Monday, December 23, 2013
Friday, December 20, 2013
After One Week in Colombia
I decided to take the bus from the Bogota airport without any knowledge of how the bus system worked: the best App of all in a country where blond hair sticks out like a sore thumb is to stand in front of the large Transmilenio bus map and change your expression back and forth between scrutinizing and confused/scared while precariously balancing a backpack made to look heavier than it actually is. Within a minute and a half a kind airline worker gave me detailed instructions on how to reach El Chapinero district and my hostel, which I had decided on after intense research consisting of searching "Bogota Hostels" and choosing the one with the most agreeable pictures. As always there was no plan, but if there had been one everything would have gone according to it.
My hostel in Bogota was the accommodation I always wanted without knowing it existed; a newspaper article written recently described it as a "flash-packer" hostel: those of us who are willing to spend $14 per night instead of $8 to stay in a chic building with clean and some bedding. It appeals to travelers who would rather clink a glass of wine over a fine (but modest) dinner than throw back seven cheap, local beers washed down with street food of questionable origin and preparation. I still eat more than my fair share of arepas and drink licuados on the street every chance I get: average cost is about $1.50 US, and that gets you one liter of any assortment of tropical fruits you can point to or name on the cart. I like to make a new mixture every time, even though I may never know what lulo or maracuya actually taste like standing alone because of this.
I told Paul that I would start packing, and so I will. We leave today from Santa Marta, headed to Minca for the day, then hopefully to Aracataca: Gabriel Garcia Marquez's childhood town, and the basis for his fantastic novel One Hundred Years of Solitude. For those who haven't read the work, the first line is often enough to stir the reader's imagination:
My hostel in Bogota was the accommodation I always wanted without knowing it existed; a newspaper article written recently described it as a "flash-packer" hostel: those of us who are willing to spend $14 per night instead of $8 to stay in a chic building with clean and some bedding. It appeals to travelers who would rather clink a glass of wine over a fine (but modest) dinner than throw back seven cheap, local beers washed down with street food of questionable origin and preparation. I still eat more than my fair share of arepas and drink licuados on the street every chance I get: average cost is about $1.50 US, and that gets you one liter of any assortment of tropical fruits you can point to or name on the cart. I like to make a new mixture every time, even though I may never know what lulo or maracuya actually taste like standing alone because of this.
I told Paul that I would start packing, and so I will. We leave today from Santa Marta, headed to Minca for the day, then hopefully to Aracataca: Gabriel Garcia Marquez's childhood town, and the basis for his fantastic novel One Hundred Years of Solitude. For those who haven't read the work, the first line is often enough to stir the reader's imagination:
Many years later, as he faced the firing line,
Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember
that distant afternoon when his father took him
to discover ice.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Fort Lauderdale to Infinity
Abra Cadabra, you're blogging with the True and Livin'.
Paul is probably in Medellin, and I assume the Southern Boys of Mexico (Mateo and Brian) are in Cartagena. I haven't heard any of that definitively. I'm on my way to Bogota for at least a day before heading up the coast towards the Caribbean coast of Colombia.
My last trip took me and the Civic to the end of the road in Panama, to the furthest southern point on the upper half of the Panamerican Highway, where the road finally meanders through the jungle to end abruptly and unceremoniously at a river's edge. On the other shore of the river lies the wild and savage Darien Gap, the dense jungle allegedly traversed by drug smugglers and rebel groups hiding out from the national government.
I made it to the Darien in August, and decided against ferrying my car to Colombia. I was pretty tired after six months on the road. I decided to head home and be bored for a bit.
I returned to the US convinced that I was finished with traveling, if not forever than at least for a long while. I sought legal jobs half-heartedly, unsure of what my next move would be. The College of Southern Nevada called and asked if I might be willing to come back and work for a semester. I agreed on a lark, threw a few pieces of clothing into my car, and headed down to Vegas planning to spend a week or a month starting off the semester. I ended up staying for three months. I hadn't brought a belt with me, so I rolled my pants at the waist for most of that time.
The three months allowed me to distill and understand the lessons of my road trip. I was driving to Brandyn's house one day when I pulled the car off the road to scribble the following in my notebook:
Side of the road near Brandyn's, 6:11PM, 9/15/2013:
The most important thing we can do is conquer our fears, and
The great conquerers of fear are Creativity and Ingenuity.
I look forward to the novel, uncomfortable situations that await me on this trip. I look forward to meeting the ingenious and creative characters that will people this story.
-TH
Monday, March 11, 2013
How It Be.
How's your trip bud? Are you doing any kind of blog where people can stay up to date on your whereabouts/adventures?
My friend Matt Hausauer dropped me this message today.The message contained two questions.
The second one was easier to answer: No. I haven't used my blog in months, and I have posted very few photos. Here are a few.
The first question is much more difficult to answer, but I will try:
My trip has felt rich.
My trip has felt empty.
My trip has felt rewarding.
My trip has felt lonely.
The world contains so much.
The world contains too much.
I have lost things.
I have found things.
I appreciate made new friends.
I miss my old friends.
I have hated it bitterly.
