little costumes; ones that evoked images of a cuddly Ewok Bureaucracy. Despite it all, Gaili, a truly gifted photographer, snapped dozens of incredible shots of Chumula and its diminutive little people while I managed my share...within their rules.

James & I: Gaili's Handiwork in Cumula

An argument erupted with a “parking attendant” who tried to extort James when we tried to leave; one eventually including the obligatory threat to involve the police. The "attendant" didn't get a nickel, and for the first time I saw the James/Maarja partnership in action. Despite his cheeky appearance, James is quick, sarcastic, and sharp. He takes no shit from Mexican con men while Maarja speaks much better Spanish and is much better creating a subtle "good cop/bad cop" effect; an entertaining and effective combination! Watching their personalities subconsciously meld while negotiating, then exploiting, bartering Mexicans would become something like daily theater.

We spent Sunday evening with Carrie and some fellow Posada 5 hostelers at a tourist bar for a vaudeville-type show put on by a large group of local performers...including Marci! They spoke only Spanish, but context combined brilliantly with my limited (yet growing) vocabulary making it hilarious.

Marci refunded Chris's rent Monday, as promised, and we joined Carrie back at the Posada 5. Tuesday featured a fateful visit to Chris’s Spanish school where pondering putting my Spanish training in the hands of professionals was followed by a hike up an insane number of steps leading to the Guadalupe church--where we immediately saw Maarja along with her aunt and uncle! Jan and Eevi wanted to see Palenque and the ocean, they were leaving in the next day or two...and we could come along if we'd chip in.

San Cristobal Language School

From Guadalupe Church

Maarja, Eevi, and Jan

We exchanged emails from there and in the meantime met one of the most interesting Aussies ever: Erik. He was traveling Mexico with his partner and their young son and were soon to be making their way north to the States.

Erik displayed a remarkable depth of knowledge combined with an impressive mental access to detail during the couple of hours we discussed Mayan sites, culture, mythology, and demise (as well as general social collapse theory) sitting around Posada 5’s kitchen table. Erik said that if we were going to Palenque we should definitely stop at another, lesser known site half way there and near Ocosingo: Tonina (toe-nee-NAH). His was a recommendation you instinctively took seriously, so I wrote it down wishing I’d got the chance to know him better.

James and Maarja decided they were leaving Thursday. We set up a place to meet and prepared to leave San Cristobal, possibly for good. Chris and I wanted to be sure that we had the option to exit the Combi if things proved awkward or simply too crowded. James, thankfully, would have no trouble expressing either, one of the things we liked most about him, so we took everything in case San Cristobal remained forever in the rearview.

To say "Thursday began an epic adventure" would be both cliche' and an understatement. Not only would it go well past Palenque, it would unwrap and present southern Mexico to me. By the time it ended, my immediate future would have more clarity, my relationship with Chris would be further textured and slightly altered and, shockingly, I would surprisingly tap into a dormant reserve of *gasp* patriotic pride!

Epic? Epic indeed...

2/15-18: San Cristobal-Revolution and Domestication

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 06:13:00 +0000

Pardon me while I indulge myself by highlighting a distinction...and brag for a moment.

The following few paragraphs are an example of where millions of Moonbeam "travel writers" simply pander and choose to babble about things like an “a-maaaaa-zing cultural diversity” found and bound together by a “common fundamental belief in human dignity, individual freedom, and national sovereignty” neatly encompassed, “both in name and atmosphere, inside San Cristobal’s most famous night spot and social beacon": Revolution.

Horseshit.

MARKETING REVOLUTION

True: Revolution is San Cristobal’s best known bar. Also true: It’s small, it’s dark, and it’s too expensive. It’s marketed, like mass-produced Zapatista trinketry, to the abundant young, naive tourists prancing into town with their plumage erect; their "worldliness" on display to the world; their brazen idealism proudly unrelated to and unconcerned with whether their abstract ideas and textbook philosophies can coexist with tangible pragmatism and action.

Forty-years ago, the hippies would have pointed to that last line as an excuse to, “never trust anyone over thirty!” As the regular reader knows, I’m still 29, yet more important than my personal delusion is this question: why aren’t the vast majority of those old hippies...hippies anymore? Did ALL of their hearts die? Did the “man” beat all of them down? I’ll bet the answer is wrapped inside something whose faded label reads “Pragmatic Realism”.

I digress...

Revolution is also popular with other unique demographics: Latino twenty-somethings channeling Che...at least in fashion and hygiene...and a breed of local who is wise enough to hunt where the flock gathers.

The cosmic point where these primal forces of identity converge fascinates me! Picture the self-deluded, cocky pretension of a cute, young, European or American "university" woman saddled up alongside a sly, wolfishly charismatic, young compañero. Then you eavesdrop as her young Latino friend methodically fattens her liberal, guilt-ridden Anglo-ego with accented words and stiff drinks...just waiting for his opportunity to feed! So common is the practice, that the locals have an insulting name for these guys: Gringo Fuckers. Supposedly cultured, traveled, and "educated" young women have clear, generic (not genetic) traits that make them easy prey for the savvy predator. But, be warned: DO NOT tell them! THEY, of course, are “expressing their individualism”...just like everybody else.

A DEAL CONCEIVED AT REVOLUTION

Shitty as it was, Revolution was the place for live music, a passion for James, so we predictably had landed here Monday night long after the Posheria. Chris saw a woman he knew from volunteering at a cultural center, and following a lengthy conversation over loud music and conducted in his limited Spanish, Chris conveyed that she had offered a place to rent...dirt cheap. Her only hangup was me. Marci knew Chris and was eager to have him there, but was much less enthusiastic about my presence! He made it clear that any arrangement would be for both of us, to which she eventually agreed, and invited us to see it Wednesday.

Carrie recommended the Posada 5 hostel and it was exactly what we needed. Cheap camping inside a walled-in back yard, a kitchen, wireless Internet, and showers! For less than $4 each, we had a place to pitch my Origami Tuesday night before our appointment. To kill time, we took a tour of different parts of the city and had dinner with Scott and Laura, an American couple we had met at the Lobo Inn in Tulum who had just arrived in San Cristobal.

Wednesday arrived carrying hope and anticipation. Spanish, or my lack of it, and our failure to block out time to practice had become a nuisance and regular topic of conversation. We blamed “distractions” and declared that having an apartment for a month was exactly what we needed: our own space. It would cost less than a hostel, so it wouldn’t take the Taj Mahal to make this an agreeable situation!

The apartment was a brisk walk from El Centro and in a seemingly nondescript neighborhood with the typical single-level, block-long structure. The only detail seen from the ouside was her ordinary black door and, judging by the exterior, I expected a two room roach nest.

I was dumbfounded once we were inside.

The apartment consisted of two mostly empty large rooms moving front to back from the street, followed by Marci’s bedroom at the back of the main building. Yes, main building. Behind it was a enclosed courtyard completely concealed from the world by a tall concrete wall. Inside her skinny courtyard was another small, single room building that served as the kitchen and behind it was an open space for a hammock and a clothes sink. On top of the wall was the Mexican Security System: broken soda/beer bottles set like spikes directly into the concrete! They were thick, sharp, and set close enough together in great enough numbers that I was certain there was NO way ANYONE was climbing over that wall!

The place even came with a friendly little dog, Charley. All this for less than a hostel. The more we looked around, the more stoked we were.

We happily paid Marci, got the key, bid her farewell as she headed off, then just sat around laughing at our luck! This was perfect; exactly what we needed.

The kitchen demanded a trip to the market for provisions and cooking fajitas turned into a prodigious production. When we finally sat down with Charley at our feet and feasted, Chris was particularly happy. This was the first place he could call his, even temporarily, in nearly two years. He took joy in it.

We had just settled in when, at about 10:00, the door surprisingly opened. It was Marci. Marci was inexplicably horrified to find Chris set up on her bed, and I was horrified by her horror! What was she doing here? I thought she was staying at the cultural center!

Yeah....funny story ‘bout that.

THE MISUNDERSTANDING

There was a monumental communication breakdown during the negotiation process; somewhere clear understanding had fallen into the cracks that lie between their Spanish/English language barriers. This was not “our” place; we were Marci’s roommates.

With that, the excitement that had defined the entire day deflated. Marci put us to work sewing pillows and practicing Spanish with the knowledge that, while the prospect of being a roommate wasn’t terrible, it wasn’t what either of us expected, or wanted. As disappointing as it was, it was still a decent situation. We hadn’t signed anything, and Laina and I had begun exploratory conversations about her possibly flying to Cancun in late March, so I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to remain in San Cristobal. I had paid only for a couple weeks so as Thursday came, I settled in hoping to make the best of it.

¡LA SALIDA RAPIDA!

Friday morning, Chris said something to the effect that Marci now had a friend coming into town and there were going to be complications with where they’d stay. “Complications” that somehow seemed to surround me. With that, my blood shot to a boil and I told Chris it was time for me to go. When I understood the raw basics of the discussion, my rational brain immediately deactivated so I’m unsure that I understand what the “complications” were; I do know my frustration level had increased steadily since “The Misunderstanding” and, at that point, I‘d much rather have been hitching, camping, or at a hostel. Chris agreed and we began gathering our things.

Surprisingly, Marci was understanding and even showed sincere disappointment when he told her we were moving on...and that we’d like a refund minus the time we were there. She readily agreed, returned my cash, and promised she’d have Chris’s the following Monday. I had no reason, but I was skeptical.

My reflexive response was to leave San Cristobal immediately, and I suggested that we hitch to either the Gulf or the Pacific to get some sun and surf. Chris loved that, but since we had to wait for Marci to refund his rent we were tethered to San Cristobal through the weekend.

We settled beneath the Origami at another hostel where we supposedly could stay for the weekend and study Spanish. We did very little of either...

2/8-14: San Cristobal-Jose Luis's Galactic Station

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 02:38:00 +0000

Jose Luis

I loved Jose Luis’s place immediately! His was a large guest house in a farm-like setting that reminded me of Asheville, North Carolina. The house consisted a large main room which worked non-stop as the kitchen, dining, and living area and maintained a rural Montana or New Mexico vibe. The wood floors creaked constantly enhancing the rustic, frontierish ambiance.

I found Jose Luis to be one of the youngest 57-year olds I’d met. He spoke good English thanks in part to having lived, married and had children in the US, and acted as though we’d known each other for years. I thought it was because he had met Chris in January, but this was just how he was with everyone!

Jose Luis's Place

Bordering the large shared horse-pasture was the landlord, Olivier’s, peculiar three-level house that was home to several tenants including James the Brit and his Estonian girlfriend, Maarja. The building was intricately decorated with large horse-themed figures painted on the exterior and adding to it's distinctiveness was the shape: the main building's width was excessive in relation to depth; so much so that it almost appeared to be a converted barn! With mountains as a backdrop in the distance, everything combined to create an atmosphere that encouraged “presence”; potentially the perfect place to transition to Mexico. Even the dogs & horses had character!

The Couchsurfer Wing was a rather large bedroom with a small, single bed along side several inflatable mattresses standing neatly made in anticipation of the Couchsurfer Invasion due over the next several days. This was, by far, the most elaborate Couchsurfing situation I’d ever seen or heard of! He clearly had completely embraced the spirit of Couchsurfing and was well on his way to becoming San Cristobal’s unofficial ambassador.

We had arrived at Jose Luis’s just at the point where I was, physically, nearly ready to expire. My voice was virtually gone, barely a broken whisper and getting worse, but I ran on adrenaline long enough to get acquainted but before long the idea of hunkering down for a week allowed both mind and body to exhale...and my strange, persistent illness to take over.

I needed rest. That’s exactly what I did for the next couple of days. Aside from a trip to the downtown market for food and daily walks to the neighborhood Sol y Luna restaurant for huge dinners, there wasn’t much socializing. So little, that I became concerned that I was alienating myself from our host! Couchsurfers each day and, as our little room was quickly filling, I was lying in bed most of the time.

I was feeling much better as the week went on and, as the parties wound up, Jose Luis’s place became a beehive of activity hosting Couchsurfers from countries including the US, France, Romania, Spain, Argentina, and others.

Among them was a group referred to simply as “The Hippies” who had arrived in a large, veggie oil-powered bus similar to the one Chris and I passengered to DC in ’09. Their unquestioned leader was a 20-something, dreadlocked, McGyverish character who could usually be seen tinkering with something while heard speaking, knowledgeably, on everything else. My general opinion of hippies is documented, but as a well rounded man-of-skill, this guy was fucking impressive!

James, Maarja, Jan, Alex

In addition to captaining the USS Veggie, he led the nearly cliche’ “hippie-band”; one evidently successful (and good) enough to fund their travels. The band/crew included his mother and two young French women: one extremely attractive and the other eccentrically odd. The latter reminded me of the old Hungry Like the Wolf video. I never felt safe within striking distance; she always seemed ready to...bite.

Another interesting pair were Jan (yahn) and Alexandra, from Spain and Romania respectively. They had been traveling around the world for more than 5-years nonstop and had seen Europe, Africa, Iran, Pakistan, China, India, and almost everywhere else. They had recently traveled the States and were planning a visit to Cuba before turning toward Central and South America. While I’m not typically impressed with other travelers, these two impressed me. Especially their original anecdotes and opinions about places like Pakistan, Iran, Afghanistan, and Africa. It’s all relative, but that made my hopping of freight trains and hitching Idaho seem a bit...stale!

Alex impressed me with a dose of much-needed frankness and unfiltered honesty. She was a traveling rarity in that, in private conversation at least, she was unconcerned with spreading sunshine and moonbeams. She possessed a blunt, honest authenticity combined with a pragmatic eastern European attitude; she wasn’t frightened to violate the warm & fuzzy Moonbeam Code and would tell you what she REALLY thought of people, places, and cultures. It wasn't always positive! That honesty could potentially rub the Moonbeamers the wrong way!

Sound like anyone you know?

Laryngitis, and not speaking Spanish to begin with, brought a quick, rather intense, and important self-realization: until then, I failed to realize just how difficult it is for me when I'm unable to articulate and express thoughts effectively! From antiquated alcohol abuse, to radio, even to this writing, frustrated, self-destructive, often subtle tendencies became apparent--usually erupting when, due to either a lack of access to the words, or worse a base inability to interpret my own internal codex, I found myself the metaphorical mute flailing in frustration at the world.

As they say happens with the blind, this experience served to heighten another sense: listening and observing and, later in the week, when we joined Jose Luis and a friend for dinner and drinks that culminated with some influential insight into who Jose Luis was and a glimpse of what lies beneath the surface of San Cristobal, Chiapas and Mexico overall. Chris and I had already taken a rather keen interest in the Zapatistas and I always have an intense curiosity about various, hidden political & sociological layers wherever I am. Little did I know until that moment that we were staying with a relative expert on both.

