They "Madoff" With It...

Bernie's not the only fella who "Madoff" with his investors' money...during a recent family roundtable at Comanx's home, the topic of a small bank paying over 300% interest to depositors over 4 months came to the forefront of the discussion. This particular bank pays interest and returns the principal on $300 in the form of a $1,200 scooter or even cars for larger deposits. "Not possible", I piped up. Her brother laughed in agreement, and her parents, despite having friends who have successfully "invested" were skeptical enough not to take it seriously.

I explained that in order for the bank to pay such interest, it must find investments of its own that pay returns in excess of those it provides its depositors. Then it hit me...Bernie Madoffs and ponzi schemes are alive and at work, even in small villages in Indonesia. This particular bank had been open for a couple of years, and apparently had no problem attracting myriads of new money as it doled out new scooters and cars to Indonesians who usually spend 1-5 years' wages for such purchases.

One day, approximately two weeks after our dialogue, I pulled up to the house and was greeted by a smiling Comanx. "Yesterday, the police went to the bank, shut it down, and took the owner to the police station", she explained. The timing was quite ironic, and I was glad that it appeared justice would be served. Conversely, I felt terrible for those who had their life savings deposited there, including Comanx's close friend, Nyoman, whose family has decades of savings tied up. Nyoman is awaiting the return of his money. It's not my place to inform him of the likelihood.

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Treasures Lost...and "Found": Bali, Indonesia

It was 10pm. Comanx and I were tandem on the scooter, casually cruising back from the shoe store where she had purchased a pair of gold heels for her University graduation ceremony the following day. I braked in preparation to make the turn into Comanx's village. As I glanced in my mirrors, I thought it odd that another scooter lingered behind us rather than circle around us on the outside of the lane.

Finally, the scooter made its move, but on the inside of the lane, and as the man operating it accelerated past us, he snatched Comanx's purse, which was strapped over her right shoulder. "B! Go! Go!", she frantically screamed. The contents of her purse flashed through my head as I maneuvered the 125cc Honda through the narrow village passages dodging obstacles and doing my best to assess any telegraphed turns: a bit of money, the replacement cell phone that she had spent her last money on, important school and certain job-search related documents...

Confident in my ability, I continued the pursuit, ready to throw in the towel if it got too dangerous. Comanx screamed to alert soon-to-be-passersby of the theft, hoping someone would create a roadblock. I was surprised that the little Honda was able to keep up considering there were two of us. As we pulled onto the main drag, it was clear that he would have a tough time losing us, so he chucked the bag onto the road behind him and directly in front of us...

I hit the brakes and ran over the purse, which destabilized our balance as we skidded to a stop, laying the bike down in the process. When we hit the curb and finally slid to a stop, I quickly jumped up to check Comanx. After letting me know she was OK, I ran to save the purse from being run over again, and returned to a crowd of nearly 30 pedestrians and scooterists that had gathered. Two men were inspecting the bike, an old man from a nearby warung gave us water, and others questioned Comanx on the circumstances of the chase. "Let's get you to the hospital", a middle-aged, English-speaking Balinese fellow declared as he glanced at me. Only then did I notice the blood dripping onto my shirt after weaving its way down the side of my face. "I'm fine, but thank you", I replied. Only then did I feel the pain...despite wearing a helmet, the side of my face ate some serious pavement. As Comanx surveyed me, the look of relief she had been wearing transformed into one of anguish. "I'm so sorry, B!", she apologetically repeated over and over. "Aww, don't worry. I'm fine and I'm glad you're OK", I reassured her.

In order to avoid the police, we soon thanked everyone, jumped back onto the scooter and headed to the drugstore to pick up some rubbing alcohol. After picking the bits of pavement from my right hand and cleansing my face as the clerk observed inquisitively, Comanx dropped her head into her hands. "Honey, it's ok...this is nothing, I promise...I'm absolutely fine. If I wasn't you'd know it." "It's my fault...I should have never carried my bag", she retorted. I couldn't help but laugh. Eventually, we began the short ride home, during which Comanx crafted a story for her Mother and Father, who she feared would be upset that she carried her bag with her.

"Some children ran in front of us and Brandon swerved to miss them. [in Balinese]." After rubbing a local oil over the wounds on my face and right hand, Meme surveyed our faces before responding: "I didn't realize children in our village play in the streets at 10pm..."
Comanx's family listened as she recounted the story. They weren't upset, but the fact that thievery occurred in their village seemed to really bother them. Among Balinese, such crimes are fairly rare, but with tourism came pick-pocketers and the like, many from other Indonesian islands. After instructing us to be more careful, her parents shook my hand as I packed my backpack to head home for the night.

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What is Brandon Still Doing in Bali?

