Here I go.

Elephant Journal

2014-08-25T10:37:00.000-07:00

Good morning sunshines!

So, let´s take a little break from the #memoirsofahitchikker series because I´m ~~slightly~~ (extremely) elated that Elephant Journal has picked up one of my poems and published it on their site. EleJ is an independantly written and published magazine about,

"the mindful life ... yoga, organics, sustainability, conscious consumerism, enlightened education, the contemplative arts, adventure, bicycling, family…everything. But mostly it’s about this present moment, right here, right now, and how we can best be of benefit, and have a good time doing so."

Yep. Hippies. And what beautiful hippies. Anywho, if you´ve never heard of them, go check them out and check out their articles and other such goodness.

Oh, and if you missed the link camouflaging in the first sentence of this post, here it is again: Evolution

Pura vida!
ERK

Comodoro Rivadavia

2014-08-12T09:36:00.003-07:00

Ricardo picked us up on the outskirts of Trelew, a literal two-horse town with a picturesque main drag about two city blocks long. As promised, Daniel had dropped us off at a trucker stop right on the border of Trelew, where he had to be for some mysterious reason he hadn´t elaborated on. As much as people have cautioned against walking the highway and hoping for luck (for various reasons, the most obvious being that if you are caught in the middle of nowhere when night falls, you´re kind of screwed), it seemed like it was where all of our luck was being found. So, after a few failed attempts, we started hiking down the highway, chasing the afternoon sun, and in no time we hitched a ride. Easypeasy.

Ricardo pointed out a strange looking animal he called a Guanaco. It looked like a llama, but he insisted it was different, and continued to tell us about how he unknowingly ate its meat for some time. "Delicious," he said. "But they should have told me before I ate it." He paused for a moment as he passed a truck, then he continued, grave and serious, as if surviving the brief encounter gave more weight to our lives, "Here, any food that they say is Patagonica, assume it has Guanaco meat."

We all fell silent for some time. Maybe from Ricardo's wisdom. Maybe from the persistent drone of the unchanging landscape. It seemed like we had all fallen asleep. It seemed as though even Ricardo had fallen asleep at the wheel, and by some Argentine voodoo, he was able to continue driving with his eyes closed, weaving through trucks and slower moving cars with unnatural ease.

A British tenor singing a Spanish song in the style of opera came on and almost as if on cue, the road changed. The monotonous flatness of the countryside morphed into hills and cliffs. And in response, the once faithfully straight road turned into a snake. Dark green foliage clung to the dusty red cliff sides, with canyon-like valleys carving through every so often, allowing glimpses of the dark blue calm of the sea to the east. All of this hung on the backdrop of a light blue sky smattered with white-washed clouds. It was beautiful.

The cliffs grew in size, or the road carved closer to sea level, making the cliff look larger by way of optical illusion. Whichever may be the case, they became more impressive and I became more and more aware of my tiny, so easily measured mortality. As we entered the boundaries of Comodoro Rivadavia, the green no longer clung to the dusty red earth. Even the red faded. The earth was just dusty.

The city of Comodoro Rivadavia was strange. After being on the open road for so long, drowning in such an unchanging landscape, suddenly being sandwiched in a city carved between cliffside and sea felt strange. Not good. Not bad. Just strange. There was an intangible awareness suddenly forced upon me. An awareness of what, I had no idea, but I wouldn't mind finding out. The city reminded me of the video game series, Zelda. Specifically, the cave city of the Gorons. The people running about industrious and serious, dwarfed by the scale of their surroundings.

Butted right up against semi-skyscrapers, the dusty gray cliff loomed. On its face were carved lines, like wrinkles drawn in with a ruler, zigzagging with industrial vehicles made for mining deep into the earth, sucking out precious minerals. The cliff looked pale, like a tired old woman fighting some ailment born of being malnourished.

The streets creeped up and down steep hills, reminding me of Ankara, Turkey. It was a city clinging to a cliff so ready to unburden itself of the foreign population, ready to let everything slide off at any moment. Probably from the mines, or the fact that many of the streets were nothing more than unpaved gravel paths, even the most minute of motions lifted dust into and around the air. Comodoro Rivadavia was shrouded in a constant cloud of dust.

La Ciudad Gris, Soledad had called it. The Gray City. Having never been, and only hearing of the city, she admitted that she had no idea why. Walking through Comodoro Rivadavia, I suddenly understood why.

Tanta tierra. Much earth.

2014-08-05T20:58:00.000-07:00

A little after 6AM. Lyndon's alarm rang.

Ignored.

A few minutes passed and mine rang.

Ignored.

It's always hard to crawl out of bed, adventure or not. After soaking in the last remnants of warmth from my lent cot, I finally, rather begrudgingly, got up and prepped for the trek ahead.

Filled water bottle, check.

Camera wrapped and stowed, check.

Snacks (very important), check.

Lyndon got up from his cot and did the same. When we were ready, Lyndon knocked on Javier and Sol's door to let us out. I could never wake people up. Sleep has always held such a sacred space for me that I've always found it extremely difficult to cut anyone's dreams short.

We hobbled down the stairs, still a bit asleep, out the front door, through the gate, hugged and kissed Javier and Sol and started heading off.

"Hasta la vuelta, chicos!" They chased us with one last sentiment. Until your return, kids!

It's always a little bit more difficult to hitch a ride within city limits, so with Javier's suggestion, we walked to a bus station and took a bus and got off at a trucker stop near the edge of the city. The same exact spot Miguel had dropped us off almost two weeks ago. The sun was just beginning to rise. We wandered around asking trucks for a hand in helping us continue on our journey. We hobbled around awkwardly striking up conversation with anyone behind a wheel for a few hours without any luck until Lyndon suggested that we walk down the national route and throw our thumbs up into the air, like we did at Bahía Blanca. Out of ideas myself, and feeling a bit low after being turned down so many times, I agreed. So we walked down the side of the highway, taking turns strumming random chords on the guitar while the other stuck out his thumb at anything with wheels.

Anyone who's hitchhiked anywhere will tell you that rejection is normal. Some go days without successfully hitching a ride. Luckily, Argentina's asphalted backbone, Ruta 3, had been kind. And in the crisp Patagonian air tampered by the hot sun blazing across the flatlands of southern Argentina, a black SUV veered off the road onto the gravelly shoulder of the highway.

"You guys coming or not?" A middle-aged man's head popped out the window, yelling in our general direction.

Accommodating our packs into the back seat, we settled in, Lyndon in the back with the bags and me in the front. Without much more than a smile and a hey-how's-it-going, we were off. Most will say no, some will altogether ignore your existence like some phantom from a Jack Kerouac novel. But, luckily, all it takes is one smiling soul to pull over and the journey continues.

We did the normal pleasantries, introducing ourselves, describing our faraway homelands, searching for something in common for interesting conversation. His name was Daniel, and he liked to practice his English, so we spoke in this lingua franca, each straining to neutralize his accent. It took some time before Daniel even asked where we were heading. Ruta 3 is long, stretching north and south. Wherever we were heading didn't really matter, since we were heading south just as he.

"We're heading to Comodoro Rivadavia," I said, "we've got in touch with another traveler from that city and he's agreed to house us for a bit."

"Ahh, that's kind of him," Daniel said, not looking away from the road. "Well, I'm headed to Trelew, so I can't take you all the way there. But I can drop you off at a petrol station where a lot of truckers pass by so you should be able to make it to Comodoro Rivadavia by the afternoon."

"Great," I said smiling, still not fully believing our luck with hitchhiking. "That would be really helpful!"

The conversation drifted toward Australia and it's sun-drenched beaches. I looked out the window looking for the random llamas dotting the vast landscape.

Tanta tierra.

Much earth.

A blog about a blog, kind of like inception.

2014-07-30T18:03:00.004-07:00

Boy it´s been a while. I´d apologize for letting this blog almost sizzle out, but to be fair, I´ve been busy living in the woods of an island on the edge of Patagonia (near Antartica). Out here, internet connection is a luxury that comes low on my list of necessities, you know, after plastic bags to wrap my feet in under snow boots and before peanutbutter sandwhiches. Yeah, I´ve reorganized my entire list of priorities. It´s been liberating.

For reference, a photo of what my "backyard" looks like:

Yep. Cold. And this was taken before the recent snow fall. Now we have ski slopes, but no skis. We do, however, have inflated life-saver-like devices what we use as sleds. I think I´ve crushed my coccyx and possibly a few internal organs.

Anywho, I´d like to tell y´all that I´ve been getting back to the writing. But before we dive back into the whole hashtag-memoirs-of-a-hitchhiker series I´ve been spouting out before the sabbatical, I´d like to share the latest blog I´ve written. Yeah, I know, I wrote a blog for a blog that wasn´t my blog, which I have all but ignored for over a year. It felt almost like a vivid inception-like dream of commiting regicide - if the king were a little-read journal on some interwebs.com, and regicide meant ignore. But hey, we must destroy to create (Shiva reference because sometimes I let my hippie show).

Back to the blog, I´ve recently teamed up with one of the most beautiful souls I´ve run into in these humble travels that have become my life. Jessica Brookes is a yogini, healer, writer, traveler, photographer, reader of poetry, and all around swell superhero of a gal. Founder of The Shanti Space and Jectaspecta, she´s been featured on The Telegraph, so you know homegirl´s legit.

The blog post talks about a little adventure Karma Yoga (a little project of mine) had with Qultural Nomade, and how general hippiness ensued on a patagonian beach. I´m sure you´ll dig it.

Thusly inasmuch and what´s most importantly of all, click on all of these links because this is how we writers feed our faceholes.