Apparently, Jose Luis had been heavily involved in Mexican politics. So much so, that he had traveled to Cuba to “learn weapons” and at one time been courted to run for high national office. To hear him tell it, he somehow ruffled enough political plumage to find himself in jail; arrested by the corrupt elements in the government on fake drug charges...as a warning.

Through the conversation, Jose Luis freely admitted that since he’s left politics, he’s struggling to find a way to redefine/engage his political and social beliefs; a feeling I understood well. Jose Luis never dictated his manifesto, so I can’t say for sure that he was involved directly in the 1994 Zapatista rebellion. What I can say is that this conversation was educational, rather intense, and nudged open a door that, to that point, I had been quietly sitting outside since my arrival in Mexico and, with help, would silently tiptoe thru later.

Our conversation took place about the same time that Wisconsin’s teabagging, austerity hound governor was working to break his state employee’s union. Joe Luis had been watching CNN with disgusted interest, pointing out that his kids were Americans and US politics always affects Mexican politics. We shared a disturbed amazement that, considering our intense history with corporate Labor Wars, Americans were so eager and willing to rescind their own worker’s rights in the name of nothing more than Fake Tea. I’m stunned to this day how people will be manipulated into voting against their own DIRECT interest.

As my brother-in-law perceived well over a year ago, my political conversations and social beliefs often end friendships. This time, however, they forged one. I’d liked Jose Luis from the start but, not requiring anything worthy of authentic respect, it’s easy to be “liked”. I gained a great deal of respect for Jose Luis, and after hearing what I had struggled to say (at proper tone, for once!), I’d repeatedly hear him tell people that I have a “good political mind”, although I would always insist that, no matter what he said, “I wasn’t sleeping with him!”

The first party was at Jose Luis’s, and an incredibly eclectic collection of nationalities, personalities, and ages. A traveling road-dog from Mexico City named Norberto was now among us in the Couchsurfer Wing and he turned out to be an incredibly charismatic guitarist providing live entertainment through the weekend. Beyond his impressive musical skills, I was surprised to play witness to what I can only describe as an impromptu, interactive jam session, led by Norberto, and joined by everyone else on whatever they could find to play: cans, pots, pans, tables...whatever. It was fun to experience this spontaneous communal recital of The Rolling Stones Satisfaction and Sympathy for the Devil although having neither rhythm nor an ounce of musical talent, I excused myself by filming it! As the evening went on, we found ourselves chatting almost exclusively with James (the 25-year old Brit living next door) and his girlfriend, Maarja. I also found myself laughing a lot in the process!

Norberto

Seeing James for the first time, I didn’t know what to think other than “blonde Ronald McDonald with that prissy little accent!” However, he proved to be much more interesting than The Hamburglar. They had already traveled all over Central and South America with an impressive flair for adventure. Since arriving in Mexico, they had stayed for an extended time in Guadalajara, had bought a VW Combi in Mexico City, and were now staying in San Cristobal for a few months and waiting on a replacement for James’s stolen passport. From Mexico, they were planning to take their VW and explore the US . When they invited Chris and I into San Cristobal to find some live music, even though I was still feeling far from prime, we agreed.

Saturday’s tequilla-filled party was next door at Kitti’s place, an exquisite Hungarian who lived in Olivier’s building along with her Argentinian boyfriend, Mauricio. Norberto reprieved his role as The Entertainer, and the party was again followed up by a trip downtown with James & Maarja. Growing quite fond of this couple, I remarked that I hadn’t laughed so hard and so often in a VERY long time.

Kitti

A wad of pesos and a bottle of James’s rum later, we’d learned that they had nearly been held up at AK-point on a Venezuelan beach before their borderline-psychotic Columbian companion had intimidated their would-be robber with nothing more than gall by charging him and screaming something to the effect of, “You think your fucking gun scares me, Venezuelan? I’m fucking COLUMBIAN!!” They told of scamming their way aboard a Caribbean-bound boat by telling the captain (falsely) that they were seasoned sailers, managed to pull it off for an extended time, and how James had been nailed by a stingray in the process. James told of visiting Machu Picchu and about getting a severe case of dysentery and having to be flown to Lima for treatment.

This was exactly what I needed to hear looking forward, and I was happy to be in the company of people who had done more, much more, than I had. When the four of us offhandedly discussed the possibility of taking their Combi to see the Mayan ruins in Palenque, we planted some incredibly significant seeds.

Carrie made another, rather surprising, pleasant appearance at Jose Luis’s Couchsurfing Compound over the weekend suffering a shockingly (to me) intense adverse reaction to Alex’s “generalizing” opinions on people, places, and things! I also learned that Carrie’s dad broadcasts baseball on the radio, and himself played for several teams in the ‘80’s. Our common interests in radio and baseball gave us something besides our slightly antagonistic world views to chat about, and triggered (rekindled, really) nostalgic second guessing that would nag to the end of my stay.

Our “plan” (ha!) from the beginning was staying with Jose Luis, at his “Galactic Station” as he liked to call it, for up to a week. Our last night there was Monday, Valentine’s Day and several of us couchsurfers went out for posh, and expensive, stiff alcohol that comes in different flavors, to celebrate a birthday. It was a great, albeit pricey, way to wrap things up, however Jose Luis was conspicuously absent. Since the end of the weekend’s fiestas Jose Luis had become a bit reclusive, and it was clear that, for us at least, it was time to go...

2/8: San Cristobal-Inadequate Introductions

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 06:02:00 +0000

Chiapas

Chiapas is an incredibly beautiful, fascinating place whose history, including the Mayan ruins in Palenque, draws visitors from around the world. Its very pheromones seem to exude the essence of authentic and unapologetic revolution, revolt, and independence. While Tuxtla Gutierrez is now its capitol, San Cristobal is the political and spiritual center of the local Mayan/Mestizo population, and an epicenter of the Zapatista movement that became a sensation for successfully revolting against the Mexican government in 1994. Images of Emiliano Zapata, Pancho Villa, Che Guevara, and Subcomandante Marcos are never far away and have even become an important part of the areas primary industry: tourism.

This is by no meant as a comprehensive historical account, but briefly the Zapatistas (EZLN) brand and market themselves as an indigenous movement demanding to simply be left alone to live their traditional way of life unmolested by the Mexican government. During the '94 uprising, the Zapatistas occupied four cities in the mountains surrounding, and including, San Cristobal. After a bloody battle in Ocosingo, in the mountains a few hours northeast of San Cristobal, they eventually reached an edgy compromise with the federal government ending outward hostilities, but tensions continue today due in large part to what international watchdog groups described as a brutal government repression of the uprising. Examples included aerial bombardment of indigenous villages surrounding San Cristobal, torture, summary executions, and mass graves with much of the violence perpetrated against the unarmed, indigenous population of the area. Being there 17-years later, it was eerily common to see fully armed troops stationed at various points around the city, particularly El Centro.

The compromise was mediated by Bishop Samuel Ruiz, who at 86 died less than a week before I arrived in Mexico. I don’t pretend to be a seasoned scholar of Ruiz, Chiapas, or the Zapatistas but his is a single story that seems to tell a great deal about the Zapatistas, San Cristobal, and Chiapas itself:

San Cristobal

San Cristobal de las Casas is situated at 7,000 feet in a valley that's surrounded in all directions by lush mountains and the Lacandona jungle which combine to provide an impressive backdrop for its own raw, rugged, setting. The high altitude can take some getting used to and makes for a much cooler climate than one would expect from a city this close to Guatemala. The humidity was also a fraction of Cancun's.

Despite, or perhaps because of, very high expectations my first impressions were far from glowing and I'd wager very similar to those of most Americans—at least those free to admit it: dirty, congested, and overpopulated! It appeared filled with short, rickety, graffiti-tagged old dwellings held together with binder twine and duct tape and I wondered what about this city, aside from the shrewdly marketed Zapatista/Che angle, draws so many travelers, young and old, from all over the globe. It didn’t seem to transmit or resonate on any particularly remarkable frequency but I was also aware that I'm increasingly distracted from these things lately!

On the way in to the city, we passed a fenced off collection of dilapidated, flimsy shacks tenuously perched on a steep mountainside and where the poverty seemed particularly astounding. It reminded me of an urban Slab City, only dirtier and without the dropout's 30 year-old RVs. I also shot back to last spring and the tent cities beside Fresno’s train tracks. The obvious difference was that this was obviously a permanent situation where they’d built homes out of whatever they could find while stateside "down-and-out" Americans subconsciously clung to the “temporary” mentality of waiting for their elusive American Dream to make its heroic return.

I had seen semi-permanent shelters along side the roads in and around Cancun as well, and suddenly found myself asking WHERE in the States a poverty-stricken person would be ALLOWED to erect a little shack and live in it! Can you imagine me building a wooden shack on the side of the road near South Beach or Santa Barbara? There's a reason America's longterm homeless live in tents, beneath bridges, and next to the train tracks. They're constantly rousted from wherever they're an "inconvenient" reminder of Capitalism's limitations and if the machine is lucky, eventually shuffled out of sight.

Inside this homemade tenement complex, I once again saw loads of kids playing with whatever they could find. There was a fleeting, familiar thought reminding me that happiness is relative; a poor, happy kid kicking his can will always be more content then the fundamentally miserable aristoBrat riding high atop his new pony. No matter how pretty his “pony,” it will not make him happy for long. Don't tell him that though!

Congested traffic clogging narrow streets instantly showed the futility of driving in San Cristobal and I began paying closer attention to the ever-present minivan taxis I had noticed in Cancun and Tulum: the colectivos. Next to walking, the colectivo is the primary public transportation and inexpensive means around town for those who chose not to pay for taxis, which also swarmed the city. I was happy to learn that the collective cost $4.50MX (about 40 cents) as opposed to 30-40 pesos for a comparable taxi ride.

Later on I’d learn the catch, of course, was that you had to often share cramped benches with others along the way. It was not much of a catch because the folks sharing your ride were always polite, greeting each other with “Buenos tardes/noches!” when boarding and just interesting to observe! The people watching was exquisite, although the children always found we ridiculously tall, goofy looking gringos great curiosities themselves!

Despite being a city of 150-200-thousand people, there were few buildings taller than 3-5 stories, except of course for its prominent churches. They were the landmarks by which, since the streets for the most part looked the same, I quickly learned to orient myself. As we walked toward “El Centro,” the plaza area at the center of downtown’s cultural activities, my head was on a swivel; by now I’d noticed the variety of languages spoken on the streets and the people watching was always fascinating.There was no sign of anything overtly corporate downtown, at least not that I noticed.

Guadalupe St.

The pedestrian street (Guadalupe) reminded me of Denver’s 16th St. Mall in that it was clearly the heart of a popular tourist shopping district. It was closed off to traffic with hundreds of specialty shops along both sides hocking everything from Ambar to the ever-present Zapatista trinkets, but that being said, it stood in stark contrast, in both people and energy, to Cancun/Tulum. It a general way, comparing Mexico’s commercialized tourist meccas to San Cristobal would be something like comparing Daytona Beach and Dayton.

By now, I had grown used to negotiating prices and having peddlers and merchants aggressively trying to lure me into their lairs. I'd quickly learned that they were not interested in any conversation beyond bartering, so a verbal escape plan was useless! It was much better to just smile and keep moving! Curiously, however, the panhandling tactic ceased on Guadalupe St.; it appeared that perhaps they had realized it was counterproductive, at least with gringos!

Carrie

Carrie (left) and her friends

Returning to San Cristobal energized Chris and he was immediately on his phone and leading the way to meet his friend, Carrie, and her cohorts for midday drinks. Thanks to my pesky little illness, I wasn’t much of a social butterfly and besides, for the first time ever, my voice had begun to vanish! Carrie, however, was entertainment enough for everyone. From the beginning, she displayed a high-energy personality and proved to be that rarest of rarities: a woman who makes me laugh! (Some people label that sexist. Fuck them; for whatever reason it seldom happens so when it does, I appreciate it!)

Carrie and the rest of her American friends were, I believe, all in Mexico for a wedding and catching a bus an hour or two west to Tuxtla Gutierrez later that afternoon. Despite significant hippie characteristics and lacking both the accent and signs of inbreeding, Carrie willingly claimed Kentucky as home. At some point, she had simply decided to stay in Mexico...indefinitely...after the wedding. I naturally liked her immediately.

Apart from her sense of adventure and talkative, humorous personality, the first things I noticed about Carrie were her height, (5’10” if not taller) and dark, sympathetic, thoughtful eyes that made me wonder (beyond humor and sarcasm) what was going on behind them. She was briefly exposed to the easily transmitted Enrique Virus the month before, and it became clear in time that this episode had triggered an unnatural fascination bordering on a self-admitted obsession with Latino “photographers.” A horrific, Sally Struthers style affliction to be sure. Also, I at first naturally assumed Carrie’s voice was hoarse from overuse but as it turned out she was exiting the same laryngitis ride I was just then boarding. Whatever it was, our shared illness had pestered her in varying degrees for several weeks so it was clear that this was not vanishing in a day or two.

Chris had arranged accommodations at a Couchsurfer’s place on the outskirts of town. He had met Jose Luis in January and explained how he usually had several couchsurfers on-hand and lived in a country setting where we would be able to stay for perhaps as long as a week. All we had to do was get there, which made for an interesting and pleasant 40-minute exploratory walk to the west end of the city.

Leaving the shopping district offered a neat snapshot of life in San Cristobal. All the streets, with a few exceptions, continued to look the same while the name and numbering systems made no damn sense! I felt lost immediately, even though the route was straightforward with only a couple turns! The buildings were all block-long, indistinct strings of identical architecture with what seemed to be an abnormally high number of tiny markets; the same kinds I’d seen from the bus. And packs of stray dogs were everywhere!

Being a virginal gringo in Mexico means continuous adaptation, in my case specifically in being an illiterate minority and all that entails. In Cancun, along with the signs, nearly everyone speaks English and you literally ARE your American dollars, so everyone’s smiling--as long as you’re spending them. In San Cristobal it’s different. For the most part, few paid attention although I occasionally caught glances ranging from surprise (see: redneck spies unfamiliar black guy in rural Michigan) to disdain (see: redneck spies any black guy in rural Mississippi). Incidentally, if you’re offended by my barbaric “generalizations,” may I suggest we spend a week or two together in rural Mississippi this summer?

After hearing the American Bloodbath Media squawking about Mexicans hating, kidnapping, and killing what seemed like billions of "innocent" Americans, I was prepared for the worst but not shocked by the reality: general indifference. Furthermore, outside of the tourist areas I was struck by an overall polite vibe and the impression that locals were prepared for gringos to be assholes, but when given a reason to believe otherwise were eager to embrace it. Smile, look them in the eye, and acknowledge their existence, and passersby returned the courtesy with interest.

As you can tell, I was in the middle of an ecstatic sensory overload! Everything was new, expectations and pre-conceived notions were obliterated by the minute, and perspectives quickly re-calibrated. That would have some surprising results, even by my standards. But first, there was the Galactic Station...