"Chk-chk-chk-chk---vroooooom". And I'm off. I slide open the gate of the Tropical Bali Hotel, where my hosts, Mikael and Brama, have created the most tranquil, relaxing accommodation I have experienced, and speed up the dirt lane past the rice paddy on my pink rented scooter. If I turn left, I could head down past the cafes and the rooster traders (they trade cock-fighting roosters daily) toward the beach (oh, and don't be fooled...a "cafe", in Bali, is basically a brothel), but now I turn right. I approach the final bend before hitting the main road (the "by-pass"), and stop to drop off a few recyclable cans for Comanx's mother at the warung, and sit for a few minutes with a couple of local farmers. When I arrive, Comanx's 5 year-old sister, Dia, jumps into my arms, gives me a big hug, draws back and grins. Old man "M" soon stops by and tries to haggle me into staying at his guesthouse again and offers me the services of one of several young girls that he "represents". Many men make such a sales pitch to me. Suddenly, old man "M" tosses into the grass the coffee Comanx's mother had just poured for him. He's upset because he thinks she discourages me from accepting his offers (she doesn't have to). I hop back onto the scooter, Dia jumps up onto my lap to avoid the walk home, and we pull up to the light at the by-pass.

Once each day I turn left and make the 15km journey to the town of Sanur to eat at my favorite warung serving traditional Indonesian, "Warung Lumentu". It's spicy as hell and only 7,000 rupiah (70 cents) for a full plate of food. The family that runs it is from Java and is Muslim, but they didn't act irritated when I mistakenly greeted them by saying: "Om suas dias tu", which is a traditional Balinese Hindu greeting. Now I stick with "hello", which works. Yesterday, I think they overcharged me by $0.08 and I was really irritated, even after comparing the price to what I used to pay for a meal in NYC.

If I turn right, I could head north into the mountains. One hour north is the small, tourist town of Ubud. Despite the number of acres of rice paddies that still exist in Ubud, the economics are dominated by villas that rent for up to thousands of dollars per night, high-end shops and resort spas (including a Four Seasons). On the way to Ubud is Horizon Glassworks, where my Californian friend Ron skillfully creates beautiful glasswork to the sounds of Clapton for export all over the world. He wears a bandanna, sun glasses, black converse all-stars and a clove cigarette between his lips, and his tattooed, shirtless torso sways to the music as he passionately molds the fiery glass. A middle-aged man, he stumbled into a hot-shop 8 years ago, fell in love with the art, and only after enrolling in a glass-blowing school learned from his father that his great-grandfather was a glass blower in Martins Ferry, Ohio. How's that for destiny?

If I ride 2 hours north along the coast I can get in another dive with the eels, grouper, barracuda, puffer and trigger fish that inhabit the shipwreck at Tulamben, where a Japanese torpedo took out the U.S.S. Liberty in WWII. Or if I follow the central route for another hour past Ubud I'll arrive the mountain town of Kintamani, where, every day, it's sunny from 6am-10am, cloudy from 10am-3pm and rainy from 3pm-6am. My friend Sadiana lives there with his parents who were rice farmers. He commutes to the south to work at the hotel and sends money home as is the Balinese tradition. From 1994-1998, the volcano next to Sadiana's home, Mount Batur, erupted. He said ash rained on his home for four years and he could see lava flowing from it every night.

Today, however, I'm going straight. I wait for the light to turn green, dodge the traffic turning right onto the by-pass, and Dia and I cruise 2km before turning left at the grove of trees. We wind around on the narrow concrete passages, dodging holes in the road and other scooterists. Finally, we turn left and wind our way to the family home, nestled up against the village rice paddy, corn field and flower garden. The kids are catching crabs in the stream that separates the home from the fields, and they run over, kiss my hand, and ask to see my camera. I walk into the open-air home, greet Comanx's 28 year-old brother and sister-in-law, Made and Putu, who are working at the manually operated sewing machine, and sit down on the tile floor, where Made joins me.

Comanx walks in. She looks stunning in her orange, sequin covered ceremonial outfit. She disappears for a moment, then returns with my outfit. I strip down to my boxer briefs and Made wraps and secures a red sarong around my waist. I put on a tan button-down and a traditional hat, and have a neighbor snap a photo (the first time around she took one of herself). "Let's go, B", Comanx says, and we hop on the scooter and head for the mountains. We leave early so she can make offerings to the gods at four different temples around the village prior to making the journey to the "holy spring". By the time we leave Denpasar, Bali's largest city, it's dark. We begin winding our way into the mountains; a convoy of scooters - males driving, females in their traditional dresses, sitting sideways on the backs. After an hour, we arrive, and follow Comanx's family down a path into the jungle. We approach a stone structure...inside, there is a large pool of water with 14 fountain heads pouring into it and 200+ shivering people crammed together, sharing body heat. Following Comanx's father's lead, I take off my shirt, and, holding Dia in one arm, lower myself into the water. We wait in line for each of the fountains, under which I do my best to perform the ritual I've been instructed to imitate. "Don't forget Dia", Comanx reminds me, so I dip the 5-year-old's head under each fountain three times. The Balinese seem baffled by my presence, more so that I'm holding Dia, and yet even more so by the fact that I'm not shivering in water that must have been at least 75 or 80 degrees.

There's a young local man who's livid that I spend time with Comanx. He has informed me (via text to Comanx's phone) that he is doing black magic against me. I haven't yet responded to inform him that I'm doing a bit of white magic every morning in retaliation (I would welcome any tips). Just in case, I've been working out with Steve, a retired member of, and hand-to-hand combat instructor for, the British Special Forces, an ex-bodyguard for the Sultan of Brunei, and a judo competitor at the '88 Olympics in Seoul (my interest in training isn't really related to Mr. Black Magic, but it sounds good). I haven't been in great shape since my wrestling days in high school, and it feels good to get tossed around a bit. Today, after opening up a can of whoop-ass on me for awhile, Steve wanted to demonstrate how to defend against knife attacks and close-range gunfire. I informed him that we can skip that part...I don't anticipate ever needing it, but after witnessing his split-second acrobatics in disarming me despite my resistance, I changed my mind.

