Margo

About a year ago I was studying Russian language on an online site when I was first introduced to Margo.  I had been working with my tutor and she gave me a translation to decode.  It was a simple story: a young woman named Margo navigated her way through a Russian market and challenged herself to learn the nouns and phrases that are required to identify what she wanted, converse with shopkeepers and ultimately get her groceries back to her house to make dinner.  Easy stuff for a student of language like myself.  I was at home that night, working through the translation and, becoming tired from my labor, I decided it was time to take my pups for a walk.

It was pretty late that summer night.  The hot air blanketed us as we opened the door of my apartment building and strode onto the streets.   Down the sidewalks, my crew of salty dogs traversed past the gates of pompous townhomes while I slodded along behind them, my mind lost in thought.  Shadow pulled a stick out of a neighbor’s garden.  Boss stood by my side, judging my pace.

We turned the corner and out of the darkness a figure appeared.  At first, I was taken aback.  I wasn’t used to running into people at this late hour.  With a quick whistle, my pups came to my side and we gauged this stranger.  She seemed to be unafraid of the giant German Shepherd Dog and the giant Human Being Man who crossed her path.

With a kind sprightliness and an energy I hadn’t encountered in a long time, she exacted, “How’s your evening? Beautiful dogs.”

 “Evening’s just fine,” I gruffed at her. “How is yours?”  The dogs circled me.

“Just fine,” she beamed. “It’s a late night and I wanted to take a walk.  I see you also like late-night walks. Why are you walking tonight?”

A million thoughts crossed my mind after hearing that question.  Why was I walking that night?  What unresolved thoughts perplexed me as I strolled the darkened streets? While a seemingly-unending train of ponderings continually flowed like a rushing river through my mind as I walked through the darkness, I hadn’t stopped to ask the simple question: Why?

But I answered her simply, “Just wanted some fresh air.  What’s your name?.”

“Margo,” she said.

In an instant, I flashed back to the Russian translations I had been deciphering that night.  I remembered Margo from the story I pieced together through two diametrically opposite languages.  In the translation, she was just an imaginary person, full of life and living within the pages of academic study. But now, Margo was standing right in front of me.  I could see her eyes. I could see her face.  I could hear her words.  She was real.

Margo and I sat at that corner and talked for over an hour.  The dogs kept circling us, and our conversation blossomed.

That was about a year ago.  Margo and I recently spent the evening together and nothing has changed except the stories have gotten better.  She continues to illuminate my life and I try to hang on. 

The best people in life are those who steal you from this hard world and give you a moment to take a step back and ask yourself, “Why are you walking tonight?”

The Duck

It was Saturday. 

This Saturday was the Art Car Parade in Houston, Tx.  If you don’t know what the Art Car Parade is, it is a gathering of unique people: those who have a different view and express it through their mechanical vehicles. It’s quite the event and Shadow and myself saw it as soon as we ran into downtown. 

We rode about two miles before we got to the parade, but as soon as we were there, we knew we were in the right place.  The crowds gathered and we slipped, like whispers in the wind, through the crowd.  We took a moment to admire the ingenuity of the 32nd Art Car Parade, but as soon as the crowd got too thick, we ducked down into the shadows.

After walking for a while, we found ourselves underneath a bridge.  The parade was going on behind us, but we found a soft solace away from the tourists and enjoyed sitting underneath a bridge. 

The rain came. 

It poured.

We sat underneath the bridge while the rain poured down.  We could hear the people scrambling as they tried to find shelter. Umbrellas popped up and people began to protect themselves from the downpour.

Shadow and I sat under the bridge as the rain continued to pour down.  At some point,  after drinking in the rain we looked to the right.  There was a mother duck sitting on a nest of eggs nervously eyeing the giant German Shepherd and the big man accompanying him. She had a bright red head and a soft white feathered body as she sat on her nest.  We didn’t bother her, but the presence of a giant dog scared her to the point that she decided to fly away from her nest.

As soon as she flew away, Shadow and I inspected her nest,  It was full of two dozen fresh eggs. 

They were so fragile; all those eggs packed together.  The rain continued to pour down over the underpass.  Two dozen little babies sat there, completely exposed. The rain continued to pour down.

I looked to my left, my big dog by my side.  There, scattered among a bunch of rocks, was a single egg.  It seemed to be cast out from among the rest of the nest.  It was ready to die, or become the dinner for the next raccoon, feral cat or whatever predator may come by this way in the next few hours.

I grabbed the egg and placed it back into the nest.  Hopefully mama duck would take care of it.

Shadow and I walked into the storm and got soaked.  As we walked off toward downtown, I looked over my shoulder and looked over the underpass.  Mama duck was back sitting on her nest, glad that the humans and dogs had left.

 I think about that lost egg and what it may become.

Haleakala and the Blood Wolf

I was headed up to Haleakala, the highest mountain on the island of Maui.  Its summit reaches up to 10,023’, but is drivable.  If I had more time, I would rather hike to the summit, but I had a drop-top Jeep and was looking forward to the long drive up a mountain with the cool mountain air blowing through my hair.

I hit the road around 2 pm and began the two-hour drive across the island up to the top of the summit.  The drive started out at sea-level.  The tropical sun warmed everything and island life thrived all around me.  As I approached the behemoth of Haleakala, I stopped in awe of its massiveness.  While wide at its base, its peak rose up past the clouds and towered into the skies above.  I pushed down on the accelerator and started speeding toward the summit.

Tonight was the rising of the Super Blood Wolf Moon.  I wanted to get some photos and spend some time on the top of the mountain.

In case you didn’t know, Super Blood Wolf Moon means the following:

Super: When the moon is closest on its orbit to the Earth.

Blood: When the Earth passes between the sun and the moon and turns the moon blood red for a few minutes.

Wolf:  The first full moon of the new year.  This was noted in Native American history because the wolves would howl loudest on this full moon.

Moon:  The moon.  It orbits the earth every day.