I have loved it passionately.
"The Trip" could otherwise be defined as "My existence for the last three months." Asking "how is the trip" is the same as asking "how are you doing, given the last three months of your life?" and that is just such a damn hard thing to answer because of the unfailing symmetry I tried to describe in the list above. I'm reminded of the opening paragraph of Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities":
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
So then I ask myself: how does one maintain form while equivalent forces pull him apart?
How does one breathe while matching forces squelch his breath from all angles?
I can't answer his damn question. I can't say anything without also saying nothing.
C'mon Trevor, just write "The trip's good" already. Maybe dodge the question and answer with a joke.
How long can I wait before I actually have to answer this message? Maybe I can do it tommorrow.
Maybe I can put this thing off for as long as I've put off writing a blog post.
NO. Answer it. Finish this.
...And then suddenly, like so many times before, Google steps in to help:
The image from the Google Homepage today, celebrating Douglas Adams' 61st Birthday. The author of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," a seminal work for any goofball Adventurer.
I remember how to keep from imploding and exploding simultaneously. I can answer the question:
When I don't panic the trip is wonderful and glorious and more than anything I could have ever hoped for. When I shilly-shally and overthink and panic the whole day passes in a flash of nausea and uncomfortability.
I'm working on it. Cheers from some small town in Michoacán, Mexico.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Friday, July 13, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Smith Rock
I stayed at Smith Rock State Park for my second night of camping. A woman named Tammy recommended the site; she was smoking a cigarette at a truck stop just north of Klamath Falls, and by virtue of the fact that she talked to me and had a recommendation she became my guide.
Tammy was right on the money; Smith Rock is a climber's haven, replete with young people and young spirits running around in puffy down jackets and playing on slack lines. I met a financial advisor from North Dakota who was touring on a BMW, and we talked for a bit about our prospective routes. He was fired up about his blog (www.murphygoeswest.blogspot.com) and the enjoyment of his trip was visible in his eyes. He said that this was his two weeks off for the year, and that he had been planning this trip since he had his last two weeks, this time last year.
A recent divorcé with two kids who he loves very much, Murphy readily admitted that his slick BMW was his post-divorce, midlife crisis purchase. I always like it when people are bluntly honest about things like that: it seems healthy and cathartic to be able to accept the goofiest possible explanation for something in our lives. A guy like that realizes that we're all just dicking around here on Earth, and whether you're doing it on a motorcycle or selling mutual funds is largely irrelevant. We were both doing what made us happy, and it increased our happiness to talk about it with someone who understood. Smith Rock was a place of excellent energy. Apparently Allan Watts wrote some guidebook for the area, but I didn't go into the shop to find out if it was THE Allan Watts or not. I wouldn't be surprised if it were.
Tammy was right on the money; Smith Rock is a climber's haven, replete with young people and young spirits running around in puffy down jackets and playing on slack lines. I met a financial advisor from North Dakota who was touring on a BMW, and we talked for a bit about our prospective routes. He was fired up about his blog (www.murphygoeswest.blogspot.com) and the enjoyment of his trip was visible in his eyes. He said that this was his two weeks off for the year, and that he had been planning this trip since he had his last two weeks, this time last year.
A recent divorcé with two kids who he loves very much, Murphy readily admitted that his slick BMW was his post-divorce, midlife crisis purchase. I always like it when people are bluntly honest about things like that: it seems healthy and cathartic to be able to accept the goofiest possible explanation for something in our lives. A guy like that realizes that we're all just dicking around here on Earth, and whether you're doing it on a motorcycle or selling mutual funds is largely irrelevant. We were both doing what made us happy, and it increased our happiness to talk about it with someone who understood. Smith Rock was a place of excellent energy. Apparently Allan Watts wrote some guidebook for the area, but I didn't go into the shop to find out if it was THE Allan Watts or not. I wouldn't be surprised if it were.
Seeing Farther
I stared straight ahead as hard as I could.
I focused my gaze to the point that I expected my third eye to burn a hole through the poster on the wall like a magnifying glass pointed at an ant under the summer sun. In front of me was a poster with a hidden image set into a seemingly bland pattern of repeating tesseracts. I stared harder, and my eyes watered. The waitress had told me that the hidden image was an eagle. I crossed my eyes then uncrossed them.
I looked blankly down at the toilet to my right to rest my eyes. The poster was hanging in the bathroom of a tiny breakfast restaurant called "Captain Jack's Stronghold" in the tiny Northern California town of Stronghold. Both the restaurant and the town were named after an Indian known as Captain Jack, who in the late 1800s killed a US general and took refuge in a nearby labyrinth of lava rock formations. They say he was outnumbered 10 to one as he held the federal troops at bay.
The old man I shared a breakfast table with had shared this story with me. I was pleased to find the restaurant wasn't named after the Disney movie franchise, as I had expected when I walked in. The rest of old Jack's story is printed on the menu, if you ever find yourself on Highway 139 and want to fill in the details.
