The People

smells like michigan

So time play catch up…. here goes.

I believe the last time I shared an update with all you fine folks I was in Guatemala visiting my friend Valerie Walker who is working for the Peace corps there. She lives and works in a small impoverished municipality called Santa Maria Chiquimula in the mountains near Xela (can see this on the map). Val has been a friend of mine since the days when my voice was a few octaves higher and I enjoyed watching cartoons as much as was permissible. While my voice has dropped significantly since then, our friendship has not waned in the slightest. In fact, because we have always been nearly five years apart in our schooling I have usually played the part of the little kid in the past. However, as we both have gotten older and trivial measures such as college are behind us, in my recent encounters with Val she has seemed more and more my contemporary. I really enjoy this feature of getting older. The barriers of age are blurred into lines of experiences, not used to separate the age classes, but as guides to commiseration with like minds.

Val is one of these like minds, on many topics. She has a passion for helping those in need as many of us do, only with Val, passion is often turned to action. I called her up over skype when I was in Nicaragua and after some blurry conversations and dropped calls, we finally arranged to meet up in Xela. As I completed my last chicken bus ride into Xela and hopped the severely overloaded minibus (21 people in a Toyota minivan) for the town center I was excited to see her. Val is just… cool (wipe that grin off your face Val, don’t let it go to your head). I found her waiting in the town center and from then on, even though I was physically in the far reaches of Guatemala, it was back to good old Michigan in spirit.

Val was an impeccable host and even went so far as to part with some of her cherished black licorice (we’re both black licorice fiends). The game was to see who could pay for more things. She was continually insisting that she was rolling in the doe these days because her monthly stipend was recently bumped up to what some people spend on dry cleaning per month. Her generosity was unceasing, not only with her money, but also with her time, and her awesome house. One of the most impactful things I had the opportunity of doing was visit one of the schools that Val works at high in the mountains of rural Guatemala. She’s been doing a lot to improve the lives of these kids and they love her for it. Normally she teaches a health class at each of the 5 schools she works in, which is likely the only health class that most of these kids will ever have. She also works with the schools’ faculty to improve the way the school handles its health curriculum and training. The morning I visited I got to go around with her to each of the class rooms and just bask in the joy of these little kids while Val did all the talking and the teaching. I glimpsed Jesus through the way Val taught those kids, it was a spectacle glorious in all its humble simplicity.

commute to work – the teachers and val in the back of a pickup

gotta get the shoulder work out in sometime…

boys wishing not to be in school, a worldwide phenomenon

If you want to contribute to the health of these children, these schools are rife with need. Things we take for granted such as clean water, a sink to wash your hands in, or a toilet these kids either don’t have, or have limited access to. If you click over to the mission projects page on this website, you can find out how you can help.

Mothers, cover the ears of your young impressionable teenage boys for this next part, you won’t want them to hear it….. I bought a motorcycle. The four words no self respecting mother ever wants to hear and my mother is no different. For awhile now I have been drooling as I see these backpack laden motorcycles touring the Pan American highway on the adventures of lifetimes…. and boy do I love motorcycles. So with my time with Val coming to an end, I started thinking about my journey north, and visions of backpack laden motorcycles kept vrooming around in my head. What could be done? I poked around here and there and a beautiful 1983 Kawasaki KZ 550 ltd just dropped itself right in my lap. So, I decided it was time for me to take my first motorcycle road trip.

Some people were instrumental in the implementation of my madcap motorcycle mayhem… ahem, I mean carefully planned motorcycle tour. One was Mike Roberts from the crossroads café in Panajachal, Guatemala. I ran into Mike one rain soaked night in a mechanic shop while I waited for my motorcycle to get. At this particular moment I was feeling slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of driving this motorcycle sitting before me all the way to Loma Linda California in less than 9 days. Just then, as I sat there in the throws of semi-despair (as despotic as I ever get) Mike popped in like a coffee touting angel and provided me, not only with some steamy black liquid, but also with some hope. He told me he had done the trip I was about to undertake many times and that I could easily do it in 5 days. Phew, I was ecstatic, as were the motorcycle mechanics I was constantly pestering to work faster.

