The Bamboo

Tumbling down the road towards Bankgkok in a blue and white Mercedes bus, under a hot Thai sun partially shrouded by billowy clouds of white. Christmas songs hardly seem suited to my surroundings as “I saw three ships” is piped directly into my ear canals. The people around me are oblivious to my merry music selection and so I feel as if I’m cloistered away for the moment in my own little yuletide bubble of good cheer toward fellow man. The palm trees, green mango, pomello snacks, and 90 degree weather may belie the fact that Christmas is near, but the newly fallen snow of South Lyon Michigan is in my soul along with all the Christmas cheer I can muster. More Christmas cheer updates to come.

We are just completing a visa run to the Cambodian border that had to be made to extend our Thai Visa after 15 days. If, from this information, you deduced that we’ve been in Thailand for 15 days already and therefore must have already traveled through Cambodia to get here, you would be most astutely correct indeed.

Angkor Wat was really our only stop in the venerable Kingdom of Cambodia, but a worthwhile stop it was. Many superlatives are attached to Angkor Wat and for good reason. The temple itself is massive and ornate on a scale only to be equated with the greatest ancient structures on earth (i.e. Great Pyramids, Macchu Picchu etc.) and the surrounding temples each have a charm all their own. Some so intricate it dazzles the mind and some in a seemingly mortal tango with the jungle itself. The latter type of temple was my favorite. There are a few temples that the Cambodians have left untouched for the most part and these structures have an ethos all their own as the power of the jungle is displayed in raw form. Enormous fig trees sending massive root systems over and through ancient stone, crafted to last forever. It is perhaps the slowest ongoing property dispute, and it’s a surreal site to behold.

Being a part of the most prolific media culture in the world, I could not help but think of such movies as Tarzan and Indian Jones as I wandered through these ancient ruins. One interesting fact is that the Ta Prohm temple was even featured in one of the Tomb Raider movies if you care about such things. As we rode our rented bikes from temple to temple and ascended each ancient staircase to pace the summit of these mighty structures a growing sense of wonder assaulted my eyes and mind. What must the people who built these temples have been like and what drove them to build such structures? Interesting things to think about.

And then… there was Thailand. Land of Smiles, delicious curry, sticky rice, Buddist relics, chili peppers, elephants, hippie tourists, lady men, Muy Thai boxing, the bridge over the river Kwai, and many other notable if not noble nuances. I am enjoying this country almost as much as Vietnam and I’m not even riding a motorbike. I have been doing a lot of Toyota truck driving though and this has been happening at a place known appropriately as The Bamboo School.

Catherine Riley, or Momo Cat as she is lovingly referred to by her kids, started this do-all mission project quite a few years ago on the border of Thailand and Burma because she saw a need. That need came from a Burmese hill tribe called the Karen that was displaced from Burma after the war and resulting government oversight. They are persecuted by the Burmese government and many have been pushed into a narrow strip of land between Thailand and Burma. However, Thailand won’t take then without going through an expensive and time consuming patriation process that isn’t even possible in every case. The result is a large group of people with large needs without a government to go to for help. This is where Momo comes in.

She pioneered ,and now runs, an orphanage/school/clinic/ambulance service/ church/ daycare/mentor program/ community outreach center…THING that cannot be defined or categorized, but which gives kids a stab at a stable life and a future and is of indispensible importance to the community. She is a livewire herself and has more energy and drive than any senior citizen should. I can’t be sure, but I suspect she runs primarily on baby-hugs and Holy Spirit juice (the non-alcoholic spirit). It’s hard to say where she gets the gumption to take on all that she does, but if you asked her I’m sure she would say it’s all God.

A typical day at the bamboo school for the 50 some children that live there goes something like this: Up at 5:30 am (4:00 if you’re on the cooking team) and getting ready for morning worship which starts at 5:45 and consists of a lot of singing and a brief devotional thought. After worship the kids enjoy a breakfast of rice and vegetables, tofu, greens etc. and then it’s morning chores straight away. After chores are done the kids get ready to pile onto to school bus (thirty-some kids ride in and on one Toyota hilux, hence my driving alot) at 7:00 am for the 15 minute drive to school. (If you’re late, you walk) The babies and baby watchers resign themselves to a day of feeding, changing diapers, and playing at the Bamboo school. At 3:45 p.m. the school kids are picked up and pile once again into the Hilux for the return for the bamboo school where there is a couple hours of tumultuous playing, river swimming, and other fun before supper and evening worship with evening chores sandwiched in between. Then it’s getting ready for bed and off to dreamland.

The whole thing is amazing to watch. Each kid has a responsibility, the older ones mentor the younger, they cook and clean, lead out in worships and are generally remarkably capable. Momo Cat orchestrates the whole charade besides doing middle- of- the- night ambulance runs, delivering babies when the ambulance is too late, paying bills, overseeing construction projects, keeping up with the children’s sponsors and a myriad of other tasks. She is mother, father and grandmother to these kids and it’s a humbling act to see it all performed with such grace. Like any family there are rebellious children now and then, and the Bamboo family has its share or bumps and lumps, but these kids are growing up in an incredible, healthy, Christ-centered, loving environment and most would not be able to say that if it weren’t for Momo and the Bamboo School. It’s a hodge-podge family to be sure, but family it is, and I feel honored for having had the opportunity to have been adopted into it for a week and a half.