Pura vida!
ERK

Puerto Madryn con Javier y Sol

2013-05-20T01:29:00.000-07:00

Waking up in Patagonia. Breathless.

I collapsed onto the ground. We had hiked about 20 kilometers with huge knapsacks on our backs. The sun was hot. I laid down on the rocky cliff overlooking the ocean and fell asleep for a few minutes. I dreamt briefly of California. No real place in particular, just cabins made of rough-hewn timber sitting underneath the Californian sun.

When I woke up, the sun was beginning to skirt the horizon. "We should probably set up the tent before it gets too dark to see anything," I said to Lyndon.

"Where? Right here?"

I looked around, "Sure, why not?" We were on a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean. The tide was already beginning to recede, baring a glistening rocky coast, rubbed smooth by the lapping waters. It was beautiful.

So we set up camp, placed our bags in the tent and, as if by cue, twilight came. I suggested we did some yoga, Lyndon agreed, so we did a variation of Chandra Namaskar (Moon Salutation). Synchronizing my breath with my movement under nothing but the light of the moon and the few stars peaking through twilight with the sound of waves behind me, I felt completely at peace. Even the cold Patagonian air stopped it's slow creep into my bones. I felt warm and happy.

Fully enveloped in the night, Lyndon and I sat at the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean and pulled out the bottle of whiskey we'd been saving since Bahía Blanca. We drank and talked about yoga, hitch-hiking, and how nice Javier and Sol were for lending us their tent. We had arrived the day before, cooked up a mean dinner of pineapple vegetarian curry. Discussing things to do, they suggested that we take the hike we just took to get to the point where we were now sitting and even offered to lend us the tent we were now using.

The night was unbearable. The wind picked up and at one point, I was convinced ogres and trolls were outside, growling and shaking the tent. I barely slept, gladly welcoming sunrise. The wind was still roaring in the morning, although a little more subdued than during the night. I decided to do a few rounds of Surya Namaskar (Sun Salutations) to greet the sun and I instantly felt better, as if I had a full night's sleep. Waiting for Lyndon to wake up, I grabbed my camera and explored the surrounding landscape. I even bumped into the herd of wild horses Lyndon had suggested trying to tame the day before.

On the hike back to Puerto Madryn, 20 kilometers seemed to be a shorter distance than when we had hiked it yesterday. We ended up staying with Javier and Sol for a little over a week, being delayed by rain. But it was nice. They had a notebook of recipes shared by the travelers who have passed through their home, all vegetarian recipes because Javier and Sol refuse to harm animals. I taught them how to love vinegar like a Filipino, Lyndon shared his ANZAC biscuit recipe, Javier taught us how to make bread, and Sol gave me a list of foods that help regulate seratonin and melatonin, helping to combat insomnia.

Javier and Sol playing with lights in the dark.

When the rain had looked like it had passed, we decided to continue the trek to the end of the world. Javier outlined the best way to get back on Ruta 3 to continue hitch-hiking.

"So you guys heading to Comodoro Rivadavia for sure?"

"Yep, found a couchsurfer willing to host us. Left his number and said to just call once we've arrived." I don't do well with goodbyes. With our departure set, I could already feel my voice growing awkward as I spoke.

"Be careful in Comodoro Rivadavia," Javier said in a serious tone that worried me a bit. "I've never been, but I've heard stories of travelers being robbed. It's a city built on oil money, so it's huge and hardly gets any travelers. The ones they do get, I hear they treat poorly."

"La Ciudad Gris," Sol said with her signature seriousness wrapped in a smile. The Gray City. "I don't know why they call it that, I've never been," she continued. "I just imagine a city with tall buildings under a perpetually cloudy sky."

Maybe Comodoro Rivadavia would be like a gritty Seattle, stuck in the age of industrialization. Looked like we'd find out.

The Arrival: Puerto Madryn

2013-05-15T23:01:00.001-07:00

It was still dark out when Miguel came knocking on the truck. Time to head out. We drowsily rearrange the contents of the carriage, pull out the makeshift stove from the day before, boil some water, pour the mate herb into the gourd with a little sugar, pour the water, sip, pour, pass, and we were off.

Miguel was obviously hung over so we rode in silence. We pass two tiny towns before Miguel informs us, rather somberly, that Puerto Madryn is a ways off of the highway. His proper Spanish was back so my ears didn't have to bend over backwards, getting lost in translations, stitching meanings to sounds. He said he would drop us of at the junction, and from there we could hike about five kilometers to town center or we could try hitch a ride. When we reached the junction, we hopped off the truck. A little over 12 hours from when we left the Estanga home, we had made it about 700 kilometers. Not bad.

"Mucha suerte y buen viaje! Cuídense, locos!" Miguel yelled as he waved, honking his horn as he drove off, continuing down Ruta Nacional 3.

We crossed the junction from the national highway into a feeder road and began walking. Thumbs coming up as vehicles passed. No one stopped. The road went downhill from the highway, causing cars and trucks to coaster at a speed inconvenient to stopping for hitch-hikers. We didn't mind too much. It was kind of nice to stretch out our legs after being cooped up in a truck for so long. We breathed in the cold air and passed the guitar back and forth, strumming chords into combinations to fit the landscape.

As we round off the main highway, the cliff gave way to the sea. I looked, blankly at first before it registered. This was the first sight of sea my eyes had taken in since leaving the Philippines almost a year ago. Before Buenos Aires, I had always lived by the ocean. Buenos Aires was a port city, but its waters formed a river, with Uruguay looming in the distance. Here, there was only open ocean. It was still early morning and Puerto Madryn was still clinging to a thin, misty fog. I thought of San Francisco, California. It was beautiful.

At the border of the town, there was a check point. There are check points all over Argentina, where officials check to make sure you aren't bringing in anything non-native and highly invasive. Some check points spray vehicles with some sort of pesticide for extra measure. I looked at this check point from a distance, wondering if it was being manned at the moment. Didn't look like it. Vehicles passed without stopping. Good. No problems.

As we got closer, I noticed a uniformed man stepping out onto the sidewalk, taking his post. He was wearing a bullet-proof vest. He looked ready for battle. Fuck, what do I do? My mind started to run, will he shoot me for not having documentation? We got closer. I got more nervous. I take note of my pace. Too fast and he might ask, "What's the rush? Are you a terrorist? Show me your papers!" And I'm fucked. Too slow and he might ask, "Why are you walking so slowly? Bag too heavy? What are you hiding in there, bombs? Show me your papers!" And I'm fucked.

We got close enough for eye-contact but I coolly avoided it by casually looking over the guitar as I non-chalantly slung it over one shoulder.

Fuck, did this look too movie-like? Was this attracting more attention?

We arrived at a distance that required eye-contact so I look in the guard's direction.

My heart stopped.

He was looking away.

Was this a good sign or a bad sign?

He turned his head and made eye contact.

I smiled and gave him a slight nod. He did the same. And I continued to walk past him, trying to keep from running as far away as possible before he realized he could stop me and ask for documents I didn't have. But after a few deep yoga breaths, I found my center and I was able to continue in the same non-chalant pace.

We'd passed a few of these control check-points with Miguel on his truck, but they never seemed to notice us stowed away in the carriage. This was in the broad light of morning and we were clearly foreigners. We were bound to have something not suitable for passage. But nothing. Just a smile and a nod. Maybe it wasn't such an impossible feat after all to try to hitch-hike into Antarctica without a passport.

Then I realized, that was just a city border. The guard was probably still half-asleep. Antarctica might be a bit more complicated.

¡¡FELIZ CUMPLE ARGIE ANNIE!!

2013-05-10T12:21:00.001-07:00

Let´s take a mini break from the hitch-hiking entries. This is muy importante.

Exactly one year ago, I stepped off a plane and inhaled the good air of Buenos Aires for the very first time. I think I will celebrate by eating an entire tub of dulce de leche with nothing but my hands. Meanwhile, here are some photos of random things I´ve been up to this past year.

Oh, when you´re done, can you Skype me or something and make sure I didn´t slip into a diabetic coma? Muchas gracias!

Ate choripan for the first time with these lovely folk.

My cousin and best friend came and we had a FEEAASSSTT!

Video chats with loved ones from all around the globe.

Especially with my silly best pal, Dr. Ireezie. Yes, she is a real doctor. Yes, doctor of medicine.

Drank A LOT of mate. Sometimes by a fireplace.

Lots of rock climbing.

CHICKEN FIGHTS!!

Met these lovely people.

Featured on a Buenos Aires street fashion blog, Clereche-Yeca.

ASADO!!! A lot of asados.

Surprise birthday celebration from some hippie yogis. :D

Survived a zombie apocalypse with an Australian, a Swede, and a Colombian.

Made imaginary friends.

ASADOOOO!!

Lived on this floor with my Brazilian <3s

Fell in love with these cool cats, Carlos, Hallum, and Chanta.

Shared some yoga on a beach.

Shared some yoga on some floors.

Met an Australian DRAGON.

Got a tattoo.

Modeled. Photo by Fede Ataide

Broke my arm and tried to put it back together with chopsticks and a bandana.

Got another tattoo.

Did a yoga photo series and video with Celu PH

MANOCARA. MUCHO.

Read poetry under trees.

Played with bubbles.

Cooked the shit out of shit.

Had my Andalucian soul sister pierce my ear. In a bar.

Lived and worked in this organic vegan Bhakti Yoga farm.

Aforementioned Bhakti Yoga community uses this photo as their default.

Met people from all over the world and ate (and drank) with them.

A lot of meeting people and a lot of eating (and drinking).

Lied down on busy streets because fuck the police.

I think this is self-explanatory.

