I guess one needs to return often to see all. How come I never realized that the sidewalks are washed off each morning? Water pushes out of manholes. Trucks hose down other areas. The gutters become canals. This is probably necessary to clean the dog poop away. Think how much worse it would be if they did it Los Angeles style. One sweeper a week, with luck. The French must be the most dog crazy, dog dominated people on earth. Imagine my bemusement as I walked by the Burger King on Rue St. Michel and a black Great Dane sat with his head over the table of his owner. “Three Whoppers, please.” One unclipped poodle with a muzzle was doing his thing on the sidewalk when his elderly lady owner saw what was happening. Chattering embarrassedly she drug him off toward the street, but it was too late. That’s one more pile now to step over. She tried to obey the signs I noticed, again for the first time. It is painted on the sidewalk. A poodle type dog with arrow underneath pointing to the gutter.

Waiting for the Flight to Boracay Island, Philippines, June 2002

I was sitting in the waiting lounge of the domestic airport, waiting for flight 883, Asian Spirit, Manila to Caticlan. I heard something about runway closed, we were going to Kalibo. OK, just an added two-hour drive to Caticlan, and the flight was to take off two hours late. Half day wasted. Waiting, I bought a copy of “The Enquirer”. First page, small article, “Extra security added at Boracay as precaution against kidnappings.” If it was designed to reassure foreign tourists that they were safe, I expect the affect was the opposite. I just shrugged, figured it as another adventure in life, but did decide not to rent a mountain bike and venture off onto the dirt roads on the east side of the island alone. I stuck to running along the populated beach, swimming close to the hotel. I did take the banca trip around the island, told the boatmen to watch out for Abu Sayyaf kidnappers.

Asian Spirit Airlines, June 2002

As I was jogging along the white sand beach, 8:20 am, I saw the Asian Spirit turboprop coming into Caticlan airport, as scheduled. “Good,” I thought, the runway was open, maybe I would not have to put up with the hassle of flying out of Kalibo, other end of Panay Island. Next morning I was reading the Manila paper. Back pages, “Plane Overshoots Caticlan Runway, Malay, Aklan—Fear gripped the 40 passengers and crew members of an Asian Spirit plane after the two-engine aircraft overshot the runway at Caticlan airport shortly after it landed about 8:20 am Wednesday.” The airport was closed for five hours. The runway is 834 meters long, 30 meters wide. No jets allowed. When getting on the flight back to Manila I joked with the check-in clerk about crashing the plane on Wednesday. He smiled, “Blew at tire.” The tires did not look all that great as I walked past them to the ramp and boarded the plane.

Mexico Progress, March 2003

I remember one of my first impressions of Mexico nearly forty years ago was that busses broke down frequently. You needed patience to use them. This bus ran just fine, but every time we entered or exited a town or city, turning corners mostly, the horn sounded without mercy. The driver kept up an animated discussion about the problem with several young men standing behind him, but smiled on. Driving out of Aguascalientes I thought about how Mexico has changed in four decades. In spite of so many problems, busses are still not perfect, there is continuing poverty, instability, and a hard life in general for too many, economic progress has been made. The roads are better. Cities continue expanding with housing developments and industrial zones. More things are available in markets, stores. Even two-star hotels (my kind) have cable TV. Globalization has arrived. In l965 there were no McDonald’s. Now Big Macs proliferate, along with recent arrivals Wal-Mart, Sam’s Club and Costco. The age old distrust of U.S. enterprise has largely disappeared and markets have been opened. Little kids now happily play with the same cheap Chinese made toys children use in Los Angeles.

Zacatecas, March 2003

I hiked up lots of steps to find the back entrance of El Eden mine. No longer a working mine this was one of the largest mines in the world at one time, was mined for four centuries. A young lady was my guide as we walked into the tunnel. The lower levels are flooded with up to 300 meters of dark blue, mineral laden water. She noted that at one time five to ten men died daily in the mine. Under Spanish rule the Indians were forced into servitude, starting at the age of ten or twelve, working long hours, breathing toxic air, suffering from accidents, living short lives. No explosives were used, but it was still dangerous toil. They have several shrines inside, lighting to see veins of ore, path well laid out.

“Can a Bee Get Dizzy in a Car”, Spain, July 2003

Traveling with an eight-year old is not easy. They have almost endless energy; lots of questions. I’m not sure what prompted the question, possibly our bus ride on Saturday to Peña de Francia, La Alberca and Miranda del Castañar, when several of our group were rather sick from the ride over winding mountain roads.. Also, we had to put up with several visits inside the bus by bees and wasps. “What would we do if there wasn’t any dirt?” asked Christian a day later.

Home of the Mariachi, Guadalajara, September 2003

Home of the Mariachi is Guadalajara. Home for the Mariachi in Guadalajara is the Plaza de los Mariachis. My last visit to this holy site was scary. It was not a place to be late at night, where and when I was. I decided to give it another chance, it was not much past 8 pm, I could take a taxi back to the San Francisco Plaza Hotel. Walking quickly, via the Plaza Tapatia, I walked the length of the short street that is packed with lower category eateries, plastic tables and Mariachi uniformed musicians. I found a restaurant, placed my back to the wall outside, ordered a Corona, took in the scene. An aged drunk sat on steps to one side, opened a paper sack, swigged a 375 ml bottle, returned to his half-sleep boozed posture, head slumped. I picked a fried fish from the menu, “Lisa”, said the waiter. By the time it came I needed another beer. By then I had also said no to a dozen vendors, a pretty teenager with baby, hand open and pleading, three or four more beggars. A bedraggled, skinny, but very polite and smiling musician set his marimba up ten feet away, concentrated on entertaining a visiting Mexican tourist. After first saying “No gracias” to the marimba player’s plastic cup, I felt guilty, waved him over for a ten peso coin. At times he was almost drowned out by the mariachis playing down the street; the Banda music blaring on a restaurant sound system. The mariachis, over a dozen strong, composed of several groups, were doing the whole songbook of Jalisco mariachi music. A Tuesday night, business was slow. Even on weekends there are always more musicians than needed. After the Plaza Mariachi (or Plaza Garibaldi in Mexico City for that matter), one understands the concentration of workers each morning across from Home Depot at Playa Vista in Los Angeles. But, the mariachis have costumes, carry a battered trumpet, guitar, guitarron, or requinto, and work at night. Finishing the forty peso fish, the second beer, I headed off, in the wrong direction, for the hotel. After passing the “Lipstick” and several other bars that clearly bespoke their principal business was “chicas”, not food and drink. I decided it was time to flag a taxi. The driver confirmed my assessment that this was not a good place to take an evening stroll.

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Bali Threatened, Bali, Indonesia,February, 2000

One of the most beautiful places in the world struggles to stay intact versus outside encroachment. Written about decades ago as a scenic wonder, it has long been a favored destination for the adventurous traveler. Artists, scholars have found it conducive to their careers to spend time here among the friendly, religious, hard working locals. But a threat of overdevelopment and the ruin of another paradise comes from the hordes of bargain seeking Australian, German and Japanese tourists who find their way here, increasingly enticed by low airfares, low paid manpower and warm weather year round. In the 70’s, Germans usually chose southern Spain. Today they can fly non-stop, spend two weeks bronzing themselves beside a pool or the beach for the same price, and it sounds better in Stuttgart or Trier to explain that their tans were gotten in tropical Bali in January. I am probably the only American at the Century Mabisa Inn, Legian, Kuta, Bali, Indonesia. Most of the other guests here are older Germans or younger Japanese. The Japanese are off touring and shopping. The Germans are here at the hotel reading Danielle Steele in German, sitting by the pool, drinking beer. The Germans win the tanning contest, the Japanese for variety of hair color and style of clothing. Correction—the “Germans” are Dutch.

Bandit Taxi, Jakarta, Indonesia, February, 2000

Flight 407 on Garuda from Bali to Jakarta was one-fourth full, a DC-10, and it was an easy hour, forty minute ride. Exiting the terminal a hustler offered taxi service. “Where you go? I have taxi.” I thought he was taking me to the line of Blue Bird taxis at the curb, but was wrong. With one fellow grabbing my two bags we were off for the parking lot. Before I could complain, change my mind, the bags disappeared into the trunk of an orange heap of metal that looked like it had been rescued for one last journey from a junkyard. A guard stopped us as the driver fired up. He protested that he was a taxi driver, the disbelieving officer wanted to stop him, but looking at me and seeing no panic on my face, he stood there as we drove off. Fumbling in his pocket, he asked if I could pay the 2000 rupiah for parking. I gave him a 20,000 note, less than $3, and he said this would count toward my 80,000 bill. Two kilometers rattling down the highway we pulled into a gas station. More of the 20,000 was invested. As we sputtered off, gas fumes coming through the floorboards, I noted wires hanging, and strange noises coming from the back. The window was rolled down and the breeze was welcome. Landscaping along the toll road was orderly, people were fishing in ponds, rice paddies had been planted recently. Jakarta lay in the distance, where I noted a pall of air pollution. Two 2000 toll stops and one 3000 gate later and we were in the midst of famed capital city traffic, Asian style. One thing that worked well on the car was the horn. My driver used it as if he were truly important, trying to bully crowded busses, motorbikes and “bagags”, pronounced bajay, without discrimination. The bagag is an Indonesian version of a Thai Tuk Tuk, three wheels, one lung, noisy pollution machines that the local government is trying to ban. I said a silent prayer or two, not completely confident that I was not being hijacked. I took comfort as we went by the Ciputra Hotel, got into familiar territory and the driver assured me that he knew where the Cipta Hotel was. Sure enough it finally loomed ahead and we pulled in front. A look of surprise from the guard and two porters greeted me. They did not know whether to laugh or get angry. This would-be taxi driver had obviously pulled off a successful bandit job. Smiling at me they circled the car, shook their heads, questioned the driver. I gave them a “wai”, grinned and said, “I made it”. Next time I’ll take the Blue Bird, air conditioned Toyota.

Leveling Out, Spain, February, 2004

I was listening to the chatter of high school students on their way to Spain for a summer session studying Spanish on the Delta Airlines flight from Atlanta to Madrid. They sounded like a typical group of American kids, speaking Valley talk, excited, lots of “yeahs, ya know, omygosh”. I guessed they were not from LA or even southern California—no diversity, all white. As we were leaving the plane one girl asked another where she was from. “Sherman, Georgia”, she responded. “And you?” she asked. “Baton Rouge.” It must be MTV, TV in general, movies, music, but where have regional differences in accent gone?

Impressive, Salamanca, Spain, February, 2004

We were standing in the Plaza Mayor in Salamanca, cold, but the sun shining. The students were noting first impressions. What scored highest? Storks. “Have you seen the storks?” The large birds are not found on the tops of churches in LA, like here in Spain. Later a local explained that there were more storks in Salamanca than ever. Much more basura, garbage, with prosperity. No longer do they migrate for the winter to Africa. They live the good life in their large, messy nests atop the local churches, sometimes clacking loudly, other times swooping and gliding through the dry air of their favorite city.