-Weaveroftales

The Open Road

–a short story-

A young motorbike named Thomas (though he only answered to Tom) lived a sad little life in a big grey city and was overworked, underpaid and asthmatic on top of it. From the moment he was assembled, it seemed he was hustling and bustling about, dodging other motorbikes, and coughing from all the exhaust he had to breathe everyday (he had asthma after all). He carried HUGE loads many times his own weight from the hat factory to the hat shop or from the bag factory to the bag shop and all over town he scurried under his loads, coughing and sputtering with a frown on his bumper. His had been a hard and dull life in that grey and noisy city and though he had always tried to be an optimistic little motorbike, he was unhappy deep down in his battery.

One day, when Tom was a young scooter, he happened to be driving by the TV store and as he looked in the front window he happened to catch a glimpse of a movie on one of the screens. In this movie there was a big strong motorcycle riding down the something called the open road, with grassy fields and trees on either side as far as the headlight could see (he had never seen grassy fields before, but it looked wonderful). This motorbike had no heavy load, except the big strange looking white man riding him and a couple of small saddle bags, and it seemed to Tom that this was what motorcycle heaven must be like. From that day, whenever he was turned off at night, thoughts of that open road would run through his wires and comfort him till the next long, hard, noisy day in the city.

But as the years went by, and as Tom got older in that dull and noisy city, he began to doubt that there really was such a place as “the open road” that had seen on that TV screen in the TV store when he was young. And the memory of that big strong motorcycle carrying the white man and the grass and the trees as far as the headlight could see faded slowly from his wires… faded but never disappeared.

Even though Tom was by no means a young scooter and had a slight cough (he was asthmatic after all), he still carried the loads as easily as all the young scooters because Tom had a stronger battery than most. He had worked hard his whole life and he was still in good scooter shape where it counted, but the years had not been kind to his outsides and after awhile no one wanted to ride Tom because he looked so old… but deep in his battery Tom knew he was not so old… and the memory of the open road, though faded, was still there.

So it was that Tom found himself for sale. No people from the city wanted him because they liked to ride the shiny new motorbikes, and Tom just sat by the road and waited. Waited to be bought by  a new owner who would undoubtedly put even bigger loads on him because he was so ugly and had a slight cough (he was asthmatic after all).

One day as Tom waited on the side of the street, a large white man came to look at him and his friends who were all for sale. Tom had never seen such a large man before and the thought of carrying this man and a load was terrible indeed for Tom. Even so, the man was interesting to Tom because he reminded Tom of someone he had seen before, though he didn’t know where. The man seemed to like Tom immediately, and despite the man’s size, Tom thought he looked kind and like him as well. So as the man rode Tom down the street to see how his health was, Tom cleared his throat and hummed his best note and tried to be as quick as he could on his old warn out tires. “I haven’t lost it,” Tom thought to himself after the ride as he noticed the big white man handing the important pieces of paper to his old owner and the owner handing his birth certificate to the big white man, “I have a new owner.”

The next morning Tom got a full checkup and at the end of it felt very much better than he had in a long while, though he still had a cough (chronic asthma). His owner then loaded him with two small bags on the back and one on the front. Tom was waiting for the next 17 bags to be loaded when the big white man got on and started to ride him. “This is it!?” Tom wondered excitedly at the load, “this is the best load I’ve had since I was a sparkplug on the assembly line.”

As Tom road through the familiar streets he happily hummed and daydreamed. An hour later he realized that he didn’t recognize the street signs any more. Where were all the buildings and the millions of other motorbikes jostling him for position? His owner didn’t seem to be lost, but Tom himself had no idea where he was. The buildings got farther apart and farther apart as Tom rode nervously down the road. What was all this green stuff on the ground? Why were there so many trees? At that moment Tom caught a glimpse of himself on the window of a passing car and he had to look twice because he didn’t recognize himself without the large load. Then slowly, as if dragged from the depths of a muddy puddle, Tom began to remember something from long ago. It was something… yes, a motorcycle, that’s it… but not a small one like Tom… and it was riding down the road… but not in the city….. YES! The glimpse of the big strong motorbike in the TV store window! A large white man had been riding it just like the white man riding him now!… and with two small bags on the back…. And at that moment Tom backfired at the realization…. He was on the open road! It was all true!

From that moment on, it was sheer bliss for Tom. He rolled as fast as his little rubber tires would carry him, up mountains, through jungles and even fields as far as the headlight could see, and always south. Tom thought he had died and been sent to what he imagined motorbike heaven must be like. His battery could have burst from the sheer joy of it all, it was almost more that Tom could take in. He was seeing the world and at the top of it and nothing could stop him or slow him down as the blue sky and pavement stretched endlessly before his wheel and imagination (though he did still cough a bit from the asthma of course). It was then that Tom realized that the future or the past didn’t matter in this single moment of complete and reckless freedom, this utter joyous abandon, it was all worth it. All the hard work had led him to this moment and now at last… he was at peace.