Climbed onto Volkswagon vans because sometimes you just want to sit on a van.

Went to vegetarian hippie dinners in hidden restaurants.

Made a lot of Filipino food. Like this. This is biko. I love biko.

Went into CURRY COMAS.

Videochats with my dog overseas because I miss his face. :(

His name was Miguel.

2013-05-09T12:52:00.000-07:00

View from inside the carriage, Miguel as el Capitan

"So, what's your name?" The question felt oddly out of place. We had been sitting in his truck, sharing mate, and making small talk for some time already.

He quickly took his eyes off the road to look at me, slightly confused, "What?" He asked.

"What's your name?" I said almost sheepishly, having been forced to repeat the awkward question.

"Miguel," he simply replied.

I sat askew for a moment, waiting for the usual follow-up question, "And you, your name?" Nothing. He said nothing. He just kept on trucking.

"I'm Erick," I finally offered after a sufficiently long awkward moment had passed. Miguel just nodded.

"Lyndon," Lyndon offered from the back seat.

"What did he say?" Miguel asked me.

"That his name is Lyndon."

"Lyndon," Miguel sounded out the syllables as if his mouth had never had to produce such strange sounds.

"Are we still in Buenos Aires Provincia?" I ask. After arriving almost a year ago, I have never left the Province of Buenos Aires. Granted, it's hard to leave, not at all in the poetic sense of not being able to resist the pull of the magical city that is Buenos Aires, or whatever. Rather, it's physically and geographically difficult. It's a huge province, it takes hours of travel in any direction to reach its borders.

"No, this is the province of Entre Rios," Miguel said and I looked out the window with more amazement than the moment before. Nothing changed in terms of landscape, everything still looked the same. It was just the sudden knowledge that I had crossed some invisible border only outlined on maps. Finally, I was outside of Buenos Aires. Suddenly, the trip began to sink in.

After such an awkward start, we quickly learned that Miguel was quite the character. He was born and raised in a villa, a slum on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. He has since moved to another slum outside of Quilmes, a city a few kilometers outside the capital. He's been working as a truck driver for over 20 years, has seven children, and really loves beer.

Once he opened up, Miguel did not stop. He is a man with stories, many of which should not be shared. But, share he did. It also probably didn't help that he would stop every dozen kilometers or so to piss and buy more beer. At one point, Lyndon and I started skulling the beers in an attempt to syphon beer away from Miguel. He was driving a fairly large truck, and we really weren't in the mood to die.

"I wish I didn't leave my parrilla at home," Miguel looked genuinely disappointed. "You see, I normally bring a parrilla so I can grill my own meat. And in case I pick up hitch-hikers, we can have a roadside asado, drink beer and shoot the shit." At the beginning, Miguel's Spanish was proper and very easy to understand. After a few beers, he began to loosen up and the slum Spanish started to creep out and it became increasingly difficult to decipher what he said.

You travel with a full on grill? Where the hell would you even put that? I wanted to ask Miguel, but at this point, nothing he said would have surprised me. He went on to talk about a hitch-hiker he'd picked up recently who was an escaped convict. He outlined, gesture by gesture, in excruciating detail, his reaction to this hitch-hiker's sudden revelation. I had a mini-heart attack everytime his more than slighly enebriated hands left the steering wheel to make a gesture that was apparently crucial to the telling of this tale. The story ended with Miguel dropping off the hitch-hiker less than two kilometers from where he picked us up. Hence the tension when we first hopped on. He was wondering if we were also escaped convicts.

There was also a story involving the sale of cocaine and marijuana. I won't go into further detail. Just know that illegal substances were discussed.

At nightfall, Miguel pulled up into a petrol station in some rickety town that looked like some strange hybrid of an old Western and an old Mexican movie. I kept looking out the window, expecting to see tumbleweed role by, or at least a man named Juan Ramirez in a poncho, leading a donkey. Nada.

We didn't have a tent so Miguel let us sleep in his truck. He had a friend in town who runs a resaurant/bar/inn so he spent the night there. The night was cold. The wind blew hard against the truck, turning every crevice and lip on its steely surface into whistles.

The first ride.

2013-05-02T06:43:00.001-07:00

Our shadows as we hitch-hike

We left the Estanga home a little after 7AM. The density of the night sky was already being cracked by slivers of light, but the sun still hadn't broken over the horizon. The patriarch of the home, Norberto, had pulled out a taped, torn, and re-taped map of Argentina and handed it to me, unfurled like a sail waiting to catch adventures.

"About 700 km," he said. "Bahía Blanca to Puerto Madryn." Two places I had only heard of in passing until very recently. "You can most definitely arrive to Puerto Madryn by the end of the day," he said, eyes to the ceiling, calculating in his head. Then, quickly adding behind a smile, "With a little luck, of course."

Of course.

We arrived at the YPF petrol station a little before half past. We got out of the car, heaved our heavy packs out of the trunk, and briskly said our goodbyes and see you laters as we shifted the masses on our shoulders, redirecting the weight to shifting legs. We wandered aimlessly around the station for what seemed like hours, following the sound of humming engines, searching for truck drivers revving up for a long haul. Taking turns, we awkwardly asked for rides south, down Ruta Nacional 3. Everyone said no, usually quoting a new company rule to not take on hitch-hikers. One guy even told us we were too ugly. Literally. Those words exactly. "You guys are too ugly."

In the cold wind I fingered the plastic bag of chocolates Lili, the matriarch of our home in Bahía Blanca, had packed for us. "In case you get hungry," she said to us with a look of concern. As if we genuinely had no clue what we were supposed to do when we felt hungry. You know, maybe eat something. I measured hunger against craving, and finally decided to save it for later.

At a little after 9AM, tired of the directionless pacing and the cold of the autumn air starting to seep into our bones, we decided to start walking alongside the highway and try our luck Holywood style, throwing out our thumbs and smiling big goofy grins, squinting against the strong sun of the southern hemisphere. Cars passed. Trucks passed. More cars passed. A few people waved. Most made a tiny, but visible swerve as soon as they saw us, like you would do if you saw a homeless man on the sidewalk you were walking down.

We were beginning to lose hope. Maybe we had made a mistake. These packs are heavy. Hitch-hiking isn't easy at all. We weren't 17-year-olds full of teenage angst looking for movie-style adventures before schlepping off to some expensive ivy league. We were educated professionals. I was hungry. The sun was beginning to hurt my eyes. Maybe this was a mistake. Who fucking hitch-hikes, anyway? What the fuck were we doing with our lives?

Finally, at around 10AM, a truck driver made eye contact and slowed down, coming to a full halt fifty meters or so in front of us. This was it, we were doing it! We half jogged, half skipped with excitement, up to his window and exchanged pleasantries while probably smiling way too much. He asked where we were heading, to which I replied, "As far south as possible."

He mumbled something about the south being vast and the word "south" being too vague. Something negative, and I could feel our first triumph slipping away.

"We have some friends in Puerto Madryn," I lied a little. We didn't technically know anyone in Puerto Madryn. Javier and Soledad were couchsurfers who had passed through Bahía Blanca, stayed one night with the Estanga family, and Ayelen contacted them before we left. We had never met and I don't think they even believed we were coming. But whatever, we weren't going to lose this victory over semantics. "We could talk to them to see if they could put us up for a few nights." He nodded pensively, weighing something invisible but heavy.

"Do you kids like mate?" he broke the awkward silence.

"Of course."

"Let's have some mate and talk about your trip a bit. Although, I must warn you, I take my mate with sugar."

I smiled and repeated a cheesy Argentine saying I'd come across a few times before, "Take mate with sugar when life is sweet, and bitter when life is bitter." He grunted and motioned us into his truck where he had a makeshift stove to heat up a little kettle. The herb was poured into the gourd, steel straw placed methodically in, the water, sufficiently hot, poured onto the herb, and we were sharing mate.

"I've got to make this delivery to Rio Gallegos, but I don't think I can take you that far south. Puerto Madryn, that sounds more possible."

"That's perfect!" I said, visibly relieved. He nodded with a faint smile, squinted at the road, revved the engine, and just like that, we were off; kettle still on the makeshift stove and mate gourd still full of hot water.

Bahía Blanca

2013-04-29T16:41:00.001-07:00

Enjoying the sun in Plaza Rivadavia, Bahía Blanca, Argentina

We got off the train and stepped onto Bahía Blanca soil, dazed, confused, and with back pain. We had no idea where we were. There was an incredible lack of signage to orient oneself. We weren't even sure we were in Bahía Blanca, we just knew that it was the last station and everyone seemed to be getting off the train so we did as well. We stood there, suspended, squinted into the overcast sky and wondered in which direction to wander. I think it was around 9AM.

"We should probably go to a café or something for wi-fi," Lyndon said, directing words in my direction without turning.

"Probably," I replied without looking at him. I understood his concern was to somehow get a hold of the couchsurfer we had contacted while still in Buenos Aires to inform her that we'd arrived. But how do you say that without so many words? I tried to come up with an answer and ended up lost in my thoughts.

"So, in which direction do we go?"

I shrugged my shoulders, not looking to see if he saw the gesture, thus rendering it meaningless. After a bit of a pause, he crossed the street and veered toward the left, and so we started walking. I felt like I'd slept, but hadn't rested, if that makes any sense. Lyndon said a few things but they reached my ear in nothing more than the form of garbled sounds. Completely meaningless. I didn't feel like deciphering his Aussie accent so early in the morning. I felt like a zombie.