Don't Fall Asleep

I've spent the past two weeks scuba diving in Bali, Indonesia. This week, I'll be working towards becoming a certified rescue diver, which will include three days of underwater and surface rescue exercises among other required certificates. A prerequisite for the rescue course is to obtain certification as an Emergency Responder. So yesterday, Mark, my New Yorker-turned-Balinese scuba instructor, and I sat in the gazebo at my hotel reviewing my completed coursework and rehearsing responses to endless potentially life-threatening scenarios...from serious auto accidents to impaled persons to strokes and heart attacks to drowning victims.

Had I not taken such a keen interest in diving, chances are that I would have never considered becoming an Emergency Responder. After all, how many of us have actually had to respond to a situation where a life is at stake? As such, I initially viewed the course as a means to an end. But as I first leaned over "Annie" and delivered 30 forceful chest compressions, I couldn't help but visualize people I cared about and suddenly began to take the course much more seriously. By the end of the day I felt somewhat comfortable taking the necessary steps to ensure Annie had adequate care while awaiting professional help. And I wondered if I could react calmly in a real emergency.

Sometimes in the afternoons, I hang out at the warung (food/drink stand) on the outside of the first curve of Jl. Padang Galak, the street along which my 8-room hotel/house sits. I've taken a great liking to the Balinese family that pushes the cart there each morning by hand from their home 2-3 kilometers away. Comanx, the eldest daughter, has taught herself English, and translates so that I can communicate with her family and the occasional customer that drops by for a snack or a soda. As I sat there the day following my EFR course, I contemplated writing to you regarding the 78 year-old Balinese man that stopped by and narrated to me his abridged life story - one that included a visit in 1966 from an 18 year-old son he had never met.........but when a motorbike sped by, hit a large rock in the road and missed the curve where the stand sits, violently wrapping itself around a tree, the priority of topics changed.

I jumped up from my seat at the stand and accelerated from a walk to a jog. "I'm sure the person is OK", I thought. Perhaps he/she was catapulted into the rice paddy and is sitting among the frogs laughing. That'd be funny...but as I approached the scene, I found a middle-aged man lying on his side at the base of a palm tree in a state of shock; eyes fluttering and an outward creeping pool of blood surrounding his head. I naively yelled to a bystander: "Call for help!" Then I remembered a conversation with Mark several days prior, during which he explained to me that in Bali, there's really no one to call...

I leaned over the man and quickly recited the steps of the "Lifeline" in my head: "A" - airway open (yes); "B" - breathing (gasping, but yes); "C" - circulation (since he was breathing, yes); "D" - defibrillation (not necessary); "S" - shock management, serious bleeding management, spinal injury management (all three were necessary). Since I thought it likely that the man had a spinal or neck injury, however, I simply left him on his side, kept his head steady with my hands, and repeated to him: "Hang in there...You're going to be OK." The few minutes I kneeled there within a growing circle of local bystanders felt like an eternity, and as I softly spoke to him, I watched as the red pool beneath his head continued to swell. I looked at my glove-less hands and selfishly couldn't help but recall: "The three bloodborne pathogens of greatest concern to Emergency Responders are Hepatitis B & C, and HIV."

A pickup truck approached and the circle opened. Four men reached down, each haphazardly grabbing a limb, and I moved as a unit with them, keeping his head stabilized as they dropped him onto the bed of the truck. Then they were gone.

I walked back to the warung and kneeled for a moment. I was nauseous. Comanx poured water over my hands as I rubbed them together.

An hour later, I was on my way to an all-night party in the mountains/forest an hour north of the beach with a couple of local friends. At around 11pm, after a long bath in the local hot springs, I laid down in a damp bungalow nearby. The deafening thumps of techno music began to resonate throughout the forest and I fell fast asleep.

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Making Music Again

From the new Blackberry phone ring the words of Lieber and Stoller sung by Sam Cooke, summoning feelings of nostalgia as I try to shake the jet-lag which has held unconsciousness captive since I re-crossed the Pacific 3 days ago. I'm lying on the floor of my cousin Laura's and friend Jamie's apartment in the southern coastal city of Kaohsiung, Taiwan's second largest and warmest. Despite the relatively warm weather year-round, most Kaohsiung apartments are chilly in the winter months as central heating is uncommon.

I periodically open up a game of Texas Hold 'Em on the handheld and nearly mindlessly cycle through a few flops, nervously hoping to pick up a 3-of-a-kind or even a 2-pair to confidently yet inconspicuously swell the pot around the turn and into the river. There's no real money involved, but it seems like a fairly healthy way to feed this sleep-deprived anxious state. Hold 'Em originally captured my interest after naively inching toward an $11,000 pot at a "very amateur" yet professionally monitored tournament in Vail 2 years ago.