Epilogue – Tom spent a glorious 8 days running free beneath the Vietnamese sky. On the 7^th day his owner decided to get him a part transplant, a matching donor came forward and now he is asthma free. He can currently be found carrying a different, much smaller white man around the sunny streets of Saigon, content in his old age and still as strong as ever.

Side note: The very large white man shares many of Tom’s feelings  on the virtues of the open road.

-Weaveroftales

 

The Ride

 

Yesterday, as I puttered down the streets of Hue on my very own motorbike… A canoe passed me. This canoe was not in a small canal running beside the road, or in a pond in the park. It was paddling down main street in the tourist district.

We were warned that there might be flooding in central Vietnam when we purchased our motorbikes, but with stalwart determination we forged ahead with our adventurous purchase. Turns out… there’s flooding in central Vietnam. Go figure. As we road into Hue a day ago I remember looking at the passing cars flinging tidal waves of water upon me and my Honda Dream time and again. I thought to myself as I road along that if I was riding in one of those cars, and I was looking at me on this motorbike, I would say to my fellow passenger, “Man that looks miserable. I’m sure glad that’s not me out in that Monsoon on a motorbike.” But I WAS me out on the motorbike.

I have never been quite so wet, I think , as I was then. Rain pelted from above, water from the road sprayed up from underneath, not to mention the occasional Tsunami from the odd car or bus. I was not thirsty all day. I seemed to be soaking up water through the pores of my thrice-soaked skin, like some amphibious creature from the cretaceous period. I suppose I was amphibious. Bjorn and I, we were amphibious creature two days ago, living on both land and water at the same time… that’s something.

It wasn’t that I was having an abysmal time either. Near the end I suppose I was a little, but for the most part I was enjoying the ride. The curves were curvaceous, the scenery was spectacular, but mostly I was enjoying the shear lunacy of it. Riding through monsoon-force rains because you want to get to the next town is not something you get to do every day. Having said that, we were not crazed lone riders, on a treacherous road, forsaken by all sane souls. The Vietnamese were out there with us on their motorbikes with ponchos just like business normal. I guess it “ain’t no thang” here in Hue. Besides being the former capital of Vietnam, (from 1802 to 1945) Hue is one of the wettest cities in Asia with an average annual rainfall of 120 in. I think I personally witnessed 100 of those inches fall a couple days ago. So if you want to get around, and the main mode of transportation in your country is motorbike, you ride come hell or high water. Literally.

So, in case you haven’t guessed it by now, we’re on a motorbike trip. We’re going from the top of Vietnam in Hanoi (the current capital city), to the Ho Chi Minh (formerly Saigon)  which is the largest city in Vietnam. The trip so far has been miraculously good, besides the odd monsoon or scrape with the road (which Bjorn I’m sure wrote about) it has been smooth sailing. On motorbikes we have been able to get out in the thick of the Vietnamese county side and see a more “organic” side of Vietnam of which the country is largely comprised. The little mountain road just north of Dong Le has been my favorite bit of riding thus far, but we will be back on the Ho Chi Minh highway in a day or two and I expect it will continue to overload my ocular enjoyment centers and tingle my spinous processes to the utmost.

There is nothing like puttering down the road on the same 100cc motorbike most of the Vietnamese are riding, with your bags lashed bow and stern. One moment winding through lush mountainscapes, the next through ancient rice fields being plowed by oxen, and then around sweeping ocean bays a moment later as the breakers crash on the limestone crags. Such is the nature of the Vietnamese motorbike tour. It’s THE way to see this country and even though at times I may look longingly at the passengers of a passing car, I am glad to be experiencing Vietnam  in a more raw and true form. And we ride on… come hell or high water. (Okay maybe not hell, but definitely high water)

-Weaveroftales

If you go to you tube and type in “Top Gear Vietnam special” you can watch an 8 part British car show, where they do the the opposite route we’re currently doing, with some slight varience and much hilarity.

The Fall

Pulled noodles morning and night. Handmade dumplings for lunch. Such was the basis of my diet (garnered with various vegetables of course, with the odd fruit thrown in) for the handful of days we spent in Yangshuo China. But why? you say, alarmed at my lack of variety. Well, it’s because noodles created before one’s eyes and upon request are one of those rare wholesome and good beacons left in the sea of pre-packed and faster than natural foods. Ordering noodles, watching a man work a piece of dough, and then looking down at a steaming bowl of the very noodles you ordered not 10 minutes later is a very satisfying way to eat. To get technical (backed up by Wikipedia) the noodles we enjoyed so fiercely are called la mien noodles pulled in the Lanzhou style. Evidently this means that they are pulled in straight quick jerks in the tradition of the Hui people of Northeast China, instead of with a twist (as they are prepared in Beijing).