It wasn’t long before I was well on my way up the trail to the summit of Haleakala.  Initially it was a thriving jungle of Banyan trees with fresh-water streams cutting through their thick, intertwining roots.  As I drove higher, the trees began to get smaller and the air thinner.  What was once thick ocean air, tasting of salt, slowly cooled to a dry mountain air, fresh with a mint and higher-elevation pine needles.  I looked above me and stared at the clouds that wrapped like a blanket over the middle of the mountain at 7,000’. 

I drove on up the twisting mountain trail.  It was narrow and sharp drop-offs of a thousand or more feet were at every turn.  I had another 20 miles up this remote highway before I reached the summit.

Just above the cloud line ~7,000’.

Five miles later and I was above the cloud line.  I had to stop for a moment and look at the horizon.  It isn’t often one can stand on the ground and stare off into infinity above the surrounding clouds.  I took in the horizon.  The clouds beneath me, the sun on my face, the wind blowing across the top of the clouds, cooling my face, the taste of the air on the tip of my tongue as I breathed in the thin mountain air; this was a moment.

The road continued up the mountain.  As I continued further, the grassy hills turned into a rough, red volcanic rock.  I felt like I was ascending a mountain on Mars.  Finally, after 18 miles, I reached the National Park entrance. 

Because there was a US government shutdown, no one was manning the park station.  Cars breezed past the entrance that would normally require a week-ahead reservation and some $20 for entry.  I blew past the darkened guard shack and continued on toward the summit.

About 30 minutes later, I was on the crest of the summit.  Cars were lined up in a long caravan that stretched on for a half mile.  I eeked along slowly and enjoyed the radio.  While the line dragged on, I approached the blocked entrance to drive up the summit.  As soon as I reached the turn-off to drive to the summit, divine influence decided to shine on me.  A park ranger, working without pay, opened up the gate to the summit.  I was the first to turn in and was languidly waved on toward the summit.

I passed innumerable people hiking up to the top of the mountain in my Jeep.  As I blew past them; old ladies in walkers, sweating 50-year-old men breathing heavily as they hoofed up the mile-long steep road huffed and puffed while I put my car into second gear and blew up the rest of the road.

Summit of Haleakala, overlooking the crater.

I arrived at the summit and found the one remaining parking place.  After getting out, I looked over the crowd.  The mountain was packed.  A dozen dozen people were gathered on the top of the mountain waiting for the sun to set and the moon to rise.  Professional photographers lined up east, waiting for the supermoon to rise.  Families and tourists lined up on the west, waiting for the sun to set.

I sat in the car.  Finishing up a sandwich, listening to old blues on the radio.  I’ve been to several eclipses before and the best part is the crowd.  Tourists, adventurers, astronomers, photographers, and dirty ol’ salty dogs like myself; we were all here.

The sun set below the clouds, painting the horizon with a rainbow of deep colors, painting the clouds below in pastel pinks that bled into dark purples as the sun dipped into its evening slumber.

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, the eclipsing moon began to rise.  It started out slowly, rising just above the shadow of the tip of the Haleakala mountain.  I watched as the calm eclipsed moon, a crescent rising above a blown-out crater, slowly began to rise into the night sky.  As each minute passed, the moon began to slowly turn a darker shade of red.  The darkness of the night beginning to engulf the moon as the sun finally dipped below the horizon.

Then it happened.  Totality.  The fullness of the moon turned a dark shade of bloody red.  As if wrapped in a red blanket, our nightly shining beacon turned dark.  Howls erupted from the crowds around me.  Three hundred people sitting on the top of the mountain began to scream at the top of their lungs, pulled in by the spirit of the Wolf Moon.  The howling continued until I left.

Having finished the photos for the night, I was ready to call it a night.  I was going to stay up on the mountain for the night and reconnect with Mama Pacha, the earth spirit from the Incan religion.  I drove down the twisting mountain trail about ten miles in the pitch black of night to the only camping site on the mountain.

I arrived there and there was no room at the main campground.  On a night like tonight there are too many people that come to an astrological event like a super blood wolf moon.  Upon seeing the campsite, I decided to pull off on a side road and park my car in the shadows of the mountain’s shade.  I walked out of my car and looked up to the sky. 

I have seen a lot of night skies in my life.  I’ve seen the southern cross in the middle of the pacific at midnight.  I’ve slept under the stars on top of mountains in Colorado and watched as the Milky Way drifted by.  I’ve seen the Arora Borealis explode over my driveway in Anchorage, Alaska as a young boy.  But this night.  This night was special.  The stars lit up in the sky in all of their glory.  I couldn’t help myself, but while cooking my dinner on my camp stove, I had to lay back into the soft grass and stare up at the infiniteness  of the universe.  Staring into the stars, you realize just how small and insignificant you are, but at the same time, how precious every moment of the gift of life is. 

I forgot to mention one little aspect of this perfection of a natural experience.  Just across the road, maybe 20 ft from my tent, were a crowd of 20-some-odd teenagers.  Now these teenagers were quintessentially teenage stereotypes.  There were maybe 15 cars crowded together.  They were slamming beers, smoking weed, snorting cocaine and banging the loudest music possible in the midst of this mountain.  It was a party that had no end in sight.

From my experience, I know how to deal with nearby teenage parties: shut up and shut down. The cops will show up at around 10 or 11 and I don’t want to deal with that. I ate my dinner, drank three beers while I read my book and went to bed.  Timing: 9:00.

Midnight.

A bright light shined across my tent.  I ignored it. 

Someone shook my tent.  I ignored it. 

Someone put a couple rough boot kicks into my upper back.

I woke up.

“Who the f*** is kicking me?” I asked in a raspy, groggy voice.

“It’s the Park Ranger.  Please exit your tent immediately sir.”  The Park Ranger yelled in an aggressive voice.

 “Just give me a ticket and I’ll deal with it tomorrow.  I’m sleeping,” I said.