It's 5am...only 3 hours until the local kids begin ripping leisurely screams from the apartment complex courtyard (the tile covering the ground surface below doesn't help) and the drilling begins in the apartment above. Even if I could sleep, I'd still be running for the toilet every 30 minutes - I accidentally downed a few big gulps of the local water as I showered this morning. I attribute my lack of awareness to being tired, and therefore I wonder if I won't mindlessly take another few gulps tomorrow, which will keep me awake tomorrow night and so on...I might just have the shits every day for the rest of my life, I think to myself.

I began today eating breakfast with Laura at a cafe on the street. I had barely begun an article on Berry Gordy and the genesis of Motown Records in the Taipei Times when the first round hit. Grabbing Laura's keys, I swiftly shuffled up to the 10th floor apartment, unbuckling my pants along the way. I awkwardly squeezed through the slowly opening doors of the elevator, fumbled the keys into the front door and swung it open, then made a beeline for the bathroom...YES! I was going to make it! And then I saw it...That inch-wide, glowing strip of light peeking out from under the closed bathroom door - the residential equivalent of the universal "Lavatory Occupied" sign on airplanes. Jamie was in the shower. I panicked and briefly teleported myself, Star Trek style, back to survival school. I quickly scanned the kitchen area. I needed a location, a receptacle and some TP, and fast...So 90 seconds later I found myself in the apartment building stairwell with a small trash can and the piece of tissue paper that had been wrapped around some incense I had received for Christmas. Whew. I laughed out loud as I walked back into the apartment, proud of my resourcefulness, unaware that this was to be the first of many sprinting contests today between my legs and digestive system.

Laura and Jamie work from 2pm to 9pm every day, teaching at "cram" schools where Taiwanese children and adults supplement their already busy schedules with daily English lessons. Over the past couple of days, I have spent that time hanging out with their friend Shi Yi Jiung ("Tippi"), who has now become a good friend of mine as well. In order to set the stage for the "Tippi incident", I must mention that I find the Tipster quite a cutie.

I jumped up from my seat on the couch...."I should get back Tippi see you tomorrow (spoken with no pause for punctuation)". But I already knew...there was no way I would make it out the front door let alone down the street and around the corner to Laura's apartment. So I ran down the hall to the bathroom, shut the door, flexed every muscle in my body (including all of my face muscles, oddly), and breathed deeply. Damnit damnit damnit damnit damnit. I knew immediately my fate. I quickly crafted a battle plan. Open the window; keep it quiet; ask Tippi a question or two to insinuate that I'm simply powdering my face perhaps. But as I began to prepare myself and realized there was no TP in sight, I was forced to humbly run back down the hall to feverishly ask for toilet paper. My original plan was foiled. By the time I made it back to the loo, the Three Gorges Dam had begun to crack. I sat. And for 10+ minutes, behind a paper-thin bathroom door that didn't fully close, in a perfectly silent apartment, I single-handedly represented the trombone section in a Berliner Philharmonic performance of the last movement of Beethoven's 5th symphony. Except louder...I then cycled through a peculiar set of emotions: For a split second I was mortified, then I began to laugh uncontrollably. Then I realized that I had likely just provided Tippi with the most embarrassing experience of HER life, and I began to feel sorry. Then I laughed again. Finally, I suddenly became incredibly calm, and I didn't feel the least bit embarrassed.

I finished, stood, washed up, and walked casually down the hall. "Wow...Sorry Tippi, I've been having some problems today", I declared. "Let me get you some medicine", she replied, and after I washed down a packet of soluble powder, we looked at each other, smiled, and returned to the living room. That's it???, I thought. Then I realized that what could have been among the most embarrassing moments of my life wasn't awkward because I didn't MAKE it awkward.

Since writing this I flew to Bali, Indonesia, and will soon work my way up through SE Asia, across to India, and then to Africa. Guess this "race" between my legs and stomach will be more of a marathon.
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Home Sweet Home

I'm currently in Columbus, Ohio, paying my family a surprise visit over the holidays and getting cleaned up and fed before returning to Taiwan on January 5th. I'll catch up with you then. Happy holidays.

Obama and The Economy, Or Not

"So have you taken any interest in the U.S. election?", I asked Duguma, the owner of DH (Duguma Hunde) Geda, an Ethiopian industrial conglomerate. Mr. Hunde pulled a wallet-size photo of Barack Obama from his pocket. "I'll see you at the inauguration", he replied, and he was serious. Mr. Hunde, one of his Board members and I were on the bullet train to Shanghai together, and our low-key dinner conversation quickly grew into a caucus of international businessmen debating foreign relations and discussing how Obama could potentially help to resolve the issues underlying many of the current conflicts around the world. One perspective came from Affi, the Pakistani owner of an import/export business. His opinion is that the U.S. must negotiate with the Taliban and Al Qaeda. Another man suggested that a crucial step in putting to rest all conflicts in the Middle East is to forge an agreement between Israel and Palestine. I agree that nothing will get accomplished by continuing to pump resources into combating something that we cannot understand in an unfamiliar land, and while our temper still may be hot from the events of 9/11, my opinion is that we have got to start lowering our fists and opening our mouths. Former White House Press Secretary Scott Mclellan stated our current policy very clearly: "We do not negotiate with terrorists. We put them out of business." Well, what if we can't put them out of business? Do we continue to sacrifice the lives and good faith of our troops and our tax dollars because we are stubborn? As I spoke with Affi later, I opened CNN.com on the Blackberry to check the latest news. Six Pakistani civilians killed by a U.S. drone airstrike near the border of Afghanistan. Regardless of the circumstances, what do you think the United States would do if another nation killed 6 U.S. civilians on American soil? Affi and I looked at each other...I wasn't even sure if it was my place, but I felt the need to say "Sorry".