Esmaltador, Salamanca, Spain, March, 2004

I walked into the small salesroom of Jose Enrique Reina, “Esmaltador,” enamellist artist, in Salamanca. His religious icons, crucifixes, virgins, are seen in his shop window and in tourist stores around the city. The 80-year old artist, in blue smock, with dark, gnarled fingers and craggy face, looked at me and smiled and said, “De California”. It has been over a dozen years since I last dropped in and took a photograph of him working at his desk. His son, who now does most of the production, said it was my Akruba Australian hat that his father remembered. The old man still spends most days at his studio with his yapping pest of an Airedale, who only stops barking when being petted. When I stopped the stroking and tickling I got a threatening growl and light nip to my leg. Father cut off a piece of copper and son pounded the date 14-03-2004, and nailed it to the back of a seven-inch high crucifix in blue that goes to Josefina’s mother for her 80th birthday.

Jamon and Mustard, Salamanca, March, 2004

If you want to shock a Salamanca barman, ask for mustard when you order a bocadillo of the prized Jamon Iberico, Iberian ham. This I did, partly to see the reaction, partly to see if it did indeed add flavor to the prized local favorite. He went to the woman in the kitchen, gesticulated with arms and mouth and after some searching by the lady returned with two small packets of the yellow condiment. He plopped them on the counter, disgustedly, walked off. A sign on the wall vividly announced that this sandwich was a specialty at the Café Novelty: and, I was ruining one of the region’s most famous products. The plumpish, older Salmantino was much relieved, smiling and talkative, when he saw that the mustard was untouched when I had finished my late night snack.

The Global Soul, Atlanta, Georgia, February 2004

I have managed on this trip (I write from the Sam Adams stop at Atlanta’s Hartsfield Jackson Airport), to finish Paul Theroux’s Honolulu Hotel. It is his usual snappy view of the world as seen through the eyes of a fictional hotel manager and ex-fiction writer. You always wonder how much autobiography is included in his fiction. Hawaii as interpreted by the writer, who divides his time when home between New England and the tropical isles, is a world crossroads, where frontiers blur, nationalities are defined and lost. And, John Kennedy as father of the illegitimate wife of the protagonist is a great touch. I am now well into Global Soul, by Pico Iyer, my second most favorite travel writer. His is a more focused interpretation of the question of globalization of culture, people. He himself is a person almost without country, Indian heritage, British grammar school educated, legal resident alien of Santa Barbara, now calling suburban Japan as his home. His chapter on LAX, how he decided to live there for a few days, tells much about my next stop that I know too well, but find from the book that there is still much to be seen in the 2004 version of Ellis Island.

Hofbrauhaus, Munich, Germany, March 1991

I am not too original when it comes to visiting Munich. I just got here, found the Einhorn Hotel close to the station, checked in, and here I sit—after a short stroll—in the world’s most famous beer hall, the Haufbrauhaus. A mass of beer now costs $5.25. It is early, 8:20 pm, so it is relatively tame. The Germans are having the best time, as usual. Even at this time of year, 50% of the customers are tourists. I am here to visit the offices of Studiosus Reisen, leading student travel organization in Germany. As parent company of half of the programs offered by the Los Angeles Community Colleges overseas I need to touch bases, renew acquaintances, and get inside info on what’s happening in the travel business. I just hope I do not have to ride again with boss Werner Kubsch. I am happy that I am here only one working day. Werner is a master businessman, with his doctorate in art history is a great travel guide, but who needs the terror of sitting in his Audi and having the sh__ scared out of you as he lectures and points out important historical sights while the speedometer hits 190 kph on the autobahn? As I sit in this giant beer joint the band is going strong. They all have great bodies, spindly legs, beer bellies, ruddish complexions. I do not see a jogger in the bunch. The waitress is a German doll, small, lively, short blond hair, friendly, and 80 years old, plus or minus a couple.

Animals Attack, Siem Riep, Cambodia, May 1999

Twice on this trip I have been attacked by local animals while running. In Singapore I went for a short run from my hotel, the Westin Stamford, down the road, across the river, through the boat quay restaurant district, by the Raffles, and back to the hotel. Though Singapore is a wealthy, sophisticated city, it has remnants of the past surviving in the midst of all the modernity. Running through a park like preserve of open space I spied a rooster and several kittens with their mother. The cats scurried off. Not so the white cock, who deliberately headed right toward me. As I ran past I paid little attention, but was startled when I felt something hit my leg. At first I thought it was a small dog. I have never been chased by a fowl while running. I turned to see this gruff fellow, head held high, proud of his statement of ownership that had transpired. Several days later, after spending a hot, sweaty day traversing monuments in the vicinity of Angkor Wat, I decided to run down the elephant path at Phnom Bakheng, a hill popular as a lookout for the sun setting to the west, and viewing Angkor Wat as this happens. I did well in running with the kids who had pestered me up and down the mound of ruins. As I headed out onto the flats at the bottom of the hill again I felt a bump on my leg, as if a small dog had attacked. This time it was. Two short mutts had taken offense to my disturbing the slow pace of life among the peddlers and tourists. It was not a very vicious attack, I did my usual “hiya guys”, and ran on.

Caribbean Cruise, June l999

“My vacation is over,” said four-year old Christian last night. We were in the evening of our final day before heading home, at the Gallery Inn, old San Juan, Puerto Rico. After two nights at this funky, $145 per night, plus tax, art gallery/hotel on Calle Narzagaray overlooking El Morro Fort and the Caribbean, seven nights on the Monarch of the Seas, Royal Caribbean Line, we were at the end of a busy, informative and fun holiday. Much of the time was spent managing Christian, but fortunately he liked “the school,” the Kids Konnection, child care operation that kept him busy for up to eight hours a day. And, he needs to be kept busy. He doesn’t need much fuel, but has to be entertained constantly. When we picked him up one midnight the high school science teacher in charge said, “He has lots of energy, doesn’t he.” He got used to answering the question, “What’s your name?” Once I saw him say “Christian” and raise his hand with four fingers showing no need to ask the second question. Our cabin was cramped and inside, that we could turn around in with cooperation from the rest of the family. The bathroom dictated one at a time use. The TV was mostly hustle to sell tours, the casino, art auction, $120 massages, and beauty treatments. As advertised you can pig out on a cruise. The food was B to B+ in quality. Service was very friendly. When they make most of their money from $75 per head per cruise tips, they pour on the charm. The crew was international. Hakan, our waiter, was from Turkey. Assistant waiter John was a 30-year old from Newcastle, the head waiter came from India. We left San Juan at 10:30 pm Sunday evening, arrived in the morning at St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. Next day was Martinique. Then to Barbados, then next day in Antigua, followed by St. Maarten, a day at sea, and back to Puerto Rico. Some surprises for me. They drive on the left in the Virgin Islands, though cars are mostly American with steering wheel on the left. Martinique is a full fledged part of France, has an abundance of attractive women, mixing African beauty, some French blood and a strong French sense of style. Lots of poverty on these islands, populated by the descendents of slaves brought to work cane fields. Most places we visited were dry, not so tropical, but hot and humid. Life is slow, population scarce, cost of living high. The French share St. Maarten Island with the Dutch. Five thousand Indians fill in the population on the Dutch side, mostly working as proprietors of souvenir and jewelry shops. On the French side French run the businesses. The Dutch part of the island is part of the Dutch West Indies, or Netherlands Antilles. Two radio stations in St. Maarten, one for St. Martin. One of the two on the Dutch part is a Christian evangelical station. Though Dutch is the official language everyone seems to use English. We visited the Mt. Gay rum distillery in Barbados, after a tour of the island. With the decline of sugar production tourism has become the biggest money maker for most islands. We docked at all ports except St. Maarten where we had to use tenders as shuttles to shore. They have wonderful, clear blue water, but we did not get to a beach. Getting a tan was more important to the folks from New Jersey and North Carolina. Josefina is already thinking about how to afford a cruise of the Greek Isles next summer.

Maria Mercedes, Jakarta, October l994

I am sitting in the waiting lounge at Soeharto Hatta Airport, Jakarta, Garuda 946 sits a few feet away, but obviously will be at least an hour late getting out of here. On the television is nothing less that “Maria Mercedes,” Mexican soap opera. It is one of the early episodes before Talia puts on clean clothes; she fills out the rags well, however. “Carousel” was on the other night. It’s good to see that Hollywood no longer has a monopoly on melodramas. Mexican TV travels easily. I maintain that having an ending gives their soaps an advantage over the endless American programs. Who wants to wait 30 years to see how it turns out?

Garuda, Taipei, October l994

My first impression of Garuda Airlines some years ago was negative. After my flight to Taipei, it still is -- over an hour late, so-so food, a packed flight. I was crammed into the middle of what must have been the Senior Citizens Club of Taipei. Sometimes being culturally sensitive is not easy. Slurping food, pushing and shoving, not waiting for the plane to stop before getting into overhead bins, elbows in my side, etc., etc.

Taipei – A First Impression, Taipei, October l994

My contact with Taiwan previously was several stops in Taipei on the way to someplace else. My first chance to appraise the city was a midnight $56 taxi ride to the Lai Lai Sheraton. Chiang Kai-Shek Airport is about 40 minutes out by toll road. I glimpsed the Grand Hotel as we entered the city. Judging by what I could see, this was not the Third World. My first surprise was motor scooters. Thousands of them; whizzing, darting, speeding. No helmets for 80% of the riders, just as many girls as guys. I saw one chubby man cut in front of a lady with another girl rider on the back, knocking them down. It was scary but not too much damage was done. Crossing streets as a pedestrian is dicey. Scooters may be low on the vehicular totem pole, but have it over people on foot. Watch out!

Not A Tourist Stop, Taipei, October l994

This was definitely a working visit. On Wednesday I had an easy morning, trying out the gymnasium in the hotel, sleeping late. For the most expensive hotel in town one would expect a better exercise facility. Two or three exercycles didn’t work, the swimming pool is little more than an oversized bathtub and the rooftop jogging track is enough to make one dizzy. Wednesday afternoon I had a meeting with the head of a local business college. In the evening I took a walk of the city, saw the CKS Memorial, very impressive, concert hall on one side, theater on the other and memorial hall at the far end of the square. Massive construction dominated, with style obviously related to Korea. Who copied whom I do no know, but the scale is massive, much larger than one sees on the multicolored temples of Korea. Thursday and Friday I rode a bus to the International Education Fair. After three years of cajoling by the promoters I was talked into going this year. It was interesting and impressive to see a country that gives first place importance to education. We visited Christ’s College, National Chengchi University, the World College of Journalism and Communication, the affiliated high school of National Taiwan University, and another school that I forget the name of. Friday evening I was taken to a language “cram school”. The director was an extra hard working fellow, like most Taiwanese, they have a busy, large facility with huge classes. They specialize in exam preparation. Teachers stand on a platform, use a microphone, go over written lessons that are not very creative, but it works. The school does GMAT, TOEFL, SAT and Taiwanese test preparation.