So, we walked. Aimlessly it seemed, and I was completely fine with it. Still trying to fully awaken myself while still trying to acclimate to the borrowed backpacker knapsack, my biggest concern was how to not topple over. I was used to traveling with a messenger bag. These past few years, I'd been running around South East Asia and you don't need much for jungle weather. But we were heading towards Antarctica. You need a lot more for colder climates, apparently. Like, you know, sweaters and socks and stuff.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, this girl leapt between Lyndon and I, and I nearly fell over. Never creep up behind a backpacker, balance is tricky with so much mass on your back. It was Ayelen, the couchsurfer we had contacted before arriving to Bahía Blanca. Apparently, she was on a bus heading for the train station to meet us when she saw us hobbling down the street. Recognizing us from our profile photos, she quicky got off the bus and ran over to us, in true couchsurfer spirit, panting but smiling.

Couchsurfing is fun because you never know what to expect. You sort of arrive and play by ear. This particular time, Ayelen, lived with her family. So we were pretty much adopted into her cozy home in Bahía Blanca. She had two sisters who were both lovely and emitted such infectious laughter. Her parents were also a lot of fun, the mother always worried we weren't eating enough and the father always cracking jokes with a straight face.

Our first night at the Estanga household, we made dinner. I made some chicken adobo and rice, of course. They all loved it. Of course. It was their first taste of Filipino food and I was glad to be a fat kid from Pampanga who grew up in the kitchen so I could proudly represent my country in food. After dinner we went to a bar across from the Universidad Nacional del Sur with one of Ayelen's sisters, Aymara. We drank a lot of beer, talked about traveling, some stuff about Brazil (Aymara had recently returned from a trip to Brazil), and some local dog breeder started talking to us. Every so often he would disappear to the restroom and reappear with pupils even more dilated. Yeah. Do with that piece of information as you will. On our way back to the house, Lyndon fell in love with a black cat with orange eyes. I wanted to play with it too so I picked it up but ended up scaring it and it ran away. Lyndon was very sad.

Our second night, Lyndon made some goulash, standard Hungarian fare. He also made some ANZAC biscuits, some sort of Aussie cookie with some interesting back-history as told by Lyndon, later corroborated by Wikipedia. They loved it all as well, and it was fun watching Lyndon try to explain himself in his limited Spanish. A lot of pantomiming.

Hitch-hiking is difficult when inside a big city. So the plan was to get as far south on a train as possible and to start hitching from wherever the train tracks ended. That was Bahía Blanca. We were planning to stay for a night or two, take a hot shower, then hit the road, thumbs pointing south. But on our second night, the Estanga family invited us to an asado, a typical argentine grill with delicious Argentine meats. And Norberto, the patriarch of the family offered to be the asador (griller and master of ceremonies), so who could say no? We sure as hell couldn't.

The asado was delicious. I had always seen matambre, a typical cut of meat, but I had never tried it. Holy baby Jesus in the manger surrounded by the twelve apostles or whatever it was, I fucking love matambre! Imagine a thin layer of meat topped by an equally thin layer of fat. Grilled. Crispy. Fat. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I asked why the funny name for such a delicious creation. Matambre sounds like a portmanteau of matar and hambre, Spanish words meaning "to kill" and "hunger," respectively. Norberto explained that due to it being so thin, it's usually the first cut of meat to be ready to eat. Thus, matambre kills your hunger while you're standing in front of a grill listening to the sweet symphony of sizzling meats and inhaling all that delicious goodness, patiently waiting for the meat-gasms to begin. Thank you University of Life for that lovely little lesson. Again, I love matambre.

Then there was the night we went to the university party. First we went to a previa, AKA a pre-game. We went to one of Aymará's friend's apartment on the other side of town. We played some sort of drinking game. I don't remember the name, but it gets you drunk very fast. My favorite rule was before drawing a card, you have to say, "Tomá por ser puta!" Which translates to, "Drink for being a whore!" Whores are designated by drawing a certain card. Fun, no?? Needless to say, by the time we got to the actual party in one of the local clubs, we were fairly inebriated. Long story short, Lyndon got lost and ended up sleeping on the front door step of the Estanga house, cuddling their dog for warmth.

Believe it or not, we did end up finally getting our act together and were able to continue on our journey.

The beginning of the trip.

2013-04-26T15:55:00.001-07:00

Lyndon and Carlos discussing strategies to conquer Patagonia

As per last blog entry, I have embarked on a journey to Antarctica. Maybe. Thusly inasmuch heretofore my blog entries will be about hitch-hiking (read, trying to survive) Patagonia. Mostly. Maybe.

Author's note: I apologize for the weak photo-to-word ratio but I am blogging from a mobile app that confuses the bananas out of me. I promise to try to add photos when I get my act together and figure out this fancy technology.

Anywho, without much further ado, I present to you, The Beginning Of The Trip:

"What do you even want to do with that?" Carlos asked. Even in the thick darkness of the abandoned building, I could feel his right eyebrow raise as his right hand lifted to rub his left forearm, one of his ticks. Something he does as an attempt to make silence more tactile, less threatening.

We were standing in a room that Jorge Luis Borges himself had frequented, the office of the President of a printing press. I was holding acetate pages of a book, or a "pre-book" - the negatives of pages once printed here. I felt like I was holding ghosts, or at least, something truer to haunting phantoms that I'd ever come into contact with.

"I don't know," I replied. "Borges..." I trailed off. I wanted to say something profound. Somewhere along the lines of these being artifacts of a past suspended only within the vaults delineated by these abandoned walls. Something profound. But, I kept quiet instead, letting the heavy silence speak for itself. I've been doing that a lot lately. Letting the silence speak.

It's like the night sky. I imagined all that space getting jealous of the stars and all the songs that get sung about them. I imagined my silence was like the blackness of space, allowing the stars to standout. Either that, or switching between so many languages was beginning to render me mute.

"Well, here," Carlos picked up another book, it's plastic pages plastered together from the hot humidity of Porteño summers stacked one on top of the other. "You can take this and no one will probably notice." He pulled out a few pages from a nearly solidified block of plastic pages. I took the treasure into my hands, trying to wipe off what looked like dust, but must have been dried ink.

We climbed onto a back terrace and there, in between two buildings crumbling brick by brick, on cracked terra-cotta tiles next to some vines of ivy creeping across rusty railed windows, we lit up. Bellies full of wine and lungs full of smoke, we spoke about our insanity. A trip through Patagonia with winter quickly coming. We discussed hypothermia and frost bite and sunburn. I asked to borrow Carlos' identification documents, maybe it would allow for easier passage through the south. He said no.

"Thanks, Carlitos. I thought we were friends."

We walked back to Chanta's apartment in Balvanera. The Buenos Aires air was chilly. I pictured a world map in my head. Buenos Aires is by Brazil. Brazil is hot. Patagonia is the last stop before Antarctica. If I'm cold now, how will I survive this trip with hot island blood in my veins?

Back at Chanta's we drank more wine and filled up on the left-over chicken biryani she had cooked up earlier for our despedida. We played music from two different phones, listening to see where two completely different songs would briefly intertwine, causing chaos into harmony. We made music from music and fell asleep on couches.

It was early afternoon by the time we woke up. Chanta was brewing coffee and packing us cookies she had hidden the night before from Carlos' grubby hands. Carlos complained of a stomach ache and Chanta yelled at him for turning into a two-year old around freshly baked cookies. We sipped on the leftover wine as Chanta and Carlos continued to wonder if Lyndon and I actually understood the concept of how cold grows colder as you near Antarctica. Sipping on warm wine and cold coffee, we lingered in this close-knit friendship that had somehow formed for as long as we could. We checked our bags one more time and we headed out.

Chanta had to go to work so she hugged and kissed us goodbye at the door. "Don't leave me," she whined, slightly hunched over and hugging herself as we started to walk away.

"See you later, Chanta!" I replied, waving off the gravity of goodbyes.

We waited at the stop for a bus to Estación Constitución. Carlos laughed and said something along the lines of, "The train station at Constitución is probably the most dangerous part of your trip." We waited and waited. Buses passed but not the one we needed. Carlos laughed again, "You can't even get to the train station to start your trip!"

"You're just full of jokes today, aren't you, buddy?"

The bus finally came. A few more hugs exchanged. A little gift from Carlos, "To make the horrible train ride a little less horrible," he smiled. We awkwardly boarded the bus, obviously still acclimating to the weight of our packs, and we were off.

"We're actually doing it," Lyndon said as we sat on the train platform, waiting to board. "No turning back now."

"It hasn't hit me yet," I replied, trying to decipher his grin. Where does one journey end and another begin?

We boarded the train, Pullman Class, the most expensive. Not exactly a luxury sleeper cabin, but neither was it a cargo car. I didn't want to imagine how the more "economic" stagecoaches looked like. I've been in worse, I thought, as we heaved our backpacks onto the railings above the seats meant to store luggage, thinking back to that 18 hour train ride from Bangkok to Chiangmai.

Another anniversary. Almost.

2013-04-20T23:52:00.001-07:00

When I first began this journey almost three years ago, I didn't really know what I was doing nor what to expect. All I could feel was this overwhelming need to be somewhere else, to be everywhere else. I had a lot of ideas but no particular direction. So I sold my car to a friend and hit the road. East, I said. From San Francisco to New York. Hit as far east as I could in the United States. More east, I said. Explored Asia and South East Asia. Now what? West, maybe? Arrived in Buenos Aires, Argentina with a knapsack of random Spanish words and an inkling of grammar and syntax.

Ok, now what? Maybe actually learn Spanish properly?

Who knows, pantyhose. Who motherfuckin' knowsen, lederhosen.