2/7-8: Cancun to San Cristobal-Mexico Real

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 21:57:00 +0000

Regrettably, there are areas where we as Americans have utterly failed. Public transportation is one of them. When Americans think of Mexican buses, they think of sweaty, overcrowded, chicken-filled, mechanically questionable jalopies lumbering down underdeveloped, bandit-filled roads. While I’ve heard they do actually exist, the general stereotype is horseshit. Settling in aboard the Cristobal-Colon coach bound for San Cristobal, I thought of the South African woman I shared an overpacked Greyhound with in ‘08. She found American buses disgusting, the customer service appalling, and put the blame squarely on Greyhound’s virtual monopoly. Although Cristobal-Colon is a Mexican second-class line, it’s one of several to choose from and in direct comparison, Greyhound is clearly the cattle car company in the conversation!

Due to bizarre ticketing, it was cheaper to go to from Tulum north to Cancun...then back thru Tulum before continuing the rest of the way to San Cristobal, so we returned south along the route we had come just a couple hours earlier along Quintana Roo’s Yucatan/Mayan Riviera coast. We again passed Cozumel, Playa del Carmen, Tulum, and a few hours later approached the Belize border before turning west at Chetumal. Overnight, we crossed the states of Campeche and Tabasco, turned southwest, and in the wee hours of the morning finally entered Mexico’s southernmost state, Chiapas.

Fighting off the cold, I slept all night so saw nothing between Chetumal and Palenque. However, I felt plenty! The first thing I noticed in Mexico was a relative lack of order on the roadways, and the fact that speed bumps (“topes”) are everywhere! They often appear unmarked and out of nowhere forcing drivers (including those driving buses in the middle of the night) to choose between slamming on their brakes or potentially damage their suspensions. It also appears that topes perform another role in rural Mexico: that of traffic cop. I never saw anyone one pulled over, and there surely are no policia drawing paychecks for just writing traffic tickets! It’s as though they take the attitude of, “Wanna speed? Enjoy your topes!” As I found out later, they’re even integrated into the occasional village’s entrepreneurial spirit.

Sometime early in the morning, I woke up to find the bus stopped and surrounded by fully armed, uniformed soldiers at the Tabasco/Chiapas border. Due to narco-trafficing and the now-famous drug violence in the northern part of the country, military and/or federal police checkpoints regularly accentuate the experience of traveling Mexico's roadways! They don’t check everyone, but you’re occasionally forced to present your papers and to submit to a vehicle search. Despite the media’s blood-orgy, these checks still run counter to “probable cause” and everything we, for the most part, still refuse to passively accept in the States, thank God. At this point for me, they served as a critical reminder that I was not “in the States.” My combative attitude toward our “authorities” performing unprovoked “papers please” checks needed to be quickly and effectively stifled. Vocal idealism is fine, but not at the price of Mexican jail!

Chiapas

Once through Palenque, the sun rose and I finally saw firsthand the intense, raw beauty of the “Palenque Road”; a road destined to become very familiar. We were still at a relatively low elevation and partially surrounded by the jungle that conceals the famous Mayan ruins, but that quickly changed as the bus continued to climb along an increasingly dramatic combination of switchbacks and topes that made for a public transit thrill ride! Our driver insisted on using every millimeter of each side of this mountain road including nearly non-existent shoulders that often overlooked a cliff hundreds of feet high! He drove at top possible speeds, passing with at least feet to spare, and...you get the idea. “This fucker’s crazy!” was uttered more than a few times.

Snaking through these mountains offered the priceless, rugged vistas combining the type of jungles and mountains you’d expect to be concealing guerrillas. With the area’s revolutionary zeal, history of revolt, and the occasional Zapatista village, Che Guevara’s image is never far away, but even so in this setting I expected to see him sitting next to the road sipping mate' and reading Pablo Neruda.

With daylight finally came a glimpse of at least a portion of Mexico Real. As much as I had enjoyed myself, Tulum is not Mexico any more than Las Vegas, Hollywood, or Branson is the US, but until now there was no personal, firsthand image of what it actually was. That steadily began to change as we crept through numerous, scattered indigenous villages between Ocosingo and San Cristobal. A tidal wave of thoughts and observations struck, many about where they lived. Many homes were simple, one room, hand built wood shacks with tin, or even tarp roofs, and open glassless windows. Livestock roamed along side the road, and everywhere I looked, people were working…but were not “at work.” Men, women and children were all tending to land, hauling wood by hand (or often by “head”) up steep mountain grades, or tending to their never-ending string of convenience stores and little cafes, which all sported Coca-Cola signs! I was so astounded at the sheer volume of Coke signage and advertising, that I was reminded of United Fruit’s (Del Monte) famously horrific exploits just down the road in Guatemala and began to try to photograph them!

My Mind’s Eye of Acceptability was still stuck on “America,” so the sight of what appeared to be simply a case of profound poverty and was initially quite troubling. However, at the same time something quietly told me that I just didn’t get it. How could I? That little voice warned me that maybe, just maybe, that was the cantankerous arrogance of an ingrained, rigid perspective. I love that little voice.

Something else that stuck out was that more often than not the women and girls were dressed in handmade sandals and traditional clothing that, being a relatively unfamiliar gringo, at first reminded me of Mexican Renaissance Fair costumes. I take no pride in admitting that, and mean no overt disrespect toward those who dresses up for Ren-fairs; at least no more than they've come to expect!

A soon-to-be stock phrase was “you’d never see that in the States!” I would utter it a thousand times in the coming weeks, and it was not always meant as praise for American regulation, though at times it would be. It not only applied to things like 5-year olds playing in the road or chopping wood with an ax while their 7-year old bother cuts jungle overgrowth with a machete that's as tall as he is! It consistently applied to different aspects of everyday life: along side the road, on the streets, and in the local markets. I repeatedly thought that this may be the unregulated Utopia some with a certain anarchistic or "teabagging disposition" strive for up north! It was also not lost that if you told them they were really fighting along side a corrupt Plutocracy FOR a Mexican way of life, they’d punch you in your “commie, Mexican lovin'” mouth! Regrettably, that point would be driven home later with the attacks on collective bargaining in Wisconsin seasoned a little unique “outside” perspective.

As I sat in my seat approaching San Cristobal, I realized that what I was seeing could be, if taken out of context, taken from some generic publication decrying Mexican poverty and misery. Or worse: a Sally Struthers informercial demanding my 35-cents a day. At the same time, I could relate to what I saw. From my air-conditioned bus seat, I thought back to my own original dropout, self-sufficiency aspirations for this odyssey when I set out for the first time in ‘08 and how I would have enthusiastically embraced this back then. On some level, I admired that they had held on to a centuries-old way of life for themselves; one seemingly independent of the global economic machine. I loved how their world essentially ended at the horizon. I wondered if that apparent independence was worth sacrificing all of our creature comforts. Was there was something else at play here that transcended TV’s, cars, windows, doors...indoor plumbing? Laugh if you like, but after miserably chasing the ghosts of careerism, ego, and financial trophies for years myself, I know there is. There's something about building and maintaining something sustainable with your family from the ground up that appeals to people at a deep, primal level. This is an ancient agricultural, pre-industrial revolution way of life that, for all intents and purposes was annihilated by "specialization." Some still reject the notion that the satisfaction this "building" brings can simply be bought.

I believe I got the metaphorical indigenous answer to my "is it worth it" question repeatedly as I detected unmistakable looks of disdain from the some of the villagers as we passed through. Not the, “Golly, I wish I had that” looks you would expect from the oppressed, miserably poor but rather looks of, “Get the fuck out of here.” But, naturally, there is much more to it than that. Something more than a little Kumbaya can cure!

All this from looking through a window for a few hours!

My ass was asleep, and as Ritzy as it was as compared to Greyhound, after 17-hours I was ready to be off the bus as we passed a huge military instillation and entered San Cristobal de la Casas late Tuesday morning. Mexico was now about to get interesting...

2/3-7: Tulum, Mexico

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 03:15:00 +0000

Checking out of the hostel and running around took most of the morning, and by the time we settled into our early afternoon bus south, I was ready to be rid of Cancun. In retrospect it was probably a combination of things: hearing Chris rave about how "expensive" it was in Cancun although, compared to the US, it seemed dirt cheap to me, plus an extreme curiosity to see what "real" Mexico was like as opposed to the place where all the signs were also in English.

Before leaving the terminal, Chris recognized one of his traveling buddies from San Francisco and San Cristobal climbing aboard our bus! Enrique is a charismatic Ecuadorian world-traveling photographer who happened to be Couchsurfing that night in Tulum. He's also one of those guys that other guys want to be: young, handsome, smooth, personable, confident, and not to be bothered by the blase, mundane trivialities that typically cripple the masses! Enrique oozes testosterone, doesn't particularly care where it flows, is an excellent photographer, and I would learn the next day that his camera is not only for photographs: in Enrique's hands, it's an ice breaker.

I played the role of sightseer while Chris and Enrique caught up. That made for a nice 2-hour ride thru Playa del Carmen to Tulum. Once their we took a taxi a few kilometers out of town and to a relatively well known hostel Chris found via the Internet : The Lobo Inn. I had been slowly getting sick for a week or two prior to arriving in Mexico, so elected to stay behind while Chris and Enrique returned to Tulum for dinner with his Couchsurfer host. It was here that I felt a twinge of the potentially acute pain of my language barrier for the first time.

There were several interesting people at the hostel, including a couple Israelis, an Argentinian Enrique had encountered elsewhere in his travels, and Romain--a Frenchman living/studying in Cuba who was vacationing in Tulum. Thankfully, the Israelis and Romain spoke English, so by the time Chris returned I was on my second huge 30-peso beer from the store next door and having a great time despite the cold.

Friday goes down as one of my highlight days. Enrique met us at the hostel, Romain joined up, and the four of us set off to see the Mayan ruins situated across the highway on the Caribbean Sea. I have long had a keen interest in the Mayan civilization so seeing any and all ruins is constantly near the top of my things to see. The fact that Tulum's ruins are set adjacent to the beach made the experience that much better, and it so happens that there is a phenomenal public access beach making it nearly ideal. Frolicking in the Caribbean, I realized that this was the first time, at least on these travels, that I actually had gotten IN the sea. With the exception of Santa Barbara, the rest of California, Oregon, and New Jersey were always too cold. I made up for it and had the sunburn to prove it.

Friday night continued what proved to be a fun, albeit expensive pattern of conversing and drinking in the Lobo Inn's common area. The folks staying there were from all over: Mexico, Argentina, France, Israel, Italy, Canada, the US, Korea, and even the Canary Islands. One of the more interesting cats was Frankie, an enigma from Cancun who was just staying there for whatever reason. He had a car and a great deal of knowledge of the area so he would take people on excursions to places like the nearby cennotes, a network of underwater rivers that periodically surface in the jungles or caves in the area. Later in the weekend, he snorkeled out into the Caribbean spearfishing, got an Angelfish, and let everyone at the Lobo eat it. The one image of Frankie I'll carry with me is how he was always smiling and walking around with his beer in a huge container that oddly reminded me of a king's personal stein.

It was an incredible place, but The Lobo Inn was quite pricey ($140 MX), so Saturday Chris ventured off to scout camping possibilities on the beach where he met an fascinating beach urchin, Mil, from India. He was intensely obsessed with the familiar idea of synchronicity with a a tireless, focused mind. He offered to share a beach side cabana with us that he intended to occupy with another traveler, but checking it out we learned that this "friend" of his had had his belongings stolen the night before. My warning sirens were blaring as we chatted with this supposedly unfortunate soul, so we decided to pass on Mil's beachcomber hospitality in favor of another night at the Lobo.

Mil

Saturday night was another beerfest, Chris ended up sleeping in the jungle somewhere between the road and the Lobo after failing to find Mil, and Sunday was the Super Bowl. Chris has been contacted on Saturday by a Scandinavian Couchsurfer staying in Playa del Carmen who hoped to hitchhike with other people to Belize to renew her 180-day travel visa, which she said was about to expire. We made arrangements to meet her at the Lobo at 10am Sunday to head south, but when she arrived we learned that Maria discovered on the way down that she'd miscalculated: her visa had ALREADY expired and that she needed to go to Cancun and have a lawyer straighten it out!

In addition to all of that, my cold had begun to worsen and I was losing my voice, so we decided to relax at the Lobo for one more night to watch the Super Bowl. We were stuck the to the Spanish broadcast on satellite via Fox Sports, but that was less problematic than the absence of the American commercials! However, did you know that Joe Montana is hocking cheap Mexican beer these days? Ouch.

Monday was once again getaway day, and we had noble intentions to hitch south, but my cold had worsened once again. Mil had also reappeared out of the blue and was making his way back toward Cancun hopeful for a flight to Cuba. My girlfriend and I had also begun discussions about her flying to Cancun at the end of March. Considering my declining health, it seemed like a good idea to perhaps simplify things and bus to our eventual destination: San Cristobal, Chiapas. I could spend a solid six-weeks learning at least rudimentary Spanish as well as about Chiapas and the Zapatistas.

By early afternoon, Chris and I were joined by Mil on the bus to Cancun beginning a 24-hour journey west to San Cristobal and a fateful landing at Jose Luis's Galactic Station...

2/1-3: Cancun, Mexico

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 01:25:00 +0000

My flight's path was over the Gulf of Mexico directly to the Yucatan Peninsula, and seeing the shoreline I was struck that, other than Juarez across the Rio Grande from I-10 in El Paso, I was finally glimpsing something other than Terra Americana/Canadia for the first time since briefly living in Germany when I was 15. As the plane descended, it was clear from the air that this was indeed another world; one I was eager to see with my own eyes as opposed to the controlled electronic agenda-driven snapshots we are inundated with in the States.

Yucatan Coast

Going from 9-below to a muggy 85 in a few hours feels good! As I stepped into Mexico for the first time, I was introduced to something that would quickly become familiar: Mexicans hocking goods and services to gringos. At the aeropuerto, it's transportation to Cancun. Chris had returned to Cancun from San Cristobal and I found him exactly where he was supposed to be holding a sign that read "X"--making fun of my persistent surname quandary. The idea that we had executed this little plan and were actually on the ground in Mexico was fun and though there was no clear-cut, long term plan other than getting out of Cancun and going south, this day was a long time coming...and now here it was.

We engaged in non-stop chatter into Cancun, but I found my attention span compromised by the scenes outside my window. One of the things that grabbed my attention almost immediately, aside from the lack of order on the roadways, was the glaring lack of regulation. There were people living beneath tarps and in flimsy wooden shacks along side the road on the edge of Cancun but to me the poverty was less shocking than the fact that they were just permitted to do that! I remember seeing the same thing in various tent cities in places like Fresno, except that in the US these embarrassing capitalist warts are swept away out of sight--under bridges and behind train tracks. Here, it's out in the open and is inescapable. My first 30-minute bus ride was also was my first subtle nudge in what would be a long, steady reminder to question our imposed and skewed definition of "freedom".