Rotary Meeting, Taipei, October l994

I made up on Wednesday at the hotel with a combined meeting of seven local Rotary Clubs. The speaker was the Taipei mayor, Huang Ta-Chow, who gave a campaign speech. I did not understand his words of course, but did not need to. He made lots of promises, surprise. He is running for election on the Kuomintang party ticket. He was appointed and now has to run for what is apparently a first open election. A young lady from Rotaract interpreted for me. But most of the Rotarians at my table spoke some English. I got two banners and a photo of myself shaking hands with the mayor.

Caught, Home, June l997

For several weeks Christian has been playing a game. He wakes up, usual smile on his face, stretches his arm out and hands me something. I reach out and thank him for this imaginary gift. Figuring it to be something to eat, I obligingly put it to my mouth, say “uumm, good, thank you.” He smiles again. How great it is that kids have such an imagination, I have been thinking. Showing how imagination is often based on reality, however, I realized several days ago that this two-year old was being generous and making his gesture just after I had picked my nose.

Happy Birthday, Home, November l997

With so much information to absorb a 2 ½ year-old must have a time keeping everything straight. Christian has recently taken a liking to singing. He also is working on counting to ten. So, we were not surprised to hear him singing a favorite song the other day. “Happy birthday to, three.”

Full Fare, Mexico City, l998

I now understand why airlines charge full fare for 2-year-olds. Our trip to Mexico with this bundle of energy was not easy. Fortunately, the couple in front of us on the United Airlines flight was Mexican. They had more tolerance for children than most gringos would have. He was all over the place, opening and closing the table, jumping up and down on the seat, looking over at the people behind—a genuine hassle. As the plane began to descend for a landing in Mexico City, he went to sleep.

Mugging in Madrid, March l991

I have for the most part gotten over the shock of my first mugging. It was not pleasant. Ignoring my usual advice about being careful while traveling, I was walking through the Puerta del Sol in Madrid. It was early by Spanish standards, 9:30 pm. My hotel, the Euromadrid, was nearby, behind Preciados Galerias department store. As I came out onto the plaza a young Spaniard, about 19 or 20 years old, asked me the time. I said 9:20 in Spanish. It did not make sense in a way when he said, “You’re not Spanish.” I said “No”. Four minutes later I turned into Calle Vittoria. It was dark but there were people around and I was looking for a place to eat tapas. My guard was down; I had no reason to be carrying my new leather travel, shoulder bag made in Uruguay. Inside was my camera, passport, airline ticket, address book, datebook, photos of Josefina and Ryan, the picture of the Virgin Mary that Josefina makes me take on trips. I also had a few of the new, interesting coins from Portugal and Spain. I think I was in front of the ticket office for the bullfights, but not certain. I could hear several people coming fast a split second before I was hit from behind. I had just begun to turn. One thug, the one who asked the time, hit me in the head. Another jerked hard on the bag and knocked me down. I grabbed for the bag, but one of the youths threw my glasses to the side. This was my first concern. I had a hand on the bag, it was yanked free and thrown to someone off to the side. For several seconds it was not clear what was happening. I think I got hit once more. I ended up with a bruised lip and slight bump on the head. I screamed “You son of a bitch” at the one fellow who had hit me. I chased him six or seven blocks. I started shouting “Policia”, hoping he would run past a cop. People looked startled as we both ran past. He stopped at one point, thinking he had lost me. He turned around, saw me coming and took off again. Even in street shoes I could probably have caught him, but what then? I turned a corner and could not see him. A Spaniard said, “He went that way.” In shock I walked several blocks more. I told a couple what had happened and they took me to the nearest Comisaria, or police station, at Retiro. I had to wait 20 minutes to file a Denuncio, a report. I was let into the office inside and treated politely, but casually. This was obviously a common thing. The two officers were only mildly concerned about my plight. The one officer made me complete the paperwork a second time. I had computed lost property value where he was supposed to put his stamp. Going back to the place where it happened I hoped to find something. I had grabbed my cap and ran with it in my hand. My scarf had been lost, my wallet and two hidden pouches were ok. They only got a $20 travelers check and the coins in money. The worst thing is the feeling of being violated. You are angry, you blame yourself for being stupid; you fantasize about catching the kid and kicking his butt. But there is nothing you can do. I was relieved to find my Eurailpass in my shirt pocket the following day. I was also happy to discover 20 DM and 50 Francs I had in my belt pouch. I, too, found that my travel clock, alarm calculator was in my coat pocket. I still have the strap to my bag. I returned to the hotel and told the men at the desk that I had been assaulted. They said the police had called and they had my passport. I headed back to the station. They handed me my passport, I signed a receipt and nothing more was said. It is almost as if the police have an understanding with the muggers. Throw out the passport, just take the valuables. To get my airline ticket back I had to go to the TWA office in Paris, costing me $50. I had paid $10 for the frequent flier ticket originally. I have learned a lesson. Hundreds of student travelers are destined to hear my tale of being mugged in Madrid.

Foreigners This Line, Monterey, July 2005

Standing in line at Immigration at the airport in Monterey, Mexico I looked around and a question arose without much effort. One line was for Mexican citizens. The other was for “Extranjeros,” foreigners. Both were equal in length. I with my US passport was in line with Josefina and Christian in the foreigner’s line. I think, however, that I was the only one who was obviously foreign. With myself as the soul exception my line was composed of people who looked like they belonged in the other line, except that they were carrying the same blue passports the Cultons had in hand. I told Josefina to look around and tell me what was wrong with the situation. She smiled and said, “We are all traitors.” It has long been a problem for Mexico to have Big Brother to the north.

To Flush Or Not To Flush, Jalisco, August 2005

There are two worlds here in San Antonio Tlayacapan, Jalisco: the Mexican and the foreign. This happens any place in the country where tourists and ex-pats congregate. One source of confusion has always been toilets. Mexican plumbing traditionally has featured small pipes that plug easily. Hence, toilet paper for Mexicans has since the arrival of the flush toilet been assigned to the waste paper basket. The thought of used toilet paper not being flushed does not sit right with Americans and Europeans. We are accustomed to efficient plumbing. At one restaurant a sign was posted in English, “Toilet paper in waste basket please.” But, at the University of Guadalajara language program, where most students are Americans, the sign reads, “Please place toilet paper in toilet.” Mixing cultures always creates confusion.

Sixty-Five and Still Learning, Thailand, December 2005

In last week’s Pattaya Mail, the Ex-Pat paper published in several languages other than Thai, there was coverage of the “International Beauty Queen 2005” contest. My first thought was that this might be the contest Mike Yamano had sent me to in Tokyo years ago. I decided it was not. The winner was a blond bombshell from Illinois. Judging from the pictures I thought the first runner up from Thailand or second runner up from the Philippines were prettier. The American was far bustier, perhaps better to capture the attention of the judges. I failed to read the entire story, especially the important last two paragraphs that clarified who the participants were. A new edition of the paper was out yesterday and again the pageant was mentioned, as a great success and big tourism boost for Pattaya. It was also helping to create a better image for “transsexuals.” Thinking harder I realized why this was the “Beauty Queen” contest, not “Miss International” contest.

Tolerance, Jomtien Beach, December 2005

I pride myself on being open minded, tolerant; sometimes even overly patient. I have just settled in to my beach chair under a large blue umbrella on Jomtien Beach, decided after a week in Thailand I should catch up on my journal writing. After twenty minutes my patience for pesky hawkers (sunglasses, fruit, coffee, watches, lunch, hats, massage) is being tested. But, it is warm, not hot, the water inviting, lots of people watching possible. An international jet ski competition is on down the beach a km or so. A blonde, sounds Italian, is standing in the sun with her feet in the water facing me, with very large, probably augmented, and uncovered breasts protruding. An older, tanned Australian accented gentleman sits with his young, small Thai boyfriend, two rows of chairs ahead. Behind him a Brit, friend of the Aussie, equally tanned but by himself, sits with CD and earphones, listening to Mozart. I now have a new couple to my left, un-tanned European, maybe German, sitting with his young man, who sits twiddling with his cellphone. The only ones bugging me are the two younger couples who just took the four chairs to my right. I picked this location because I was not surrounded by people. After taking their tops off, the ladies, smallish breasts, obviously just got here from Russia judging by the skin tone, promptly lit up cigarettes, the smoke coming my way, and their cellphones started playing irritating ringtones every few minutes. The hardest thing for me to take, however, testing my liberalism, is the thong bikini that one of the Russian husbands has up the crack of his ass that makes my Speedos look conservative. Think it is time to move.

He Only Spoke I-Saan, Bangkok, March 2006

Anon Nakornthab and I were discussing how hard it was to learn Thai. In particular, like Chinese, tone is important to get right and hard for foreigners to hear, let alone use. Pramote’s son told me how he was being followed by a friendly dog in Nongkhai. Not needing another pooch he turned and firmly told him to “Sit,” in Thai. The dog paid no attention, continued on. He had used central Thai pronunciation and tone for “Nang,” sit. Again he tried, “Nang”, but in I-Saan, almost the same to me but lower and softer. The dog sat.

Boyztown, Pattaya, April 2006

I wonder what Father Flanagan would say if he saw “Boyztown,” in South Pattaya. This street I guarantee you could not find copied in Omaha.

The Trees Are Numbered, Tokyo, June 2006

My opinion that Japan is an obsessive country is reinforced. Here at the National Olympic Youth Center in Tokyo the trees are numbered. As we unloaded our students from the bus from Narita I noted that we were across from #267. Why? In fact, most of the trees are thus cataloged along the road leading into this complex.