When I first arrived, I tried to work on a polo ranch, but that failed. So I continued writing my 12 cent articles and picked up random gigs at hostels to avoid paying rent. Couchsurfed. Couchsurfed a lot. Taught some yoga, worked in bars, worked in a restaurant, tried to start my own restaurant. And somewhere along the way, I made a little family of friends. Random misfits from all over the globe, for some cosmic reason, coming to Buenos Aires, fitting perfectly into the nooks and crannies of my heart. And I learned to smile from the inside.

For the first time in a long time I thought, I could stay here. I can stop moving.

But, in a few weeks shy of a year, I find myself hitch hiking to the southernmost tip of the world, scheming free passage into Antarctica. And why, I ask myself. All I can answer (to myself, because I'm a little insane) is... Why the fuck not?

I don't know where I am going with this, but that's not to say I don't have a point. Everything has a point, a reason. I imagine the universe as an infinite body of water, calm and turbulent at the same time. Every action, every thought, every held breath sends outward ripples. Ripples colliding with other ripples, syncopating sine and cosine waves, making beautiful tapestries of patterns on a surface that is constantly undulating, forever transforming.

So, here's a ripple. Maybe someday it will meet another ripple, and in the pattern they make together, some sort of meaning will be born.

Buenos Dias, Buenos Aires!

2012-05-14T09:12:00.001-07:00

La vida es para gozarla!

My favorite Spanish saying, which translates to, "Life is for enjoying!" After, quite literally, months of planning my escape from the Philippines, I've finally made it to Argentina! It wasn't easy, but it was definitely worth it. Buenos Aires is a beautiful city filled with beautiful people with even more beautiful souls.

As I walk around and breathe in the cold autumn air, I feel revitalized with newfound possibilities. What is life, but a long string of coincidence and circumstance? Speaking of which, before I jump into the ravine of existentialism I'm dangerously edging toward, let me tell you how I got here. It's quite a tale. Well, not really. It was just mostly annoying.

- First and foremost, my visa in the Philippines expired. Luckily, I have a good friend (somewhat my Filipino Ari Gold), who knows someone who's related to someone who's married to someone who house sits for someone who's connected to the Bureau of Immigration. Long story short, my visa problem was "fixed."

- Got detained in Hong Kong, again! I was questioned about all the stamps on my passport, my source of income, what my plans are for going to Argentina, if I'm a terrorist or some kind of fugitive. At least, that's what I think they were asking me about. They didn't speak English very well and I can count to ten in Cantonese. Needless to say, it was a straining exchange.

- Almost got tackled by a German security guard in the Frankfurt airport. Apparently I was about to enter a restricted zone which would lead me to illegally enter Germany. I was jet-lagged, annoyed, hungry, and looking for a McDonalds. Also, in my defense, Germans aren't the best labelers of things.

- Some fat Orthodox Israeli guy sat next to me on the last plane to Buenos Aires. His curling-ironed hair, dangly belt thing, and wiggly bits kept getting into my personal space. Also, what is up with their kosher food?? (I don't mean to be antisemitic, but c'mon!)

- Finally making it to Argentine immigration, I was asked to purchase an entry visa which would allow me to enter for 90 day spurts within a 10 year span for $160USD. Yeah, all those numbers confused me, too.

- As I was trying to pay, it turns out my bank card was frozen, again! A quick call to HSBC (answered by a call center agent in the Philippines of all places!) and the hold was lifted. I asked them to put a note on my account, "International man of mystery. Stop freezing account because it diminishes swagger." They did not oblige.

- The entire trip took over 40 hours from my door in the Philippines to what would be my door in Buenos Aires. Yes. 40.

- I was so tired when I finally arrived, but I couldn't sleep from the excitement of actually still being alive. So, I ended up going to a cafe by a plaza to people watch. Everyone around me was having coffee and media lunas (some type of croissant) so I had the same. I felt like a bipolar squirrel for the next two hours before I passed out.

Dirty, dirty diphthongs.

2012-03-28T12:52:00.001-07:00

I'm a writer, kind of, among other things, somewhat.

Since deciding to drastically change my life, labels have become more and more difficult to apply to myself and to the people that I interact with. It drives me a little crazy sometimes, to not have a concrete idea of what it is I really am doing and what role people are playing in my life, but whenever that happens, I just tell my OCD to shut the hell up. Not everything needs an explanation. And now, before I go further down that tangent, into and through the looking glass, I wanted to clarify something. The origin of my blog's URL. The history of its label, if you will.

T'was a cold and foggy morning in San Francisco, CA. So cold in fact, that I decided that my usual 6AM Bikram Yoga session before work was just not humanly possible. As a result, I drove to work (I normally biked to Bikram to, you know, be more of a hippy, also, because I just love alliteration that much). So, as I was driving, I caught a very interesting segment on NPR. The entire radio show was about this woman who had published a collection of poems that she'd written as a means of therapy for overcoming her daughter being raped.

Yes, her daughter was raped and she wrote poems about it.

Do with that piece of information as you may. I will, however, tell you what I did. I sat in my parked car, waiting for the show to conclude because, fuck, I was late for work already anyway. And all I could think of was how useless this woman was. Her daughter was fucking molested and raped and all she did was write poems about "wilting blossoms" and other such meaningless metaphors. Something in my head just snapped.

When the show finally ended, I wanted to scream, but I couldn't because I was already late for work. So, I left my car, parked right off the Marina (one of the most beautiful places in San Francisco) and I headed to the office. While passing these well-groomed houses that would be estates if given an extra acre or two of land, my mind brooded over the little crack caused by the NPR segment it had just heard. I felt like there was something fundamentally wrong about the entire scene I was in. It was spring and the cherry blossoms had just started to bloom. It was also San Francisco, so the beautiful trees were delicately shrouded in an almost ephemeral kind of fog. I felt as though I were walking through a living metaphor. Something about truth and beauty being shrouded in our own shit accumulated through years of just moving through the motions. Something, something, something.

My mind returned to the NPR segment and all I could think of was, really? I just spent the last half hour listening to some woman read her poems about her daughter being raped. My biggest dilemma of the day thus far had been whether or not to skip Bikram. I felt so worthless, being lost in my own world as this larger universe continued to swirl in tempests around me.

When I got to the office, instead of working on whatever deadlines I had that day, I wrote down the words that bubbled up inside of me. The result was a poem of sorts. It was like automatic writing, my mind was vomiting out words. I read the resulting series of words over and over again, not really fully understanding what it all meant.

It took about another year before I finally worked up the courage to leave everything to try something new. When I decided to pack up and leave, I didn't really intend on documenting anything on a blog. Some close friends, however, convinced me of somehow cataloging my adventures and thoughts. And I am really glad that I listened and started this blog. Although, I obviously can't share everything, and, admittedly, I keep many things private, it's good for me to be able to look back at what I've done and what I've been through. Also, I like to think that you find my musings interesting or at the very least, amusing (ha, see what I did there?).

Anywho, before this drags on anymore, I named this blog DIPHTHONGS because 1) I am a nerd, 2) Phonetics and linguistics are awesome (this may be related to the first point), and 3) I took it from a line from the resulting piece I wrote after listening to that NPR segment. Also, because this blog is about changing my life and that's what diphthongs are, the sliding of a vowel sound to create something completely new. Ooh, nerdgasm.

Without further ado, here is that piece I wrote that has inspired the name of this blog:

Ode to Poetry

I want to hear a poem that refuses to be called a poem
I want words to hit me in the face
Screaming at soft spoken voices barely transmitting across
Radio waves
Where is that mad passion that drives insanity from inanimate
Implacable mediocrity
Swallowing up wallowing in melancholy every day
I want to feel syllables that battle for beats of resonance
Syntax that assassinate unneeded adverbs and or punctuation
Violently whirring onomatopoeia round and round in your ribs
Drumming your lungs for gasps of commas
Refrains
Waging wars with
Quatrains
I want to see letters rising up like seas
The color of red herrings
Tainting the skies like rouge on a back-alley hooker
Back-handing panhandlers
Where is that sultry sweat of stink
Squeezed through the sieves of synonyms
For danger
I want poems that hate poetry
Of unrequited love
Nothing but words for unrequited want
Of life
Of rumbles of desirous things and eloquence in hearsay
Of utterances of strife
I want poems that explode from your teeth brandishing
Diphthongs like daggers
Hissing like a volcano unleashing its wrath with beautiful abandon
Trading stillborn sentences for staccato rhythms that refuse
To follow iambic pentameter
And rather than be forgotten implode into a black-hole
From which nascent stars can create new constellations
I want a poem that refuses to lie down and die
Full of words that shake your stoic earth like tremors threatening
The cities you have built

Rhinos, schizophrenic ghosts, and modeling.

2012-03-18T03:57:00.000-07:00

Image: Hanging with some family at the 4th largest mall in the world (according to Forbes).

So how do I followup with a three-month hiatus? With a four-month hiatus! That's the secret to success, people. Always outdo yourself. Always.

So, what have I been up to? I haven't done one of these highlights list in a while, so I guess this would be the perfect opportunity. Here goes (in somewhat chronological order):

- As per previous post, I was the editor of a magazine. Which was just... Crazy.

- I was on television and radio. Seriously. I have proof.

- Got into ~~another~~ bar brawl and almost got stranded at the local jail.

- My netbook was stolen by some drug addicts (seriously, unfortunately).

- Was about to get a tattoo of the closing line of Ionesco's Rhinoceros which reads, "Je ne capitule pas!" But as I was about to get prepped, the entire city went into a blackout. Yeah, so I just went out and got drunk instead.

- In a quarter-life crisis induced frenzy, I applied to a grad school in Spain. I think I got in. I might need to brush up on my Español.