In the short term, Tuesday night's plan was simple:

Bus to Cancun
Hostel
Beer
Food

We are simple creatures after all.

The hostel Chris had checked us into was quite close to the bus station as well as 2-4 listed above. Since hostels in the US aren't hostels as much as overpriced, pretentious hotels, I had never stayed in one. Ours was 110 pesos a night (about $9.25), and our dormitory was shared with three other people: a middle-aged Canadian, a young French student and her Spanish boyfriend. The bathroom took some getting used to as well as it was unisex--including the showers.

Before long, we were sitting at a sidewalk cafe drinking Corona's, eating nachos, and chatting with Jose, a local sitting at the next table who spontaneously decided to invite himself over to join us. He spoke English, had been drinking all day, and was lamenting splitting with his wife. We had a great time, along with a predictably great many 100-peso Coronita buckets. Too many, in fact. Added to the tequila shots, they made for an expensive, partially blacked-out night.

Jose

Stop me if you've heard this story before. Despite the fact I've been only 29 for a number of years, I can't drink like that anymore. The recovery just isn't what it used to be so nights like this generally lead to wasted days-after. Thus, except for dinner and a trip to the store, Wednesday in Cancun was spent in slow motion. I was fine with that, the people were remarkably friendly but being nowhere near the resorts I expected and found Cancun to be a bit of a touristy shithole.

Thursday became getaway day and after a trip to Walmart and a bank to exchange dollars for pesos, we were off to the bus station for a ride down the Caribbean coast to a beautiful, memorable, and fateful date with Tulum...

Fun Fact: Upon my visit to the bank, I learned exactly how much the US bank where I'd bought pesos had (surprise!) raped me. I received nearly a full peso-per-dollar better rate in Mexico. The only nuisance was being required to provide the bank with a copy of my passport, but it's well worth it.

Mexico: A Prologue

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 08:13:00 +0000

Despite simmering on a hidden backburner for a year or two, the notion of traveling to Mexico and the rest of Latin America is something that never went away. A trek to Peru was one of my original ideas well before 2008 when Chris and I spent countless hours bouncing adventureman ideas around his Denver apartment imagining such an adventure. As you can imagine there were the endless questions about things such as safety, corruption, the culture, and language barriers. Then in February '09, when I reconnected with my "long lost" family, the travels made it clear that they had their own ideas about where I would be going and why.

When Chris visited for Thanksgiving, it became apparent that 2010 had served an oddly similar purpose for each of us; the year had been very difficult on both fronts for strangely similar reasons. A peculiar byproduct of this difficult year was that by processing and discussing its less-than-flattering events, it appeared that we were suddenly able to redefine and realign our friendship. We were dramatically less dogmatic than even a year ago, and less sure of the positions that we had quietly battled over all the way thru Slab City. The only thing I was sure of at this point was that while I knew for certain I had been given a slightly elevated metaphysical glimpse, I have no idea what the entire mosaic looked like nor any real idea as to where these microscopic nuggets fit in it. They say the only real wisdom is in knowing you know nothing...I get that. It was a nice, calm couple of weeks where we were able to just relax and reconcile grievances from my stay in Port Townsend and even all the way back to 2005.

While I reconciled antiquated daddy issues, Chris grasped and ran with the Latin America idea. It was never far off his visible horizon and simply a matter of time, money, and logistics; matters tenuously solved last fall. While he visited, the end of December was set as a hard departure date which would be followed by a few weeks of Spanish classes either in Guatemala or San Cristobal, Chiapas. With that decided, we had an exploratory conversation surrounding me meeting him in Cancun when he wrapped up his classes at the end of January. That would give me a couple months to prepare and learn at least a little basic Spanish.

When he set off for San Antonio the first week of December, that was the "plan" (ha!). Then, just prior to his departure for Mexico on New Year's Eve, there was a brief hiccup when his "I Walk Alone" trait reappeared and we briefly decided that, rather than proceed with just one month in mind, it would be best to scuttle our plans all together. For the next couple of days, something in my brain violently rejected this notion. Buoyed by Shalain's encouragement, the Sunday after New Year's we reversed it and decided to proceed on 2/1, for a month or so, see how it went, and go from there.

For once, plans went as planned. Buying the airline ticket was a big step: there would be no turning back. Come Hell or high water, I would be flying into Mexico without a return ticket on February 1st. While Chris spent January adjusting to Mexico then settling in learning Spanish in San Cristobal, I gently reintroduced myself to writing and brutally attempted (unsuccessfully) to cram a whole lot of Spanish into a little brain.

Before I knew what was happening, February was here. I had thought for sure I'd be shitting myself as the day approached, but there was less anxiety about Mexico than about Devils Tower '09 or even Santa Barbara '08! When Shalain dropped me at the airport, there was nothing but excitement joining the typical separation anxiety that comes from having a home! Adding to the symbolic tapestry was the beginning of what the media dubbed a nationwide Snowpocalypse: it was 9 BELOW zero when I landed in Denver for my connection to Cancun.

Good Day to Go to Cancun

-9F: Fitting Mascots

A Patricide

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 13:19:00 +0000

As is typical, the preceding Waiting for the Miracle idea is mostly distilled from my own experiences, so there is one glaring caveat to the subject that I should address.

That sense of waiting is something that had just always been there. I have never had a real point of comparison so my cause may be different from someone else's, yet I know "waiting" isn't rare. I've seen it in several other people: it seems there comes a time, perhaps with the realization that time's no longer our friend, when we begin to see that the miracle just isn't coming and we'd better get off our asses and start looking for answers ourselves.

Reading Bly's Iron John the other night, it occurred to me that this habit stems from being raised without a father. For me, waiting for something became my reflexive second nature way back in disco-era antiquity! I didn't understand until recently, but I waited for an education on life and indoctrination into manhood for years; you know, that silly thing parents do when they're not preoccupied with escaping their own shame and embarrassment: parenting.

The idea of reparenting ourselves is something Brian mentioned (surprise) long ago. I've touched on it a time or two, and it's a liberating task to accept: the act of relinquishing the victim title and reclaiming control of life from this point forward.

I concluded long ago that, despite a historical sense of low self-worth, inadequacy, and rejection, I was truly lucky! Despite that lingering out-dated residue, I wouldn't change my history nor would I switch places with any of my new siblings. The painful uncertainty and quietly longing for answers to what were seemingly unanswerable questions that followed me from adolescence thru adulthood has helped nurture a relentless sense of curiosity and a (usually) healthy skepticism/distrust of official narrative!

I only wish that, rather than wallowing in a hoping-for-the-best self-pity, I would have come to this 15-years earlier. I perhaps could have bucked my father's load of transferred shame and embarrassment by placing responsibility for what he is squarely upon HIS shoulders and internalizing the fact that I have nothing to do with his defects. My father was disconnected and distant before I was born and he clearly still is. That trait wasn't conceived with me!

6/09

Perhaps these judgments are unfair? Who can tell? I have no way of knowing and after everything that's happened over the last year-and-a-half, I'm invoking my right to draw conclusions based on what limited information that I have. Spanning two visits, I've spent a total of 3-hours with my father in 40-years which have resulted in exactly 3-pictures and a slideshow. In the meantime, I made it clear that I'd like to get to know him better via a letter and email, and even volunteered for unbelievable anxiety by agreeing to go to their family gathering before I had even met anyone in '09. He replied by saying that it would "make people too uncomfortable." Translation: "it would be too uncomfortable for me to acknowledge him in front of the family"; a family that already knew everything!

In return for these efforts I've gotten exactly nothing from him? Not one call, letter, return email. Nothing. In fact, I learned while I was at his place in '09 that he was across the country RV-ing five miles from my house in 2007. What would you do? I have "done" enough.

Don't let my seeping, habitual, residual anger deceive you: whether my judgments are right or wrong, it was painful to concede that this will be the final story of the relationship with my father. It's important to know where you come from, and my patriarchal genetic goo is not from the most noble of stock, and keeping the door cracked open is becoming tedious. Irrational, unanswered hope inevitably leads to anger and whatever anger is left likely stems from extending the benefit of the doubt, exercising empathy, but being constantly disappointed and unable to reconcile how someone in his situation could be so devoid of personal honor with such a staggering immunity to shame. Maybe there's more work to do here? Remind me to go into "identity" one of these days!

There are people who preach that fathers are interchangeable and irrelevant, and they're kidding themselves regarding their sons. No, I wouldn't change anything in my life, but showing someone how to be a man is still not something any mother can do and it certainly shouldn't be left to TV and friends. Cognitive Dissonance 101: reconcile that conflicting thought!

What's funny is my mother and how, despite everything to the contrary, she holds to her story that he's "a good man" and speculates on what may have "made him that way." On the other hand, she rightfully takes a great deal of satisfaction in hearing me say, "I was lucky" especially considering how difficult things were financially (and otherwise) when I was a kid.

I suppose that, despite not being raised by him, I have learned a great deal about how to be a father by vowing to be his antithesis.

Waiting for the Miracle

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 16:21:00 +0000

Baby, I've been waiting,

I've been waiting night and day.

I didn't see the time,

I waited half my life away.

There were lots of invitations

and I know you sent me some,

but I was waiting

for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

I know you really loved me.

but, you see, my hands were tied.

I know it must have hurt you,

it must have hurt your pride

to have to stand beneath my window

with your bugle and your drum,

and me I'm up there waiting

for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

- Leonard Cohen

It seems as though some among us who are actively seeking their own answers are determined to seek their validation and enlightenment via mentors, sages, cultural shamans, or even personal saviors rather than through the experience of meeting the personal challenges required to win a hard-earned wisdom.

Perhaps it’s the genetic residue left behind from the village elders or medicine men, but it seems that, rather than finding it organically, many of us must constantly fight a tendency to await answers from someone who is destined to come along to “enlighten" us with the entitled revelation or miracle that will motivates us with "purpose" while at the same time illuminate both the path and destination! We choose to sit like an expectant child waiting for father to deliver the miracle. Pink Floyd said, “Waiting for someone or something to show us the way.”

Oh, to be that chosen Golden Child! I’m a believer in many things ranging from serendipity to an internal voice to something resebling Forrest Gump’s philosophy on fate. But each of us having our own personal Mr. Miyagi?

Mr Miyagi says: "Wax off, motherf***ah!"

For most of we mortals, it simply doesn’t work that way. While we wait expectantly wait, is seems the universe takes great joy in tormenting and teasing us for arrogantly believing it should! Ten years will eventually get behind you. If we’re not careful, we could indeed wait half our lives away slithering along,waiting, hidden in the grass of idle mediocrity.

Logically, this should obvious, but nothing human is logical. Beyond the stale cliche platitudes we parrot from TV while pretending we're wise and enlightened, we’re childlike is how ill-equipped for real self-exploration we prove to be. Rather than being taught to explore personal meaning, we're drafted into the Game of Consumerism, brainwashed to believe that IT provides the only meaning to be taken seriously (Amerikan Dreem!), and told that the chronic hole-in-our-soul is a psychological affliction; and they're happy to sell you pharmaceutical cure!

To complicate things, our institutional indoctrination apparatus, the Ministry of Standards and Practices, works endlessly to distract, corrupt, and ultimately neutralize the natural curiosity of youth by convincing kids that they are "irresponsible" or "immature" if they pursue a path of enlightenment; that they're antisocial or sociopathic if they somehow reject the assumption that the pinnacle of humanity is found in a Wall Street cubicle!

If the Voice remains strong, the sense of "more" survives, and The Ministry's role as cultural Borg fails in its assimilation assignment, the entrenched status quo takes over to marginalize or extract us eventually. We've seen repeated examples ranging throughout the "media" to Wikileaks and Julian Assange in recent months. The corporate and political power structures are working together to starve, isolate and assassinate his character so as to undermine and distract from the actual story. Ask what's left of the Tunisian and Egyptian governments how that's worked out!

There are a remarkable number who, sometimes even after years of trying, are unable to accept their demanded programming and simply excuse themselves. These are my people. Don't be mistaken in believing they're uncommon. But as we age, even if we reject assimilation, the prospect of exploration leading to wholesale changes in life AND philosophy become can be overwhelming as we become more rigid. Even after stepping onto our paths, we can end up frozen in bizarre conscious-comas; our souls trying to trigger new action but our atrophied spirits are seemingly unable to respond!

Again, the seemingly simple and obvious fact is that, regardless of where we’ve come from, ultimately we ourselves are entirely responsible for who and where we are, and where we’re going. While that seems like simplistic common sense, and people generally embrace that sort of responsibility in their financial lives, our spiritual antennae are typically roaming mode. I believe that most are either numb, or desperately engaged in a tormented, silent search for a terrestrial signal that's supposedly “out there” unaware that the path to these answers lie within and have little to do with any dogma bought and sold on the Sunday Marketplace.

Limited guidance and shared experience may help, no one can do the actual work but us. No one can dictate answers. No one can provide a manual or map. Any they could offer, even with the best of intentions, would be useless; they would be directions to their house rather than your own.

I loves me my similes and metaphors!

Furthermore, expecting divine intervention via specially provided terrestrial saviors is a bit arrogant, don’t you think? It snaps me back to the earlier hand-crafted snowflake self-image. When you dissolve the illusion of universal self-importance, it's necessarily deflating and by nature demands a mini-katabasis especially with someone playing the victim and under the assumption that the universe “owes” him for some perceived slight. This whole process is devastating for someone ill-prepared whose identity is dependent upon their Blue Ribbon of Suffering. It's hard to be shown that we aren't any more divine than any of our six-billion neighbors so, perhaps, we should discard the “victim” placeholder, the expired Karmic Welfare Card, and commit to writing the story ourselves rather than waiting for someone else's script.

Mocking Your Own Voice

Realizing your own words, intentions, and assurances are trite, inauthentic, and insufficient is a brutal experience. I can tell you firsthand (and with multiple, recent examples) that nothing quite compares to the self-loathing, shame, and feelings of inadequacy that comes from the cold realization that your actions are suddenly radically out of sync with your high-minded rhetoric!

I’ve seen this hit friends in recent months and I myself have experienced both the long and short-term varieties over the years--as recently as September and December.

In my case, this is a generally a growth spurt and is usually preceded by a significant breakthrough or realization of some sort; something exciting. One from early 2008 was particularly intense, happening in the months shortly following when I was fired from my last radio gig and committed to stepping out.

In each case, the result is the bar being raised. All the big ideas, plans, and grandiose proclamations suddenly stand in stark contrast to what is really happening. I mercilessly shred myself on a daily basis for a (properly) perceived laziness and hypocrisy and an apparent willingness to embrace failure. I conclude I am not doing nearly enough to live up to my own expectations and demanded action as accountability.

Enacting this “change” is much more difficult than imagining it often making this a long process. In a perfect world, our subconscious willingness to change our habits would stay in lockstep with evolving ideas and philosophies; our habits and attitudes would automatically adjust accordingly as we live, explore, and learn more about ourselves, the world, and our place in it. I’m discovering the hard way that not only is this Utopia laughable, but its failure us apparently both accelerated and exacerbated by age!