Bottom Of The Food Chain, Ajijic, July 2006

Circuses have not been a major part of my life. I remember going to the Clyde Beatty Circus as a kid, I think with my father. Another time I saw the big time Barnum & Bailey Circus. I took Ryan once, again I guess Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey. On Friday I noticed a big red tent in the parking lot at Tobolandia, the water park down the road. The circus was in town. Several times during the day a battered Ford truck passed by, loudspeakers blaring, announcing the event. It features an Anaconda from Brazil. With a snake as headliner you have a hint that this is not the major leagues. While bike riding in the afternoon I checked out the circus from outside. The animals that were towed behind the truck were there, a smallish black bear, a tiger, a black panther. The sight would cause convulsions for animal rights activists. Empty water pans, small bleak cages, listless, bored animals. A llama, donkey, a barking dog could be seen, kids were playing among the pick-ups, trailers, clothes were hanging up drying, men were doing various chores. Everything bespoke subsistence living, people, animals, show, were just surviving. As we were walking down the road to Tobolandia Saturday evening Christian said this was his first time to see a circus. He had heard that they had clowns that were funny. With the performance starting at 8:45 pm there were a dozen people waiting at eight, perhaps five cars in the parking lot. At nine the “Circo Alegre” was on. A blond came out, selling the light tubes kids like, for 10 pesos. A few minutes later, in tights, she was swinging from a trapeze. A tiger, the one in the cage, was introduced, jumped s small hurdle, stood, two legs, on a pedestal, the handler made it growl. The bear ran around the one ring, jumped the pole, went back to its cage. A donkey, a buffalo and a camel (named Osama Bin Laden), a pony, and a howler monkey, were paraded. Another lady swung from the trapeze, safety cable attached, one of the two animal handlers took his turn swinging, two clowns, one a dwarf, did a routine or two, the old pail of water on the crowd trick done thousands of times by the Harlem Globetrotters. At intermission the aerialist lady was again pushing the lights. Kids could ride the pony for five pesos, one turn of the ring, popcorn, cotton candy, Coke for sale. The big show we all had waited for was last, the giant reptile. Five or six of the performers, including one of the children, carried the light yellow, ten-foot long snake to the ring. It barely moved, kids were invited to come down and touch it. Christian joined in. He had held a similar Anaconda once at his Montessori School. Its only food is rabbit, so the small children are quite safe. The hundred or less customers, 40 pesos adults, 20 children, filed out, it had been a success, the kids had pleasant memories, the animals and circus had survived another day.

Sydney, May 1990

I’m sitting at an outdoor café, just finishing breakfast in Kings Cross, Sydney. With a star burst fountain at my back, bright sun shining, Japanese newlyweds walking by, fire truck going by, and a hooker working the sidewalk, it’s a spectacular day. The blonde looks used, not too old, white, untanned legs, black heals, fringed top and skirt—poor girl isn’t doing well. But, it is only 10 am. My hotel, Sydney Olim’s, is just down the way, a block into Pott’s Point, avoiding the stigma of being in King’s Cross, the nightlife capital of Sydney. Yesterday morning I had the best city traveling run of my life. I could not sleep past 3:30 am, so was up and running at 6:15. Beautiful morning, I went down the road, past the naval base along the harbor. Through Wooloomooloo, up the road to a point overlooking Sydney Bridge and the Opera House, along the Bay, through the Royal Botanical Gardens (stopped to talk with an unimpressed Cockatiel) great smells, warm, humid air, ran up the stairs of the Opera House, back around the Gardens, past Royal Conservatory of Music, N.S.W. Public Library, Intercontinental Hotel (Japanese tourists taking pictures) back up the stairs, through Potts Point to the hotel. The run beats any—Luxembourg Gardens, Paris, Hyde Park, London, Retiro Park, Madrid, Lumpini Park, Bangkok, Downtown LA—name it.

Watch Out, Sydney, May 1990

I got off the plane at 6:00 am Monday—13 ½ hours direct from LA. Brand new 747 400, which reduced my concern about being on United (planes that peel). But, watch out for those new toilets. Teflon looking covering in bowl, no water standing or seen, small hole. It does not look like it can do the job. Push the lever, however, and the magic of modern engineering takes over. With a slow but determined hissing sound the machine starts building strength, and then, “whooooosh”! Stand back, don’t get sucked in—could really be dangerous to one’s private parts—not life threatening, the hole’s too small, but very thought provoking.

Akubra Hat, Sydney, May 1990

I mentioned to Carolyn Marsh that maybe I would buy one of those Aussie “bush hats”. She said, “Oh yes, an Akubra”. It took me several tries to get the general idea of the pronunciation of the name. Carolyn is a real Aussie lady and her accent gets more than genuine at times. Sounded like “Cudra”, or “Coobra.” I had to see it written before getting it 100%. There is something special about Australian felt hats. Like so many things they are a more complex subject than the ignorant think. Akubra hats have names. Carolyn showed me the Hatters Shop in the Strand Shopping Arcade in the center of the city. After waiting for the Germans to decide they weren’t serious, I fancied “The Boss”, black, with brown leather band. After 15 minutes of stretching on a small rack, steaming, pushing on and pulling off my head, and kneading, the young salesman had it ready for me. A bargain at A$89.95. The shop was full of hats. A Japanese girl bought a powder blue model that looked exactly like those so popular in Japan. At least mine looks like it came from Australia. With hat on head I headed off, with my Italian wool suit, British Clark shoes purchased in London, another contented American tourist. Later I was reading the care instructions when I found that it takes 10-12 rabbit pelts to make one Akubra. Now, I know that rabbits are a plague to Australia. Pets originally, they have multiplied to cancerous proportions without any natural enemies to keep them in check. But, the idea of a dozen furry fellows giving their lives for my one hat makes me consider something made of plastic—but no, that wouldn’t be bio-degradable. I won’t be able to forget the bunnies, but I will wear the Akubra wth pride.

Opera House, Sydney, May 1990

After seeing the seats at the famed Sydney Opera House I agree with comments of others that they are designed to keep one awake, firm, straight backed and unforgiving. The Opera House is one of the most famous buildings in the world. Like sails of a giant ship, it is an architectural triumph. Planned for 10 or so million, it cost A$110. A Danish architect won out, but it apparently was in doubt at times. It is impressive from the outside, but needs to be seen from inside to fully appreciate it. The use of concrete is well done, but the curves, angles and carved features are the most interesting construction. Overlooking the Harbor Circular Quay, the Sydney Bridge, all lighted for added spectacle, it is very impressive.

Rotary Meeting, Sydney, May 1990

The Rotary Club met at the Hyatt Kingsgate Hotel in Kings Cross. A good, all male group, lamb for lunch, and a commercial for soft drinks as the speech of the day. The speaker, a Rotarian from another Sydney club, was an executive for a soft drink producer. In the talk he emphasized that his product was healthy, consumption was on the rise, Coke has most of the market, but others are working hard to gain their share, some interesting information. Much of the talk showed the close commercial ties between Australia and the US.

Bangkok Dog Poop, May l990

I stepped and slid in a soft pile of Thai dog shit, which left me frantically scraping the bottom of my sandal on the sidewalk, some skimpy grass and a stick. It smelled and I could envision walking around all day in the sticky heat of Bangkok trailing this unwanted scent. I was thankful for small puddles of water along the way to slosh my Birkenstocks in. I have stepped in offensive piles before, of course. I remember my first visit to Amsterdam where my number one concern was watching carefully where I placed my feet. With an absence of grassy areas that Dutch city was and probably still is a dangerous place for wandering sightseers. Dog do is a problem that transcends economics, poverty, and affluence. In wealthy countries citizens take their pampered pets for twice daily walks, scouting the best places for their animals to relieve themselves with a maximum of discretion. Often, however, nothing better is possible than in the gutter or against a concrete telephone pole. In third world countries there aren’t lots of poodles on leash. But there is no lack of scraggly, scavenging and pathetic canines. Bangkok’s dogs rank with the grungiest. There seem to be two general types running the streets. One is the short-legged model that looks like a dachshund left with only that part of its genetic make-up that is the legs. The remainder of the animal has longer hair and is a bit plumper than the second variety. This is short-haired, skinny, often with patches of bald, scaley, and sickly looking skin showing. They are either lying flat on their sides, as if exhausted by the fierce mid-day heat, or poking noses through plastic bags ripped open on curbs, contents spread in all directions. Even when running in packs Thai dogs never look very threatening. I cannot imagine either of these two types of mutts leaving the pile I misplaced my foot in. It was far too healthy and deep. Some lady from Amsterdam must live in the vicinity of the Jasmin Hotel in Hwaychang, Bangkok.

Patpong In The Day, Bangkok, May 1990

I was in the middle of Patpong and did not know it. For any tourist who has walked the several hundred meters of this famed center of nightlife, sin and feminine beauty, this would be hard to believe. I was killing time waiting for an appointment and looking for lunch when I wandered in by mistake. The life and color of night hides the drab buildings and bad smells of the daytime. The smell of sewage is one of the more recognizable odors of Bangkok. At night on Patpong the smells of spicy Thai food masks the bad aroma.

Mayan Country, Merida, Mexico, December 2007

This hotel was made for Mayan people. The mirror in the bathroom gave me a good view of my navel. We were on a two-day, overnight trip to Chichen Itza and Merida, Yucatan. At first I said this was our kind of hotel, one star, but now I take back the star. A big splotch of vomit greeted us as we checked in. Nobody seemed in a hurry to clean it up. We chose the better of two rooms, 213, after I noticed the posted price of 230 pesos, $21. For a few pesos more you get TV and air conditioning. Maybe you also get a seat on the toilet; we didn’t. The place looks like it dates from the late 1800’s, has 20 foot high ceilings, lots of “character,” is only a few blocks from the center of the historical zone of a very alive, proud, and prosperous city, La Ciudad Blanca.

Barf Bags, Playa del Carmen, Mexico, December 2007

We waited too long to return from Cozumel to Playa del Carmen. Sub hurricane winds and rain started at 7 pm, our boat was to leave at 8. Standing in the long line it was not looking good, especially as a disheveled and slightly green bunch of passengers disembarked from our ferry. I am sure they were thinking that those poor slobs do not know what they are headed for. As we were hurried aboard, the vessel was heaving against the pier. It was hard to walk without bouncing off walls. Already my stomach was starting to rebel. As we headed for the mainland it got worse, squeals and laughter greeted the extra heavy lurches, people heading to and from the head fell, flopped hard on the floor. The wastebaskets at the end of most rows of seats were empty as we left. I noticed ours had remnants of recently digested lunches. A smiling attendant who had served sodas and beer on the way over was now passing out small plastic bags. The European fellow behind us was one of the first to lose his meal, which caused Josefina to ask for her bag. Christian and I were breathing deeply, trying to ignore the stench and sounds of seasickness all around us. We opened the window a crack, did not want to get drenched from the waves. We were on the second deck. Mercifully the lights of Playa were approaching quickly and we were in calmer water. As we docked after forty minutes of torture Josefina had used three bags, Christian and I got off with just feeling awful. As we headed for shore and passed the long line of victims waiting for their 9 pm departure I was thinking those poor slobs do not know what they are headed for.