- In the cortisol induced stupor proceeding the aforementioned quarter-life crisis, I turned off all of my electronics and hibernated-slash-meditated for an entire week. Some friends thought I died and in gentlemanly fashion, went to the nearest pub to toast my beautiful life. Live fast. Die young. Cheers!

- After hearing about their awesome night at the pub, I wrote a story about a guy who fakes his own death just to see who goes to his funeral but then, gasp, it turns out he really is dead and is just a ghost with schizophrenic tendencies! Then I slapped myself for making up such garbage.

- My mother came to the islands to try to bring me back to America. I said no. She gave me an iPad. It was an interesting exchange.

- I discovered twitter and now my insomnia is worse.

- I grew a tail.

- Previously mentioned friends (who toasted my assumed death) decided to throw me a birthday bash. I was a total ass and didn't show up. My neuroses don't allow me the luxury of friends. Apparently.

- Bumped into some folk I met last year on a boat headed for Bali. Small world.

- Discovered Hipsterville, Philippines. It's like Brooklyn but in a jungle.

- Went to a party on a farm on a mountain. It was hot and sticky and I got diarrhea.

- Went on a road trip to Vigan and discovered a 300 year old mansion that's been beautifully restored and is now a luxury hotel. My travel companion and I were asked to model for their promotion materials (I'll post the shots as soon as I get them, maybe). They paid us in wine.

- Currently planning my escape from this archipelago to search for some adventures in Australia. Also, koalas.

One of the highlights above is complete fiction. I mean, SRSLY guys, I'm crazy but not crazy crazy. Have fun guessing which item is made up!

Getting back on that blogging horse

2011-11-20T01:58:00.001-08:00

Photo: Magazine Cover

Photo: Magazine Centerfold

Some of you might be wondering what's up with the three-month hiatus. I'd apologize for ignoring this blog for so long, but I don't really apologize. So, yeah, suck it.

But ~~I GUESS~~ I should at least explain what happened and where I've been. Well, I'm not sure if you noticed, but the photos posted above are a magazine cover and a page from the centerfold. Aside from the new Blogger interface that I find thoroughly confusing, I've been busy making a magazine so I haven't really found time to do much of anything else. If we are Facebook friends, you've probably seen my status updates where I reveal that I don't even have time to shower... But honestly, no one could tell. I mean, except for the fact that I wore the same thing for days at a time. I mean, no one ever came up to me and punched me in the face in expression of their abhorrence for my offensive smell. Actually, one of the Assistant Managing Editors brought me a change of clothes one day and said I didn't really stink but it was starting to get a little embarrassing because I was into day five of the same outfit. I almost took her offer, but she brought a t-shirt and it had holes so I had to decline, rather impolitely. Which, again, I do not apologize for.

Anywho, before I go further down that tangent... Several months ago, I signed on as editor of a magazine in the Philippines and the ride's been pretty wild and damn fun, but I think I'll be leaving it. Lots of reasons. Too bad, I'm not really in the sharing mood. You'll just have to wait for my awesome autobiography, MAD. I am a writer, after all.

Statistical Data

2011-08-16T05:44:00.000-07:00

On this fine day, I would like to share with you that Blogger Statistics tells me that someone from Germany found this blog by searching for "LINGAYEN WHORES." That is all, thank you.

Happy One Year Traveli-versary! PART DEUX

2011-08-15T06:14:00.000-07:00

I think about this time last year I was leaving a Chicago blues bar, heading into Canada to get detained by Canadian Immigration Officers. This past year has been a whirlwind AND a roller-coaster of a ride. Yeah, that intense. Some of you may know of my original plans of backpacking across China, into Tibet, through Nepal, into India. Sad to say, for multiple reasons, I haven't been able to get to that yet.

Honestly though, I think I did pretty well for one year. I couchsurfed across America for a few months, schlepped through Indonesia, made friends in Singapore, chilled in Hong Kong, got lost in Macau, and caused some controversies in the Philippines. Actually, A LOT of controversies. I know most of you read this and are just like, well, shit, Erick fucks around a lot. We NEVER know when he's serious. Well, I am dead serious. Some crazy shit went down and I hit an all time low and it took some effort to stand back up, but it's cool because I'm just that much more legendary. No worries, you can read all about it in my upcoming biographic novella. Working title, "Mad." That's just the best word I could think to describe my life thus far, "Mad," in all senses of the word.

It's sort of like that whole Yin and Yang thing. You know, opposites and shit. So, yeah, I was having a great time discovering a new way of living, but the flip side of all that awesome was a whole lot of steaming wet diarrhea (figuratively and literally, unfortunately). All in all, I had great fun, but it was fucking hard. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not picky or high maintenance or overtly emotional or what-have-you. I enjoy getting down and dirty and sleeping on stamped dirt and crumbling concrete in a worn out sleeping bag while being emotionally bitch slapped by people in multiple time zones just as much as the next guy. Really, I love it. I thrive on that sorta shit.

No matter what people say or do, I have found it incredibly awesome to walk around, guzzling down life without a past to hold me back or a future to slow me down. No regrets.

What I didn't realize, however, was how taxing it is to live in this manner, every fucking day. There's a reason why rock stars die young. Yeah, living it up for a weekend or even a few weeks is awesome fun. But realize this, I have been living out of one Timbuk2 messenger bag for over a year now. I've been rotating just two pairs of pants for ONE WHOLE YEAR.

Basically, what I am admitting is that, unfortunately, I cannot live like a nomad. I know, fiddlesticks. But I can't help it that I like things too much. I like nice things and non-smelly people. I like money and I DO NOT like having none. Apparently, American consumerism and materialism is way more ingrained in me than I originally thought.

So, here's an updated version of my plan. I am in no way settling down or returning Stateside. I will continue to move, because I am just restless, but I don't want to be poor anymore. I will still chase my dream of publishing my collection of short stories, because I don't think I will ever stop writing, but I will do other things on the side for money. I will still make it to India and live in an ashram and teach orphans. Eventually. However, I want to wear suits while doing all this. Yes, suits.

I have come to the understanding that chasing dreams can come with a hefty price tag, not just of monetary wealth, but of emotional value as well. I will definitely still continue searching for and going on incredible adventures, but enough already with the whole living out of one fucking messenger bag. I mean, it's not even suit-case sized. I'm allowed to carry it onto planes. Is this registering? I HAVE BEEN LIVING OUT OF ONE CARRY-ON BAG FOR OVER A YEAR. As for the emotional part, well, haters will hate and I guzzle the haterade myself so no biggie.

Moving on. Thusly inasmuch heretofore... One year in and I have decided that I will continue being awesome, but I will do it more awesomer.

Kind of sort of like my homeslice Santigold:

Happy One Year Traveli-versary!

2011-07-31T06:24:00.000-07:00

Exactly one year ago (I may be late by a day - time zones confuse the hell out of me), I literally left the office and never looked back.

It is incredible to think that I have been on the road for one year now. I racked my brain for a special post to commemorate this mile stone but I don't know. Nothing really came to mind. So, I will just update y'all on my thoughts, but that's what I do here all the time anyway, so y'all should be used to it by now. Unfortunately, this whole one year anniversary thing kind of just crept up on me and it sort of just dawned on me during a conversation I had the other night, so, uhh, how about I get back to you guys once I fully distill my thoughts.

In the meantime, here is a radiciously dope video I randomly found during one of my 3AM bouts with insomnia. It's SOOOO totally true and it hit a few (more like, buckets of) chords with me.

SRSLY guys, enjoy your body but ALWAYS WEAR SUNSCREEN.

Revisiting Turkey

2011-07-24T04:05:00.000-07:00

About two years ago, a good buddy of mine and I got the awesome idea that it would be pretty damn rad to celebrate Turkey Day in Turkey, you know, the country with Istanbul as one of its cities. Yes, I know. We were also pretty stoked about having such an incredible idea and making it reality.

Anywho, needless to say, it was one of the best trips of my life. I kind of wish I had begun blogging about my travels a lot earlier in life. Oh well, shoulda, coulda, woulda. You can, however, check out some of the pics I took on that trip on my Flickr Photostream. In the meantime, here's another little photo-story of some good times. Enjoy!

While exploring this unforgivably harsh landscape, we see a tiny figure off in the distance.

Having no real direction in our wandering, we decide to climb toward the strange figure.

The distant figure turns out to be a stout, old Turkish man who speaks no English whatsoever dressed in a three-piece suit - in the middle of an arid desert riddled with caves. A full suit. I'm pretty sure the suit was made of wool.

The well-dressed old man proceeds to show us a ring of skeleton keys attached to a string attached to a belt loop and he beckons us to follow him. Odd as this encounter may seem, we follow him. The spritely old fellow shames us as our unaccustomed feet find much difficulty in keeping up with the nimble old man's pace across the sandy, volcanic cliff sides.

After following the jolly old fellow for an awkwardly long time, we come upon a dark hole hidden in a small corner of the sheer side of a cliff. We nervously peer into the cold blackness, half awaiting to be ambushed by desert bandits wearing sand in their hair.

As our eyes adjust, the most magnificent view materializes before our sun-ravaged eyes. An ancient basilica with vivid frescoes of antiquity suddenly jump from the bleakness of the cave. Needless to say, we stood agasp at the miraculous sight we have somehow come to behold.

Wanderlust Wednesday [5]

2011-07-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

For this edition of Wanderlust Wednesday, I am stoked to present duo travelers, childhood sweethearts, Erica and Shaun. They are living the dream - together! I know, unbearably sweet, right? Be sure to check out their photos and buy some prints of their awesome photography!

Name - Shaun and Erica Kuschel (look that name up in German, it drives Shaun insane.)