My way out of these spells is new, solid action; making sure to raise the bar and then sustain it by not allowing myself easy, familiar rationalizations, delusions, and excuses; demanding accountability. The vast majority of New Years resolutions are dead by the second week of the year--anyone can do something for a day or two!

Avatars and Cheese

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 14:29:00 +0000

Over the last two-years, there were numerous times I’ve caught myself making decisions so that my "story" would be better. The blog had become a bit of a hybrid creative-outlet/ego-feeder; something I too closely identified with. I liked the idea that I was doing something that others either couldn't do or were afraid to, and naturally that appealed to me! Telling the story has, at times, shadowed why I'm doing it. Nothing personal, but what I'm doing should have nothing to do with entertaining anyone else!

Now, there is something potentially noble about allowing people to live vicariously through you. Maybe as a “what if” example trying to share a vision of how to live a principle or trigger thoughts of how things could be “if only ‘X’ were different.” “X” can be anything you choose: marriage, kids, money, fear, or laziness. You’ll ALWAYS find an ‘x’ if you want to, and some folks count on that. "If only..." is usually the crutch of the career victim.

Rather than taking actual steps ourselves, it’s safer to adopt avatars; to watch others while personally risking nothing. How nice for the would-be adventurer to ride along! Then, when that avatar inevitably stumbles, the couch-creature can then sing their own praises of disengaged brilliance! See how wise THEY were wise to remain safely rooted to the couch! Or, perhaps when the avatar fails to meet their ever-increasing entertainment standards, the anonymous couch-dweller can pretend he’s watching a reality show and, wallowing in the aforementioned cognitive dissonance, tell himself (with the benefit of hindsight) how HE surely would have done it much better! Chris tells of actually receiving hate-mail when he interrupted his cross-country walk! Hate-mail from a couch-dweller who had attached their own personal meaning to his achievement!

I’ve encountered this vicarious mentality occasionally over the last 2 1/2 years, and even momentarily and disastrously fell into its trap last spring with Rael. In fact, I've adopted several avatars as hopeful mentors or standard bearers over the years. Those I've looked up to were either co-opted or became a huge disappointment under the weight of unfair expectations. Once people try move from idealism to implementation, standards and ideals often become secondary to convenience, convention, and self-preservation. People become captives of institution, slaves to doctrine, or simple mental masturbators.

I've traditionally elevated to the pedestal, sometimes unwittingly, those who show the courage to act on principle and accept the consequences rather than sit, speculate, wonder, then ask themselves a year later why life sucks and won't change. I've elevated those who question convention. I admire those that ask 'why?' and wont take "I said so' for a answer. However, it's been my experience that when I look up to someone either as an example or standard bearer, they naturally fail miserably in these roles because we're the only ones who can legitimately set our own standards. We only do that effectively by living life in person.

Numerous people have told me how they would like to do “something like this” but, for numerous reasons, just can’t. At first, I was genuinely flattered and surprised at how some seemed to identify with what I was doing. Considering how long it took me to finally engage, I considered myself a coward!

"WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU WEREN’T AFRAID?"

Only with the benefit of hindsight, I slowly realized that what I experienced in the years leading up to my taking to the road for the first time was something shared by everyone: fear.

I myself have had a habit of seeking out avatars to show myself that my ideas and visions may be possible. Ironically, that’s how Chris and I originally met in 2004. I was living in Florida and he was in Denver at the time. In August, I had rekindled the notion that the idea of life we’d been sold was maybe horseshit, and seen a harebrained, cloudy vision of setting out down the road with a backpack! I had yet to hear of McCandless or anyone else who had done it, and intimidated by the prospect, I needed to see that it could be done, and that I wasn’t crazy! I did a web search about others who had done it, and found his website.

It’s no small, insignificant fact that it took 4-years for that vision to manifest. I tiptoed around the fringes, but never overcame the fear of “what if.” It was a long process, and made longer by my own laziness and refusal to accept full responsibility for who I was, where I was, and the future tenses of both. Chris initially served as a bit of an unwilling role model and inadvertent mentor; a guide as to the general direction I needed to take myself.

I intermittently battled fear (usually losing badly) from the day we moved from Taos to Denver early in ’05 to the day I stepped out in May ’08. It’s astounding for me to think back 5-years and recall the molehills I mistook for mountains! All along the way, fear was a constant companion and like everyone risking something, it remains my most reliable sparring partner. The only thing separating myself was that I somehow stumbled from pretending it wasn’t there--

to recognition, acceptance, and meek confrontation
to beating myself, assuming its continued existence meant failure
to realizing it never “goes away”
then consciously working to act despite it.

The simple fact is that, despite all the snowflake-rhetoric to the contrary, we’re all much more alike than we care to admit. Fear isn’t something that is ultimately “conquered.” Rather than a dragon to be slain, it’s closer to a game of Whack-a-Mole. With a ton of hard work and perseverance it can be befriended and controlled, but like the ego it never dies. Anyone who claims otherwise is a fucking liar. Tell ‘em I said so! When you plug one hole, eventually fear simply sniffs out another weakness and moves on.

With the right attitude, like many other things we prefer to avoid, fear can be our greatest self-investigative tool. For me, an enormous key was something I read shortly before leaving in ’08. It was a question asked in a cute little book called Who Moved My Cheese: “What would I do if I weren’t afraid?” That brilliantly simple question shifts focus from what could happen to what we’re missing out on; from the unlikely negatives to the potential positives. Pursuing something you want is usually more effective than running away from something looking behind you the whole time!

Escapist Voodoo

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 12:32:00 +0000

To recap once again, after 2009s travels ended with Port Townsend, I settled into last winter by starting down a path that, quite frankly, I was unprepared for. When I jabbed my pen into Don Quixote, the notion that each of us silently deal in secret, disguised and silent self-delusion, I struck a mammoth vein of fool’s gold. I certainly hit something incredibly significant, but I was also stunningly naive about what it meant, and more foolish still in believing Freud’s Dragon wouldn’t turn on me!

CAVES

Unfortunately, roads such as these come with neither maps nor disclaimers attached. The paths this brand of honest introspection inadvertently illuminate can lead to dark, frightening caves concealed deep within own own psyche. These are the places we are usually afraid to visit and rationalize away, even at the lowest of our most solitary, self-loathing moments. The ones spent silently trembling in dark corners, (hopefully metaphorically) weeping while we wonder why we are who we are, or what happened to who we were supposed to be. When we ask, "Why does the reflection in the mirror never measures up to what we see in our mind’s eye?" Why do our words never echo those whispered in a frail voice into our mind’s ear? We beg in Pink Floyd's quiet desperation for answers that are only be found locked inside these deep, dark, psychological caves.

I don’t know the specific clinical definition, but it seems clear that these caves harbor what seems to amount to a flawed, terrified, neglected, naked child: “Us.” The “us” we’re too terrified to acknowledge, or even a glance toward out of the fear that someone will see it’s there, and recognize us as the frauds we (all) really are.

Think I'm just cynical? Not so fast.

While we endlessly work building thick walls of vanity built with the materials of wit, charm, and achievement to assure "we" are kept sequestered far away from a world that just won't "understand" I believe the jokes on us. Would we, by freeing this metaphorical imprisoned self, ultimately be able to accept and embrace that we’re just as pathetic, flawed and insecure, just as fucked up, as everyone else? More importantly, I believe, would we then recognize that everyone else is secretly just as fucked up as we are? I’ve occasionally mentioned Santa Clausification, and this is it on an everyman scale. As Rael succinctly put it, “We’re all just flawed human beings”

Along with psychiatry and Madison Avenue, I’ve concluded, much to many-an-ego's chagrin, that we’re all much more alike than we’re comfortable admitting. I’m constantly astounded by the cavalier attitude, even an acute allergy, we take toward understanding ourselves. It's as though we're either completely engulfed and mesmerized by our own bullshit, or simply incapable of internalizing the truth. It's becoming apparent that, like the drunk sorostitute at her first frat party, we willingly buy the jock's loaded-line that we’re "special, unique, hand-sculpted snowflakes" righteously fluttering down from on-high. We buy the bullshit because, in the mundane experience of today's world we crave desperately a sense of meaning, and purpose. We need to feel like something more than another car in traffic or face in the crowd. Advertisers and societal/religious leaders have long understood and exploited this. That's why the most intoxicating and dangerous delusions sold throughout the "culture" are intentionally tied to our self-images.

With that in mind, perhaps these psychological doors are locked for a reason. Maybe they’re designed to be pried open as a painful rebuke in response to brazen, ignorant naiveté and presumptuous arrogance (as I believe was my case), as a reward for the incredible amount of courage usually only mustered by those hitting what we glibly refer to as “the bottom”, or most honorably (and rarely) after an incredible amount of self-observation and honest introspection. Maybe that child isn’t a prisoner after all; perhaps he’s in protective custody!

"WTF?"

THE ESCAPIST VOODOO OF RELATIVISM

Of course, a sense of all this will lead to a glimpse of the chasm existing between who we THINK we are, who we WANT to be, and who we actually ARE. People generally just write their own convenient, subconscious narratives, then reposition and peddle it as “their” reality. To me, it remains ridiculous to even try to justify that new-age Escapist Voodoo of multiple "realities."

J.H. Kunstler put it best, and there’s a reason I have this displayed at the top of my page: “The trouble with self-delusion, either in a person or a society, is that reality doesn’t care what anybody believes, or what story they put out. Reality doesn’t “spin.” Reality does not have a self-image problem. Reality does not yield its workings to self-esteem management.”

In varying degrees, we're still the 5-year old who thinks that if he closes his eyes, his pissed off mother will disappear. The problem is that it's a silent, internal process of self-bullshitting; mom's not there to smack us out of it.

The standard definition of Reality from Wikipedia: "...the state of things as they actually exist, rather than as they may APPEAR or may be THOUGHT TO BE." Reality is not something that's open to redefinition on the basis of convenient, skewed perception or a whimsical, egocentric interpretation-of-choice.

Relativity exists in matters of perceptions, interpretation, and opinions. But, PERCEPTION IS NOT REALITY. Like it or not, we’re not entitled to hijack the lone reality we all share with our own special snowflake of interpretation and perception. The only thing our interpretation and perception affects is how we alone experience our little sliver of reality.

There is something that should be said about the limitations and variety of our perception. I equate it to standing on the beach looking at the ocean. Individually, we each only perceive a tiny piece of an unimaginably vast sea. Yet, thousands of others--each standing hundreds or thousands of miles apart--experience other seemingly unrelated pieces of the same tapestry.

To claim a personal reality, in my opinion, is equivalent in arrogance to claiming ownership of the Pacific because you're standing on a beach in Malibu! To take is a step further, I also believe that personal enlightenment alters perspective the same as rising altitudes alters your scope of vision. The higher you go,the more you can see and interpret.

This was neither the first nor will it be the last time I've been forced to reevaluate and deconstruct an antiquated, suddenly obsolete self-image. The more I learn and observe, the more MY OWN defenses wither. I figured the Don Quixote path would empower me, not make me more susceptible! I should be thankful for that, and I am, but at the end of the day I wasn't prepared for it. I've said numerous times that there are days I'd put Don and his insights back in his bottle and return to my state of mystically ignorant bliss if I could! What I've learned and used as a tool against others has come back to feed on me. There are fewer & fewer rationalizations to crouch behind. As a result and as I said before, that experience has helped me to finally grasp the eastern philosophy of inter-connectedness. We all feed on and/or affect each other in some way. The people I've helped have helped me. The people I've observed and judged are now judging me via my own insights! Profound. Humbling.

All of this is quite difficult and leads to my question: how many people would survive a direct reconciliation of their self-image with an unfiltered truth?

I suppose the only practical application of asking that question is hopefully mustering the courage to initiate that priceless internal dialogue about who we think we are, who we want to be, who really are, and then finally working as best we can toward bridging our personal gulfs toward becoming a singular entity.

Nosce Te Ipsum

γνῶθι σεαυτόν

Know Thyself

Winter Quarters 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 03:09:00 +0000

Colossal, dramatic changes are kicking in the door and suddenly time is very limited. Although I sincerely want to tie all of 2010 together, I haven’t due to a peculiar (and extended) incoherence. Now, I no longer have the luxury of spending days on end attempting to perfectly articulate a detailed play-by-play.

By way of comparison, 2010 was sparsely “written up” relative to ’08 and ’09. Don’t be mistaken in thinking that’s because it was uneventful! After my time with Rael and my sister in California way back in March, in retrospect the year was spent alternately struggling to process and avoiding excruciating revelations, conclusions, and connections. The last few months were spent finally reconciling all of them.

I spent most of 2010 comparing it with 2009 which I saw as an assumed apex of this Quest simply because of its collection of positive and dramatic experiences. Between April’s Veggie Bus and September’s meeting of Andre and visit to Port Townsend, 2009 held everything: adventure, intense personal discovery, new friends and, of course, my father’s family--relatives whose existence, until then, was viewed in the sole context of a decades-old maternal myth.

In many ways, I was trying to relive 2009. Once again, I spent June and July in Michigan only to discover, as I’ve described it ,“that well had soured.” Every place I returned in 2010 felt wrong with one notable exception: Brian’s. Interestingly, Brian’s was a place that felt odd in 2009, but it bore massive fruit this year. Apparently, we initially got the year wrong!

Cognitive Quixote

While at Brian’s, I learned that my little Don Quixote idea was far from an original. In fact, I came to find that it has a psychological cousin named Cognitive Dissonance. While I was introduced to it during that month at Brian’s, I admittedly have not tried to make a full academic study of it because I’m still skeptical of clinical psychology in many ways! However, what I have learned clearly shows that cognitive dissonance and Mr. Quixote are major focuses of study and significant factors in each of our lives.

As I understand it, the basic idea is that we allow ourselves to believe whatever alleviates the anxiety created by holding simultaneous and conflicting thoughts and protects an internalized point of view, including that of ourselves. For example, it seems cognitive dissonance is the Neuronet Highway by which otherwise goodhearted Christians travel to rationalize judging and abandoning their community’s poor as "freeloaders"...despite their Bibles.

People predictably lash out with a vicious indignation when confronted with the idea that maybe, just maybe they subconsciously lie to themselves in order to eliminate these disconnects. It's imperative to remember that this is NOT a conscious process. It’s closer to breathing! While it’s typically easy to identify in others, what IS difficult is pinpointing it in ourselves. I say difficult in the emotional sense; the specific examples are everywhere; socially, this is the garden where religion and political ideology flourish.

How many would survive an honest reconciliation of our private ego/self-image with the raw, unfiltered reality?

How devastating the psychological shock if our cognitive dissonance switches were suddenly turned off and we were held naked to a mirror? How many could withstand the seeing their true reflection? While that may seem a pretentious question at first glance, I ask with good reason.