Aklan, Boracay Island, Philippines, September 2007

Domestic terminal, Manila, usual crowd, scattering of foreign tourists, headed for Boracay, Puerto Princesa, Cebu Pacific flight full, budget carrier, $62 RT, sell snacks, carrying bag, every extra bit helps, I have flight to Kalibo, students led by Janeth de Jesus meet me, off for town center in Honda tricycle, putt-putt, hot and humid and overcast, wait for van to load with passengers, high speed ride over narrow cement road through different barangays to Ibajay, home for Aklan State University Ibajay campus, one of five, rural development, agriculture, travel and tourism, HRM programs, teacher education, met in town by Janeth’s, pronounced “Janet”, uncle and aunt, he driving well worn and balky tricycle, three stops before finding three San Mig Lights, another couple of tries for food, they settle for a bag of shrimp, off down the road, darkened town, central square almost deserted, low watt lighting, most homes very humble, no screens on open windows, most with color TV dominating, no cable outside of town, two stations, Marimar, the hit novella here, Filipino version, down gravel road, small village, church, school, dogs, kids, kids, chickens, end of road, the family home, welcome the stranger, smiles, I get the one bedroom with a door, sort of, no running water, outhouse outside, Asian style, ceramic surrounded hole, bucket of water and ladle, pictures of graduations, weddings, son, daughter-in-law, baby Justine, cat, smelly dog, chickens out back in coops, grunting, small pig in pen, rice paddies below, coconut palms, banana trees, no air-con, electricity though, TV, dinner of shrimp, rice, pancit (noodles), bananas, rambutan, beer, uncle shares his plastic bottle of coconut wine, not bad, does not taste like coconut, Joy the quiet sister, the head sand castle builder on the beach six or so years ago on Boracay, probably does not talk much because Janeth talks constantly, hard for a younger sister to get a word in, if not talking Janeth is singing, or texting, or both at the same time, all the kids at ASU have cell phones, everyone dresses simply, shorts, flip flops, T-shirts, only a couple of small markets in town, four pawnshops, Western Union, in the morning I manage to shave in the kitchen sink, the girls bath with a bucket in the outhouse, somehow manage to look first rate in school uniforms, take fotos, wave bye to the hospitable and friendly family, off on tricycle with the son driving, curious neighbors wondering at the visitor in their village as we head to town and ASU, led to university hostel, four rooms and a frig, my room has bunk bed and double bed, cable TV, water usually running, air-con, lizards keeping insect population down, mosquitoes, spiders, moths all have easy access through slatted windows, I am guessing that the small piles of poop are from the lizards, did not see any mice, taken to meet university officials, given to Megs, extension coordinator and travel instructor, she a member of Kalibo Rotary Club, lots of projects, plenty of family in California, says teachers make $10 a day at the university, I get front row seat with administrators at Teacher Education Day, students put on show, sound system did not work more than did, warm, kids young, graduate high school at 16, state universities evaluated by US universities as equivalent to community college or two years, Joy among the first year group that performs, lunch with Megs (Melrose), Dean Theadore Rowan, head of campus, busy with government examination, NESDA, here to do accreditation, I get a hello, two minute intro to why I am here, Janeth and four of her fellow HRM students take me for a tour, not much to see, old pier, mute fisherman, boats offshore fishing, small fish, no bait used, dark sand beach, Pearlie points to a mountain where her village is, have to walk into the small, agricultural community that lacks electricity, like Janeth’s tios get water from a well, pump and handle, buckets to carry, five girls leave at hostel, I have dinner at one of the few places possible, “fast food,” not much choice, take cooked Japanese eggplant, small piece of pork chop, mostly fat, rice, chicken for my handler, Deanma, two Pepsis, $2 total, do not see many fat locals, internet café for 20 pesos an hour (at 44=$1), kids playing video games, quiet town, to bed early, two San Mig Lights in frig for me, 500 pesos for the night, $11.50, no breakfast, nobody to take me, should have gone to sari sari store next door, waiting for Rowan, coffee while waiting, slight sore throat and sniffles, lunch at same restaurant with the five girls, two say little, Pearlie and Janeth dominate discussions, all have their phones and cannot go ten minutes without checking, texting, Dean takes me for quick tour of the area, drive through Tagalan, nice 1800’s church, road lined with white painted rocks, clean, neat homes, check several beach hotels, can rent a villa, four rooms, $35 a night, better hotel resort, very nice, beach ok, but nothing around, bring your own food, to Jawili Beach and Falls, seven levels, impressive, picnic area, popular on weekends with locals, talk about bringing students, interested but limited facilities, will have four rooms in hostel, can arrange homestays, good experience for spoiled Americans, leave some at home, could do Ibajay, then on to Boracay for tourist, comfortable experience, the nursing program at Bangna main campus, girls waiting to say goodbye, Janeth in charge of getting me to Boracay, after all vans going by are full settle for a jeepney, famed way of travel in Philippines, problem for the too tall, head hits padded top, squeeze in, kids sitting on strangers’ laps, enjoying the ride, about 30 pesos to Kalibo, 50 minutes, at boat dock, no more boat stations 1, 2 , 3, to pier, tricycle to Jony’s Resort, Janeth says bye, last time to see her, new small hotel next to Jony’s, upgrades in rooms, “Welcome again sir Don,” mostly same staff, no problem finding restaurants, a beer, slow season but everything open, building going on, expansion of Regency, now cable TV in room, Rugby World Cup on, US loses to Samoa, good game, wake in morning to Monsoon winds and rain, no running, no biking, no snorkeling, almost a typhoon, blows full force two days, respite several hours Sunday morning, run on beach, something bites my bare foot, now have itching, hurting toes, Excedrin helps, Campho Phenique does not, visit Lee, Boracay Rotarian at the Real Coffee Café, same old social agenda for her club, much talk, little action, start Mad About the Mekong, book on 1800’s exploration that set the scene for French colonization, sit and watch palms blow in 40-mile winds, rain off and on, only sport possible sky boarding, but only for experts, dogs at dive shop don’t mind, jump, play, run, great place for a dog, same white Labs as on previous trips, Bruno, pizza for dinner at bar down the road, San Mig Pale, disco music same worldwide, wind blows all night, up early to run, but foot hurts from the welts and blisters now showing, running out of Excedrin, breakfast, American with Span for ham, Nescafe, head for a Real Coffee at Lee’s, look for ATM, long wait, one fellow getting money for 10 plus cards, businesses now paying into accounts directly, workers draw from ATM’s, modern times come to Boracay, check out, 8,000 pesos for three nights, $182, Jony’s van to boat dock, 45 cent ride to Caticlan, $3.50 van to Kalibo, past green, photogenic country, rice fields, rice drying on trips along road, old fashioned equipment in fields, caribou, small tractors, tricycles loaded with bags of rice, weather finally good, now that I am going, through Ibajay, Tagalan, life going on, motorbikes, kids coming from school, dogs living dangerously at roadside, sari sari stores, traffic picks up as we enter Kalibo, to airport, no fancy, expensive scanners, just X-ray, pay 20 peso airport tax, lunch in coffee shop, no planes to be seen, PAL flight arrives at 4:05, was going to take it originally but they cancelled the cheap ticket, doubled price, stuff it, 139 passengers get off, six white guys, Cebu Pacific flight arrives after siren signals it’s on the way, MD 80, off at 4;40 pm for the big city.

Train to Leeds, England, June 2007

British Rail is the most apologetic rail system on earth. Maybe it’s because there is a need to be so. But, perhaps it also has to do with the British care and concern for transparency and honesty, especially in the public sector. “I wish to apologize for the late service and any inconvenience this has caused you.” This, as we are arriving in Doncaster from Kings Cross Station, London, 12 minutes late.

“Sell the Car”, from Alan Barraclough, Welford, England, June 2007

Mrs. Barraclough, well into her eighties, one day announced to her older husband that “Whichever one of us goes first, I am going to sell the car.”

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Baptized

Filling out the application for Christian to attend Westchester Lutheran Middle School it asked if he was baptized. Irishman Rev. Rody Gorman took care of that task and I could answer yes, but did not have to note, “As a Catholic.” I could have answered, also, that I too was baptized. I think I was 12 when two of my neighbor boy friends asked me if I wanted to go to a “Magic Show.” My mother asked where, what time, and said OK. It was three blocks down Jaboneria Road at a church. The three of us took front row seats. I can’t remember much about the show, but it was definitely not Vegas quality. Towards the end of the performance a lady came along the front row where close to a dozen kids were seated. She took our names. Soon after, we were led off behind the stage. Given gowns that resembled hospital attire we undressed and without explanation were taken on stage, a preacher did some preaching, led the crowd in prayer and one by one we were led into a big tank of water, the good Reverend put his hands over my mouth and nose and I got dunked. We were congratulated. I imagine some “Amens” were expelled from the congregated evangelicals. We dried off, dressed, and walked out of the Church of Christ in Bell Gardens with a nice certificate duly noting that I was now baptized. With a sheepish grin I showed the paper to my mother when I got home. She occasionally went to church, usually the Westminster Presbyterian with a friend, but was not a serious Christian. Good thing or the pastor down the street would have been in trouble. She was, however, pissed off. In later years she would tell the story and we would all laugh about it. My dad would just give a slight grin. I do not remember him saying more. I still have that certificate filed at home with my important papers.

Bangkok Taxi, Bangkok, May 1990

I am probably reducing my life expectancy by riding in third world taxis. Making the situation safer in Bangkok, however, is the reality that 80% of the time in any vehicle is spent standing still. But once the line of cars moves or opens up, hang on! One wild man displayed amazing skills, bobbing, weaving, squeezing, honking, missing busses, tuk-tuks and motorbikes by inches. And this was just after and before sitting tranquilly in traffic for 10 minutes at a time. The main concern I had was whether his reflexes were really as good as they had to be to show such talent. His size was not the problem—about 95 pounds—my concern was his age. He may have been only 65, but my guess is he was closer to 75. He was fastidious, with great pride in his profession. He’ll die in the seat, this one! He spent some of his waiting moments wiping the steering wheel with a rag. Like a race car driver he wanted his equipment to be in top form. I cannot remember where it was that he took me, but I well remember my heart jumping several times into my throat and being thankful that I survived the experience.

Guatemala, Guatemala City, August 1990

I am just getting my stomach in order after four days of eating whatever I wanted in Mexico. I’ve doubled up on Pepto-Bismol tablets. I wake up in the morning with a black tongue and stained teeth. I took a taxi here. The driver quoted 20 quetzales, accepted 18. Quickly, however, we were stalled behind a procession carrying the Virgin of La Asuncion, heading for Jojotenango. This was fascinating; I got out and took pictures of the procession. At each corner the carriers changed. A colorful bed of grass, flowers, pine needles and sawdust was prepared on every block. Firecrackers were ignited, dancing dangerously in all directions. Rockets were lobbed into the air every 10-15 minutes. I had heard this sound, as early as 7 am from my hotel. There was a girls’ band from the Colegio Americana and a brass band (battered tuba). Women with parasols, babies sucking generous Indian breasts, short men pushing ice cream carts and selling plastic bag covered cotton candy and small plastic teddy bears. Shaved ice with sugared, colored water was a big item. After taking photos of the parade I found my taxi full of a family. I could barely squeeze in. Several blocks away we were at the fair. I was assured earlier by the driver that it was a long drive. It was about two kilometers. I was had but as the old gentleman sitting beside me in the car said, “The Americans are all rich, aren’t they.”