Site - You can find us at http://www.overyonderlust.com!

Occupation - Well, right now we both do not officially have jobs (it is hard to convince your boss to have a year sabbatical in the video game industry) but before, I (Erica) was a wedding photographer and pedicabber and Shaun was a manager for Blizzard Entertainment.

Birthplace - I was born in Laredo, Texas (and brought up in El Paso for 13 years) and Shaun was born and raised around Mesa, Arizona. I would try to explain my ethnic background but it is too confusing with 1/16 of this, 1/32 of this, 1/3 of blah.

Current Location - Our hearts belong to our hometown of Austin, Texas. We have yet to find a place that suits our fancy like home.

Trips Made - Well, our list is quite "short" for now. Ask us again in a year and it will have doubled in size. We have been to Barbados (honeymoon), Japan, United Kingdom, Spain, Mexico, Cuba, Belize and Guatemala.

Trips on the List - After our South American tour we are hoping to head to Southeast Asia!

Featured trip - I think one of my favorite memories was drinking with salarymen in Osaka, Japan. We were lead into this hole in the wall bar by this awesome guy wearing black rimmed, square glasses, a golfer hat, and a Hilary Clinton shirt - where people were watching bad movies like Biker Boyz. The bartender brought out a bottle of Cuervo and we played a card game. Lowest card had to take a shot of tequila. I would just like to notify you that my Texas drinking ability does NOT match that of the salarymen who drink every night in Japan. I had to be carried home 8 shots of tequila later. Regardless, I still reminisce about the people that we drank with that night. Good times.

Teach, learn, share - We're lucky that Shaun used to be a mechanic so when we come across people who are in need of mechanic help, Shaun is always willing to help. I take pretty pictures and unless someone wants to know how to work a camera, yeah, I'm not much help. We both are always wanting to learn Spanish so I would love to keep practicing with people!

Worst Hostel - Playa del Carmen: We arrived when it was hot and raining outside. Our gear was wet and our clothes were soaked through. Even though it was supposed to be low season, it seemed as though this hostel was booked full and just enough beds left for Shaun and I - except in different rooms... on different floors. When I was led to my bed I noticed that I had the top bunk and something integral was missing. What was it? Oh yeah - the MATTRESS. I was already unimpressed as this room had no windows and probably the most disgusting bathroom I had seen to date. I think you could get herpes just looking at it. We were told a mattress would be placed on it later and to go out and have a good time - which we did and got back to the hostel at 2am. Slightly drunk I stumble into the hostel room and notice I am still mattress-less. Shaun and I ended up sharing his very small twin size top bunk with no protective railings all night.

Needless to say we left very early that next morning.

Do you have any tattoos? - Shaun and I have quite a few. I have my "ode to Texas" chestpiece complete with yellow roses, a horseshoe, and guns. My right arm has a half sleeve of Oogie Boogie from Nightmare Before Christmas and on my wrist, a matching sugar skull (Dia de los Muertos) that Shaun has on his left wrist. Shaun on the other hand has his last name on his back and an "ode to hot rod Chevys" chestpiece.

We would like to get work done on the road but I'm not sure if we will. I used to work in a tattoo shop for 3 years so I'm super picky about who gets to work on me.

Memory Lane Monday

2011-07-18T06:47:00.000-07:00

Okay, something new. While chatting with my awesomest friend in the whole wide world, Ireezie, we came up with the idea of sharing things that we have in common, something that brings us all together, no matter how different and far apart we are. It's a way for me to rationalize my current lifestyle and not feel so different from "normal." What did we come up with? Good ol' nostalgia. Nothing hugs warmer than a Snuggie than digging through memories.

So here goes. This week, what brings us all together is The Oregon Trail!!! Yeah. I know. Awesome. Now, here's why The Oregon Trail is this magical and invisible glue that binds us together even though we all range from students to cubicle workers to traveling bums to business owners, because The Oregon Trail will always hold the following universal truths:

We've all had to move before. Whether it's for a living situation upgrade, downgrade, or in the name of Manifest Destiny.
Whenever stuck in a real bind, all you need is a rifle and a few bullets.
Every normal human being with a heart would break out into a cold sweat when faced with the dilemma of fording a river, especially with a wagon heavy with bison meat.
No one ever wants to come across the words, "You have died of dysentery."

I think this blog blurb has some potential. Seriously, Leaders of World Superpowers need to think more along these lines and maybe they will stop obsessing over bolstering their navy and measuring each others' nuclear armaments. Because yeah, any fool can kill 5,467 lbs of meat, but it takes a wise man to take a step back and realize, hey, we can only carry 15 lbs of meat.

So, everyone say thank you to Ireezie and add her into one of your circles on Google+ because it confuses the hell out of her. We can all have a good chortle about it.

What's in the bag?

2011-07-16T14:00:00.000-07:00

Almost a year on the road. Camping in the great American Wilderness. Torrential downpours in Singapore. Eating only God knows what in Macau. Mosquito swarms in Indonesia. Cave-diving in the Philippines. Poutine in Canada.

And that was just a partial list of the crazy shit I've been subjecting my soft and easily bruised body to. So, how am I still alive and not curled up in a ball somewhere in a rainforest, trying to ward off leptospirosis with vinegar and cranberry juice? I am not entirely sure, to be perfectly honest.

I can tell you, however, of the awesome gadgets and knick-knacks I've been using that make life as a poor nomad totally doable on this episode of WHAT'S IN THE BAG? **in best Alex Trebek impersonation **

1. Timbuk2 Messenger Bag - Seems natural to start with the actual bag in this game of What's in the Bag? Right? Timbuk2 is a great company that makes uber durable bags out of waterproof material. The reason I prefer this to the regular backpacker bag is because I am not a hardcore backpacker so I don't need all that bag for my portable stove and machete, or whatever it is you crazy adventurists pack. Also, I do not like sticking out as an obvious traveler. Call me paranoid, but I'd rather not be an easy target for tourist scams, pickpockets, kidnappings, or torture-and-murder-for-fun-a-la-Hostel-the-movie. Sorry, but I'm just not into that stuff. Also, Timbuk2 is a San Francisco based company, so you know that not only will your bag last forever, it's also full of happy feelings and good vibes.

2. Katadyn Water Filtration bottle - I have had explosive diarrhea a handful of times during this newly acquired traveler lifestyle. Usually because I was retarded and drank local, unfiltered water in the form of ice (which brings me to a good travel advisory, even if you drink only bottled water when traveling, a lot of the time ice isn't filtered so don't go pouring your bottled water into a glass full of dirty ice - kind of defeats the purpose). Without this bottle, I'd probably have huge tapeworms in my belly, or something equally, if not more, disgusting and terrifying. Hell, people in Newark, NJ should probably invest in these as well.

3. Headlamp with Lantern Attachment - I cannot express how awesome this thing is. It comes in handy whenever there's no light, obviously. This whole electricity going out without warning thing (AKA, blackouts) actually happens pretty often in the developing world. It's annoying when all the lights suddenly go out. Not to mention, a little creepy as you start to hear all the noises of the night slowly getting louder. Screw candles because who wants to light a fire in the middle of a jungle? It's already fucking hot and sticky as the devil's sphincter, no need to add to the misery. So, pull out your trusty headlamp! The reason I love this particular Mammut headlamp is it comes with a nifty lantern attachment. The attachment turns the directional lighting of the headlamp into a softer dispersed lighting, just like a lantern. How neat is that?? Definitely great when you're in a dark house and not a mine shaft. Also, great for reading at night.

4. Teva Sandals - These things are literally indestructible. I've waded through bum-high flood waters, hiked on stony caveman-esque trails, and even walked through Chicago's South Side in these puppies and not only am I still alive, my feet feel amazing! They're like walking on clouds and they haven't deteriorated one bit. Okay, they have a little, but only because someone's dog got a hold of one of them and made violent, animalistic love to it. I wanted to stop him but I was kind of entranced by the whole event. Also, I didn't want to catch its rabies.

5. The North Face Trail Running Shoes - These shoes are great. Durable and lightweight. My Teva sandals weigh more than these shoes, which kind of boggles my mind. They are made mostly of this mesh material that let your feet breathe and water can get in and out pretty easily. I have run 10K on paved roads and I've gone spelunking in these shoes. Comfortable and very versatile. When I'm feeling fancy, I wear them with argyle socks.

6. Electric Shaver - Just because you're a nomad doesn't mean you have to look like a stinky hermit. Personal hygiene is very important. There is merit in shaving every now and then so you don't look like a crazy person. I don't use razors because they are too abrasive and cause rashes on my sensitive and supple skin. I use this electric shaver because it has its own cleaning system. The cleaning cartridges last a long time. I haven't had to change the cartridge in months. But then again, that might just be because I'm Asian and not Irish. Yeah, that's right, some stereotypes are true.

7. Acer Netbook in sexy, sexy Sapphire Blue - This is how I stay sane. This is my connection to civilization. It's tiny and lightweight but it has WiFi and a camera and all the basic programs I need. I can keep in touch with loved ones via video chat, I can make a little money writing freelance, and what's most importantly of all, I can blog. Oh yeah, I just figured out how to install Angry Birds onto my netbook. Pretty stoked about that.

8. Nikon D90 DSLR Camera - My camera kit is by far the biggest, most important thing in my bag. All the clothes I pack? Yeah, they're just there to cushion my badass buddy, my recording device and best friend. I've abused this little sucker like a trailer park baby mama and yet it still gives me amazing shots. In all my romping around, it's still holding up and refuses to leave my side.