From what I have personally observed, people around the world: i) love Barack Obama; and ii) have incredibly lofty expectations for him. The feedback has been similar everywhere I've been, from the U.K. to Italy to Russia to Mongolia to China. Everyone wants peace and prosperity (the same thing I'm sure everyone has always wanted deep down), and many think that Obama will help to bring it. And while the Bush Doctrine seemed to have support following an attack on our country, the unilateral approach to foreign policy that it has directed may not be the best approach going forward. I'm not saying the U.S. shouldn't make any decisions regarding foreign policy on its own, but we do need to be more receptive to collaboration and negotiation.

I've heard just about all I want to hear about the "financial crisis". Everyone on earth is talking about it, and I'm not sure whether any of us really knows what the hell we are talking about. Don't get me wrong, it's clear that the loose lending practices of mortgage lenders (including the creation of interest-only mortgages and the like), the lack of government regulation, the crooked packaging of subprime mortgages and the crooked ratings assigned to them are all contributors, but there are major underlying fundamental issues, and many complexities that are very difficult to weave together. In fact, neither Alan Greenspan nor most of Wall Street seems to understand; otherwise we wouldn't be bailing out the banks (my guess is that bank execs didn't choose this fate).

One Chinese fellow recently confronted me, saying the U.S. was to blame for China's current financial struggles. My response was simple: i) China is the third largest economy in the world, and can take responsibility for itself; and ii) the U.S. was the source of a great portion of the wealth that currently exists in China (not really a necessary or valid point, but I felt the need to throw it in). But China IS struggling, in fact. I recently read that over 65,000 factories have closed their doors over the past year as a result of i) shrinking worldwide demand for Chinese-made discretionary goods; ii) the rising value of the Yuan vs. the USD; and iii) higher raw material costs. And China has set aside approximately a $585 billion bailout package.

I realize I kind of left the Russian saga unfinished, so I'll get to that soon.

I saw this poor guy on the right at a Hong Kong zoo, and believe me, he wasn't swinging from any vines...

Shitleg in Beijing

Our 4-bunk dorm room is home to 6 of us this week. Paul is my British travel mate. He's from Bristol, England, and his accent and his dry, yet rich and funloving sense of humor go together like "tea and crumpets". We met in Mongolia 3 weeks ago, and have become great friends. Tonight I will head south and Paul west. At 6'3", I call him the BFG (big, friendly giant), and we joke that the Chinese make way for him for fear of being eaten.

Also in Mongolia, I met Magnus and Rasmus over a bottle of vodka. They are 20 year-old Swedish self-proclaimed "enjoyers of life" who love to "paaw-eee" (they were quick to adopt Paul's way of pronouncing "party"). Last night, the 3 of us played an impromptu gig at a Beijing bar, along with our other Swedish friend, Johannes. We call ourselves "Shitleg". See the following link to see a couple of songs from that night..haha. Might have to give it a few minutes to load: Shitleg in Beijing. (Magnus has been known as shitleg since a horse sprayed his entire leg with diarrhea in Mongolia - he wasn't able to clean it off for 3 days).

Charlie, the Scotsman, and I became friends after I peeled him off the sidewalk outside a sketchy nightclub on the other side of town last week. While inside, I watched carefully as a skinny, long-faced, lonely, and nervous Chinese man in a red track suit and glasses spent $5,000+ on bottle service at an OPEN BAR, handing drinks only to other men...Charlie had a couple of them. Believe me, after three months on the road, I can say one thing for certain: one can never be too careful. Charlie is a chef at a mountaineering hotel in northern Norway, but his Suzanna lives in Argentina.

Mark, also English, runs an internet advertising business from a laptop while traveling from place to place. He spits out statistics like an old-fashion slot machine spits out nickels. He's worn the same shirt for months and fears that Google will soon put him out of business.

My cheek muscles are sore. The six of us smile and laugh as we walk the newly clean streets of Beijing during the day. 5 years ago, we would have stuck out like sore thumbs on the crowded passages, but nowadays, many of that crowd are Westerners. In the morning, we lie in our bunks, passing around ibuprofen while discussing the horrible effects of Chinese liquor. In the evening, we sit in the common room at the hostel, listening to Mark's statistics and playing the cheap Chinese guitars that Magnus and Johannes plan to smash tonight before heading to the train station.

It's time to move on alone. Tonight I'm taking the train to a mountain called Tai Shan to climb its 6,600 steps and renew myself. See you later, Beijing. See you soon, my friends.

"There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed - some forever not for better; some have gone, and some remain. All these places had their moment, with lovers and friends I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living; in my life, I've loved them all."

-- John Lennon and Paul McCartney

To Beijing

Two Mongols, a Japanese, a Chinese, a Brit, and an American set out in a minivan across China today (Mongolian border to Beijing). I held my breath as we sped across the Chinese countryside and passed through towns (our ride is an illegal service so we have to avoid highways, police), swerving around people, bicycles and dogs at 100km per hour all the while. I've had to dehumanize dogs for this trip (interesting concept).