Another thing I have so enjoyed putting in me these past days is pearl milk tea or “bubble tea” as it is sometimes called in slang. Essentially it is just black milk tea with some sugar in it, but with a chewy twist. Small globules of tapioca like substance sit awaiting your poised straw at the bottom of every glass. So that as you sip you chew, and as you chew you smile. This tea is delicious on biblical levels and is intensely coveted by even me, a professed scorner or tea (although I’m learning).  So, now that you are edified on the infamous, edible, eatables from Yangshuo – let’s get onto other things.

The real reason for our lingering in Yangshuo was not, in fact, the eating. That was just a pleasant coincidence. The true nature of our visit was a more sporting one. It is the climbing mecca of china. As climbing is loved by both Bjorn and myself AND we happened to be carrying shoes designed for just such a purpose, we couldn’t pass it up. It was glorious climbing to be sure. Ultra sustained  classic limestone climbing was the name of the game and it was epic. One event however sticks out in my mind a little more than all the pure movements, treks to the climbs, or conquered routes together. This was… the fall.

This fall is what you term in the climbing community as “a whipper.” It is a thing not sought after not coveted, but it is an important part of climbing none the less. In sport climbing you clip yourself into bolts fixed in the rock as you climb a route, so that if you fall, you only fall to your last bolt and are caught. I was chin level with the final bolt of the climb, my feet a good body length above my last clipped bolt. I did not realize the distance was so great to my last bolt however and so I was showing more bravado than is customary for me and even though my hand placement were precarious, I was “going for it” (said with a grunt). My hands were on two gritty slopers and were casually working themselves off the hold as I tried for a very high step. It was sometime near this point that my palms utterly betrayed me and before I know it I was calmly floating through the air! Past one, two, three bolts until the slack caught me and I swung harmlessly into the rock feet first. Then the blood starts pumping furiously and you whoop with adrenaline upon realization of what just occurred. This is the excitement of climbing. Not for everyone, but great. (Lest you worry about my safety and are not familiar with climbing apparatus… a typical climbing rope can easily hold a car… or 23 of me. The key is to trust the system, and your guardian angel 😉

I’m ME! I shouted as  the Chinese border official glanced repeatedly from my passport photo to my bearded face. This was the gist of my exit from china. I was detained for 45 minutes while the Chinese border official confirmed that I was, in fact, myself. Despite the fact that I had with me: a passport, old passport, birth certificate (original copy), drivers license, two student IDs, three credit cards with my names on them, an rei card with name, and a lifeguard certificate all avowing that I was indeed Jeremy John Weaver and not some infidel trying to sneak OUT of their country. Their logic escaped me. Oh well, I am in Vietnam now… good morning.

-Weaveroftales

 

The East

There is a callous forming on the crown of my head, just where it regularly contacts low doorways. This however is a small price for being in Hangzhou, China (where I find myself at this moment). Bjorn and I traveled here by ferry shortly after discovering that Japan isn’t exactly the ideal budget backpacking destination we had dreamed of. In short, Japan is expensive and we got out. It IS a country that I would like to return to one day… but with a slightly thicker wallet.

The Japanese culture feels ancient and proud in a way that made me want to carry myself in a more dignified manner, and sometimes it left me feeling slightly “outclassed” or overly coarse. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed my time there (barring the bank account deficit), I’m just attempting to explain it. Tokyo is a wonder. I mean, with no reservations, I can say that the city is HUGE! Slightly daunting as well. As I wandered through the streets, a part of me couldn’t help but feel like a feeble child wandering among the megalithic skyscrapers of the Tokyo skyline. The Japanese sure know how to build ‘em, and lots of them, in a highly efficient manner, without many breaks for foolishness like fun. I jest.

After spending a day or so in Tokyo (rhymes if you say it right). We headed for Osaka — which was to be the port of departure for our Shanghai voyage — on a bus with quite definitely the smallest seats known to man. Two seats fit half of my posterior (exaggeration 1) and the ceiling on the second level of the bus left me practically crawling down the aisle (exaggeration 2). I don’t blame the amused audience for laughing hysterically at the spectacle(not exaggerated), I would have too. We arrived in Osaka the next morning and after unfolding ourselves from the bus promptly discovered our new hostel and slept. This hostel included our very own kimonos for use in the sauna. Hi class indeed for the cheapest hostel in town. We were living like Japanese Emperors… after being deposed and stripped of wealth and title.

Then came the ferry – the thrill of the ocean, the spray of salt water, the brisk sea air, the third class sleeping room shared by 30 other men – ah, that’s the life. As my previous ferry experience, I enjoyed the ride immensely. Time enough to wander aimlessly and think, two of my favorite pastimes. There was also a wealth of like minded travelers aboard, which made conversation lively and camaraderie easy. I even learned mahjong from a trio of Swedish gents (thanks David, Roger, and Bjorn). They had each just finished a master’s thesis in Beijing on hydroelectric power and were, in general, just good guys to spend a few days on a boat with. The “dudes abide”, end of story.