“I will give you a ticket and make you leave,” the Park Ranger said, “Get out of the tent.”

I breathed heavy.  It was midnight.  I thought of sunrise. 

“Ugh.  Let me put on my pants.  I’ll be right out,” I said as I put on my pants.

I climbed out of the tent to two different flashlights shining into my face as I stood up to the two Park Rangers that were waiting.  I pulled my worn cap down so the lights wouldn’t shine directly in my eyes and stood up.

              “Sir, I am going to need you to take down your tent and vacate off of this mountain.  You are in an unsanctioned camping area and must vacate the mountain immediately.”  The Park Ranger barked at me.

It was a 7,000’ vertical drop from my location to the ocean and almost 20 miles of road that twisted past 1000’ drops a mere feet from the asphalt.  It was another 45 miles driving from the base of Haleakala to where I was staying on the west side of Maui.  I wasn’t driving that tonight.

Groggily, I stood up out of my tent and faced the two flashlights.

“What do you want?” I asked, gruffly.

“Sir, I need you to vacate the mountain immediately.  You are in an unsanctioned camping area and you must leave immediately.” The Park Ranger said.

That’s when I felt it.  A fire began to build in my gut.  The Blood Wolf began growing.  I was not about to abandon my campsite because someone wanted to claim that nature had a boundary line.  Especially when none of them were getting paid.

“Mr. Park Ranger,” I said calmly to the bright lights shining in my face, “let me ask you a question.”

“F*** your question.  Get off my mountain before I arrest you and throw you in jail.”  He responded.

“Sir.  I understand your concern.  I know you are trying to make sure your mountain is under control and those on it are following the rules you were sworn to protect.  I also know that you haven’t been paid in a month and you are acting purely on the integrity you hold for your position.  I respect that and I despise the position that was forced upon you.”

He stood still.  I took a step forward and pushed the brim of my hat above my eyes so I could look into his.

“I understand that you have a job to do and I applaud that.  I agree that you should re-direct these young kids to a common place to keep the peace between all the campers in this area.  I think you have done a stand-up job handling this area.”

“And what?” He said a scowl curling over his teeth.

“Well sir, I am not causing any trouble at all.  I was fast asleep and waiting on photo op for the sunrise at Haleakala summit.  I don’t think that there is any reason for me to move from my current spot.”

“Are you questioning my authority?”  He bellowed at me, his teeth grinding.

I could feel it.  Anger.  The desire for control.  The plight of authority; it only exists if the public believes in it.

But I was pissed off.

“Look.  Here’s what’s going to happen.” I said to him as I peered into the depth of his angry eyes. “I’m tired.  I’m going to bed.  I’m going to take photos of the sunrise on Haleakala tomorrow.”

His left eye twitched.  I could feel the anger boiling inside of him.

“If you want to get me out of here, you are going to have to make some choices.  If you want to call the cops, give them a call.  In an hour and a half, I would be more than happy to go to jail.  If you want to drag me out and beat me, you can drag me out and beat me.  You make your own choice, Mr. Park Ranger, but I am getting back in my tent and I am going back to sleep.  I’ll be waiting your decision.”

I raised the brim of my hat above my eyeline and met the Park Ranger’s eyes.  I’ve been down some mean streets before, but I haven’t seen more anger in the meanest junkyard dog than I saw in this Park Ranger’s eyes.  I looked for a minute, then glanced over at his partner.  She was tired and not looking for a fight.

I went back into the tent and laid down into my sleeping bag.  I heard the crunch of a boot on the rough volcanic rock move one step closer to my tent.  I prepared for the beating.

“Let him be,”  his partner said, “He’ll be out in the morning.”

There were no more words that night.  Only the government vehicles backing out from the illegal campsite under the bright red moon.

Black Rock

The late-afternoon sun speckled across the windshield as we breezed down the Honoapi’ilani Hwy that parallels the western shore of the island.  My arm hung out the window and the sea breeze blew thick through my salty hair.  I was in a swimsuit and flip-flops and we were heading to a double dive.  This one was going to be different.  We were going to start with a twilight dive, then, just after sunset, we would grab some underwater flashlights and scope out the Black Rock reef structure at night.  Black Rock is known as one of the top dive sights in Hawai’i and one of the highest-rated night dive sites in the world.

Harmony pulled the truck up a hill that overlooked the shore-entry point where we were going to drop in later that evening.  The waters were calmly splashing on the beach next to the Black Rock structure, a 50’ tall volcanic rock cliff that dove some 40’ deeper into the water.

 She climbed to the top of the cliff that overlooked the beach.  Her sun-blonded hair wisped in the cool wind as she squinted her eyes, looking over the waves, reading them for any signs of turbulence.

 “Looks good, the waves are calm and the current will be at our back the whole way. This will be a good dive.  Unless the currents change.” She said.  We piled back in the car and headed out to meet the rest of the dive group and get ready for the dive.

 After gearing up and testing equipment, Harmony, our dive instructor, went over the plan.  We would drop in on the north side of Black Rock and follow the structure around to its southern edge where we would exit and prepare for our night dive.  The night dive would follow the same path, but in reverse, going from south to north.  She went over various wildlife we should expect to see and then highlighted the potential hazards.  Nothing seemed too serious until she mentioned the “washing machine.”

The washing machine is in the middle of the Black Rock structure where the cliff carves inward to make a “U” shape, cutting into the interior of Black Rock.  When a current hits this, it creates a powerful eddy that swirls around and can suck a diver into the center of the rock.  Once there, it is a battle to get out and safely to the end.  Since there is no way to exit from that point, the divers have to make it past the washing machine and to the other side before their air runs out, or an emergency evacuation must be called in.

About an hour and a half later, a full group of suited-up divers walked back to that very point we had been earlier.  This time the scene was quite different.  What was once a calm ocean had turned into a scene of intense violence.  Eight-foot swells surged white foam and smashed onto the beach, the sound deafening as it hit the cliffside of Black Rock and shot surf 40 feet in the air.