This is Work, Guatemala City, August 1990

Several Boy Scouts tried selling me lottery tickets at the fair, a raffle for a car. I bought a ticket already at the airport. I took pictures of the two boys who were pleased to accommodate me. A dirty little fellow just stopped by my table saying, “Money”, in English. The homeless children problem here is serious. Abandoned waifs roll up at night in cardboard, wander the streets by day begging. Many sniff glue and are seen stumbling along glassy eyed. They are drunks at age 12 on a chemical that will fry their brains. At a meeting of the Rotary Club of Del Valle yesterday an American made a presentation on this with slides. He works for Covenant House which provides homes, schooling and foster families for the children, I sensed that the well off Rotarians were made uncomfortable by the detail of the talk. I was. I claimed a vacation day for tomorrow. I have days to burn and did this more to lower my hours total than actually taking a vacation. As it works out I have an appointment with the US Embassy, the USAID officer. Today I visited the FUNDATEC office, Kinal and Instituto Emiliani Monday and Tuesday. I arrived from Mexico City at 9:30, attended the Rotary meeting at 12:30 at the Camino Real, met many of the FUNDATEC board members. FUNDATEC is a project of the Rotary Club and after being in contact with them for several years I think things are ready to develop. The difference is Ing. Roberto Rosal, MA in engineering, USC, l975. I am meeting with the board tomorrow to work on details of an agreement. Juan Forster has been my main contact. He is a 22-year resident of Guatemala, Los Angeleno by birth, who volunteers his time with development projects. He is the person who took me to the Hollywood Rotary Club, which I joined three weeks later. He is particularly good at getting medical equipment and supplies donated from the US. Occasionally he picks up some fire trucks or school busses. He uses his Rotary contacts to full advantage, avoids the government, the US demands too much, moves too slow, has too little to work with. At present the Guatemala side is too corrupt. Besides, according to him, the government technical training programs are getting good support from the Germans. I do not expect to visit Intecap, the government sponsored training center. I sometimes do too much, visit too many possibilities. I want to keep this project simple. We will visit USAID but don’t expect much. Our plan is to let our teachers from the LA Community Colleges set up workshops here in technical areas, coordinated by FUNDATEC.

Bean Game, Guatemala City, August 1990

A very popular game at this carnival is Loteria. Popcorn (un-popped) is used to place on pictures as a barker rolls a cage with ping pong balls and calls out the items. It’s a form of Bingo. We even played this at the Rotary meeting. There, when they passed a bowl of beans to me, I took a few. Not knowing what to do, I popped several in my mouth thinking it was some kind of after dinner treat. Covering all bases I put two in my coffee. They looked like coffee beans. I do not think anybody saw me as I picked the beans out of my mouth when the game started.

Hogar del Turista, Guatemala City, August 1990

The Hogar del Turista is located at 11th Avenida A and 11th Calle, easy to remember. I will remember the place otherwise. At $11 per night I cannot complain. It has character. I have a lumpy, single bed, plenty of lights, a window opening onto a noisy street, bathroom, and some thin towels. The manager is a German lady, well known as the best ballerina in her time in Guatemala. Her dancing school is now dead and she is taking full time control of the hotel. Her mother is the owner, but at 80 does not pay much attention to details. The guests are a mixture, leaning heavily to Europeans who I am sure find Guatemala economical, charming and colorful.

Guatemala and Thailand, Guatemala City, August 1990

Just past the Picadilly Restaurant I was walking by street vendors and thinking of Thailand. There is much to provide comparison. Tables are loaded with cheap items, the people are dark, small, many dressed very much like those seen at the night market in Chiang Mai. A recent article I read noted that an eastern US scholar says that most Native Americans descended from a small group of immigrants (with as few as four women) who came across the Bering Strait from Asia. The people of northern Thailand very often could pass for native Guatemalans. The Indians here speak Spanish, usually. There are 23 or 25 different languages spread across Guatemala, but Spanish prevails. It is surprising how much the native dresses, designs, resemble those seen in Chiang Mai. The contrast of wealth against poverty, uneven sidewalks, children playing, being patient while parents struggle for a living, such is part of the connection.

Mean Streets, Guatemala City, August 1990

Guatemala has its share of mean streets. When walking at night, in particular, I take great care. If I were more careful (and perhaps smarter) I would not be out at all. Roberto Rosal emphasized the problem when he rolled up the window of his car as we passed 13th Street; too many examples of people reaching into cars at corner stops. Yesterday I noticed a small group surrounding a VW Rabbit. A door window was smashed, glass strewn widely. It was 8 am and the deed had just been done. Three young, blonde men were the obvious victims. One was photographing the car with his video camera. I saw no carrying case so assume thieves made off with this. The car had California plates. The papers have stories of murders every day. Two nights ago I was waiting in front of a restaurant for the rain to let up. Two couples came out of a nightclub. A tall fellow took his shirt off and ran to get his car. The butt end of a 45 pistol was protruding from the waist of his pants. When I walk at night I have my cheap watch, jeans, no cash to speak of, wallet left in my room, and running shoes on in case I have to outrun someone. I got into a very rough area two nights ago and adopted a very defensive attitude, look strong and walk fast, but change to the other side of the street if in doubt.

Impressions of Guatemala, Guatemala City, August 1990

Some of my impressions of Guatemala have been modified. I still consider the people here very hospitable and polite. From my last visit I had the idea that “para servirle” was used constantly. I have heard this less this time, mostly with people using the phone. The sense of fear at criticizing the government is gone, but in its place is concern for personal security. Bars are on the inside of stores of all kinds. Stationary stores, for example, have gratings behind which employees stand, running for whatever is needed. Homeless children are a relatively new phenomenon. Juan Forster says that many are organized by adults for begging and petty thievery. It is still a relatively conservative, even prudish country. I noted one movie house last night listing a XXX porno movie. I only saw one young lady on the streets in a mini-skirt looking for customers. One of the Rotarians pointed out a bordello on the Reforma, the Delfin, near the American Embassy. Across the street was a church. I asked why this was allowed and was reminded that this was a Catholic country and the church was Protestant. According to Juan many of the small, inexpensive hotels in Zona 1 are whorehouses. This was not noticeable, except for those that list, “servicio 24 horas.” I thought all hotels had 24-hour service! One block over from the Hogar del Turista is the “Sweet Lady”, with pink door and a small peep window. I don’t know what else it is, certainly not a fancy restaurant. One taxi driver outside the Ritz Continental hotel close by wanted to take me to some muchachas one night. He said there weren’t any such places near and it would be a 35 quetzal ride to Zona 10 or Zona 12. Taxistas are good sources of information but have a way of twisting the truth to their advantage.

Spoiled, Singapore, October 1990

The best ticket price I could get was on the Cadillac of airlines, Singapore Airlines. This may not be good, since after one leg (LA-Tokyo) I am spoiled and may never be comfortable again on an American carrier. Free headsets, drinks, constant pampering, great (for airplanes) food, on time, etc. This is not what I am accustomed to. Several years ago I flew Japan Airlines and swore afterward that the plane was cleaner after than before. This airline flies the same way. Stewardesses even have potty duty. They keep the toilets clean, including the bowl. They finish their work with an air spray. The aroma matches the perfume of the young ladies serving as combination janitor-waitress-hostess-fashion models. Not a loser in the bunch. As advertised, the prettiest in the air. Long Singapore dresses, delicate sandals, hair at the shoulders, mostly Chinese heritage, but some have the Malay look. The cabin crew that took over in Japan are even better looking than the group from LA. They must have a mandatory retirement age of 25. This is the way to fly.

No Spitting, Singapore, October 1990

As we landed we found ourselves in a spotless, organized and almost elegant airport. Quickly I was through customs, out into the muggy air, after cashing $40 at the exchange window, big spender. The taxi was new, clean. This is a spic and span, hot and sticky city. They have heavy fines for littering, no spitting allowed. I just went to the toilet and the sign says $150 fine for not flushing! Mr. Lee Kuan Yew runs a tight ship. Before disembarking the Singapore Airlines steward warned that drugs are not allowed and severe penalties are for the miscreant. A big sign waits with the same message just off the plane. On our visitors card we see another warning. They make the point. Accordingly, there is not much crime here. The tax on beer means I just paid $4 US for a glass of the local brew, plus 10% service and 3% tax. Mr. Lee doesn’t like drinking. And, of course, no pornography is allowed. What “Harry” Lee does like is hard work and Singapore shows that. This is a clean, well organized, civilized, safe and dull place.

Jane Goodall, Bangkok, October 1990

I checked out of the hotel, headed by cab to the airport. The usual traffic, but not too bad. Domestic terminal, people headed for Samui, Chiang Mai, Khon Kaen and Phuket. Jane Goodall, husband and son were on my flight to Phuket. I should have gotten her to sign my journal. Maybe she was going to look at some wildlife, but in Phuket there is not much to see for the famed chimpanzee enthusiast except young ladies and a few caged, long armed howler monkeys. Later in the day I stopped to converse with these guys. One grabbed my hat, another picked my pen out of my pocket and I had to scramble to get it before he pulled it in to his home. They were friendly sorts who shook hands through the wire, swung one handed with big loops around a bar. I cannot think they like being in the cage, but appeared to make the most of it, howling, chasing each other and playing on the bars.

This is Korea, Seoul, January 1991

While getting on the plane a flight attendant got angry with an elderly Korean lady for pushing and not being patient. I told the young American, “it’s the country.” She said that is no excuse for being rude. The problem is, that may not be rudeness by Korean standards. If you don’t like being bumped into and pushed, do not stay long in Korea. They have a tendency to run you over.

Prettiest Ladies, Seoul, January 1991

Being in Korea again for three days reminds me that the country has the highest percentage of attractive women in the world, in my opinion. Of course, I have not been to all countries of the world. But I cannot imagine anyplace bettering standards here. An impartial survey Monday evening while walking around the Ulchiro area at night shows that over 50% of the women observed were attractive. You cannot say that anyplace else I have been. But, the survey might be skewed by the fact that the sample was mostly young women, on vacation from the universities, or out after work in nearby offices. I still do not think any country can say that 50% of its young ladies are in the above standard category.