Upon our arrival in Shanghai and after buying our first meal, I let out the breath I had been holding since Japan. China is CHEAP! HORAAY! I enjoyed a delicious bowl of noodles with an egg and some veggies for a grand total of $2. We hopped, skipped, and cart wheeled our way to our hostel where we paid $7 for one night and thanked out lucky stars to be in a country where a greenback still holds some sway. Shanghai is unquestionably a lively and enjoyable city, but I think more so in comparison with sterile Tokyo. The bund district on the banks of the Huangpu river is alive with people and the lights of the unique skyscrapers etch the night sky with so much color and life that you can’t help but smile a little as you beholding the spectacle.

Through luck, fate, or a blessing from the almighty, I now find myself sitting in a plush apartment at the hospital compound of Sir Run Run Shaw Hospital (named for a famous kung fu movie maker) in Hangzhou, China. The day before I left Japan I learned that my Aunt Karen and Uncle Dave just happened to be arriving in Shanghai the day after us. Then they would travel to Hangzhou a couple hours away for a medical convention being held there. And because of this I am staying in the nicest place I have yet stayed on this trip, I had a custom tour of the Chinese wet market from my aunt this morning and I enjoyed a veritable Chinese feast for lunch. Who know what other unspeakable pleasantries await. Thanks God, for doing me yet another solid.

-Weaveroftales

The Comfort

Tomorrow we will board a plane bound for the land of the rising sun, sushi and extremely reliable automobiles. This will be an interesting transition to make for me. Most of the places I have visited thus far have been Americanized to one degree or another, where vestiges of the motherland can be found all around you. The far east, from what I’ve heard, is a whole different bag of potatoes… in the cultural sense.

I will once again stick out like a big, blonde totem-pole in crowds and will not even be able to partially communicate with many people, as was possible in spanish-speaking countries. The search for budget hostels and cuisine will resume. Long trains rides are inevitable. Street merchants will again be hawking their wares at negotiable prices. I will again be eating varieties of food yet unheard of. It will be necessary to contort my frame into a large pretzel to fit in many places not designed for men of my stature. Reading street signs will involve much guesswork. Interesting smells will become more frequent as opportunities for showers decrease in frequency. Friends and family will only be reached by faulty internet connection and talking to them will again sound like a Verizon commercial (can you hear me now?). But you know what? Adventure will be rampant… and if there’s one thing I love, it’s rampant adventure. After all… the quality of a memory is often inversely proportionate to the comfort involved in making it. (You can quote me on that)

-Weaveroftales

 

The Points

I was conversing with the female member of my parental unit on the phone the other day and she told me that people were interested in hearing about how I am getting from point A to B and then to C etc. Not just a quick word about a train or bus here or there, but a fairly detailed and interesting account of the actual processes, mental and physical, which go into a jump on the map. And since I always listen to my mother, I will attempt to do that.. for you.. just now.

It’s a funny thing, choosing where to go next and just how to get there. The process we use is admittedly not a normal process or, I would say, even a recommended one. The first overriding factor in all our decision making so far has been to get from Cape to Cape roughly by the route we have posted on our site, but if you’ve looked at a map recently, you will notice that that leaves a lot of room for variation.  The second base desire that controls and shapes every decision we make like a giant girdle of green can be summed up in a single question that we find ourselves often asking: “How much does it cost?”

When one attempts to do a trip of the scale that we are attempting AND one also has acute cash flow restrictions, the answer to above said question becomes direly important. I would NOT say that we are losing any sleep over problems like cash flow, because I don’t think that either of us are especially prone to that sort of worry, but conscientiousness is definitely required.

I would say that the biggest problem that Bjorn and I have when it comes to deciding between two modes of transportation or two towns is that both of us are flexible in the extreme. We can both see the value of either plan. We could probably both effectively argue a case for either side, and after the decision is made, we can both convince ourselves with well-constructed thought processes that the decision we came to was indeed the best and right thing. Indeed sometimes we take opposing sides in a debate just for the spirit of it, but when it comes down to it, we could be just as happy either way. It HAS actually come to flipping a coin on one occasion and paper-rock-scissors has been employed several times, however it usually just ask how much it cost and go with the cheapest. We’re learning to just make decisions more quickly and go with them. It’s good to be able to do that, but it’s hard… we love our options.

Now I will attempt to connect the dots on the map for you. You have heard random stories here and there from here or there, but I would like to connect the whole western hemisphere segment of our journey in one extended bit of prose. I will not dwell on the events that transpired at any one place, but rather how we got from A to B, as it were.  So get out your maps and sextants, invite Magellan over, or log yourself onto google earth. Here we go.

Point A – Ushuaia, Argentina.

From here we took a bus to Rio Gallegos. Then immediately jumped on another bus to San Carlos de Bariloche. That was my first experience with marathon bus travel. It was intense, which is close to incense, which I could have used by the end of that bus trip. We then bussed from there to Mendoza and up to Salta, just north of which we crossed into Bolivia. We took a train to the Salar de Uyuni which, at night, was the coldest place I have yet been on this trip I believe (Alaska is close) brrrr. We then rode buses all the way through La Paz and Cusco to Lima. It was at this point that we flipped a coin which landed tails. That meant that we took a bus all the way from Lima, Peru through Ecuador to Bogota Columbia. This bus ride made the first “marathon” ride look like a community fun run. We were nearing the coast by this time and time was coming to change modes of transport… and continents, so we hopped on a sail boat in Cartagena and popped over to Panama.