In the mechanic shop at the beginning…my butt didn’t know what it was in for

The next morning, at Mikes request, I stopped by The Crossroads Café and was treated to free coffee the whole morning as mike regaled me tales of adventure. He became a Christian and subsequently sold everything he had. He then took that money and moved his entire family in a van down to Guatemala to the shores of Lake Atitlan where he now runs a small coffee shop as a haven of rest for many road weary travelers.   At the end of the morning he gave me a free road atlas of mexico. Then as I was walking out of the coffee shop Mike popped out the door way after me and quietly pressed a 50 dollar bill into my hand. I balked at the generosity, but he insisted that he and his wife don’t get to travel much anymore and they love supporting people who are.  Mike is good people and I owe him many thanks. I really appreciate the spectacles through which he  views life. Definitely rose colored. I saw Jesus though his heart of service.

The moral of the story is that I made it. From Panajachal Guatemala to Loma Linda California in 7 days of hard riding. The ride breakdown went like this. Wednesday drove from Pana to Huehuetenango – 3 hours riding. Thursday rode from Huehue across the border to a little west of Tuxla Gutierrez- 6 hours riding. Friday from Tuxla to just north of Mexico City – 13 hours riding. Saturday- rest. Sunday from north of Mexico city to Culiacan – 16 hours riding. Monday from Culiacan to Santa Ana – 13 hours riding. Tuesday from Santa Ana across the border into the depths of hell/ across the desert in midday on the 10 to Loma Linda – 10 hours. There were moments of shear bliss, utter despair and general malaise, but at the end of it all I am GLAD I did it. It was an experience to be sure.

South of Oaxaca

at the border, i can hear the amber grain waving

end of the journey, it was worth it…

-weaveroftales

The Slowing

Sun set – San Blas islands

Thar be perilous ventures a’foot.

Sailing has always awakened in me some sort of ancient Norse sentiment of unfettered adventure. So when we set sail with our Austrian Captain Fritz, on the aptly named catamaran “Fritz the Cat”, from Cartagena, Columbia two weeks ago, my imagination set sail with it… bound for waters exciting and free. It was a relaxing time. A good change of pace from the sometimes-grueling bus travel we had been subjecting ourselves to of late. There was a plethora of truly great things to do: spear fishing, deck diving, hammock napping, card playing, photo taking, snorkel breathing… these where the activities that filled those four piratical days aboard our worthy vessel. And no, I didn’t kill any fish, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Fritz the Cat

Fritz the man

One accomplishment I am extremely proud of was achieved one charged night while anchored amid the San Blas Islands off the coast of Panama. I have had the ambition to do this thing for many years, but only at this unique juncture was I afforded the opportunity. After hours of experimentation and a little cooperation between the weather, the moving ocean, and my camera; I was able to get this picture long sought after.

electrifying

After we came ashore, and before my wobbly post-sea legs had equalized, we began again our overland wanderings. The remarkable Panama Canal was viewed followed by a direct bus to San Jose, Costa Rica where we spent one night. The following morning we again boarded a landlocked ship on four wheels and made for the boarder of Nicaragua and Costa Rica. Before you crucify us in your mind for not spending any time in the beautiful country of Costa Rica, Bjorn and I have both spent ample amounts of time there on previous traveling endeavors. And yes… it is beautiful.. pura vida.

In Nicaragua, Bjorn and I had one overriding goal. Get to the coast and surf. This we did will all due hast and shortly we found ourselves bobbing up and down with the swells on the soon-to-be-legendary-but-not-yet-spoiled beaches found around San Juan del Sur. I drank a lot of pacific those three days, but I also had a ton of fun and was not wholly a failure when it came to surfing. It is something I plan on getting into in the near future in a big way.

Kawabunga

One last interesting anecdote on my recent wanderings.