Tim, Bangkok, November 1989

After dinner I went to a small, local type café, Pure Café, next to the hotel on New Petchaburi Road. No tourists, definitely not luxury, but full of happy people. I had several tall beers. Again as in Korea I think the people worried about me being alone, but this was not an English speaking establishment. Again, you learn by experience. They had a string of young ladies singing one song each, before a four or five piece band. Most were presented each time with a wreath with a 100 baht note attached. Wanting to be in the spirit I told a waiter to give one lady a 100 baht, she being rewarded for her proper pronunciation of English with “Only You”, by The Platters. The quality of singing was mediocre but she had personality. To my surprise she came to sit with me. She said a friend was pleased because nobody else could communicate with me. Tim was a teachers college graduate who said she did not pass the teachers examination because she did not have money to bribe the right people and did not have connections. I was surprised when she said she was 32, she looked 22 (bad light) and the other 20 or so girls were 18 to 21. She did OK on income for the night. Some unseen fellow in a booth liked her and to keep her from talking with me he purchased her “contract” for 500 baht ($20). Besides that she picked up several other 100 baht notes. She hinted that she might have to pay a 500 baht fee for performing the next night, unless someone “purchased her” for 500. She has sole support of her 70-year old mother, etc. Again, the class or category, these girls are singers only. Almost Spanish style, this was a late place for entertainment. I was back in my hotel at 3:30 am.

Mexico Has Progressed, San Antonio Tlayacapan, January 2008

There is always room for criticism anyplace, anytime. Recently much criticism in Mexico and the US has focused on NAFTA, or TLC or TLCAN here in Mexico. The free trade agreement has opened the door for agricultural and manufactured products both ways. Of course that means someone gets displaced, changes occur to the status quo. Trade unions, farmers organizations scream that the people they represent will be ruined. As of this year many agricultural items from the US can come in to Mexico without any restrictions. The small farmers of Chiapas, who toil with antiquated methods and equipment, will be hard pressed to compete with mass produced, genetically engineered corn from Iowa and Nebraska. Corn is a strong symbol of fertility, prosperity, survival in Mexico. Many will not be happy knowing that their tortillas originated in the farmlands of Canada and the US Midwest. But, since the start of NAFTA fifteen years ago, exports to the US of farm items, such as tomatoes, lettuce, mangos, has increased five times. Freer trade in Mexico now means that more people can stock their homes with cheaply produced goods from China. Walmart is one of the largest businesses in Mexico. When I first drove to Guadalajara and Mexico City in l965 it was a different country. Roads were poor, things were cheap, and most Mexicans were living in serious if not extreme poverty. As had always been true, the owners, managers, and landed gentry drove new cars, lived well, had lots of servants. But, they were the very few. Today poverty still afflicts half the population, especially in southern states and rural areas. The sons of Michoacan still march to the cities or north to find work. New, modern highways, often toll roads, massive housing projects, new cars, Starbucks, Applebee’s, Sams’s Club, Oxxo mini-marts, all point to increased prosperity. Much of this has been fueled by a stable economic policy, confidence in the Mexican Peso, banks now give 30-year mortgages, and you no longer have to pay cash for a car or home. For spoiled Americans it might not seem apparent, but Mexico is one of the richest countries in the world. NAFTA and a lessened fear of foreign, mainly US, investment, the opening of markets in general, can take much of the credit. Of course inequality is greater than ever, monopolies in communications, investing, and certain food and drink production, persist. And the narco drug lords run much of the show here, and in spite of the new Calderon government’s push against the narcotics trade, these captains of Mexican industry keep increasing their power. Mexico has far to go, but has progressed much in the over four decades I have been watching.

Ralph Richardson, January 2002

I didn’t have time for the Times on Thursday, but at LAX I found an abandoned copy. Sadly, I saw a photo of old friend Ralph Richardson at the top of page B13, obituaries. Ralph was one of our best supporters on the L. A. Community College Board of Trustees. He and his wife, Mary Lou, who died in l989, were among the twenty students who signed up for our first out of the country, travel study program. He spent the four weeks in Morelia, studying Spanish, discussing politics, enjoying life. He had his own bottle in his hotel room, I think I remember him smoking. Mary Lou stayed with a family. He preferred less immersion. After that as long as he was on our Board, he was a friend. He usually had something positive to say when our programs came up for approval. He was Professor of Speech at UCLA, expert on Lincoln, served on the Unified District Board, supported separation of the community colleges in l969, pushed for the establishment of West L. A. College, ran for Superintendent of Public Education against Max Rafferty, losing because he could not out debate the right wing Rafferty, was once arrested for drunk driving, died of emphysema, in Seattle, at 83. The 6’ 4”, deep voiced, smiling, pleasant mannered educator was a very nice human being.

Traveling With a Six-Year Old, January 2002

I have to sit next to Christian on the plane, Josefina has had it, too much energy, too physical, too sharp mouthed, not well behaved, certainly by Asian standards, carrying on conversation with Jay, 3’year old behind us, at least keeps him occupied, dinner was three rolls, mine and Josefina’s plus his, milk, big disappointments of the day were his lost sun glasses, “But they looked cool,” day off for the girl at the internet café so he could not say goodbye, riding a cart at the airport a plus, making pig sound to girls, gets lots of attention from young ladies, at least he watched a movie on TV while we had packed.

Ryan and Christian, Cuernavaca, June 2002

At 25 Ryan is one of those who, also as a male, is hard to fit with other students here in Cuernavaca for a family homestay. So, his best friend seems to be Johnnie, a 16-year old, but mature, a good kid. Ryan parties most nights, lots of discos in town, stays in control, studies some, helps keep two other students, the “Two Musketeers”, on time and in less trouble. Ryan is now pissed off with “That kid of yours,” Christian, who spilled a drink on him on purpose on the way back from Taxco on the bus. Says he isn”t talking any more to Christian the whole trip. He does not talk much with him as it is. Christian says he did not do it, but he does not always tell the truth.

The Demons Won, Guanajuato, February 2001

Monday morning I called Good Samaritan Hospital in Moses Lake to see how brother Kenny was doing. “He died last night,” the nurse said, rather matter-of-factly. He was taken there Sunday by a friend who found him in bad shape in his motor home. On Saturday he had told Jonesy he was OK. On Sunday he said he was still OK, just needed some water. When Jones returned with the water Ken said he had better go to the hospital. He had a bleeding liver, was not good. On Sunday night I talked with the nurse and she said he would be there awhile. I did not think it was that bad. It was. Jones is working at the Hospital, checked on him about 8:30 a.m., was told that Ken had died several hours earlier. He had cocaine in his blood, had hepatitis C. I did not know about the hepatitis. He was a good man, had a big heart, came back from Germany and the Army with a drug habit in the 60’s, was clean for eight years, but when he tried crack, it was only a matter of time. He told me several years ago all about it. A stupid drug, didn’t even feel good. Makes you dumb. Just sit, can’t work, don’t want to, just listen to music. He played a Richard Pryor album for me, where Pryor did a routine on the stupidity of smoking crack. Only the pipe matters. It rules. Ken was always weak, cried much as a baby, held on to my mother’s skirt until he was at least eight. He was a quiet kid, but always needed friends. I guess he would be considered as having a co-dependent personality. I did what I could when he got older, brought him to Redding to take classes at Shasta College. He learned carpentry which kept him employed for years. He did quality work when sober. He had people working for Culton Construction, a dump truck, Corvette, vans, boat, four homes, a good music system, a dog Susy, and then Willie. When he died he had the motor home he had just bought with money from Mother, the boat was stored and not running, some tools remain in the shed, thanks to neighbor Florence. The dump truck sits forlornly; he had Willie. Since friend Larry died from drinking, Mope passed on from a short life of abuse, Dad died in ‘95, now Mother last July, Ken could not cope. He could not even visit mother at the nursing home. He did not need much, did like the boat, enjoyed fishing, caught a big Rainbow trout once on Shasta Lake, mostly by chance, but bigger than anything I ever caught there. We talked not long ago about two projects for when he got well. I would take him fishing to Loreto, where I took Dad over a decade ago. And, we would go halves on an old Ford, maybe a ‘32 sedan. It won’t happen now. I told him recently that he would be out in the cemetery soon if he didn’t get things together. It was sooner than I expected. He liked Moses Lake, at least until it ruined him. He will be there next to Dad.

Muay Thai, Phuket, January 2004

Christian and I went to the Friday night fights in Krabi. When I was only a few years older than Christian my dad used to take me to the fights at South Gate Arena, though I think they were on Thursdays. I well remember the beatings some of the boxers took, and how out of gas they could be at the end of three hard rounds. Thai kick boxing is not as brutal as made out to be by the unknowing. But, it requires a completely conditioned athlete. I would say most boxers here are at 3% body fat. Five-minute rounds with three minutes in between for five rounds is tough work. You only find fat boxers in the shows they put on nightly for tourists in Phuket and Pattaya. The Krabi fights were high quality, all fought hard, several knockouts, excited crowd of locals, we sat on a sofa ten feet from the ring for 1000 baht, Christian free, and I got a Singha beer included. I talked later with Richard Stampfle in Nongkhai about his stable of boxers. He says his boys are doing well, fighting regularly around the country. He adds it is always a good fight when a southern boxer meets a northern kid like his. Southern style is more sophisticated and skilled, northerners tend to just bull forward, using muscle and guts. I was surprised to see such small boys competing. The minimum weight listed in pounds was 70. But, Christian was taller than one skinny kid who looked like he was about the same age. The remarkable thing is how capable these little guys are in the ring. The shy, polite youngsters show no fear, go through the same warm-up routine as their older brothers, kick, elbow and punch like veterans. Coming from the poorest backgrounds, having regular meals, a place to sleep, a small income and enrollment in a local school, it is hard to worry about child labor rights, possible arthritic legs later in life. Most will be retired by the age of 21. I am not sure if it is the memory of being with my Dad at the fights over 50 years ago, my eight-year old sitting next to me, or the cruelty of a world that makes ten-year olds hardened professionals, but several times during the Krabi evening I had tears in my eyes.

Tuk Tuk, Phuket, January 2004

I asked one of our guides where he was from, a standard question one can use to test English comprehension and start a conversation. “Phuket,” he said, with the usual Thai, broad smile. “I was born in a Tuk Tuk, my mother didn’t make it to the hospital,” he noted. “And, so I am called Tuk Tuk.” All Thai’s seem to have a nickname.

Kid in a Limo, Tokyo, March 2002

Coming out of the airport at Narita the familiar long Yamano College Cadillac was waiting. Christian just stepped in like it was routine, no comment. Monday morning the limo was again waiting, outside the Century Hyatt Shinjuku Hotel. At the Beauty College, introductions and hellos complete, Christian announced that his Gameboy was at the hotel. Facing the rest of the day trying to keep him entertained, Mr. Tada said “No problem,” send him back to the room for the Gameboy. So, he got back in the stretched vehicle with his keeper for the two days, and as passersby wondered what important person was being escorted in the luxury car, only one like it in Japan, Christian rode off, down the narrow street to the Hyatt.