Point B – Panama City, Panama

It was back on the bus from Panama to Nicaragua, where we surfed for a week or so. At this point we started using “real” buses. The famed chicken-bus “system” of Central America was a true cultural gem of an experience. In Nicaragua, Bjorn and I parted ways momentarily and he proceeded to bus all the way from Managua to Loma Linda’s doorstep, which is no small feat even for a traveling dynamo such as Bjorn. I decided to extend my tour in Central America with a couple weeks visit to my friend in Guatemala, but to get there from Guatemala I opted for the little used hitch-hiking-with-truckers route. Both the thumbing and the visit were packed with boundless excitement and merriment, but quicker than the shake of a twisted whisker I was off again. This time on a steel horse I rode across the mighty expanses of Mexico, running for the border on a 1987 Kawasaki 550 LTD I picked up in Guatemala. My destination was Loma Linda, my time was short, my butt bore the consequences.

Point C – Loma Linda, CA

After nearly melting on highway 10, I roared into the fair village of Loma Linda and the good company of good friends and good family. Bjorn met me there and we feasted like warrior kings, returning festooned with victory wreaths from a glorious battle (not quite, but the image is striking no?). A large part of the feasting was courtesy of IN–N-OUT Burger and for good reason. If heaven has a burger joint, I think it will have to be just a little bit like IN-N-OUT. 2 Animal style grill cheese with an order fries please, that’s all I have to say.

It was in the venerable city of Redlands that we purchased our faithful steed known only as “The Sunbeam” for a spine tingling $800. I don’t accurately remember who christened her, but credit goes to Brenden Matus for ensuring that the name stuck. From Loma Linda we drove this car through Yosemite, Sacramento, San Francisco, to the coastal highway and on this majestic corridor of the gods we traveled up the coast all the way to Seattle. As we journeyed, we were doused and soaked to the bone with hospitality the likes of which, in all probability, was not fully justified, but greatly appreciated.

Point D – Seattle, WA

Fully encrusted in wonderment for the Pacific northwest, we journeyed northward into the great land of Canada. Some would call it “America’s Tophat,” but I would have to say that they’d be a bit off in their description. It’s more like the sweet, white filling between America’s two Oreo cookie sides. Only the top side (Alaska) has been broken partially off in an Oreo twist competition. I believe THAT is a fairly accurate description. And sweet it was, as we drove north, the scenery just increased in the scope of its beauty and majesty.

Point E – Alaska

Then… it was Alaska. Alaska of the Jack London tails, “raw and raked, wild and free.” By that time the grip had fully tightened on my soul. The place has a primitive lure veiled in thin mists, dense pine forests, and mountains of Homeric proportions. It appeals to some sacred part of me in a way that cannot be expounded upon, only felt in the base parts of the being. Alaska is a place that must be experienced with a quite solemnity if its value is to be fully reckoned. I will be in this place again.

Abundant hospitality was again bestowed on us in Alaska by Alex and Brittany Martinez and Alex’s mother Brenda. We stayed at their house while we looked into the possibility of crossing the great Pacific on a boat. No boat was found after nearly two weeks of exhaustive searching and so we set our sights southward again.

In Anchorage we sadly parted ways with the Sunbeam for a tighty profit that covered the expense of our fuel for the whole car trip. We then hitched a ride with some friends to the port of Haines in south eastern Alaska, and because of a generous offer from Bjorn’s uncle Drew, we now find ourselves partaking in the indelibly awesome experience that is the Alaska marine highway system.

As I sit in the recliner lounge aboard the Alaskan ferry Malaspina and listen to the fog horn wail its mournful bass through the mist, a blessed feeling creeps up my spine from the pit of my stomach and tingles my neck. I feel infinitely thankful for the opportunity to be sitting here where I am and for the people that have shared of themselves and their resources to make the experience just that much better. Thanks you.

-Weaveroftales

 

The Tightening

We are chasing autumn. Not sitting idly by like some, waiting for her chilly hands to redden the cheeks of children and her frost to creep across the windowpane in announcement of her stealthy arrival. We actively pursue Lady Fall into the northern reaches of the wild. Here her traces can only be found in the beauty of the yellowing aspen, whose brilliant glow break the monotony of stoic pine that fill the valleys and range the mountain slopes as high as they dare. The chasing of a season is not like the pursuing a dog off his leash or running after some other tangible object. The chasing of this immaterial entity could be described as similar to traveling into a bank of fog. At first you can’t be sure whether the fog is there, but before you know it you are in among it and all you can notice is the fog all around you. The change is almost imperceptible and can be surprising if one is unwary, but unlike fog, autumn is a glorious and breathtaking astonishment that numbs the senses with her beauty.