The 2 Mongols are through 2 bottles of vodka now, and while they claim drinking speeds up the ride, the 10 pisses they've taken on the side of the road have ironically made the trip much longer.

I'm currently traveling with Paul, a 29 year-old from the U.K., and Machiko, a Japanese, sub-5 feet, 59 year-old mother of four. Paul and I are amazed at the patience Machiko has exercised over the past 24 hours; I've noticed when things get particularly nerve-racking (like when I began dropping the F-bomb at our pre-paid driver after waiting 2 hours with the hope of picking up additional passengers at the border), she places a hand over her eyes and says a little prayer aloud.

Mongolia

I was awakened from my nap by a warm hand resting gently on my knee. I must have dozed off, I thought.

I'm in a ger on the mongolian countryside, and just finished drinking a bottle of vodka and eating fried pastries filled with goat organs. The smell of sheep or goat meat makes me gag. It's no wonder, at survival camp I went 10 days without a shower wreaking of sheep after slaughtering one. But I'm getting used to it again. I'd better; everything I eat over the next 4 days will have something to do with sheep or goat.

I'm on a 4-day trek on horseback, hopping from ger to ger, and staying with 3 different herding families. Before leaving I was told that cigarettes and candy are good gifts, but after passing around packs of Marlboros to the men of the first hosting family, including the 85 year-old patriarch, I felt incredibly pretentious. My gift will be appreciation from now on (and smokes on demand).

She's her grandparents' pride and joy, and it's apparent. She sleeps with her grandmother, and she's spoiled. But she's not spoiled with material things - you should have seen her face when I gave her a bit of pineapple juice and a piece of candy...she's spoiled with love. She's three. She smiles as much as any child I've ever met. We are all in our "beds". She giggles as her grandmother whispers a story to her as she falls asleep. The closest other child is miles away.

I'm lying on the floor next to my Mongolian guide, covered in an inch of sheep's skin. It's below 0 outside and the fire is dying. 3 hours have passed since great-grandfather awoke me from my nap to drink vodka with 3 generations of herders. Now I lie in the ger between grandfather and my guide and with the 3 younger generations. The sky outside is filled with thousands of stars, and the wind whips across the plain where the yurt lies. The dogs are silent - they're likely nestled next to the plastic exterior walls, clinging to every bit of warmth. I feel warm and totally secure with these strangers. Their whispers comfort me as I fall asleep....

Goodbye Quarter Card, Goodbye Russa...NOT - Part II

If you're just picking up on this story, scroll down and start with Part I...I just finished spending my third day with the Russian police in the Siberian city of Ulan Ude, just hours from the Mongolian border. The process of getting a single piece of paper that will allow me to travel to the nearest US Consulate in Vladivostok (2 days by train) has been painfully slow and bureaucratic, and I have recounted every single detail of my travels from Moscow to 11 different police officers through my incredible translator, Olga.

Most of my time today and yesterday was spent in an office at the police station answering questions like: "how much did your wallet cost", "how many zippers did your security belt have", "who were you sharing a cabin with and what country was he/she from" (I loved saying my roommate was a North Korean diplomat to Russia), "where, exactly, did you remove your security belt to pull out your train ticket before boarding", etc. I literally answered 100 of these detailed questions, many of them 5 or more times.

When I walked into the police station this morning, I practically knew everyone. So after a bit of handshaking, I proceeded to another office to finish answering questions (Olga was teaching today and was pulled out of class by the police for this). Finally, a 2 page report was produced, along with my "official document" which is a paragraph of Russian text with a stamp and my picture pasted on the top. The police then let me know that they had called Beijing (the train's final destination) and Moscow to have searches conducted. It was also mentioned that if it wasn't a Saturday night when I contacted them, they would have stopped the train while it was on Russian soil and had it searched. I told you they take this very seriously...

Finally, with document in hand, Olga snapped a quick picture of me (above) and generously offered to accompany me to the train station, where she helped book my ticket to Vladivostok. I have been in touch with the US Consulate - Vladivostok political officer, Stephen Kovacsics, who let me know that he could get me a one-year passport in just 2 hours. Hallelujah. Once I get a new Russian visa to cross the border, I'll be Mongolia-bound.

A goal of mine on this trip is to forget about time. After all, considering I have nowhere to be and nothing to do, why not spend a few days overcoming what had been a major fear as I departed from the USA -- a run-in with the Russian police / getting stuck here. Now both has happened and while it hasn't been a quick process, it has been quite pleasant. I realize the number of ways this situation could have turned out (I know it's far from over), but with time on my side and a focus on being straighforward and incredibly patient, I've come out of it better prepared for any similar situation in the future (knock on wood).

I've always been a believer that every country in the world can get along with excellent diplomacy. After speaking with my North Korean roommate and seeing/hearing about the differences in way of life and attitude in Russia and NK, I can definitely understand why it is currently not the case. In my opinion, however, it's worth whatever hardwork and patience has to be put in, because a peaceful world is worth it. It can happen. Maybe not in my lifetime, but during my few weeks in Russia, I hope I have planted a few seeds that will someday grow into big, beautiful trees. From Russia With Love...Again.