I have slowed down in my traveling pace in the last week which has allowed me to travel in some very interesting ways that frankly I have preferred to long distance busing. Leaving Nicaragua I was on a small minibus chatting with a Guatemalan guy that happened to be a truck driver. I asked if it would be possible to hitch rides with one of the many trucks that frequent the Pan-American highway and, to my delight, he replied that not only was it possible, but that he was planning on doing just that from the Honduran border all the way through El Salvador to Guatemala. Not only that, but he happened to be from the very town I was aimed for in Guatemala. This seemed like too divine a providence to pass up, and so for two sleepless days Roberto and I were saprophytic travel partners as we rode for free up the spine of central America on those large mechanical beasts of burden. Truck drivers are a lot nicer than you would imagine and one even surprised me with his breadth biblical knowledge on Christian conviction as conversed about scripture and religion.

big rig driver in the making

Once I arrived in Guatemala, and briefly in Nicaragua, I was able to use another form of travel that I find more authentic. Affectionately known as “chicken buses” these slightly modified Blue Bird school buses are a cultural experience in themselves. As they fly from stop to stop, collecting and spewing forth humanity without so much as a full hault in between, there is never a lack of entertainment. Whether it be the bus assistant climbing out the window onto the roof at speeds approaching 60 mph or the same agile man swinging back into the open doorway from the roof at the same speed with a leche fruit in hand… there is always something to watch and wonder at.

-weaveroftales

The Patriot

(Marines at US Consulate, Bogota Columbia)

In the past few years I have spent an inordinate amount of time outside the United States of America. As of right now I am calling the piratical port town of Cartagena, Columbia home for at least a few more hours. I have noticed a trend in Cartagena that, if I dig in the shallow depths of recent memories, is shared by most of the places I have lived or visited abroad. People love to guess where you’re from. Almost without fail, people guess Germany as my country of origin…. I must have a Germanic look about me.”No,” I tell them with a distinctly American smirk, “Yo vivo en Estados Unidos.”

Spending large quantities of time outside your home country creates an acute of awareness of how folks in different destinations view said home country. When I travel, I am always interested to find out what people think of America. Regardless of what fear mongers and the media would have you believe, from the people I’ve talked to in the 18 countries I’ve visited in the last 3 years, people generally like America. Indeed, many I speak with would like for me to smuggle them into the country in a large dufflebag, or small one as the case may be. Some people would have you believe the world outside the good ‘ol USA is fraught with dark alleyways filled with hoards of people just waiting to rob you and take all your good American things away. Yes there are thieves outside the States and even a dark alleyway or two, but as I walk the streets of a new and strange city I am usually struck by an overwhelming sense of good will.

This past week was the Fourth of July, dia de la Independencia for us Yanks. Normally I would spend this day blowing things up with large quantities of Black Cats (the firecracker not the feline) in the great state of Arkansas joined by my venerable southern kin. I miss that (sigh). This year for that most excellent of holidays I was in the United America technically, but that sovereign soil happened to be located in the second largest US Consulate in the world in Bogota, Columbia. I was there with Nathan and Margie Tidwell whom we stayed with in Bogota (what a blessing). Since Nathan works at the consulate we were attending the early morning Independence day flag raising. The place was abuzz with Patriotism and, as that 30 foot flag unfurled in all her glorious splendor, it was great to be reminded of my heritage.

I would be accusable of the folly of Narcissus if I said that America was unfaultable in her virtues. We have problems and strengths just like the next country. We’ve done some terrible things in history that shouldn’t be dismissed, but we’ve also worked great good in places and at times. Above all speculation one thing is abundantly clear to me: where I’ve been, most people don’t hate us.

I love being immersed in foreign cultures more than the average bloke; to really embrace the way other people live.  I am also proud to be an American (even though evidently I look German) and sometimes it’s good to be reminded of that.

(read with a pirate accent)

Prepare yerselves fer tails o’ adventure on th’ high seas as we prepare t’ set sail fer the wanty port o’ Panama. We`ll be battlin’ th’ elements they’s self as weaker men be sent t’ Davy Jones Locker. ARRGH!

-weaveroftales

The Question

(Huanya Picchu)

There is one simple but important question I often ask people and that is, If you had to choose… mountains or ocean? Call the question trite and meaningless if you want, but I think it probes rather uniquely into a person’s root character. Maybe when this blog is finished I will share the answer I always give, but most likely you will ascertain it yourselves in the reading.

The real reason I bring this conundrum up at this point in blogging history is the fact that our journey thus far has closely mirrored the spine of the Andes up the eastern march of South America. Therefore mountains have been our spectacular companions… or obstacles throughout our trip, depending on your answer to the above important question.