The mighty north continues to tighten its grip on me and I have no wish to loose it. As we travel northward I have been devoting some time to the reading of the great writings of Jack London which has only fueled my curiosity the more. This very morning we crossed the northern border of British Columbia into the fabled Yukon Territory which is the very setting of a short story I just finished reading by London called “An Odyssey of the North.” This type of learning I believe is largely taken for granted and underutilized. Reading a great work about a place while at the same time discovering it for the first time sears the reading AND the place onto the brain as effectively as a cattle iron marks a new calf. And just as a calf is livened by the searing, so the passions of a person are roused and interests peaked about the topic at hand in a way no classroom could ever afford. For the $3.00 I paid for my book and the cost of gas the sunbeam sips, I am now gaining a priceless education…

We recently stayed with an older couple near Kamloops whom I would define as “good people.” Andy and Inge Anderson opened their home to us and showed us hospitality in epic proportions. They fed us, put a pillow under our heads, and guided a tour of the local wilderness. I am thankful to know people with such life despite their wealth of years. Among other hospitalities they took us to church with them on Sabbath, where I was reminded of the soul shaking power a good hymn sing can have.

I have been gaining a new appreciation for the traditions and community that are an integral part of the Adventist experience. “What?” You say, “Aren’t most kids your age disenfranchised by some of the seemingly baseless traditions of the Adventist church and leaving in droves because of it?” Yes probably, but I don’t see it that way. I see it as a family that has its traditions just like any family does, only this family is global and its focus is on following its creator in admirable ways.

Yes this family has it’s squabbles as every family will, and if one doesn’t rise above these petty trifles then the side orders quickly become the main course and leave one hungry and sour. On the other hand, if a person takes the time to overlook these greasy fries, they will find that a sumptuous feast awaits. Belonging to a global, service oriented, Christian culture like Adventism can be intensely rewarding if the eyes are opened to see the real issues. Skip the legalists who needs them? There are the humble to consort with. Forget about the hypocrites in the church, they are baseless cowards. There are the staunch and true to model after. Close your ears to the conspiracy theorists, they live in fear. There are the those boldly doing the will of Christ to be joined with.

Everyone on this earth is human. Christians are human, Muslims are human, Jews are human, Atheists are human, Taoists are human, Buddhists are human, and Adventists… are human. If someone chooses one or two of these humans as a basis for rejecting an entire movement, then the judge is as foolish as the judged. I believe that every group, religion, company, etc. should be taken on the whole and with a grain of salt. What are the goals of this group? What do they aspire to? What have they accomplished that is good and right and true?

Should wrongs be righted? Of course. Should we every be striving for a better form of servitude to our creator? No doubt. Should we be so caught up in a religion that we can no longer relate to the world we are supposed to serve. It would be criminal. I only think that we should see a group for what it is, not for a few bad experiences we might have had. I guess the jury is still out on whether perfection is attainable by humans on this earth, but I have never seen it and it shouldn’t be relied on or expected. I .will continue to think on these matters and I only hope that other wandering minds will as well.

…Alaska itself looms in the distance as we approach Whitehorse – the Yukon’s capital city and not the pale steed – and the grip tightens.

-Weaveroftales

The Family

I was having trouble uploading photos this time so my writing will have to speak for itself…

The pacific northwest has been speaking to some inner part of me that I had always known existed, but that had never been given a chance to grow into a fully manifested thought or feeling. My person resonates with this place like it has done with few others save Africa. At one moment I find myself immersed in the aura of the gigantic redwoods, awash in ancient wonder. The next moment I round a rocky precipice of road overlooking the vast and infinite pacific with cries of sea lions and smell of brine filling my nostrils. It is a place on the edge of the wild. Towns seemingly hewn from the rock and pine hillsides dart into view as we wind up the coast and then out as fast as they appear. One day perhaps, I will carve my own dwelling among the spruce and stone of the great pacific northwest. A day in the ever-elusive future.

This sense of wildness has been ever growing as we journey northward, but it was peaked for me last friday. We had just arrived at the house of Brian James who lives just north of Portland and enjoys the wild places just as much as I do and I suspect Bjorn does. There was a quick discussion as to what activity would fill our afternoon, but a hike was soon settled on. Brian was familiar with a few easy hikes within driving distance, but none of them were enticing until he mentioned a 13 mile hike to the summit of Silver Star mountain and back. Brian hadn’t done this particular hike and since it was at the fringes of possibility as far as time and distance was concerned, we jumped at the suggestion.

The late afternoon glow settled on our right flank as we began plodding along the ridge cresting path that would lead us eventually to Silver Star summit. The gently winding two track quickly gave way to a footpath that skirted the right edge of a jagged ridge and wound its way across rock slides and through blueberry brambles growing along the knife thin path. At times the path felt exposed, as if we were at a great altitude above the growth of trees. At other times the path brought us amidst stoic pines equidistantly placed in a somber array. Finally the trail led us up a final stony scramble to the wind-swept summit, just as the sun dipped its warmth beneath the western ranges. To the north Rainier and St. Helens were clearly visible in the waning light and the southeast revealed Mt. Hood spectral presence. It was wild majesty and grace at its zenith. As we quickly retreated into the growing darkness, my soul soared at the small taste of wild that Silver Stat had afforded me that day.