I pushed open the bathroom door to make sure no one was waiting patiently on the other side, then went back to work on the poster. I walked towards it and away from it, squinted my eyes, crossed them, and moved them in every possible combination of directions I could think of until they started watering and begging for mercy. I went back to my coffee and the old man. This was my second attempt at the poster, and he waited expectingly to hear my report. I moved my head slowly from left to right with a solemn look on my face.
He pretended to commiserate, but a grin was shining its way out of the corner of that old farmer's mouth. The sweet waitress tried to ease my pain by assuring me that others had faced my predicament; many of her return customers were travelers hellbent on seeing the eagle appear magically from the pattern.
By now a family of six or so had joined the project, and the oldest son had pulled out his phone to look up tips for seeing the hidden gems in these posters. He was about my age, and the entire family was dressed in University of Oregon Ducks fan gear. The son downloaded an application with other hidden images and brought it over to me, hoping to let me leave with a consolation prize. I stared at the pattern on the screen: nothing. All patterns, no eagles.
A similar poster was hung outside of my seventh grade science classroom. I was often sent to the hall during seventh grade science for talking in class, so I was well acquainted with that poster. While my classmates learned about potential and kinetic energy, I was in the hallway working on that poster: crossing my eyes, walking back and forth, and staring with all my might. I never saw what was on that hallway poster.
This always bothered me. It bothered me much more than it seemed to bother others, and it bothered me even more now as I stood next to the toilet at Captain Jack's. To me, this meant that there existed a level of reality that my mind failed to comprehend, but that others could plainly see. It wasn't about the eagle; it was, and still is, about having some sliver of the universe closed off to me.
I've heard people say that if aliens did try to communicate with us, we might not even detect their transmissions because our five senses don't line up with their senses and methods of communication. I'm not sure if I believe that or not, but I do know that if an alien were trying to show me a picture of an eagle, all I would see was an unappealing pattern: and the kicker is, that's even after I've been told there's an eagle to look for. What more could be written in a field of grass blowing in the wind, or a cloud, that I wouldn't even be looking for? What more lies beyond my eyes?
I focused my gaze to the point that I expected my third eye to burn a hole through the poster on the wall like a magnifying glass pointed at an ant under the summer sun. In front of me was a poster with a hidden image set into a seemingly bland pattern of repeating tesseracts. I stared harder, and my eyes watered. The waitress had told me that the hidden image was an eagle. I crossed my eyes then uncrossed them.
I looked blankly down at the toilet to my right to rest my eyes. The poster was hanging in the bathroom of a tiny breakfast restaurant called "Captain Jack's Stronghold" in the tiny Northern California town of Stronghold. Both the restaurant and the town were named after an Indian known as Captain Jack, who in the late 1800s killed a US general and took refuge in a nearby labyrinth of lava rock formations. They say he was outnumbered 10 to one as he held the federal troops at bay.
The old man I shared a breakfast table with had shared this story with me. I was pleased to find the restaurant wasn't named after the Disney movie franchise, as I had expected when I walked in. The rest of old Jack's story is printed on the menu, if you ever find yourself on Highway 139 and want to fill in the details.
I pushed open the bathroom door to make sure no one was waiting patiently on the other side, then went back to work on the poster. I walked towards it and away from it, squinted my eyes, crossed them, and moved them in every possible combination of directions I could think of until they started watering and begging for mercy. I went back to my coffee and the old man. This was my second attempt at the poster, and he waited expectingly to hear my report. I moved my head slowly from left to right with a solemn look on my face.
He pretended to commiserate, but a grin was shining its way out of the corner of that old farmer's mouth. The sweet waitress tried to ease my pain by assuring me that others had faced my predicament; many of her return customers were travelers hellbent on seeing the eagle appear magically from the pattern.
By now a family of six or so had joined the project, and the oldest son had pulled out his phone to look up tips for seeing the hidden gems in these posters. He was about my age, and the entire family was dressed in University of Oregon Ducks fan gear. The son downloaded an application with other hidden images and brought it over to me, hoping to let me leave with a consolation prize. I stared at the pattern on the screen: nothing. All patterns, no eagles.
A similar poster was hung outside of my seventh grade science classroom. I was often sent to the hall during seventh grade science for talking in class, so I was well acquainted with that poster. While my classmates learned about potential and kinetic energy, I was in the hallway working on that poster: crossing my eyes, walking back and forth, and staring with all my might. I never saw what was on that hallway poster.
This always bothered me. It bothered me much more than it seemed to bother others, and it bothered me even more now as I stood next to the toilet at Captain Jack's. To me, this meant that there existed a level of reality that my mind failed to comprehend, but that others could plainly see. It wasn't about the eagle; it was, and still is, about having some sliver of the universe closed off to me.
I've heard people say that if aliens did try to communicate with us, we might not even detect their transmissions because our five senses don't line up with their senses and methods of communication. I'm not sure if I believe that or not, but I do know that if an alien were trying to show me a picture of an eagle, all I would see was an unappealing pattern: and the kicker is, that's even after I've been told there's an eagle to look for. What more could be written in a field of grass blowing in the wind, or a cloud, that I wouldn't even be looking for? What more lies beyond my eyes?
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