I looked back at Harmony.  Her eyes were focused on the swells.  Then she looked at me with a sadistic grin, the evening sun gleaming in her eye, and said, “Currents change.  You ready?”

I was definitely NOT ready,

We all gathered up and Harmony gave us a quick re-briefing.

“Ok look guys, things have changed a little bit with this surf.  The hardest part is going to be getting into the water through these waves.  You have to time your entry right, or it will wash you back up on the shore.  The best time to enter is right before it crashes.  Once you’re in, get your fins on and meet me further out.  I’ll show you how it’s done.” 

She took a few steps closer to the ocean and stood there watching the surf.  I could hear her whispering a count to herself, timing when the waves came in.

And then the strangest thing happened.  This monster wave was pulling back to the highest point of its crest.  I heard Harmony whisper “now” to herself.  And with complete calmness she walked up to this giant wave like a lone samurai facing an approaching army.  Then, at the last instant, when the wave was at its highest, the foam of the surf just teetering on the breaking point, Harmony disappeared into the wave like an actor through the main curtains on opening night.

And just like that, she was gone.  The wave violently smashed against the beach.  Surf flew everywhere and then the deafening echo of the wave hitting Black Rock ripped across the beach.

Once the wave crashed, we saw her pop up several yards out in the ocean.  She waved at us and signaled that it was our turn to face the mighty waves.  One by one, the group went and faced the wave.  One by one, they walked through the giant curtain of hydraulic insanity and one by one they popped up several yards further out in the ocean.  Then it was my turn.

Standing up in front of these giant waves, all alone, was a daunting experience.  The sheer power of them crashing in front of me was a force I had not ever encountered, especially not one I had to go charging into with 40 lbs of gear on my back.  I began to count the time between the waves, noting the time between when the waves would start building, when they would crest and when they would crash.  Then, an extra-large wave began building out in the ocean; I knew this one was mine.  I waited as it built, the rolling sea lifting itself up as it raced toward me.  My breath calmed.  I continued my count.  It was as if a giant hand of water was reaching up into the sky to grab me and pull me into the ocean.

Then I felt it.  The moment of action.  The fingers of the wave began to form and the surf foam began to fly off the top of the wave.  Then I saw it: the curtain.  It was clear turquoise blue.  I could see little bits of seaweed and tiny fish swimming in this tall vertical wall.  I was afraid, but I knew it was time.  I tightened my grip on my fins, lunged forward and stepped onstage.

The ocean hand grabbed me and pulled me with incredible force out into the ocean.  I was completely powerless, the tide tumbling me like a rag doll into the open sea.  I held my breath and gripped my fins with all my might.  And then it stopped.  The pull of the ocean let me go and I popped up out of the water and next to the group of other divers.  I quickly put my fins on and swam toward the group so I wouldn’t be sucked back to shore.

Everyone gathered, we ran our checks and we submerged about 20 ft to the bottom of the sea floor. It was sandy and rippled from the current.  We were swimming toward the Black Rock structure and just when we passed the edge of the wall, the current grabbed us.   We were rocketed across the edge of the wall and into a world teeming with life.  Schools of hundreds of fish gathered in-line with the current and lay motionless.  Coral breathed life of tiny fish, crabs, eels and many more I couldn’t recognize.  Turtles the size of VW Beetles gathered in underground caves and others languidly soared above us.  We swam on.

After about a half hour, swimming started to get more difficult.  I began to notice an ebb and flow of the current.  I would be pushed forward quickly, and then I couldn’t go forward, no matter how hard I kicked my fins.  Harmony stopped and turned around.  She made the signal for “the washing machine” and I knew we were in the most hazardous point of the dive.

Overhead view of “the washing machine” (Stolen from the internet)

I understand now why it is called “the washing machine.”  The way the eddy swirls in this area, you get pushed and pulled in all directions.  You get sucked toward the rocks and then push out to sea.  Then pulled back again.  It took everything I had to fight this current and keep moving forward.  I began to time the current and ride it when it was pushing us in the right direction, and then slowing when it was against us.  We fought it for a good ten minutes before we finally passed it and emerged on the other side. 

 It wasn’t much longer before we had circled the whole of Black Rock and were on the other side, climbing out onto the beach into the large patio of a fancy resort.  Like Navy SEALs invading a foreign country, the frog men (and women) sloshed past millionaires smoking fat cigars and rich children running rampant through the resort.  We made it back to the trucks, had a few snacks and talked about the dive.  We had a while to wait until the sun set and we began the night dive.

Sunset over the ocean.

I watched as the sun dipped below the clouded islands off in the horizon.  Beams of golden light fingered through the clouds and heavenly rays shot off into infinity.  When the sky turned a deep orange, we were all handed underwater flashlights and began to walk back to the beach.

By the time we were at the beach, the sky was a deep purple and the brightest stars had begun shining in the night sky.  The ocean was calmer this time and we slipped into the dark black ocean with ease.  Each diver could be seen illuminated by his or her flashlight that dissipated into the dark water below.

Once we were further out to sea, we dropped down to the floor.  It was different this time.  We were surrounded by blackness.  Even on the highest setting, the spotlights could only illuminate a few meters.  Anything could come from that infinite expanse that stood there, ominously black.

When we reached Black Rock, it was a completely different world than from a few hours ago.  It was exploding with life as the nocturnal fish began to feed and the daylight fish went to sleep.  Blue eels seven feet long cascaded across rocky coral reefs in search of food.  Giant crabs the size of dinner plates came out and snatched little fish in their claws. 

After a while, I noticed that ebb and flow of the current.  I knew we were back at “the washing machine.”  Having gone through this before, I was ready.  I rode the current forward and waited when it was against me.  We were in a pretty tight group when an extra strong current threw me forward.