The family I belong to is of the utmost importance to me and I am glad for reminders of that. Right now I am sitting in an airport in Minneapolis, MN, but before your mind jumps to ill conceived thoughts of overland trip blasphemy, let me explain. My grandparents celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary this past week at Camp Au Sable in Grayling, MI. That sentence alone should explain and excuse my presence in the Minneapolis airport. I had the great privilege of flying from Seattle to Michigan to celebrate a great marriage and my membership in a great family in concert. My Grandparents, Art and Natalie Weaver have long been inspirational to me in a number of ways. Not the least of which is their untiring devotion to one another during their 65 years of marriage. It is a constant reminder of the magic God can work between two people if he is allowed to dwell amidst them. The week was filled to the seams with cousins, aunts, uncles, close friends, brothers, sisters, grandparents, FOOD, games, laughter, worship, and all other manner of good things. All this was set to the background of indelibly beautiful nature that is Camp Au Sable. I caught a few northern pike, I bounced some children on my knee, I had the best cupcake of my young life and I learned again that family, truly and always, comes first.

Here is a poem I wrote about and for my grandparents on their 65th. I love you grandma and grandpa.

A Sailor and his Drum
a sonnet by: Jeremy Weaver

A sailor left his love upon the shore
And sailed to western seas where few men dared
He married her when he returned from war
And tears and love and six small kids they shared
Across the ocean depths again he sailed
But to the east, his dearest by his side
By sand and heat and sick they were assailed
And through those trials the warmth has never died
And as the years and generations come
The spark that once was struck has ever grown
His heart for her beats as an ol’ bass drum
An instrument so rich and true in tone
From then till now and to the ends of time
His heart for her will drum and hers will chime

Inspiration

-Weaveroftales

The Majesty

Pondering…

I’ll start with a poignant poetic selection.

The tail of the underqualified Longboarder…

Ouch. Some would say the hill was small.

Ouch. And not so very tall at all

Ouch. So tell me then why did I fall

Ouch. And scrape my hip and my foot’s ball

Ouch. The board jived left and I flew right

Ouch. Which was the reason for my plight

Ouch. It doesn’t help that I’m not light

Ouch. The fall is greater when you’re tall

One ouch

2 ouch 3 ouch

Dr. Haugen is on the case

Don’t let any fool ever tell you that home is not where the heart is. Last week my “physical” heart parts were in Loma Linda, but the important fact is that the rest of my heart bits were there as well. The reason my whole heart was at home in Loma Linda is simply this, many people who I care about deeply were there. Some of them reside in that fair place and others flew from afar to see me, but they were there, it was heart warming (both bits), and I thouroughly enjoyed it. I am practicing getting better at saying these sorts of things in person to people like: Justin, Sarah, Mom,  Dad, Jess, Jake, Brenden, Tim and others… but writing it will have to suffice until I see you all again. I love you guys heaps and thank you for being such a great: brother, sister-in-law, mom, dad, sister, friend, friend, and friend… respectively.

My mom and Brenden

The California King himself

Now for something I’m starting to love in a different way. Yosemite. The place is ethereally majestic. If we’re going with movie comparisons (which I often do) parts of Yosemite, like the Mariposa grove,  remind me of what I imagine Lothlorian to be like (some will get that, others…sorry). Sometimes the place made me want to reach for a revolver, jump on a horse and ride into the sunset. And lots of the time it made me want to just sit and think as deeply as my feeble mind allows about how awesome the creator  that made THIS place must be.

We spent most of our time at Yosemite in an Adventist summer camp known as Wawona. Let me just say firstly that the people that run that good camp are saints, and if I was catholic I’d see to the canonizing myself. Anthony Handal also tells me that people are shirking their agreements to come and visit, so get up there people, I can vouch for the hospitality. Here’s a commercial. “Wawona. They may only have a Half Dome, but it’s the heart that counts anyway.” Good? Maybe it needs some work.

One final noteworthy experience happened just before Wawona. Crack climbing in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Now for those of you who don’t enjoy pulling yourself up vertical rock using chalk and rubber ballet shoes, you won’t understand this next bit. I happen to enjoy that activity immensely, and I thought I was slowly becoming better at it, until… crack climbing. At times it felt like I was trying to climb a porcelain wall. It’s like learning to climb all over again. Having said that… I want to do it again as soon as physically possible. It’s as addicting as… well… crack I suppose. For those who are sufficiently lost, crack climbing is when you climb a vertical crack in a rock without the aid of many features on the face of that rock. You have to jam your hands and feet in to the crack, pull yourself up, rejam, and so forth until you reach the top. Now I realize that to most sane people this might sound a bit bizarre and even counter intuitive (just use a ladder), but I assure you it’s good fun.

Sunbeam (our car) checkup: She’s pulling 30 mpg. She’s got a slight brake rotor wobble (nothing serious). She recently had some steering column plastic surgery (panels were falling off). She’s running like a champ.

-Weaveroftales