Goodbye Quarter Card, Goodbye Russia...NOT

When I was a kid, my Uncle Brad would give me "quarter cards", which were his business cards with a quarter taped inside. The thought was that I would always carry it, and if I was ever in a bind, I could use my quarter card to call him (and although I've never used a quarter card, he has come to my aid on multiple occasions, by the way). Even though it has been over 15 years since I received my last quarter card, and cell phones have since rendered them obsolete, I still carry it in a safe place when I travel as a sort of symbol of what it represents. Sadly, I lost my quarter card sometime in the past few days. And along with it, my passport and Russian visa.

In my adult life, I can't remember ever losing a key, wallet, or anything else of significance. Now there's certainly a chance that I could have dropped by security "fanny pack" between the time I removed my ticket to board the Trans-Siberian (Moscow to Ulan Bator, Mongolia) train in Moscow and the 10 seconds it took me to walk to my cabin. But as far as I knew, it was sitting in the front pocket of my backpack, tucked under my bed, for the 4 days of the train ride. I left it unattended for a total of 4 hours in 4 days. Bottom line though, it's my fault for not keeping it with me 100% of the time.

What's done it done. The fact is that I need a passport. As soon as I had finished tearing apart my cabin 3x and consulted a Russian friend on potential passport-less scenarios at the Russian border crossing, I decided to get off the train at the next stop - the small city of Ulan Ude, which is just a couple of hours from the Mongolian border. Within 10 minutes, I packed and disembarked with no cell phone or blackberry service, into a town where I couldn't find a single person that spoke a single word of English. I tried to stay cool...Thank God I spread my resources about me, I thought (I keep credit cards and cash in my pocket at all times, a wallet with plenty of cash in another pocket, and copies of my documents in a folder and in my jacket). But when 2 stray dogs began following me, I metaphorically knew I was fresh meat for the taking.

I jumped into panic mode. First of all, Russian cops don't speak English. Secondly, if they catch you without documents (and they will ask), you go to the station and pay lots of money or are detained. I flagged down the first taxi I could find and folded my hands under my tilted head to indicate that I needed a place to sleep. I soon arrived at a hotel, but realized there's no way to stay anywhere in Russia without having cleared it with the government prior to entering the country and obtaining a visa. After much pleading and hand motions, however, I convinced the receptionist to make a temporary exception. Take 1 complete.

Task 2: Get in touch the the US Consulate / Embassy. Considering all of this happened on a Saturday, I knew my chanced of getting in touch with an American were slim. Still, I found an internet kiosk at the local post office and jotted down some numbers along with the Russian words for "lost", "stolen", "passport", "police station", "police report", "train station", "ticket" and a few others. Roadblock...no phone. We will come back to this one.

Task 3: Find a translator. Had I a phone, I might have called my good friend Anya in NYC (she is from Russia and speaks Russian fluently) or Olga, the translator of my Uncle Brad and Aunt Linda during trips to Russia (Uncle Brad's quarter card in disguise - I did send her an email yesterday from the post office kiosk). I set off roaming from hotel to hotel, thinking there must be a receptionist at one of them with some English language skills. "Call me Jane", she said. And with Jane's pocket dictionary, incredible generosity and patience, I walked her through what had happened.

Task 4: Succumb to the authority before the authority descends on me. In short, in a matter of hours, the Russian police would receive a call from my hotel and I would return to find a posse of unfriendly police officers waiting in my room. After asking Jane to accompany me to the police station, we decided it might be better to call the police to the safety of the hotel lobby (I'm sure this was great for business). Once they arrived, I stood quietly as Jane walked them through my story and answered 100 questions through translation (you have no idea how seriously Russian authorities take passports and visas unless you've been here)....Eventually, I was told I'd be going for a late-night ride. I was then led to a police van and taken back to my own hotel, where I and a cop ravaged my room, including picking up every piece of clothing and shaking it to "ensure I hadn't missed anything" (I'm convinced there were other reasons for this search as well). Once he was satisfied, we got back into the police van, my passport copy and driver's license in hand, and returned to Jane. Upon entering, I was introduced to a second translator, a friend of Jane's named Tuyana. I then set up a meeting, through the two policemen present, with a local police chief for 10am the next morning (Sunday). Tuyana would accompany me. My objective? Well, after reading through all of my options on the US Department of State website - obtain documentation from the police to safely take a 2-day train to Vladivostok (the closest US Consulate). There I could apply for a new passport (2 weeks processing), then a new Russian visa (? weeks processing).

Task 5: Find a phone. After finishing for the night with Tuyana and Jane, the police dropped me off at my hotel. I even noticed a break in their normally stoic, intimidating composures - a slight smile and a "bye" in English. It's too early to tell, but I think I'm glad I called them. Getting a phone card and a phone to use from my hotel's receptionist was a piece of cake after the day I had, so I called the number for the 24 hour "duty officer" at the US Consulate in Yekaterinburg, which is 2 1/2 days west by train. After 4 rings, Tristan Spiceland answered. After a 25-minute conversation via his cell phone, I hung up with confidence that I was taking the right steps, an offer to put him on with any authorities, and a plan to call him every day (or as necessary) to keep him posted on the situation. God bless America....truly.