I felt something hit me on the side of the face.  There was a flash of bright light.  Then darkness.  Something had hit me hard.  I opened my eyes, only to feel the sting of saltwater.  I reached for my mask—it wasn’t there.  The current blew me forward again and dashed me against the rock wall.  I couldn’t see anything but blackness.  I was sucked backward again.  Then pushed forward.  Then backward.  I was completely oblivious to where I was or which way was up.  Darkness was everywhere.

The ocean surged again.  I held my hands out to feel for the rock wall.  It was the only thing I could orient myself with.  Nothing; just the push and pull of the ocean current throwing me in the darkness.  Again it surged and I felt something solid.  I grabbed it.  It was the tank of another diver.  I held on and calmed my breathing.  Panic doesn’t help anything.  I felt my mask slipped into my hand.  I wrapped it around my head, cleared it, and was able to see again.  My eyes burned, but I could see one of the other instructors had come to my rescue.

We pushed on again and finished the dive.  By the time we got back to the shore, I was worn out.  Walking back to the truck, a wave of euphoria washed over me and the group.  We were all giggling like schoolgirls; telling stories of the sights, the adventure and the danger on the dives. 

Harmony looked back at me as we reached the trucks, “Way to stay cool out there rookie.” She said with a smile. 

We loaded up and headed back to the shop.  Our diving for the day was over.

Lahaina

View of Molokai from the beach on Lahaina. 100 m from the front door.

The dark blue waves of the Pacific crashed across a rocky beach in Lahaina as we watched humpback whales breach the water in the shadow of Molokai island.  You remember Molokai, the island that had a leper colony from the mid-1800s through the late 1960’s?  It’s pretty from a distance, but not a destination for this trip.

Lahaina is a tiny little nothing of a town on the western-facing coast of Maui.  It boasts rows of tourist-laden hangouts amid seemingly-endless beaches plagued with pale-skinned tourists from across the globe.  It’s quaint like Santa Barbara, CA, but with the hustling businesses of Roatan’s West Beach.  We walk everywhere.  Everyone is in swim-suits and flip-flops and move at a slow pace under the bright tropical sun.  Dinner last night was tuna poké, freshly caught from the ocean that morning that we picked up at a local market.  This morning for breakfast, a fresh-fruit acai bowl from the local farmer’s market. 

This is easy travel.  But not for long.  A night dive tonight, followed by an excursion to the top of the largest mountain on the island for a few days. 

But for now, I am going to go lay in the hammock and read “Shantaram” under the shade of a few trees on the beach as I slowly drift off to the crashing of waves.

Crossing the Pacific

The alarm ripped me out of a deep sleep at 4 am.  The usually-bustling city outside my apartment was eerily quiet as I grabbed my bags and kissed my pups goodbye.  With the US government shut down, I had no idea how long it would take to get through airport security, so I headed out two hours early in case of a chaotic meltdown in government services.

Once there, it was business as usual.  There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary and I attribute that mainly to the fact that it was 5:30 in the morning.  I was dressed similarly to the group of homeless people that crowd around the employment services building just north of my apartment.  My faded jean jacket, worn-down hoodie sweatshirt and a dirty ballcap that didn’t quite cover a fresh-scar under my blurry right eye tipped off security and I was selected for a random screening.

They tore through my messenger bag, only to find a few notebooks and a copy of “Shantaram” and let me through.  Even while not being paid, they did their job; begrudgingly, however.

The flight to San Francisco was a shadow of a dream.  I faded in an out of consciousness in an isle seat in the back of the plane, surrounded by groups of sleeping passengers. 

Once in San Fran, I grabbed a sandwich on some local sourdough and boarded the plane.

In the past few years, I have traveled to many places that do not draw the majority of casual travelers: Cuba, Honduras, El Salvador; these places aren’t quite known as family destinations.  But Maui, in January, well that was another story. 

I filed into the back of the plane and was smacked in the face with the smell of babies.  Now my brother just had a baby, and one baby, well, a single baby emanates the sweet essence of pure innocence.  You pack two dozen babies in the back of a hot plane and you get the palpable stench of vomit and diarrhea.  I choked on the noxious fumes as I cornered myself in a sea of screaming infants, puking and writhing in their seats as their sagged-eyed parents tried to hold onto their sanity as closely as their spastic progeny.

This continued, non-stop, for the next 6 hours. 

I tell you, there is no better birth control than being packed into a mob of chaotic, 2-ft-tall monsters that are as loud as they stink.  I missed the packed Moscow subway in June; it was so bad.  At least on the Moscow subway, everyone is quiet.

But, as in so many things, the harder the journey, the more satisfying the destination.  I was greeted by my good friend Harmony.  The last time had seen her was over a year ago as I pulled away from a tiny Honduran port and onto my next adventure.  She looked as good as I remembered; tanned skin and a long Hawaiian skirt that danced in the tropical breeze flowing through the open-aired airport.  I scooped her up and gave her a big hug, grabbed my bags and we were off into the tropics of Maui.

Whenever I get to a place, the first things I do is taste the air and drink in the countryside as I drive to wherever I am staying.  Maui is no different than any of the other tropical places I have been.  Luscious green vegetation grows thick up far-off mountains.  Palm and banana trees whizz by while local birds dance through the palpable air. 

But the smell.This was different.In all of these third-world countries, the choking fumes of diesel exhaust poison the air, gathering on everything from buildings to trees to people’s skin, burning the eyes and oppressively harming the lungs.But not here.It was just the sweet smell of jungle.The refreshing air, hinted with the sweet smell of fruits and flowers blew through my hair as we continued down the road.There was no poison here.This is America.I am so thankful I am from this country.

Aloha.

The calm before the storm.

The road has been long; too long. But a new adventure sits on the precipice of tomorrow.  I sit at home with my pups tonight and wait until the morning awakes with all the impossible unknowns of a new day.  I’m not sure what this new adventure will bring.  I have a halfway plan: show up and see what happens.  However, the exploration of the island of Ihikapalaumaewa is on my mind now.  The soul, the history, the secrets of this island: I want to explore.