I use the word spectacular, but that doesn’t even begin to describe their majesty in many cases. Take for example the mountains we are driving through at this very moment, the Ecuadorian Andes just above Quito. These lush and forested semi-tropical mountains are a far cry from the jagged peaks further south. Looking out the right window of the bus I can even see a monstrous snow-capped peak, peeking over the shoulders of its younger hairier brothers. And snow capped though it may be, it is still appears slumped compared to its mighty southern cousins, as if disappointed with the knowledge that soon the Andes will end. It’s disappointment mirroring my own.

Of all the mountain roads and scenes I’ve encountered thus far in the Andes there is one in particular that stands out above the others:

I had the awe-inspiring opportunity to journey to and climb Machu Picchu and subsequently Huanya Piccu. We left Cuzco for Aguas Calientes (the town at the base of Machu Picchu) on a Sunday morning at 5 a.m. and returned on Monday night. The drive to Agua Calientes was 9 hours one way and the sights were more than something to behold. The best way to describe the change in scenery is to imagine you start a drive in the Scottish highlands and as you drive up into those rolling mountains the scenery begins to change into something reminiscent of Avatar, but without the aid of 3D computer animation.

(First glimpse of Machu Picchu)

We were supposed to begin the 2 hour hike up Machu Picchu at 4:00 a.m. in order to get a pass to climb Huanya Picchu (the peak you see standing 1200 ft. above Machu Picchu in the pictures). Because I have recently become acutely inept at setting my watch alarm, we didn’t rise until 4:45 am. Since they only issue 400 Huanya Picchu climbing passes a day and they pass those tickets out to the first 400 souls who present themselves at Machu Picchu’s stony gates, we feared for our spots atop the famed mountain. Thus we turned a hike estimated at 2 hours into 45 minutes of mad capped scrambling with some light intermittent jogging. At the top of the hike Bjorn was down a pair of underwear and a T-shirt (fell out of his pack in the dark) and we were both properly winded and sweaty, but we had the all important holy stamp of approval on out tickets that gave us dispensation to climb Huanya as many times as we wanted *between 7 and 8 a.m.  Later that day, as we stood atop Huanya Picchu and gazed down at one of the most breathtaking ruins, and indeed views conceivable, we were glad we had hustled.

(Line for Huanya Picchu ticket stamp)

(View from Huanya)

(Proof)

One funny and true anecdote from amongst the ruins: a slightly overweight man with a distinctly listless American accent was slowly ambling through the ruins with his wife seemingly not impressed by what he saw. Surrounded by massive monoliths, she (along with everyone else) was obviously feeling the opposite emotion and exclaimed in disbelief what a truly amazing feat moving these large stones must have been. To which her husband loudly replied in a lethargic tone, “Nah its easy, all they needed was enough dudes and sticks and stuff*.” (*edited for language)

The better part of this last week has been spent with my friend Josue, his brother Caleb and their family on the northern outskirts of Lima, Peru. I met Josue at my first Peruvian Ultimate Workout and we have been good friends now for the better part of 7 years. We were debating whether to stay with Josue for just one night and continue on to Ecuador the next day, or to spend to weekend with him and jump straight to Bogota, Columbia with one massively long bus ride. So we made the decision in a very sensible and responsible manner, we flipped a coin. Tails, we bought a ticket for Bogota. The long stationary weekend was relaxing and I am so glad I got to spend some time with my Peruvian brother from another mother. Thanks coin.

(Josue, sharp as a tac)

As I gaze out the window from time to time I am presented with a constant feast for the eyes. The mountains never cease to wrap my attention, enthrall my senses, and throw my imagination into fantastic fits. Thanks God. So if you hadn’t guessed it by now. My answer is always mountains… if I had to choose.

Addendum: Just completed our ultra marathon length bus ride. It ended up taking 72.5 hours from Lima to Bogota. 3 nights and 3 days. For me, it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. The time just kind of blurred together after the first 12 hours and I remained in that semi-conscious state for the duration. I did get to know my bus mates in unique and distinctly intimate ways. Especially the ones in my immediate vicinity. Not only we get to enjoy each other using the traditional and acceptable senses, sight and hearing, the others got involved as well. The cramped quarters allowed touch to get involved in the form of a knee to the spine through the thin seat backs. Smell was an obvious factor after 24 hours, reaching a glorious crescendo at about hour 50. Taste even got involved as essence of human thickened to a palpable haze that hung in the air at about hour 70. All in all it was a feast for the senses and a truly interesting experience, albeit not for the faint of heart.