Through the exercise of meeting random people and watching, observing, and offering insights into our conversations and experiences, a peculiar thing happened. I've discovered that my insights were rooted in and stemming from myself. Unplugging from the Matrix and interacting with the world as it really is, you can reconnect with the heartbeat of humanity. That being said, I've only recently come to finally understand the notion of "oneness" that many eastern religions speak of. We each act upon and affect each other. By observing you, I observe myself. By helping her, you help yourself. By encouraging him, you encourage yourself...by tearing them down, you cripple yourself. You don't need a PhD in Karma to understand that, although I was a little slow on the uptake!

Along with New York and intense couple of weeks in Boise (recap coming), that was my summer. After spending March-October mostly out-of-touch, Chris and I reconnected and spent a couple weeks comparing notes when he joined us for Thanksgiving. While his specifics are different, the subtext of our individual 2010s are stunningly similar. I'll let him spin his own yarn, but this reunion, while lacking in high-wire drama, was quietly remarkable and subtly earth-rattling.

Winding Down?

The coming posts won’t entertain or inspire the typical McCandless Cultist Adventure Reader, but they should clarify, add continuity, and if you have followed with interest over the last three years, I'd think you'd find them relatively intriguing. Although I still enjoy writing, they may also mark the end of my little blog.

I originally intended the first incarnation of my blog to simply replace mass-emails to the handful of people concerned with where I was! At the outset, it never occurred to me that I had an interest in nor aptitude toward writing. That clearly changed with Dennis, when I figured out that my might transcend just myself, and that I had something to say.

Since then, I’ve been compelled to offer my personal experiences, errors and all, as a way of hopefully encouraging others to introduce themselves to themselves. I hoped to both embark on and encourage an honest look at how WE wanted OUR life stories to read at the end. I hoped my experience would encourage an honest inventory into what our lives really are and how they align to who we really are and what we really want. Does our reality sing in tune with our internal voice? Somewhere along the way however, the message’s entertainment value took a subtle priority over the voice's message. I had become as concerned with how you receive the melody as the authenticity of lyrics.

That ends now.

I don't have a complete, coherent philosophy or ideology to offer; I also reject that it’s my role to provide it for you! Just as my politics have gone from liberal, to mildly conservative, and back toward liberal, my ideas are always evolving. I have strong opinions, but they're further molded by each new experience. Only the fool preaches an empirical, immobile philosophy; only the bigger fool follows him. These fools are employed in the arts of buying or selling rhetoric and propaganda rather than truth.

For some folks, Shake n' Bake religions work just fine just as being a cubicle-dwelling cog in a machine is fine for others. Even with concrete answers, as Hermann Hesse wrote in Siddhartha, while knowledge can be conveyed to another, wisdom cannot. It sounds like ridiculous nonsense to a listener without the benefit of the speaker's contextual experience.

This is something expressed in Plato’s Cave Allegory. If the escapee returns to free his comrades from their cave with tales of what’s “out there”, the isolated cave dwellers will ridicule, possibly even kill their would-be rescuer. Rather than embrace a new hopeful paradigm, and due to their own inability to comprehend anything beyond their limited view of The Matrix, they will simply belittle the message and lynch the messenger! I’ve seen the predictable look of bewildered, disdainful mockery in response to my feeble explanations more times than I care to recall. I’m usually expecting the “get a job” cliche’ to follow!

One thing that I DO believe passionately, and that's not changed one iota, is that the reason we cannot simply "become wise through someone else" is because we are designed with the primal need to ask and answer our own questions. We each must learn for ourselves, and thank God! I believe this is the calling disguised-as-disquiet that so many sense, and so few answer. I also believe this to be the nexus of the familiarity some feel toward what Chris and I are doing.

That’s been my winter. How’s yours?

8/27: Boise, ID

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 08:21:00 +0000

Mike elected to stay in Boise until Saturday, and I was glad to hear it. They needed another day out of the car and that would provide a chance to get to know Ben & Brad a bit better. Besides, I was selfishly enjoying this new (to me) dynamic!

Ben and I took a fun trip to pick up clothes for his senior pictures, and it seemed that the time the three of us had spent together over the week had paid dividends. The timing was unintentional...and perfect: I’d landed the week they’d be home and before they’d begun school. Ben and Brad are fantastic young men. I’m proud to know them and thankful for the little bit of time we’ve been able to spend getting to know each other. Of course, with that thought comes the temptation to rage on time lost; that’s something I’ll probably never completely come to terms with. That’s for another time, perhaps, but today I’m struck by the course of events since June 2008.

Once Dave was home, his sister Robyn came over for a huge chicken/steak & potato dinner...and of course Rum Runners! We all drank a bit too much, Lynette got reacquainted with Mike & Bobbie, and Ben and I threw the ball around and played basketball in their neighbor’s driveway. It was a perfect crescendo to the week, but as the day ended I still had yet to decide whether to leave with Mike in the morning or remain in the Northwest.

8/26: Boise, ID

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 06:43:00 +0000

Mike, Bobbie, and Ally returned from a quick but perfectly enjoyable visit to Bend and their plan is to return east as soon as tomorrow, depending on what I decide to do. I honestly don’t know what that will be. I’m inclined to stay and head toward Portland again; of course, there’s always something unresolved. I also could have them drop me in Cheyenne to hitch or catch a bus home, or suggest a return through Colorado where they could drop me in Denver.

Nebraska, anyone?

The "where" no longer matters. The question is "whether" to continue on at all, and I’m on the edge of capitulation. I have something to lose, and that sense of possible loss is both new and troubling.

As Dave put it yesterday, this is a period of huge transition. It’s one highlighted and accented by a quiet, poignant, frustrating regression. A useful one. I’ve gone creatively and spiritually dormant over the past six-months; since Rael. The negativity is wearing me down, making me tentative; I’m questioning both myself and my ideas; my character and the stability of the intellectual and spiritual ideas that now seem to have vanished. Nothing is new here. I’m either going to fight through it or cave in and return to my “life.”

That’s a bit disingenuous; there’s no “returning” to that old life, thank God. The life I'd rejoin now was created by this "quest". Only by stepping out have I found the means and the courage by which to confront demons. Only by stepping out have I taken control of meeting Michelle, Mike, Lynette, and their families. Only by silencing family and childhood narratives; forcing a relationship with reality--for better or worse--have I found a semblance of relative peace. At times it seems there’s nothing left to confront, and I actually miss that!

The novel-euphoria of “new family” has worn off, as I’m sure it has with them and their new "brother". I’ve begun to incorporate Michelle, Mike, and Lynette into life on a practical level. My life feels to be unmistakably on the edge of a radically new phase. Not just my 40’s, but something much more significant. I don’t know what that is, but I know it’s coming.

As I look back over the last 2 1/2 years, the course of events and changes are staggering, and much of that’s been due to brazen confidence and/or arrogance; something I’ve lost and want BACK! I’ve not missed this kind of anxiety one damn bit, but to be fair, its absence has likely left me a little complacent.

Another day or two in Boise? We’ll see.

8/25: Boise, ID

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 06:19:00 +0000

Dave worked a full day, but once he was home we embarked upon a remarkable chat concerning the results of one losing their religion or spiritual compass. Considering his background of renouncing Mormonism after climbing its ranks, Dave has a rare, fascinating, and original perspective and personal experience with it. I explored how my loss of "trust-in-the-compass" coincided with the negativity I seem to attract lately; at least since the Chris rants of February, if not all the way back to Andre. The conversation eventually turned to forgiveness (or lack of); giving people, myself included if not first, permission to be, as Rael put it, flawed.

Beyond that, I believe I have lost partial sight of my original goal: truth. I’m afraid some of my political rantings have encouraged the adaptation of the base habit of preferring to “appear” right” than being right.

I’m in an odd place. I still crave answers yet am still caught entertaining both petty regret and a want to go home; give up this quest and build some sort of life. My priorities have abruptly altered and suddenly there are more important things than an intellectualized ego quest.

Yet, as 40 prepares to strike in a few weeks, I’m not yet willing to embrace a domesticated pasture. Looking around my current setting I see the organic fruit of this "quest": Lynette, Dave, Ben, Brad, even their cat! Without this “quest” for the indescribable, this current scene, along with its characters, remains unknown and unresolved. This part of life remains banished to the same oblivion-of-waste as the previous four decades.

As I suggested in May, I need to find that positive spot; that place where I am putting something positive back into the world. I’d love to spend a month here pickin' brains!

8/22-24: Boise, ID

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 07:37:00 +0000

Our "coincidental" timing was remarkable. We arrived at Lynette's at about 11pm, literally a few short minutes before their cab, and after 36-hours in the car, proceeded to fight car lag while exchanging enthusiastic greetings and reacquainting ourselves.

It hadn't really struck me until watching them how little time Mike & Lynette had spent together in their lives. After just an hour, and against Lynette and Dave's vehement protests, Mike and Bobbie chose to continue on toward their destination in Bend, which was still several hours west. I'd decided to remain behind and begin the process of looking backward and forward at the same time. I had been sensing powerful mental tectonics threatening to snap since Alex Bay, my instincts were now screaming to just sit and process for a bit, and after 2009 and spending New Year's here, Lynette & Dave's place felt like a bit of a sanctuary!

Once Mike resumed his journey west, Lynette, Dave, and I were in bed almost immediately. They had been traveling all day and had to work the next morning. As for me? I just needed... rest!

The next couple of days were incredibly tranquil. Ben and Brad returned from their dad's, which made for a nice surprise when they realized I was back. With Dave & Lynette working, the three of us spent time just hanging out, watching a movie or throwing a ball around. It was quite nice, and an excellent start to an eventful stay.

8/17-22: New York to Idaho- Doug

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 21:21:00 +0000

In a shitty spot and contemplating camping possibilities as the sun fell, I was having no luck when a 4-door Toyota with Vermont plates appeared out of nowhere, abruptly pulled over on the narrow shoulder, and waved me on. When the ragged driver asked where I was going I said, “Toward Erie” and when he shockingly replied, “no problem” I suddenly knew I would make it to meet my brother and, barring any ridiculous complications, Idaho and Oregon. Aim for Maine, land in Oregon? I am the sharpshooter.

Doug was quite tall, about my age, had longish curly hair, famiiar cheap monotone clothes, and judging by all the stuff, which included a large cardboard box full of open food cans laid out buffet-style, was traveling somewhere distant and gave an initial hippie impression. That generalization was woefully mistaken, but he would prove to be a powerful reminder of our ingrained, unavoidable duplicity. Doug had the rare combination of being supremely arrogant, full of anger, and at the same time painfully awkward. Assessments aside, it quickly became obvious that Doug was brilliant and suffered from the stereotypical social deficiency that often comes along with it. In many ways, he reminded me of a genetically engineered splice of a Slabber and the guy from Big Bang Theory!

Coming from Burlington, Doug was driving across New York on his way thru Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin, and ultimately Montana to investigate places he described as “unspoiled” parks and nature preserves. I loved the coincidence of course, especially when I learned that one of the places he targeted was literally five-miles from my sister’s place in Ohio: my destination!

Nature, botany, and geology are Doug’s primary passions. He had methodically targeted unspoiled spots in nearly every part of the country, and meticulously planned to the point of obsession every detail to immerse himself in them for a short while. He raved about and offered an impressive, home-schooled seminar on the detailed geologic history of New York’s Adirondack Mountains and mocked the horrors that I had been literally at its edge and not strived to see what he described as God’s Country. I made a mental note of this; while I am sometimes prone to passionate hyperbole Doug was not prone to exaggeration!

A Happy Reflection

In an earlier life, Doug had been quite successful in New England real estate, and had made a great deal of money in another business venture and he had been miserable. We often finished each other’s sentences as we exchanged anecdotes about how we painfully learned that the external pursuit of “stuff” left each of us hollow inside. He ultimately sold everything, took an extended through Europe, and now lives much as The Friar and I do: he works when he needs but not to buy clothes, cars, or LED TV’s. He works to travel, often doing menial labor, as he told it, with much greater satisfaction. They’re not a practice in perpetual servitude: the jobs end once they’ve served their purpose and he recommences living life again!

We spent a great deal of time exchanging stories and social philosophy while bemoaning the willingness of most folks to subjugate their lives to the implanted idea of “career”; to become an unquestioning cog in the decaying machine. I haven’t written much about that in a long time, but it’s still there and it was quite clear that Doug and I had a great deal in common; we’d made similar decisions after drawing similar conclusions. As we wound thru western New York, I heard the familiar “I never pick up hitchers, but something told me to stop” which triggered a twinge of faint nostalgia.

An Uncomfortable Reflection

Doug’s other and more significant trait, at least in this particular narrative, was a blunt and overwhelming disgust for people. It was a disgust that seemed to stem from a typical arrogance and contempt as well as a poorly concealed, deep seated sense of rejection. When we stopped for gas he seemed to go out of his way to be rude to nearly everyone he interacted with. His comments made it clear that he was either showing off or that he considered these people his inferior minions and wouldn’t suffer unnecessary common courtesy! This extended beyond words; he was a prick on the road as well!

He provided some insight into this as we approached Erie. Doug told of how he was ostracized and made a spectacle of as a child because, as he told it, he was “so much smarter” than everyone. He smugly told how, even as a youth, he could think several steps ahead of everyone else, even teachers, and use his intellect as a stealth weapon. In his eye, the battlefield is intellect, and on it he feels like Napoleon. From the passenger’s seat, there was a veiled, enraged, hurt child striving to show off and impress me with mental muscle. The closer to Erie we came, the more pathetic he seemed. I was also disturbed a bit. These insights were entirely too clear, and frighteningly familiar. Using intellect, ideas, and venomous words as weapons to reap vengeance? Hmmm....

Shortly before leaving New York, I offered Doug gas money to ease his airtight budget if he’d let me ride along to Sandusky or Toledo. My new plan (ha!) was to meet up with Michelle, who offered to pick me up as far away as Erie or Cleveland, and coordinate with my brother from her place in Ohio. The closer I was to Toledo, the easier it would be for Michelle to pick me up. Doug readily agreed, but said he was stopping for the night just past Erie, on I-90 at the Ohio Welcome Center.

Ohio

I found a secluded spot snuggled beneath some evergreens and we were back on I-90 west toward Cleveland by 6:30 Wednesday morning. I was looking forward to both ending this little Massena-Ohio sprint, and a leisurely day touring northern Ohio’s natural wonders with Doug. Natural wonders in Ohio? The image of the Cuyahoga River's chemicals ablaze came to mind!

Yes, it really happened!

The first stop was impressive, and something I would never expected to find in any city, let alone fucking Cleveland. Rocky River Metropark is a beautiful, nearly undisturbed preserve IN Cleveland. Yes, CLEVELAND! Doug seemed impressed with Cuyahoga County, and gave Cleveland his thumbs up. I had to grudgingly agree, besides...it’s not like I was complimenting Columbus!