I hope whoever has my passport uses it for something good. I believe they will, and therefore, I'm happy for them, and I'm happy to be blessed with an additional 3+ weeks in a country that inimidated the hell out of me. I guess I can give Russia a chance after all. Stay tuned for part 2. From Russia with love..... -B

Trans-Siberian - Day 4

Throughout Siberia we have stopped at small stations to pick up coal to heat the train, which is shoveled into each car from a wagon pulled by a tractor. Passengers utilize such stops to purchase supplies from locals including water, juice, cigarettes, vodka, lunch food and the like. Although it usually takes 20 minutes to "top up" the train, for some reason, the two Chinese men who look after our car always frantically hurry us back onto the train after five. EXCEPT in Ilanskaya. After taking a few pictures, I turned around to see our train pulling out of the station, with many of the passengers AND the attendants running alongside and jumping on. Guess someone missed the memo on that one!

I'm really glad someone in Moscow told me to bring some food, because while the dining car is good, it's very expensive and I have planned for Asia to be the cheaper leg of my trip.

I still haven't figured out what the hell the attendants do other than text their friends and cook huge feasts for themselves that the passengers gawk at and drool over. The bathroom on board hasn't had toilet paper for two days, and there aren't any sticks, stones OR pinecones lying around for me to use.

My time on the train has been spent chatting with my Finnish neighbors, Big Bob and Mickey (we are planning to set up shop in Mongolia together to get situated), and my roommate. Other than that I have slept a lot and slept a lot more.

At 2am last night we had a toga (bed sheet) party in car #6, where we managed to cram 20 half-naked, piss drunk people into a tiny four-person cabin. That was....interesting.

Just before bed, I usually spend a bit of time hanging out between cars and warming myself by the open flames of the coal hatch. It reminds me of a campfire back home. On occasion, I can hear the young Korean gal next door playing her guitar and humming softly. I also came across some recordings I had taken of the choirs at Maple Grove (my church in Columbus) and Christ Church (my church in New York). While traveling alone, such comforts are nice from time-to-time.
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The Trans-Siberian Railroad

I just departed Moscow on the Trans-Siberian railroad. There seems to be a mixture of Russians, Mongolians and Chinese on board, plus a few westerners. I opted for a first class cabin (two beds) when I booked, knowing that it could detract from my interaction with the other passengers, but I'm looking forward to a little privacy as I'm sure I will be meeting plenty of people in the dining car and about.

Russia is tough for me. Even though my experiences one-on-one have been great, there aren't many English speakers (I know it's a bad thing to rely on), and I received plenty of stares. Actually, in Moscow I received more glares than just stares, and as I had heard, Russians don't seem to smile very often, which kind of took the spirit out of me as I roamed the city and rode the subways. Upon thinking about it more, I remembered that New Yorkers in public are the same way...I also think understanding a bit more of Russian history would help.

I just met my roommate for the next five days. He and his family are from North Korea. I am well aware that this could be the only time in my life that I have the opportunity to speak with someone from North Korea, so I'm pretty excited. I spoke with his daughter, Un zo Kung, for an hour about the election (everyone I've met overseas asks about this and Obama seems to carry widespread support), music, and the financial crisis. My roommate and his wife work at the North Korean embassy in Moscow, and Un zo Kung has been studying English and Russian in Moscow and is returning to Pyongyang to finish. She wants to be a diplomat. I told her that I might be interested in that someday as well.

I purchased a hat, gloves, sweat pants and socks at a local market in Moscow before leaving and I also stacked up on a Ramen noodles equivalent and cereal for the train ride. I'm going to hit the sack so I can get up early and make some rounds. Peace.
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Goodbye Europe, Hello 6,000 Miles On the Trans-Siberian

Originally, I had planned to visit Europe for only a couple of weeks, but it's been two months now and I still don't want to leave. I am now on a train from Riga, Latvia to Moscow and am comforted by the warmth of the Russian people on board. Upon boarding, the 40-something stewardess sat down next to me to explain the entry paperwork and began to softly pat and rub my leg. For a second I thought it was a bit weird, but then realized the customs in Russia will be the most foreign I have experienced so far on this trip. But what may be a common gesture for her reassured me that I would be taken care of here in Russia. I think I'm in for a heck of a week...

It has been incredibly difficult to say goodbye to the many friends I have made over the past two months. Gut-wrenching actually. And for some reason, it's getting harder and harder, the longer I'm on the road. I'm not sure why that is, and to be honest, the only way I can continue to move forward is to believe that I will cross paths with many of these wonderful people again someday. I hate feeling a pit in my stomach. And I admit, on occasion, to avoiding this by guarding my feelings. But in doing so, haven't I just avoided my life?

So from London to Krakow to Edinburgh to Glasgow to the Highlands to Barcelona to Aosta to Milan to Tenuta Mazzolino to Paris to Rotterdam to Amsterdam to Munich to Berlin to Riga, and now to the greatest wide-open space on earth - Siberia.....

It has taken two months, but I finally am ok with having nowhere to be and nothing to do. I'm actually thrilled about it. And, most importantly, I now realize that having nowhere to be and nothing to do is the exact same thing as having everywhere to be and everything to do.