(H.M.S. Shweaty at berth)

-weaveroftales

The Hospitality

(Salar de Uyuni)

This morning I awoke behind a tourist information counter in a bus station to the insistent sounds of ticket hawkers and the melodic drone of humanity on the move. It’s not quite as pitiful as it sounds though, and before such labels as bum and vagrant are thrown around in your mind, let me explain from the beginning.

Last week Bjorn and I decided to arrange our bus tickets so that we would arrive in Salta, Argentina on Saturday morning, thus allowing us to attend some church (a weekly occurance in my life). We arrived at about 8 in the morning at the Salta bus station and promptly began quizzing locals as to the location of a Iglesia de Adventista. After a few minutes and a stop at the information booth, we had procured a map and a general bearing with which to start our search. We then proceeded to wander a little less than aimlessly through the morning streets of Salta, dodging buses and taxis as they scurried past with their unquenchable desire for more people. The street sweepers were out (humans with brooms, not swirling machines) and they were constant course correctors as we honed in on the seemingly elusive edifice. Finally we stood in front of the comforting white building we had long sought after and with familiar melodies wafting out onto the street and into my consciousness I could not help but feel a little at home.

As we sat there enjoying the service, a lady tiptoed up to our pew and made the distinct gesture of food going into the mouth. Now, at this juncture, this pantomime could only mean one of two things: she would like me to feed her right now, or she would like to feed me. As I did not have any food with me at the moment and being that it was the middle of a church service, I quickly decided that she was offering to feed me after church at her house. You will never quite understand the joy that this brought me at that particular moment, but I tried to contain myself. I smiled politely and accepted the invitation in Spanish that was not just broken, but compound fractured, as my Spanish often is.

To shorten what could be a quite lengthy tail, that invitation led to some truly wonderful experiences. Daniel Liernur and his wife Anita (the inviter herself) along with their two daughters, Ilene and Florencia are the most inviting and warm hearted individuals I have encountered in a long time. They took us home, fed us a meal…. Oh man, was this a meal… it just wouldn’t quite. They then drove us up to a spot overlooking Salta with not just a Panoramic view, I would have to say that ultra-panoramic is a more apt description. Daniel then insisted that he should take us on a drive the next day to see some gorgeous canyons in Cafayate. After thoroughly convincing us that we were not imposing on his Sunday plans we reluctantly agreed, thinking we would perhaps pay for gas to make up for his kindness. The next day was a starkly magnificent experience, with stratified canyon walls reaching up to the skies with mixed hues of brilliant red, pink, white and earth. Glorious, brilliant, breathtaking and he wouldn’t let us pay for the fuel. That evening Anita overwhelmed us with homemade pizza before our bus came to haul us on to another interesting place on this old earth. Truly inspiring people those.

(Daniel inmparting some argentine wisdom)

This Sabbath we had again arranged to arrive in a town early in the morning on Saturday so we could attend church. This time the town is Cusco, the famed entrance to the wonders of the Incan civilization. Our bus arrived at 5:30 a.m. and instead of wandering out into the brisk pre-dawn air, we wandered upstairs to an unused tourist information booth, crawled behind the counter and examined the inside of our eyelids until the time came to begin quizzing locals and procuring free maps.

Other things I have seen of late that are worth mentioning…

Salar de Uyuni – A place of ghostly beauty, the largest salt flat on the planet. Intensely cold at night.

Lake Titicaca – Being from Michigan, I naturally enjoy beautiful large lakes. Lake Titicaca did not disappoint. Surrounded by mountains and truly expansive, this lake deserves to be called more than “Great.”

Isla del Sol – A mountainous island an hour from Copacabana Bolivia on Lake Titicaca. No cars, no roads, just unimaginable views, warm people, and plenty of trees for hammocks. Las Vedas is the most fantastic “restaurant” I have ever eaten in.

La Paz – One of two capitals of Bolivia. Nestled in the mountains with stunning colonial architecture and delicious all-you-can-eat-hope-you-don´t-get-sick street meals for less than a dollar.