Rocky River Metropark, Cleveland

Cleveland

Through the morning and afternoon, I found myself hiking a wetland preserve near Sandusky, then reading a book while Doug explored another preserve in the middle of nowhere, then Marblehead Lighthouse and its adjacent state park. At each stop, he’d euphorically bound down the trails for extended hikes returning with tales of intrepid adventures in botany! He had a love for and a bond with nature that I admired a great deal. This was his element, as long as there were no people to interfere with it!

Cedar Point

Lake Erie Near Sandusky, OH

Near Port Clinton, OH

A Troubling Reflection

Throughout the day, we had periodically talked politics and sociology, which was clearly inevitable. Doug’s was an interesting ideological hybrid. Being from Vermont, he had traditional libertarian “leave me alone” tendencies, but he also was quite progressive when it came to issues like energy and the environment, and economically he was Milton Friedman’s wet dream. “To the right of Attila the Hun”, to steal a line. Socially, like many of us willfully loitering on the fringes, he believed society to be on the downside and that sustainability, both individually and on-scale is essential to survival.

However, what struck me most and will stick with me forever was his chilling, unwavering, reptilian lack of compassion. When it came to unemployment, social security, food stamps, health care, or anything to do with helping the poor, he was convinced that caring for these “freeloaders” equated to an inoperable economic tumor that would consume us all. Doug’s platform: “Austerity Now! Austerity tomorrow! Austerity Forever! Fuck Them!”

I tried to appeal to Doug’s sense of humanity, but across the topical board there was none to be found. He was ready to go to war to protect the endangered Flatulent Pink Flamingo, but when it came to his own species? It’s survival of the fittest. No mercy. Pure Natural Law. Economically, everyone was to be left to and at the mercy of “The Market.” Ultimately, I asked him if he thought we should just throw the poor, sick, and starving into the streets as they did in medieval London. “Absolutely!”, he said. Can’t keep up? Get out of the gene pool.

Doug’s lack of simple, fundamental compassion was reminiscent of my earlier conversations with various economic and social “Anarchists” I’ve met over the last few of years, particularly in the Dakotas and Slab City, and sadly also mirrored some of the views I myself entertained and tinkered with since ’08. Through conversations with some of my Teabagging friends, as well as reading some of their in-depth ideas, and watching is sheer horror the drama surrounding the BP Gulf of Mexico oil spill this summer, I’ve concluded that this brand of socioeconomics is, at best, inhumane and beneath civilized culture. At worst it’s an elaborate rationalization for greed, cruelty, and even financial cannibalization and exploitation of the most vulnerable.

To make matters worse, I saw it coming. The backlash I predicted in December of '08 now has a name: Teabaggery. While he admirable despised the Alaskan Road Whore (Palin), Doug’s clever arguments and verbal gymnastics seemed to echo all the other austerity-driven propaganda and did little more than provide Teabaggery with clever nuance.

“Not My Problem” should be the emblazoned upon every Teabagger’s calling card; avoiding taxation in the name of “The Market” is all that matters. The Market is almost literally God. Is there nothing held higher? I asked, is there’s no higher ideal in this world than the ability to accumulate and hoard wealth, even at the expense of others? At that, he gave me his patented arrogant, amused look saying he hoped “I understand that at this point” in my life. Proudly, I don’t.

Drawing on recent experiences and particularly conversations with Brian over the summer about things like projection and cognitive dissonance, my bullshit detector was blaring, especially considering his story the night before. It seemed clear that Doug’s prime concern was less about social philosophy and politics and more about avenging himself as “the victim ostracized from the pack” only because he was “gifted.” There was entirely too much anger tainted with superiority and disdain to be just simple ideology.

Rant Alert

Beyond him specifically, Doug provided yet another glimpse into the mindset of an alarming number of people. As I’ve said, I’ve seen them all over and have mentioned them periodically over the last two-years. I’m no Rasmussen but the anger is manifesting itself into something ugly. You need only to be aware of their pervasive dogma while listening to The Asshat King Glenn Beck, Rush, The Alaskan Road Whore, or any of the whackjob Teabaggery candidates like Sharon Angle or Christine O’Donnell. The fact the latter are legitimate candidates speaks volumes.

Doug’s clearly no anomaly; there are millions of Americans who are more than happy to throw whomever they define as a “freeloader” into the streets to starve in exchange for lower taxes. Never mind that the lower tax rates don’t apply to THEM!

Despite often clinging to their Bibles, they are perfectly comfortable in their “freeloader” judgment, along with any number of other designations with which they choose to label the “undesirables.” Meanwhile, rest assured they're not to be bothered being anyone’s keeper, let alone their lazy brother’s!

They typically perpetrate all of this clutching their crosses while wrapped in the flag calling themselves patriots and squawking words like “tyranny” and “liberty”; all terms they couldn’t use in a sentence before they received their Teabag marching orders following the election of The Socialist: Chocolate Jesus. Somehow, they equate “freedom” with “gluttony” and “greed”. Somehow they’re convinced that they know something, ANYTHING, about “tyranny!” Bloated, gun-crazed, redneck American’s moaning about “tyranny” is like Christians crying “oppression!” Fuck off. Listening to these arguments has convinced me that Teabaggery is the repositioned philosophy and legacy of Timothy McVeigh. He too championed “Second Amendment remedies.”

End Rant

From this point forward, Doug was a finite resource. I kept ensuing conversation away from political and social issues figuring that was the best way to keep the peace, and me in the car!

Late in the afternoon, I guided Michelle to Port Clinton where she met us at McDonald’s ending this little cannonball trip west. It had taken me 72-hours to get from Massena to Michelle’s.

As we sat waiting in the parking lot, I realized I had never given Doug the gas money I promised him. I concluded that the Karma Market and Natural Law conspired against him and chose not to provide it. More to the point and to quote Deacon from Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure: “He was a dick.”

Doug

As we parted ways, we made the obligatory promises to stay in touch, but that was clearly not happening!

Ohio to Idaho

There’s not much to tell about the next few days. I stayed with Michelle for a couple days, made an REI run, and began processing the past couple of weeks before meeting up with Mike and helping him drive toward their version of the Oregon Trail.

The cross-country was uneventful, except for another rendezvous with the Iowa 80, and my taking great joy watching Mike, Bobbie, and Ally’s amazement thru the Rockies. Mike had never been beyond Iowa, and I could literally see their faces regularly light up at seeing these places I now take for granted for the first time. It reminded me of my first trip west and how I was simply hypnotized. Its a different world out here; one where pictures and words don’t suffice. They seemed to take a special liking to Wyoming and Utah and I must confess that, despite everything I have said about it, if I were leading a cult west I’d probably settle near the Wasatch, too! It’s disgustingly beautiful!

Wyoming

Near Laramie, WY

Utah

It was fantastic getting to know Mike, Bobbie, and Ally a bit more as we rode west along I-80 and, although Lynette and Dave were in the Antilles scuba diving, I was looking forward to stopping in Boise on the way back from Oregon for a reunion of sorts. My intention was to surprise them, and just have Mike and I show up. Unfortunately, I was unsure of their itinerary so shortly after we crossed from into Idaho I called to let her know we were around and that I hoped to see her at some point while we were in the Northwest.

To my shock, she quickly returned my call saying that she and Dave were in Salt Lake waiting for their connector to Boise! It seemed that we’d all be converging on Boise in a couple of hours...

8/17: Elmira and Corning, NY

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 11:59:00 +0000

When Tuesday dawned, I was far from certain about getting to Ohio for the week’s-end rendezvous with my brother. Casey & Julia had dropped me in a great spot as far as shade, camping, and a truck stop. The problem was no traffic! It reminded me of '08's Mormon Black Hole near Pocatello!

By 9am, I had broken camp, repacked, returned with water & coffee, and hoped to quickly pass Elmira, which Julia had aptly described a bit “shady”; a vibe I’d noticed both with Alex and in ‘09 with Chris & Stacey. It seems the best of Elmira's attributes is that it is a gateway to either New York or Pennsylvania!

"WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE?"

The traffic never picked up; often as infrequent as a car every half-hour. As morning became mid-afternoon, I began to repeatedly ask, “What the fuck am I doing here?” This wasn’t in the predictable, dismissible tone of simple frustration.

Sitting in the sun, sipping water, and throwing stones at signs, I again had time to reflect back over the near-year since meeting Leslie, Lynette, and Andre, during my northern jaunt of 2009. Another baby step toward the coming reconciliation came with again seeing how much I had lost touch with what were once cornerstone beliefs. Since leaving Port Townsend, the core energy and vibe of these little travels had changed. From Andre to Wendie all the way to Rael and my relationship with Chris, everything had taken a distinctly different, often sinister tone. I had cultivated doubt in my own beliefs as I dissected others, particularly after the Don Quixote manifesto, and now, particularly since Brian’s this summer, all of the old ideas of universal synchronicity, even the Side Car & SDSU, sounded deluded and ridiculous when I tried to articulate them. I felt as though I’d performed a Broadway version of the R.E.M song Losing My Religion! I had hoped that this trip, to a places unknown, would rekindle my sense of wonder and adventure; remind me of and rekindle what I’d lost and missed terribly: belief in purpose and, to a great degree, myself.

It nearly had, until the infamous Asscrack Incident! Despite my opinions of Ginger and Ahab, I wasn’t kidding myself into thinking that it was anyone’s fault but my own, yet for the life of me I couldn’t comprehend the difference in me between meeting Lynette, Andre and now... beyond losing touch with my Innards, and that thing I call The Voice.

With such an obvious solution, it would seem easy to convince yourself to just “believe” again, and some can do that! Thankfully, I am not one of those people. I had inadvertently opened logic’s door and wielded empirical proof as a weapon against spirituality, synchronicity, and intuition... then pointed it at myself! While I challenging everyone else’s possible “delusion”, I was scuttling my own foundation! Mother. Fucker.

I’m sure that a few certain readers will savor my slowly brewing, self-inflicted pain-- perhaps call it Karma, and maybe deservedly so-- but, you’ll need to wait for the moneyshot! For the purpose of continuity, Tuesday eventually provides New York’s companion-catalyst to the Asscrack Incident, this one mercifully an external example to help advance this tortuous process of spiritual (and social) realignment & growth, at least to some degree.

ELMIRA & CORNING

After five-hours, I was imagining spending next month’s birthday in Tioga Center when, out of nowhere Levon pulled over and invited me in for a hop to Elmira. For the next 45-minutes we (mostly he, believe it or not!) talked sociology and politics. He appeared to be in his mid to late-20’s and was on his way home to Watkins Glen after hiking a bit of the Appalachian Trail. Levon’s father is involved in politics in some capacity, is himself is a passionate small-government Libertarian, and if I recall correctly, not a fan of The Alaskan Road Whore & her Teabaggery Minions. That meant we got along beautifully! So well in fact that he offered me food, his number, and a ride to Erie, PA if I somehow became stranded and in danger of missing my Ohio connection. I like these New Yorkers!

Levon

Elmira required improvised and technical navigation. Meaning I had to walk. Levon’s drop-site was busy, but at a nearly impossible spot for someone to stop. I took to the grass along side the interstate, hopped a fence, crossed a mall parking lot, and ultimately found accommodations on the ramp re-entering I-86 next to the airport. The heel blister had healed nicely to that point, but this little urban trek undid that!

Soon enough, I was in the car with “G” and on my way to Corning, famous for it’s glass making and home to CorningWare! “G” was in his 50’s and really non-descript but offered some great information on where to hop a train if I decided AND drove me thru the pleasant little town that seemed a good place, since it was getting late in the day, to spend Wednesday morning if needed.

That would not be necessary...

8/16: Tioga Center, NY- The Good, Bad, and Bizarre

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 00:02:00 +0000

Monday’s 6am alarm never had a chance to ring, deferring instead to the ominous chimes of thunder at 5:45. The skies had offered a temporary reprieve, so I hustled to re-pack and sprint out of the woods to the truck stop to ride out what seemed to be impending dramatic weather. The morning’s weather would prove to be an accurate thumbnail for the day!

Two hours, three pots of coffee, and a steak-and-eggs breakfast later, the storms had skirted Central Square, the camera, cell phone and I all had a full bellies, and a all seemed prepared and ready for a day-long push toward Binghamton then east toward Erie & Cleveland. My hope was to find a cannonball all the way thru Syracuse right away. When Liz pulled over (another single woman!) 10-minutes later in what appeared to be her combination commuter/ farm vehicle, it seemed to be a modest uneventful 10-mile start to the day.

Ninety-minutes later I was disembarking from, aside from Dennis, what may be the strangest, most uncomfortable ride I’ve had since beginning this in 2008! Liz was married, in her 20’s, had a few kids already, and once I had told her a few stories and she felt reasonably assured I wasn’t a freak, she relaxed and just kept driving... and driving... and driving. Once thru Syracuse, I learned first hand how women feel on a regular basis. Liz cleverly and steadily manipulated the conversation to share that she was a raging nymphomaniac, addicted to pornography and the “male form”, that her husband was as insatiable as she, and that I should consider seeking out work on the Internet because, “with all the walking you do, I’m sure you’re in really good shape!” If I were less tactful, I would have reminded her that my eyes were “up here.” Remember that next time someone says I have no filter!

Liz repeatedly asked if I was uncomfortable with this ever-expanding topic, but I wanted to get as close to Binghamton as I could so I rolled with it-- answering questions like, “what do you do about, you know, sex while you’re on the road? Do you just jerk off?” I laughed because, while it sounded bizarre coming from this odd creature, it wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that question and I half expected her to ask to watch! When she asked me that, all I could think of was hearing Ahab and Ginger discuss their apparent daylong Cirque du Soleil coupling ritual in Watertown; mental and visual trauma is effective-- I’d need nothing of the sort in my life for a very long time!

Liz bored of me by Binghamton, took a spontaneous exit, and dumped me off at a Lowe’s nest to my old friend, US-11. I felt like was being pushed out of the car after being taken to Red Lobster and not putting out in the parking lot! (Karma?) And, I felt kinda dirty! Despite all that, I could care less. It was barely 10:30, I had made it thru Syracuse and all the way to Binghamton, survived the advances of an Internet Porn Queen, and presumably could now turn east. Making Ohio by Friday looked good!

One of my fatal-flaws is laziness. It always has been, and while I try very hard to fight it, I have colossal lapses that occasionally create for comical scenarios. Allow me to present exhibit #375,023.

I was rather disoriented and misjudged the layout of Binghamton, as well as having unknowingly underestimated its size. I had just left I-81, was looking for I-86, and saw a sign for I-88. That’s a whole lotta 8’s! Rather than pull the map out of the pack, I relied on my hazy recollection from 2009, assumed I’d mistaken I-86 for I-88 and confidently pranced off-- to the north then east-- following the signs to the interstate.

Ooops...