I’m not ready.  Not in the slightest.  But from my experience, the adventures that you aren’t ready for are the best adventures.  When you have to rely on yourself and your intuition; that’s when you really know who you are.  I have a small pack of gear and a wish to see the secrets of this island as they open up to me. 

If I find something cool, I’ll show you.

Wish me luck.

Robinson.

Haram in the Streets & Halal in the Sheets - Marrakech

I rolled into the train station in Marrakech after an exhausting eight-hour train ride from Fes.  I was stuck inside a glass box with a bunch of old ladies and couldn’t get out of my window seat for the duration of the trip.  I made it to the hotel and collapsed in exhaustion on the bed.  Of course after having a welcoming pot of Moroccan mint tea.

After snoozing for a few hours, I decided to go grab a bite to eat.  A footless man in Fes had recommended that I try Café Arab, so I got one of the staff to walk me over there and I made sure that I knew my way back.  These old cities twist and turn and it is easy to get lost, especially at night. 

The streets were wild.  Unlike Fes, there was normal vehicle traffic, mainly motorcycles, that zipped around me on either side, belching noxious exhaust fumes that settled like a think blanket at my feet.  Kids ran around kicking soccer balls and chasing each other while people washed their hands and feet before shuffling into the Mosque for evening prayer.  When we finally made it to the restaurant, a short ten-minute walk later, I bid the hotel escort adieu and walked in for a nice dinner.

This place was great.  To me, it really represented the melting pot that is Marrakesh.  There were such a variety of cultures represented.  A Korean couple shared some olives.  A French family joked while they passed bottles of wine.  Two Spanish women stared into their phones in silence.  An American man sat by himself and drank in the experience.  And a beer.

Dinner was great- slow roasted beef and potatoes and a nice Moroccan salad.  I finished up and started to head back toward the hotel, recounting the landmarks I had identified along the way.  I made the first turn at the barbershop and headed down toward the Mosque.  As I was walking I heard shouting behind me.

“You cannot go that way! You cannot go past the Mosque during prayer time!”

It was almost 11 pm and near the last prayer time for the evening.  I stopped and turned around as a young man came up to me.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked him.

“I can show you another way, follow me.” He told me, gesturing with his hands down a different street.

I followed the guy for about two blocks down some twisted streets until I saw the sign for my riad.  I thanked the man and started heading toward my hotel and welcoming bed.

“Wait,” I heard from behind me.

I turned around and all of a sudden there were two men upon me.  One was the guy who just showed me the way and the other was someone I had not seen before.  They came up and got very close to me.

“Pay me.” The guide said.

“Pay you?”  I asked, “For what?”

“For showing you the way.  100 Dhiram ($10).”

They were not really asking. 

“He’s got to feed his kids, help him out.”  The other man said.

“Ok man, for the kids.  You take care of them.” I said as I handed him the money.

“Thank you, have a safe journey home.” He said in a slightly ominous voice.

I grumpily started walking toward the riad.  These freakin people always trying to hustle a westerner out of their money.  I get sick of it and I just wish that…

“You cannot go that way!  You cannot go past the Mosque during prayer time!” I heard from behind me. 

I started to sense a pattern.  And I wasn’t even close to the mosque.

A young 15-year-ish kid walked up on me and said. “I know a better way, follow me.”

Already pissed off, I told the kid, “Look, I don’t care if I am not supposed to go by the Mosque or not.  I am gong to my hotel and you can scam some other tourist.”

I turned around and started walking toward the riad.  This kid ran in front of me and began shouting “I will show you the way ok.”

Ignoring the kid, I just kept walking and finally reached the turn-off that went toward the hotel.  I started walking down the alley until I was rushed by three kids: the first was the one who “showed me the way,” the second was a fat kid with glasses about the same age and the third was another kid on a dirt bike who kept revving the engine. 

Great.  I was getting robbed by the cast of “Stand By Me.”

“I showed you the way.  You give me 400 Dhiram ($40).” The first kid shouted.

“I don’t think so man.  I didn’t need your help.  I didn’t want your help.  You can piss off.” I told him.

The fat kid exploded and rushed me.

“Do you know who this is?” Fatty screamed, “This is blah-blah-aziz.  You will respect him!”

Blah-Blah-aziz held up a hand and quelled fatty.  He was obviously the leader of the gang of nitwits.

“Give me 400 Dhiram or else!” He shouted.

I looked over these kids.  They were so young.  I went full “Equalizer” on them and played out the scenario if I were to fight them.  I would kick the leader in the kneecap and finish him off with a left hook.  Fatty would run at me and I would crush his fat face with a hard right.  The kid on the bike would run away after seeing what happened to his friends, he wasn’t really committed, he just liked to seem threatening.  It would all be so easy.  I was getting ready for it when a thought popped into my head.

“Robinson, you are in a foreign country where there is a lot of mistrust for Americans.  If you beat up a bunch of locals, there will be a backlash in the community and will not end well for you.  Life is too cheap here.  Just pay the boy and let it go.” My conscience told me.

I pulled out a 200 Dhiram note and handed it to the kid.

“That’s all you get.  Now piss off.”  I told him.

“No. More.  You give me more.”

“if you want more,” I said as I backed away, “You come over here and get some more.”

He slowly turned around and walked back toward the street.  I made it down to the riad and banged on the door.  There were a group of young kids playing soccer outside.

“Gimme. Gimme.” One of the kids said to me as he kicked the ball.

God help these street rats.                                                  

Fes - Where my Mind was Blown Away

The train pulled into the Fes train station and I sauntered out and met my awaiting driver.  Everywhere I go besides America people call me “Ree-ahn,” So I have grown accustomed to being called this as well as introducing myself this way.  It just makes it easier for everyone.

Walking down a Fes market.