In the next blog I will attempt to regale you with grand adventures and scintillating capers of the Incan variety and perhaps provide anecdotal examples of why I love Peruvians. Until then…

-weaveroftales

The Whirlwind

(Lake Nahuel Huapi)

At this moment in space and time I am sitting at a small wooden table topped a green vinyl covering you might find at walmart. This table is located in the dining room of Estacion Mendoza, a small quaint hostel that feels more like a home than a typical run-down backpacker joint. My ears are filled with the distinct and rapid flutter of argentine spanish being exchanged between a group of women in the living room. A sleepy rock tune floats in from the radio in the hall. This is my Thursday night in Mendoza, Argentina.

The past 5 days have been a whirlwind of buses, hostels, pseudo-spanish, and interesting encounters with people, places, and things. After escaping the tourist trap at the end of the world, also known as Ushuaia, we have spent a total of 54 hours on buses of different size and caliber and covered much of argentina. We have managed to wedge a few short stops into this seemingly never-ending bus marathon. Short stops that I always wish to be longer because of the ever interesting and often beautiful nature of these towns. I will try, but fail, to provide you a snapshot of the beauty and intrigue I have been exposed to of late. Here goes…

Rio Gallegos… Not the most beautiful town in the world, but not a horrid place to spend a day. Located on the Atlantic coast of Patagonia, it is largely a thru town for people traveling to and from Ushuaia to other more interesting places in the north and west of patagonia. This town stands out in my mind, not because of any unique sights I witnessed, but because of a friendly group of rugged Argentineans that provided us with great company for our night and day there. Roberto, Diego, Raul, Linell, and grandma Cira (the hostel owner and a true gem of a lady) comprised the fellowship of the hostel for the night and made for a truly interesting experience. Conversing was THE ONLY activity, just sitting around and shooting the breeze… and if shooting the breeze in English is like firing a machine gun, then this conversation was more at bb gun pace. Bjorn and I were more than exuberant to practice our Spanish and the ears being assaulted seemed to be surprisingly patient. Kind people they were, warm hearted individuals that didn’t seem to have much, but were eager to share all. They cooked polenta and deep fried bread for us and provided a bottomless well of yerba mate (THE traditional argentine drink) . Through cigarette smoke and deep laugh lines they shared their wisdom and stories with us, we shared younger jokes and stories in return. It was a great positive human exchange and stands out to me as my favorite experience thus far. Late the following day, after a stroll around an empty and windy Rio Gallegos we hopped the bus for Bariloche.

Bariloche and the Seven Lakes region… Ethereal mountain beauty. The Seven Lakes highway cannot be described properly by any language I possess. God created a masterpiece in that place. Bariloche was also the sight of our first couchsurf. A genius travel movement that more people should take advantage of. The idea is that you search on the couchsurfing website for someone who is willing to let you “surf” their couch for free, if they return your request then you not only gain a free place to sleep, but also invaluable local insight into a town you would not otherwise have known as intimately. Our host was David Burg, an American living in Bariloche for the ski season. He and his argentine roommate Pablo went miles out of their way to be good hosts for Bjorn and I, complete stranger now friends. David took us on a short hike to a point overlooking idyllic Nahuel Huapi, a mountain lake whose liquid crystal fingers wrap Bariloche in a complicated blanket of rare beauty. Bjorn wanted to get an early start the next morning, but I thought we needed a couple extra hours sleep, so we resorted to the advice of my uncle Jim on such disagreements… rock,paper,scissors. After a couple extra hours of sleep the next morning J we boarded a bus bound for Mendoza through the seven lakes region. I will not ever attempt a description of the seven lakes region, but I understand Bjorn has attempted just such a feat. Suffice it to say that I will be returning there one day.

-weaver of tales

(seesawing our worries away by the strait of Magellan)

The Mantra

Things have a way of getting worked out. That’s the mantra I’m beginning to adopt. This fact became evident as Bjorn and I waited in the Santiago airport to board our flight to Punta Arenas. Somewhere between having to go to the bathroom and thinking about the exquisite taste of macadamia nuts were thoughts of what would happen when we stepped off the plane. No hotel reservations, no open arms waiting at baggage claim, no safety nets. Just packs on our backs and the exhilarating uncertainty of a blank slate.