When I’d arrived at I-88 forty-five minutes later, there was no place to hitch from and only after walking another 20-minutes down an industrial service road did I finally decide to look at the fucking map. My discovery: I had not only mistaken the interstates, but this one ended in Binghamton, did NOT connect with I-86, and in fact I -86 (despite what Google Maps says) did NOT pass thru or touch Binghamton. I-86 in Binghamton was a phantom! The road I needed was NY-17 and the obvious question: how the hell was I supposed to get there!

My heel-blister, which had been doing well, was no longer cooperating and now paired beautifully with this little navigational realization, neither was the weather. The downpours began as I put my head down and simply resolved to escape from Binghamton, one way or another. A couple of hours and several miles later, I had my bearings and a set course. Route 17 was my new obsession. Incidentally, all I had needed to do at the outset was turn left instead of right when Liz let me out! That’ll piss a guy off.

Eventually I found a place to set up with a sign at a busy entrance ramp back on to I-81. Oftentimes, these busy ramps are deceiving. One would think it would be easier to catch a ride at a place like this, but that’s often not the case-- especially in cities. Three hours later, the midday rain was replaced by mid afternoon sun, heat, and humidity, and I felt as though I’d begun to grow roots from my ass into my backpack from sitting on it for so long. I needed some positive energy, and found it in the form of a couple of great kids.

The Kids are Alright

Casey & Julia were both 19, just out of high school, lived a little west of Binghamton, and were heading home after signing up for classes at a community college. They had returned to pick me up after initially driving by-- which as I’ve said before ALWAYS amazes me. I was further astonished by their spirit and hospitality. They helped me get the pack into their trunk, loaded me up with water, and tried to figure out the perfect spot to drop me off without taking me all the way to Elmira!

Neither seemed sure what they wanted to do with their lives and expressed an untapped desire to “see what’s out there” despite their parents insistence that they get busy and “make something of this life.” I’m pretty sure that’s what led them to stop, and thinking of both myself and conversations I’d recently had with my contemporaries, I naturally encouraged them to tell mom and dad to stuff it; to take their time before getting too serious about becoming a cog in the machine. Julia in particular seemed fascinated by my method and philosophy of travelling, especially after the story of Dennis and, comparing favorably to Leslie (which is tough!), she reminded me once again why I love the part of youth drawn to the mystery, excitement and the possibility of life.

I’m slowly accepting that, while it’s often accompanied by an unfortunate, unavoidable ignorance-- the kids have much of it right. What’s interwoven within this peculiar synthesis of mystery, excitement, and possibility is the nexus of what all of us need: wonder & hope. We old fucks bitterly know it on some level, but too many have allowed the practical “business of life” choke and smother the very spirit that, in my not-so-humble opinion, makes life worth living. Then, we wonder why we can’t relate and feel empty! I was happy to spend 20-minutes immersed in and reminded of that.

Route 17 finally turned into I-86 and shortly thereafter Casey and Julia elected to drop me off at a truck stop just west of Owego, assuring me that the people out here were stand-up and that I’d have little trouble finding a ride. The truck stop seemed promising with lots of traffic and adjacent to a Best Buy distribution center. I wasn’t too concerned as watched the sun fall from the nearby exit ramp and found a spot to bed down chuckling at what this day had held!

8/15: Central Square, NY- About Face

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 11:14:00 +0000

I’d first heard about Oregon on Friday. It wasn’t until I knew their departure date that I seriously considered trying to making it happen. If I wanted to, I had a week to turn tail and get from extreme northern New York to Ohio, where I hoped Michelle would pick me up and help me to catch my stage west.

Subconsciously, I knew what I was going to do all along. I have the short-bus habit of quietly making quick, rash, often foolish decisions, then acting out the drama to appear as though I’m anguishing with the already completed process. Often, I even Don Quixote myself into believing I’m still trying to decide. I really hate this tendency!

I wanted to take the opportunity to possibly spend 10-days travelling with my brother. I wanted to spend time with he and Lynette in Idaho. Besides, Lynette and the clan were part of the plan from the very beginning so though I’d miss Maine, I’d get to spend time with family. Right?

Right?

The problem was admitting, after all the talk and thought about getting to Maine, that I’d get this close and not finish! After all the high-minded talk about visiting Massena to “make something right in my head”, I’d finally get there, then turn around and leave! Then there was my bike-tour buddy Bruno, who was maybe two hours away in Montreal. I’d hoped to reconnect with him while I was up here, too.

I knew all that would go by the wayside. Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont were going nowhere, unless Bruno’s feeble Quebecois invade! I’d been unable to contact him and besides, my energy was fleeting. I hadn't felt positive about much since Friday. I wasn’t thrilled with my own behavior or, particularly how I reacted to their results and needed something positive to happen. Family time on the road might provide the scene change I needed. Right?

Right?

It seemed like a dark cloud of negativity had emerged in Alex Bay and was now stalking me. I’d been given a reprieve, even recaptured some of the old connectivity that I’d been lacking all year but with the radio conversation, I’d opened a door...and poof! Gone.

This articulation only served to worsen things. I was forced to peer back at Andre, Friar, and Rael and quietly re-assess my own complicity, yet again. The problem was, as I looked back, I couldn’t see where I had necessarily been WRONG in any of my insights! Was it wrong to expect a person to want an answer to his, “how can I be of greatest assistance?” If he were going to answer his own question, wouldn’t it be more authentic to state, “this is how I want to help you”? After all, words ARE important! Was it unfair to scrutinize a public, supposed “reborn man of scripture” who’d renounced wealth, and ask why he was selling corporate camping gear? Why he was soliciting donations (wealth) for the Sierra Club? How did he reconcile abandoning gluttony for dependence on handouts and charity? And, what would Jesus say to giving interviews subtly touting his righteousness and carrying the articles around as Sierra Club marketing material? Don't get me wrong: Relatively speaking and by typical standards, Rael’s quest was noble until it ended a couple months ago. But, by utilizing the print media and invoking scripture, he set the bar pretty high, and thus these were (and are) fair questions. Fair questions, but still... something bothered me about the venom I spewed while asking them along with my failure to accept humanity; that, as Rael said, “we’re all flawed human beings.”

Andre, in particular, haunted me and I had to chuckle as I felt the onset of a forced humility brought on by a difficult personal inventory, and more significantly a clarifying, empty sensation of something lost! Yes, sitting in the rain trying to figure out how to tell myself I’d come all this way only to turn around, yesterday’s cracks grew and I descended a few more steps into a deepening, dark psychological cellar.

Exhausted and nestled away in this secluded spot, I’d slept for 15-hours finally waking at noon Sunday to the sound of light rain and occasional thunder. The rain would come and go all day, so I spent much of the afternoon in the bivy and chatting on the phone until I had all but decided to take the Greyhound to Ohio. The bus stop was a mile down the road, it left at 10 Monday morning, and would cost way too much! But it seemed the safe, logical thing to do considering my location and new schedule.

It couldn't hurt to at least try to get a ride back toward Watertown to save as much money as I could. Who knows? Maybe I’d get lucky and slingshot far enough so not to need a ticket at all. There were tangible, nagging pangs of regret with the realization that I’d come to the outskirts of Massena just to see a woods and a Stewart’s gas station! In all likelihood, I’d not get up this way again so this was a significant opportunity wasted. Something deep down grumbled that this is much too common.

That all went silent shortly after I arrived at the Stewart’s. I struck up a quick conversation with George, and within 30-seconds, somehow, had a ride toward Watertown with this 40-something guy who’d claimed to have been arrested 32-times for everything from assault to armed robbery. As he turned south west, in his company’s van, it quickly became clear that here was a guy who knew how to read people, ask direct questions, and would tell you the truth simply because what you thought didn’t fucking matter! George went on to tell how he’d since reformed himself, had a beautiful wife who’d stuck by him, was a relatively new father, and learned how to “get respect” in a better way. Along the way, he let me know that I was “fuckin’ nuts. Ballsy. But, fuckin’ nuts!”

George dropped me at I-81about 15-miles north of Watertown, quite close to the scene of the Asscrack Incident. 10-minutes later I was stumbling into the messy van of a character known as Corny. Another interesting cat, this ornery Corny. The perfect ride when you’re tired or preoccupied: in love with the sound of his own voice, and wanted someone to talk TO--- rather than conversate with! He was around 60, talked non-stop about “that crazy fuckin' bitch ex-wife”, being disabled during his time in Viet Nam, his loser son (who sounded like he was doing fine), and how the VA was “fucking him like a $10 whore day and night.” I can’t think of who, but with his receding hairline exposing a round forehead, round nose, peculiar animated mannerisms, and thick New York City accent, he reminded me of someone quite famous.

Corny was going all the way down to Syracuse, but it was getting late and wanting to avoid the sprawl I asked to be dropped 20-miles north at a truck stop in Central Square. It looked as though it was going to downpour, so I quickly found a spot in a woods well past the parked semi’s, set my alarm, and snuggled into the bivy at dusk.

8/14: Massena, NY- Cracks

noreply@blogger.com (Todd X) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 09:34:00 +0000

It took some time to understand, but Saturday morning’s frustration was less about Ahab, Ginger, or Bill than myself. Somehow that perfect Friday soured, and although I meant no harm other than being my oft-obnoxious self, something sinister and familiar crashed my little party via the radio conversation: what Chris likes to refer to as my negativity and judgment. Guilty: I have a track record as one aggressive, direct, cold, bitter son-of-a-bitch-- especially when someone tries to sell me on the value of conservatism or that shell-of-a-medium called radio! I suppose that’s because on some level, it still matters to me. The conversation ended, but I lugged the negative energy with me.

Setting off Saturday morning, I was motivated to put Alex Bay’s now-putrid energy behind me! But, with the heel it would clearly be impossible to walk in my boots. It was time to put the Crocs (an idea borrowed from Ray) to the test, and I was shocked to learn that they were fucking comfy, and sturdy! Even with the pack! There was nothing rubbing on the heel, it could breathe, and while they took some getting used to the lone problem I saw was the holes in the front, and the rubber potentially rubbing parts of my feet raw. Socks solved that.

I hoped to catch a quick ride as far as Ogdensburg or all the way to Massena as I walked east, but nothing came-- giving me the time, atmosphere, and exercise to think optimally and over-analyze the night before!

In my infinite idiocy, I hadn’t connected why I was so sensitive to the topic of radio with where I was going: Massena! I had done a night show there for a summer-- recorded in my bedroom and sent via the Internet from Michigan. I’d never even glimpsed pictures of the place, and needed regular coaching from my program director to be sure I pronounced cities, streets, and area landmarks correctly! When I learned I was passing thru New York on my way to northern New England, I knew this was my chance to at least see, talk to, and pay respects to the little town I’d deceived way back then. I never felt completely right about that, although I was good at it. Still, I don’t think I realized how much it bothered me until that morning waddling like a blistered duck down this tiny two-lane road next to the St. Lawrence.

There’s more to this story. Most of it is a lingering, persistent idealism and perfect rant material. Maybe I’ll share it sometime, but today suffice it to say that my experience deceiving Massena subconsciously helps trigger an intense, adverse reaction when people profess radio’s nobility of purpose and its benefit to society-- as Bill did the night before. Horseshit. It’s surviving “purpose” is playing songs between commercials and providing thinly veiled, pathetically executed illusion of local, community involvement. Remember that the next time you hear “live and local!” Anyone telling you different is lying or selling something to you. Buy Sirius. Seriously.

There’s one final setup that will be helpful for the impending posts. My time at Brian’s over the summer wasn’t what I’d term a chapter in a new Heroic Epic, but is was quietly and deceptively productive even though the “product” will not resemble what I expected! Eventually, I'll write things that will seem radically out of character, and this moment is these painful realizations's nexus. August 14th was the birth and a baby step toward an overdue, month-long reconciliation of a year-long mental and emotional logic-induced stagnation. What was begun at Andre’s, followed me to Port Townsend, then Slab City, Cambria, Monterey, and Michigan; what’s haunted, anchored, and confounded me for the past year had finally begun breaking loose.

However, all I knew then was that I was tired and pissed off that I was walking Route12 in Crocs! Profound. Inspiring.

Six miles later, I was disturbed that my central New York luck had not appeared to follow me north when I needed it. Exhausted as much from thinking as walking, I squatted down on my pack across the road from a hair salon in the middle of nowhere, and an hour later things started happening. Another single woman, Sue, took me to Chippewa Bay where I watched nearly every emergency vehicle in northern New York drive past on their way to a fire. My version of reality TV!

90-minutes later, I was picked up by a guy in his 30’s driving a pickup and offering to take me just a few miles, to Morristown. When I told why I was going to Massena (radio), his face lit up as he claimed to recognize my voice from the station! I’m not sure I believed him, but after he heard that, he suddenly had free time and wanted to take me the rest of the way to Ogdensburg.

Ogdensburg is the largest city in the immediate area-- not huge, but sizeable. It’s 30-miles southwest of Massena, and it’s decrepit. It metaphorically reeked of drugs. It’s hard to articulate, but there is next to nothing there, despite it’s decent size. Houses are falling apart and many buildings stand abandoned and empty. Sadly, it reminded me repeatedly of Detroit-- without blacks.

My new ride/ old fan said he would have taken me the final 30-miles to Massena, but didn’t have that much time. Unbelievably, he offered to do the next best thing: pay far the cab the rest of the way. He was concerned about me camping along the road in the impending rain and, despite my meager protests, insisted I call the taxi for an estimate. When Kermit quoted me $30 to Massena, he pounced on it.

We met the taxi-van at Walmart, I said goodbye to He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless, and over the next hour watched as some amusing vocational drama played out. Kermit, the semi-elderly driver/ co-owner I spoke with on the phone, had overextended and needed another driver. But, the other co-owner refused to answer his phone! Driving me to Massena on a busy Saturday was a hassle! Over the next hour, Kermit went off-duty, Mark took over, picked up/ dropped off several people, and consequently I was shown much more of Ogdensburg, literally AND figuratively, than I ever expected! When the other owner finally called back, I learned that the $30 fare Kermit quoted was in fact HALF; it was $30/ each way. To their immense credit they were each adamant about honoring Kermit's quote.

Eventually, we were finishing my final leg to Massena and Mark dropped me off at a gas station on the far-west end of Massena. I chatted with a some gas station customers while I ate, and had another of the “I thought I recognized your voice” moments. My hungry, piggly little ego loved it-- even if they were full of shit! Then again, maybe they weren't. In this case, I choose to believe the best in folks!

I was three miles south of town, it was late in the day and the sky looked as though Hell were about to bust loose. I spied a woods directly behind the gas station that appeared to be public land, found a perfect spot to nest completely concealed in and beneath thick vegetation, and finally lie down exhausted just before the rain began. Before I dozed off, I got a text from my brother about his sudden, impulsive fact-finding mission via I-80 to Oregon. He’d be going past Lynette’s place in Idaho and offered me a ride. Caveat: needed to be near Michigan by the following Saturday!

Perfect Nest.

There was no way in hell I could process any of it effectively then, but it made for an interesting Sunday!