The driver tooled around the new city and as we crested a hilltop I stared out onto this complex labyrinth of small clay buildings piled on top of each other in fantastic chaos.  This was the old medina (medina=city in Arabic).  The old medina of Fes is one of the three oldest cities in Arabic history.  You may have heard of the other two: Jerusalem and Damascus.  This city I was about to walk into predates Christ.  Not much has changed since.  I was soon to come to a new understanding of the development of human life from this short excursion into the medina of Fes, Morocco.

We get to the entrance of the medina at the bottom of a large hill.  The driver stops and tells me that he cannot go any further.  There are no cars allowed in the medina and I would have to wait here. I paid him 10€ and he left me there with a suitcase and a messenger bag and a lost look upon my face.

He told me not to worry, someone would be by soon.  As the diesel fumes and dust from him driving away washed over me, I couldn’t help but remember the last time a taxi driver told me that: I ended up sleeping in the Florence train station, clinging to my bags while being harassed by hobos and drunks.

Fortunately a man appeared out of the bustling city entrance and walked over to me.  He offered to take me to the riad (Arabic for garden, but associated with family-run hotels).  We entered the city.

Walking into this place made me realize what life was like in the ancient world.  The walkways are narrow (2-meters at the widest) and they are surrounded on both sides by 10+ meter walls.  Within the streets are all variety of life and death.  Bustling shoppers and shopkeepers haggle for goods.  The poor and the sick huddle against the walls as people shuffle by them.  Cats, dogs and horses stick to the walls; some scrounging, some working, some dying.  Shit and piss sit randomly wherever you walk from whatever animal was there earlier.  All of this is completely within arms reach.  There is no distancing yourself from the palpable reality of the different stages of life.  I can understand how in biblical times this would be so much more of a concern than passing a sick panhandler on an offramp in these modern days.

Looking into one of the mosques.  Non-Muslims not allowed inside.

We finally reached the riad after a ten-minute walk through the labyrinth of Fes.  It was a nothing of a building whose heavy wooden door was down a dark, narrow alley.  We walked into the building and there couldn’t be a bigger juxtaposition between the exterior and interior.  Inside the building, it opened into an ornate area that reached up four stories to the skylight above.  Intricately carved wood patterns adorned the walls and three meter-tall wooden carved doors stood ominously on each wall.  There was a dry fountain in the middle of the open area surrounded by small plants and several tables and couches.

Upon entering, I was immediately offered a cool mint-scented wet towel to rub the sweat off my face and neck, a warm cup of fresh-mint tea and some cookies.  It seems that, despite my initial impressions, I had chosen wisely.

I could go on for hours describing this place, the impeccable hospitality, the course-after-course of delectable Moroccan food and the breathtaking views of this ancient city from the rooftop, but let’s just leave it at amazing.  By far one of the coolest places I have ever stayed at (and I’ve stayed in a treehouse).  Go for yourself if you want to really understand.

I requested the riad arrange a tour the next day and in the morning after breakfast I met Abdul.  I would soon find out that Abdul was Mr. Personality around the medina.  As he showed me around for the next five hours, he greeted 300 people or more, each with equal intensity as the last.

The tour started out pretty normally, but I started to catch onto the underlying driving force of Abdul’s plan.  Maybe this is normal in Fes, or maybe Abdul is a tourism mastermind, but either way, this tour was more than ordinary. I will tell you how it went down.

It started out simply enough. We walked down the streets and twisted our ways into the heart of the city.  He brought me to the main city square, an empty place with a large silver maple tree growing in its center.

“Everything is closed now,” Abdul said as we walked passed closed shops, “but they will open soon. You will see.”

We walked around for a while and we saw several mosques (I wasn’t allowed in), the oldest university in the world (est. 629 AD) and some historical buildings that traced the construction of Fes through various artifacts.  All normal stuff right?

Then the weird things started happening. 

Abdul led me down a dark alley.

A totally un-staged photo op.

“Keep going down there and take a picture,” he said nonchalantly, pointing into the cool darkness of a cramped alleyway, the ceiling only five-feet high.

So I walked down this alleyway, pretty sure I would have to fight someone off at the end of it.  Instead, it opened up to a large skylight where several windows from the neighboring buildings opened up into.  Peeking out of one was a weathered woman’s head staring down at me. 

It was a perfect picture.  A little too perfect.  Before I shot, I spoke to the woman

“As-Salaam-Alaikum.” I said to her (‘Peace be with you’ in Arabic)

“You say it differently that we do,” and she disappeared into her window.

I didn’t get the shot, but I did get a Truman-Show vibe.  We walked on.

After a few more moments where we would show up at the perfect photo op and someone would magically walk past, or be sitting in an interesting position, I started to get suspicious of Abdul.  Sure I was getting great photos, but there was a lack of spontaneity about them that was too coincidental.

“How about a whiskey?” Abdul asked.

I looked at my watch. It was 11:00. “A bit early for me, maybe later,” I told him.

“No no, we get Moroccan whiskey now.  It’s good for your health.” Abdul said.

We twisted through another series of mazes until we walked into a tiny shop with a few herbs growing in pots outside, six seats inside its tiny space and an old man working an espresso machine in the back.  The whole space couldn’t have been more than four m2.

“How do you like your Moroccan whiskey?” Abdul asked, “You can have mint, sage, absinthe,”

“Why not all of them?” I asked, curious what I was getting into.

Abdul translated and everyone in the shop laughed.

“You are strong man,” Abdul said to me, “Good choice.”

A few minutes later I was handed a small glass packed to the brim with the three herbs, smothered in green tea and some melted sugar.

“Moroccan whiskey,” Abdul smiled, “Enjoy.”

I took one sip and breathed in the aroma of the concoction.  It was powerful and herbal, but the sugar cut the bite.  It was actually pretty good.  It had a dizzying effect from so many herbs, I can see why it is called a ‘whiskey.’

The famous Fes tannery dye-pots.