9. On the Road by Jack Kerouac - This, in my humble opinion, is a must read for anyone in search of that something else which is hard to name, for anyone wanting to fill themselves to the brim with possibilities and get drunk on pure exhilaration. I must admit that this is a half-lie because before leaving the great US of A, I gave my copy of On the Road to one of my most beloved peeps in the world. But I do have a copy of the Dharma Bums in my bag. Not as good as On the Road, though, so I am pretending it's still in my bag. Just play along.

10. Notebooks - No, not NETbooks. NOTEbooks. Yeah, you know, as in writing with an actual pen across real paper. Novel idea, I know, but I'm somewhat of a writer (pun intended). I love small Moleskines because I am an artsy fartsy hipster who puts notebooks in his back pocket. I particularly like brightly colored ones like the one pictured here because they are attention grabbers. They stand out and scream, YES, I HAVE THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS AND I LIKE TO WRITE THEM DOWN! ALSO, I MIGHT DOODLE EVERY NOW AND THEN!

11. Aviators - Nothing says swagger like a nice pair of aviators. Also, on a more practical note, prolonged exposure to UV rays can kill your eyes. Whenever looking at eye wear, make sure they provide 100% UV protection and that they are polarized so that they reduce glare. Glare is lame. These aviators are all of the above. And I swear, these Ray Bans are indestructible. I have stepped on them, slept in them, dropped them into places I'd rather not name, and still they live. I've had my pair for three years now and all they have to show from my abuse is a few scratches.

12. A Lighter - Now, I don't know about you but I am no Boy Scout. I never had to do any nature stuff in exchange for rad pins. Consequently, I never learned how to make fire, which it turns out is pretty damn difficult. Traveling, I always have the need for fire for some reason or another. Since coming face to face with my total and crippling ineptitude at starting a fire from scratch in Yellowstone, of all places, I have saved myself a lot of grief and invested in lighters. I normally use those really cheap lighters you pick up at the checkout counters right next to the gum and tabloid magazines, but for display purposes, here's a fancy Zippo lighter with a pretty sweet zipper design on it. I know, right? How clever!

Well, that about does it for the contents of my bag. A good, strong, dirty dozen. I mean, obviously, I have other things like my passport, a toothbrush, clean underwear, etc. But they don't really count as "essentials for a traveler." I can do without underwear, but I will not live without my camera.

And no, this is not just shameless product endorsement because I've become a sellout. I really do use all of this stuff... It just so happens that you can get them all on Amazon.com. And if you do order said items via the links I've provided, I get paid a commission at no cost to you. How convenient is that? Next thing you know, you'll be ordering all of this stuff and joining me on my crazy adventure. See you soon? And oh, if you do come, please bring tacos. I especially enjoy buche and lengua. Gracias!

Besos y abrazos,

Erick

Semana Santa en las Islas Filipinas

2011-07-15T03:51:00.000-07:00

Yes, I do know that it's July and that Holy Week was way back in April. I have no excuses for the tardiness.

Also, it must said that I might post things about places and events but this is not journalism by any stretch of the imagination. This is just me, a guy who takes a lot of pictures and has a lot of accompanying opinions. If you want to know more about Semana Santa in the Philippines, here's a Wiki article on it. I didn't actually read the entire article because its pictures-to-words ratio really leaves a lot to be desired.

Caveats aside, everything included in this is true to the best of my knowledge.

Every year, during Holy Week, the Philippines goes crazy. Not Girls Gone Wild crazy, because that would be sinfully blasphemous, but clinically crazy. Insane, if you would. Regular people walk the streets, whipping themselves into bloody pulps, only to literally bathe in gin once night falls to disinfect the self-inflicted wounds. Of course, some of that gin, if not most, also makes it into the bellies of the penitents.

Once Semana Santa (Holy Week) starts with Lunes Santo (Holy Monday), Filipinos are all abuzz with Catholic rituals. You can see penitents walking the streets, whipping themselves, dragging huge crosses, lying face down in front of churches, kissing the dusty earth while being whipped by the crowd. These practices are clear vestiges left by Spanish rule in the Philippines. We got rid of the whole colonialism thing, but we kept the die hard Catholicism.

If you ever make it to the islands during Semana Santa, try to keep your distance from the penitents unless you want blood splattering all over you. I'm pretty sure you can get STDs that way. Or at the very least, Mono, which is totally lame.

The whole bloodily gruesome week takes a pause on Thursday, because that's when Jesus was praying under some olive tree, or having his last supper, or something. Then it's Biyernes Santo (Good Friday). The fateful day of the crucifixion. On this day, there's a huge reenactment of the Passion in San Fernando, Pampanga (among other places). In a little, unassuming neighborhood tucked into the interiors of the Philippine city is a clearing made specifically for this day.

It's hot. It's hot as hell. There are people everywhere, which makes it more hot. The trees have been cleared away, making it even hotter.

In the center of the clearing is a raised plot of land with three crosses standing and casting eerie shadows Ben Hur style. There are vendors everywhere selling cold bottles of water from makeshift coolers of styrofoam and duct tape. Media crews from all over the world are everywhere, interviewing on-lookers, trying to find the most politically correct way to ask why Filipinos do this crazy shit. Why whip and bleed? Why nail yourselves to the cross? Why all this crazy?

The usual response? Panata. The Tagalog word roughly translates to vow or faith. Carabou dung and endangered tarsier piss. Tell the camera crews the truth. You get paid. I hate to dispel the miracles of religion, or whatever, but let me lay down some truth. I met a guy who used to participate in the Holy Week "festivities," and he gave me the low down. If you need money, you "volunteer" and if you get "chosen," you agree to a "contract" where you whip yourselves for a few years in exchange for a small stipend for your "faith."

P.S. - they cut themselves with razorblades before they start whipping so that more blood comes out. Some people use cow blood diluted in water to make it look more gory. I'm sure the whole self-flagellation thing hurts anyway, but the blood is mostly theatrics. My new buddy showed me the scars on his back, which he has since covered up in some pretty dope tattoos.

Anywho, before I go further down that tangent, back to my story.

Everyone waits. All morning long, into the afternoon. People take turns reading the Passion in a sing-song voice blasting through speakerphones that mangle syllables. It's hot, the sun burns, you can't understand anything being said. A few of the penitents whipping themselves faint in the ungodly heat(I mean seriously, who wouldn't?) and are carried off in stretchers. Then, 3:00PM arrives. Allegedly, about the time that Jesus is pronounced dead on the cross.

Men arrive, dressed in gaudy red capes and plastic armor, escorting a long line of Jesuses and thieves ready to be crucified. There's even a mourning Mary Magdalene. Three by three the Jesuses and thieves are tied to the crosses, nailed to the wood, and hoisted. There, they are on display to the gasping audience as they grimace in the unbearable heat, and probably the pain of being nailed to splintery wood. Probably.

When all the Jesuses are done redeeming mankind, about 15 or so, we all go home. Sweaty and dusty, but all a little less sinful. At least, that's the idea. Sabado de Gloria (Holy Saturday) is quiet, because Jesus is dead, and we all somberly reflect. Most people sit and reflect with a few bottles of brandy. Then Easter Sunday comes along, Christ rises, and we all rejoice. Again, usually with a few bottles of brandy.

In the States we just dye eggs and throw parties Martha Stewert style. Oh yeah, there are also those weird things called Peeps. Boy, do we have it easy.

I ate some stuff in Macau.

2011-07-10T07:26:00.000-07:00

How beautifully frightening is that strange cornucopia of colors, shapes, and textures? What made this more fun was the fact that the vendor did not speak a lick of English. That's what I get for wandering into Macau's alleyways. At least it was just a few bouts with language barriers and not something worse like oh, say, rape.

It was totes crazy trying to get some food, but I was starving so I tried my damndest. Luckily, I remembered my Kanji studies from way back in high school and although Japanese sounds very different from Cantonese, the characters are the same. So I recognized the characters next to the numbers 15 and 25 to mean "small" and "big," respectively. Alright, so 15 Pataca for a small order and 25 Pataca for a big order. I pointed at the number 15 and said, "CHIISAI." Blank look from vendor. Ok, so Japanese word for small is not the same in Cantonese. Ok, how about, "PEQUENO?" Is that Spanish or Portuguese? Both? Blank look again. Fuck. I am going to die of starvation.

Finally, I pulled out 15 HK Dollars (Hong Kong and Macau currency are pretty much equal in value and most of Macau accepts HKDs) and made a gesture to my mouth. The vendor laughed and started saying something to me, very loudly. I think she was asking me what I wanted to eat, so I made a general gesture at her entire stock as if to dare her, give me your worst.

And boy did she deliver. She handed me a stick of colorful (squid?) balls, a stick of what I think was tripe (?), a stick of tentacles, and a stick of some sort of green leafy thing. All four sticks were quickly blanched in boiling water then drenched in a spicy, peanuty sauce. It was a feast, albeit unorthodox, all for under $2USD, but I think the vendor gave me some free food because she was so amused by my pantomiming skills.

This was a much easier meal to obtain since it was in a restaurant off of one of the main tourist thoroughfares in Macau. Although the waitress couldn't really speak English, there was at least a menu that had pictures with a smattering of English words so I managed a little better. This is some kind of a braised beef in a curry noodle soup, all washed down with a very Macanese drink that is half coffee, half tea with a little milk and sugar.

USEFUL TRAVEL TIP: In Macau and Hong Kong, McDonald's does this great thing called Happy Hour. Usually it's lunch time (12PM-3PM), but some branches do it all day. During their Happy Hour, you can get an entire Big Mac meal for 25 Patacas (approx. $3USD). I know, why go all the way to Macau just to eat at a McDonald's? Uhhm, some people are allergic to tentacles...?