As I sat there at gate 21 in the Santiago airport, an elderly lady leaned over and asked for a piece of gum. Being a gumaholic I naturally have several packs within reach at all times and gladly forked one over for her enjoyment (I’m a generous gum fiend). She seemed to be visibly happy with the particular flavor which led to an attempted conversation  that consisted of broken English on one side, broken Spanish on the other and wild gesticulations to fill the gaps. Bjorn speaks Spanish much better than me, but I can sometimes understand more and our gesticulation skills are roughly equal so our communication skill-sets were somewhat complimentary in that respect. After a few minutes of this vastly amusing interpretation exercise we had gathered that the couple lived in Punta Arenas. On hearing this our eyes lit up and we proceeded to procure as much information as possible that could aid us in our quest to find the traveler’s 3 basic needs: food, lodging , and transportation. At this point the couple discovered that we didn’t have much of a set plan regarding any one of these three details. Without hesitation they offered to give us a ride to town and drop us at a hostel they knew of, all for the price of a pack of gum and a few smiles….things get worked out.

Now I’m sitting in Ushuaia, a city proudly touted as el fin del mundo (the end of the world) with sights pointed north. I have a bus ticket and warm bed for the night and as for my plans beyond that, refer to the above stated mantra.

-weaver of tales

The trail

The reality of the trip is dawning, not ominously, but like a hopeful morning on my mind.. After running the marathon of school for more than a decade and a half I feel as though I am diverging from the wide highway onto a less traveled foot-trail. This particular trail, contrary to popular belief, is not an unexpected foray into oblivion. It seems that I have always known that I was born for a life such as the one I will live this coming year and for I have always been a bit of a wayfarer at heart. From my first memories  of numerous family vacations and mission trips to a recent year living abroad, travel has long been a source of sheer joy for me. It has always been a part of my life that bristled wonder in my soul and breathed fire in my veins whenever I partake. Therefore, the prospect of leaving for this most wondrous of trips in a few weeks is less frightening ( it is some) and more like putting on a well fitting pair of shoes that you’ve often seen in the store window, knew they were meant for you, but are only now getting around to trying them on. These shoes may well rub a character-building blister or two, but I expect that these particular kicks were made for me none-the-less and will carry me down this new trail to I know not where… which, for me, is more than half the fun.

The Manifesto

So here is the first of many writings to be shared from this particular little corner of the web. This is my second travel blog, the first being the one I wrote last year while I was in Africa. At the beginning of my previous blogging endeavor I was concerned that it would be tedious, time-consuming, and a bit nerdy. It was, at times, all of those things. Mostly though, it was an experience that enriched my year in Africa more than I could have imagined at the onset. It was a source of accountability that forced me to collect my thoughts and get them down in writing. Much like my 5th grade English teacher. It was also a great way for people to stay updated about my life (sometimes I’m not the best at keeping in touch) if they desired to be so informed. Therefore, in my estimation, I must write down my thoughts during this new adventure in order for all of you, and me, to get the most from it. Plus, it’s kinda fun.

My aspirations for this blog are threefold:

1. Record tales of adventure, as I experience them, for the enjoyment of others.
2. Provide you with a glimpse of how I view the whole world round.
3. Leave everyone who reads slightly edified and smiling (You’ll have to cooperate on that one).

I’ve been putting my blood, sweat, and tears into planning this trip. Actually, that statement needs revision. No blood or tears have gone into planning this trip, a little sweat maybe, but that’s genetic, I can’t help it. The point is that I’ve been working hard on the trip and it’s been teaching me something about how my mind works. I’ve learned that I am willing to put extraordinary effort into something I see value in. If I don’t see a point… forget it. That’s possibly a character flaw.

Reading, research, emailing, writing, editing, contacting and on and on: all this has been an exhilaration to me, because I see value in what I’m doing. The advice “do what you love” is often thrown flippantly around like some light and nonsensical adage. Those words should be mulled over thoroughly, that’s heavy advice man (heavy in a good way). I hear various forms of that phrase often, but it’s another thing… a great thing… to experience it tangibly in my life. The value of this wisdom is creeping into my skull as I am expending effort on this endeavor and loving every second of it. Do what you love… and you’ll do it well. Hmm… maybe I should love my schoolwork more… nah, let’s not get too crazy.

-Weaver of Tales