The obviously staged photo ops were finished.  The intoxicating beverage consumption complete.  Now Abdul went in for the kill.  The next three hours consisted of going from “attraction” to “attraction,” which happened to be run and controlled by some of the more successful businessmen (and women) in the city.  We stopped at a tour of a traditional Moroccan rug factory (one loom) and I was bombarded by that Arabic negotiating style.  Then to the leather factory, then to the jewelry store, then to the herbal medicine store.  By the time I was touring the traditional Moroccan massage parlor getting pressured to set up a masseuse for later, I got fed up with Abdul’s blatant capitalistic tactics.  I told him I was finished with the tour and we finally headed back to the riad.  Of course we had to stop at the traditional Moroccan scarf factory along the way.

A traditional Fes taxi.  Horse-donkey mix.  Another "random" photo op.

This boy just wouldn’t quit.  But kudos to him and his drive.  I can respect that.

The rest of the evening I just relaxed and recounted the events of the day.  I was caught up on how little this place has changed over the past 2500 years.  I don’t think there was that much of a difference, besides a few TVs and some cheap Chinese gadgets, from when Roman soldiers walked those same streets.  That idea was both intriguing and humbling.  Intriguing in that I was able to get a taste of how an ancient people lived and humbling in the fact that I am but a grain of sand in a desert of human beings who have lived on this planet.

As I went to sleep, the whole city resonated in the guttural sound of the evening prayers blasting in unison out of the many mosques in earshot.  I was like an “ohm” meditation in a yoga class, but engulfing an entire city of over a million people.  It shook the walls of the city in a meditative vibration like I have never felt before. It’s something I never really got about Islam until then.  In that powerful moment, I understood something very beautiful about this ancient religion and how they are trying to engage their people in the best way they know how.  I kind of wish the Catholic prayers were broadcast over a loudspeaker in my neighborhood every night.   But I live in America and you can’t do that there.

It was a wonderful adventure into an ancient land, but the train keeps rollin’ and I head to Marrakesh tomorrow.

Here's Lookin' at You Kid

City of Casablanca

The flight into Casablanca was a complete disaster.  Everything that could go wrong, did.  The plane was late due to “significant mechanical errors;” not the best thing to hear before boarding.  Once on board, I switched seats with a man so he could sit next to his wife.  His seat was in the exit row, with significantly more legroom (a blessing for a 6’+ guy like myself), but it was in the middle seat between two gals in hajibs.  Trying to be a gentleman, I tried to compress my broad shoulders from overtaking these two girls’ personal space.  The three-hour flight turned into four hours for some reason—air traffic maybe, who knows.

Graffiti around Casablanca

We arrived in Casablanca at 2:00 am.  After breezing through immigration, I sat and waited for another hour before my bag finally came out.  Once it did, I was out the door and jumping into an overpriced taxi (I’ve gotten used to this from airports).  However, before I did, a group of scraggily-looking Europeans with backpacks came slobbering up to me begging to share a cab into Casablanca.  I looked at them for a moment and remembered all those times when I was in their shoes and had to figure it out on my own.

With one foot in the backseat of the cab, I look at them and said:

“Sorry boys, I’m a lone wolf.  You’ll figure it out.”

I watched their sunken faces disappear as we sped off into the Moroccan desert.  The sky was dark, but the half-moon pierced through the cayenne-red clouds that churned ominously above the desert horizon.  It was hot outside, but desert oasis hot.  The highway was lined with tall streetlights that ran on until they merged itno a single beam of light guiding us into Casablanca.

Casablanca, Morocco

Casablanca is like any other city I’ve been in recently. There are shanties outside the city, tall buildings in the center and a variety of shops and restaurants that line the sidewalks.  We passed a restaurant called “O’Tacos.”  Underneath the name it said “Traditional French Tacos.”  You try and figure that one out.

The hotel wasn’t too bad, but wasn’t too good.  The room was giant and had a kitchenette and a view looking out toward the Hassan II Mosque and the Atlantic coast.  The shower was just a shower faucet that was attached to the wall of the bathroom with a drain underneath it.  It wasn’t ideal, but I’ve been in this situation before.  A quick shower and I was in bed, watching Arabic soap operas, trying to fall asleep.

About 30 minutes later, the doorbell of the room rang.  A voice outside said, “Service.  Open the door please.”

Hassan II Mosque.  Also home to the oldest university in the world (older than Oxford)

It took me aback for a moment.  I didn’t order anything and it was 4:00 in the morning.  This was probably an attempted robbery.  I went up to the door and politely told him through the door, double-checking the deadbolt was locked, that I didn’t order anything and I was sleeping.  He grumbled for a few minutes outside the door and then disappeared. I went to the bathroom and locked the ajar window, grabbed both my knives and went back to bed.

I was finally drifting off to sleep when the obvious, but completely overlooked, happened.  Morning prayers blasted over the loudspeakers from the nearby mosque.  I had experienced this every day when I was growing up in Indonesia, but for some reason had completely forgot.  They only last a few minutes, but it snapped me back to the days of my youth.  Allah Awakbah (God is great).

Needless to say, I slept in, but was out of the hotel by 11.  I had only a few hours before I headed off on the train to Fes, so I wanted to walk around as much as I could.  I left my bags with the concierge, grabbed my camera and headed toward the Hassan II Mosque.

I love going to see mosques.  There is such unique architecture and decorations that differ from the churches I have seen across the world.  This was no exception.  It was extensively domineering and with such detail.  I marveled at it for an hour, snapping pictures as I walked the grounds.  From there, I went to the coast to see the Atlantic, but I didn’t have time to stick around.

While riding the train to Fes, I have to laugh a little about that old Bogart movie “Casablanca.”  First off, it was filmed in Hollywood and there was only one Moroccan actor in the entire movie.  It painted this third-world chaos in the thirties (and it may have been that way then).  But now, it is just another modern city, a beautiful one at that.  So as the train pulls out of the station, all I can say to Casablanca is “Here’s looking at you kid.”