Shimoda, April 2002

I wanted to find a small town outside Tokyo, preferably on the coast, where we could see a quieter side of Japan. Several people recommended Atami, the Lonely Planet Guide said that was mostly expensive resorts, Shimoda was better. Southwest of Tokyo sits the Izu Peninsula, mountainous, small towns, harbors, mostly quiet. Shimoda is famous as the place where Commodore Matthew Perry forced the Japanese to sign a treaty opening up Japan to the outside. The Japanese are still not sure that this was positive, whether Perry was a good guy, or bad. There is a Black Ship Festival each May for two days, the ceremony is reenacted, Japanese and American military bands play. The signing took placed at the Ryosenji Temple, several blocks from our hotel. The temple is like thousands of others in the country, though the cherry blossoms made it rather pretty for our visit. It has a cemetery, a small museum, tourist trap gift shops, parking for the tour busses that drop off the high school students and senior citizens clubs. The town is a pretty place, narrow streets, flower bedecked everywhere gift shops, coffee shops, small bars, fish restaurants, a McDonald’s, and flower shops. I saw three florists next to each other on one block. Flower pots are in front of most buildings, shops, homes. With spring just starting the small flowers are multi-colored, fresh, damp in the wet weather we had much of our short stay. It was raining when we arrived and left, but it was nice on Thursday, cool but mostly sunny. We walked along the fishing dock that lined the small harbor where Perry anchored with his seven ships in l854. His ship, the Powhatan, was black, had a red stripe around it and today is remembered with models, small replicas, paintings, and museums, and shops, loaded with black ship souvenirs. A rope borne gondola carries tourists to the top of a small mountain overlooking the harbor. The location of the first American consulate and home of Consul Townsend Harris is around the promontory of land to the west. It is a short bus ride to the place but we ran out time.

Cherry Blossoms, Tokyo, April 2002

In all my visits to Japan I was only lucky enough to see cherry blossoms once before. This time we were fortunate. They were early this year, easy winter. Everywhere we went the blossoms were out. Rightfully so, the Japanese make a big deal of this season. It signals the coming of spring, the Japanese love flowers and beauty, and dreary winters make people appreciate the warmth, color of springtime. There are dozens of varieties of cherry trees, none producing edible cherries as far as I know. I now appreciate the cherry blossoms more than ever. I had seen them before, but do not remember one of the more striking aspects, the falling of the delicate, pink hued petals. Several times I saw women trying to catch them as they dropped. And, petals were everywhere, on the ground, on park benches, roofs, in the streets. They can be seen as an allegory of life. They are fragile, are only here briefly, you need to celebrate them while they last. As I write this on the way to the airport, I can see that the last of the blossoms are struggling to hold on, in another week they will be gone, at least in Tokyo. The birth and death process moves north each spring in Japan, in a few weeks time it will be cherry blossom time in Morioka, then Hakodate, then Sapporo.

No Button for Orange, Tokyo, March 2002

We had to walk some blocks to find a coffee shop for breakfast Sunday. Three times $17 for breakfast at the Prince Hotel is too much. Christian found cupcakes that he liked, didn’t want chocolate milk, water was OK, but wanted an orange. The oranges that sat on the counter were well polished, plump, but were for orange juice, explained the two young ladies running the franchise facility. “Can’t we just have an orange?” “No”, was the polite answer back. Josefina could not understand why not. I was peeved, but understand. There is no button on the cash register for “orange,” only orange juice, three sizes.

Sory, Tokyo, March 2002

“I love my mom and dad. I Sory for being bad. I will thry to be good.” --Christian

Grandma, LAX, April 2002

I was waiting for a friend to come up the ramp from customs at LAX. A young couple was waiting, also. The mother was holding a blond, pink clothed baby, the father watching the ramp nervously. Suddenly I noticed an older couple pushing a cart loaded with luggage. Grandma with a half smile, stared at the baby, said nothing, just looked. Grandpa laughed, shook hands with his son, Australian English was exchanged and the older man grabbed the baby, held her up, handed her back to mom. Grandma still just stared, said nothing. Mother said “Here’s your granddaughter”, and handed her over. The speechless grandma just stroked the baby’s head, whispered something. Mother stood to one side, tears coming from her smiling eyes. It was my highlight of the day.

Counting Money, Torrance, May 2002

Christian was sitting on the floor in the living room, counting his play money coins, “57 baht, 58 baht.”

Another Brown Dollar Country, Cuba, October 2002

One measure of the lack of national economic vitality is when you get change in worn, softened, dirty and almost brown colored greenbacks. Tourists use U.S.Dollars in Cuba, the exception being in coins, which bear the insignia of the “Republica de Cuba.” But, instead of being shredded and recycled after a dozen or so uses as in the U.S., Dollars get re-circulated, reused, and reused again, here in one of the last Communist countries. My wallet loses the crisp Dollars garnered from the Bank of America ATM at home, to be replaced by the worn Cuban versions.

The Leading Occupation, Havana, October 2002

Sitting around appears to be the most common job for Cubans, at least in Havana. People sit everywhere, watching the time and people pass. Playing dominoes, cards, watching TV, listening to extra loud boomboxes playing Cuban rhythms. Walking through the dark streets at night, stepping around giant potholes, pools of water, scraggly dogs, one is able to peer into the humble, barely furnished apartments of the locals. The one item of luxury that stands out is the color TV. For such a poor country one finds lots of sets, usually tuned to a Cuban novella, or nightly snippets of culture mixed with revolutionary propaganda. There seem to be as many people sitting in the middle of the day as at night. After a few tries at asking what a person does for a living, realizing it is “Nothing,” you understand why so many citizens follow this most common of Cuban livelihoods.

Cockroaches, Havana, October 2002

I was waiting for my cheese pizza, more like thick bread with a coating of cheese, when a small cockroach scampered across the table. I mentioned this to the young lady who was cleaning off the tables. “Where there is food there are cockroaches,” she said seriously in Spanish.

Freedom, Havana, October 2002

While listening to the radio in my room, catching up on journal writing, I was informed by the radio announcer that I was in “El pais mas libre en las Americas,” the freest country in the Americas. I wonder if they are free to read Orwell’s l984?

Does Liberty Require This?, Havana, October 2002

If Cuba is so free why does one see and hear so many reminders of the Revolution, the great accomplishments of Fidel and Che, the misdeeds of the North Americans, the goodness of socialism? It must be a hard sell.

Living in Centro Habana, October 2002

Thanks to Ronaldo, “Rony”, I am situated in an apartment on Calle Amistad in Centro Habana. It is a good location, eight minute walk from the Hotel Inglaterra and Parque Central. In some ways I am reminded of Post War German cities, bombed out, destruction widespread, streets torn up, vacant lots, broken windows. The difference is that this apparent war zone is alive, noisy and busy, crowded and lined with old Buicks, Dodges and GMC trucks. It is easiest to walk in the street to avoid the iffy sidewalks, holes, people sitting, small dogs, and children. It is annoying to have someone ask if I want a restaurant or cigar every 20 feet or so, but this happens too in Old Habana, just down the street. The money spent fixing the tourist areas has yet to spread to most of Centro. My apartment is on the second floor of a building that almost looks abandoned on the outside. Once inside, however, I have my own room with air conditioning, almost private use of a bathroom with a small heating attachment on the shower, access to the kitchen where I keep Crystal beer in the small refrigerator, can make coffee with an Italian expresso pot. Artie and Mili, a young couple with no kids, are the proprietors of this one room hotel. I can watch the TV, three channels, had spaghetti once, macaroni another evening. Small stores provide some basic foodstuffs, and I am getting a good idea of how the typical Cuban might live and eat, though on an advanced scale. I asked Mili what her husband does. Her answer, “dormir”, sleep. He is gone much of the time. So, this one apartment provides them their income, at $40 per night when occupied. One night he came home with a large box of frozen Missouri chicken. Asking where that came from the answer was “contrabando.” When taking down my vital statistics from my passport he grinned and said he was going to get one of those for himself someday, “Que Lindo.” Though not much on the Revolution, he has a legal business. Mili spends most of her time inside watching television. Neighbors in the two other apartments on the floor have their doors open all day; they too sit and watch. I asked once if Thalia’s novelas from Mexico were shown here. “No, we only get the cheap ones,” the response. But, tapes are readily available and shared, so “Maria Mercedes” is well known here. The Latin bombshell is seen regularly on TV, singing and swishing her curves. Though the programming is limited and production standards low, I saw several shows based on literature that were quite good, one a short story by Neruda. The sexual content is surprisingly strong. If the TV is not on in Cuban homes, the radio is, loudly more often than not. One interesting departure from what is usually found in Latin America is the presence of music from India. This could be explained by low prices from another impoverished country, but the liveliness, catchy style of Indian movies, music videos, tapes, fits well in the Cuban love of active music.

Rony, Havana, October 2002

I packed a bag with items I brought from home, mostly clothes, a pair of Christian’s too small Mexican boots, a bottle of Trader Joe’s vitamins, several 5 K t-shirts, and headed for Rony’s home on Calle Habana, in a part of Old Havana yet to see UNESCO fixing up funds. Rony was, as usual, dressed in baggy shorts, topless, shoeless. I asked what he was doing for work, “Studying English,” the response. He was complaining about the economy, government policies, Castro, but Fidel was on TV going on and on, as we talked. The ex national basketball player was not the first Cuban who has told me Castro stashes money, “He is one of the world’s richest men.” We will eventually see, perhaps. He old me he had recently been fined 30 Cuban pesos for talking with a Frenchman he had known for four years. He had a big hassle with a police officer. In Rony’s part of town police are widely spaced. On Obispo where Rony hangs out at the Lluvia de Oro, they are on every corner.

Jinatera Business Crimped, Havana, October 2002

I was told that Castro was interviewed recently on CNN. The interviewer asked about the poverty. The answer, “there are a lot more poor countries than Cuba.” True. Then he was asked about prostitution. Castro was adamant that there were no prostitutes now in Cuba. Maybe a few who still sold their bodies, but you can’t find prostitution. Wrong. Supposedly the police tried to make the Cuban dictator honest by extra vigilance in Old Havana, because after the interview the Jinateras had to be far more discreet. I did notice one bar at 9 PM that was devoid of the hookers present when I was here in January. But, the girls are still working hard. After restaurants and cigars, “chicas” are the next thing that I am offered about once each block I walk in Havana. I just smile, “No gracias,” sometimes take a young lady’s hand from my arm, shake hands, walk on. Last night, walking back from Habana Vieja, there was a very good collection of ladies standing outside the Telegrafo Hotel. According to the Lonely Planet Guide there is little shame involved with prostitution in Cuba. This may have much to do with the heritage of slavery, but also with the influence of Santeria, which teaches nothing about original sin.

The Million Dollar Lives, Los Angeles, Mother’s Day, May 11, 2008

Several weeks ago we were driving down Broadway, passed the Million Dollar Theater, and “Mariachi Vargas May 11” was on the marquee. The most storied of the elegant old music houses in the city dates to l918, hosted the greats of the silent film era, later became a must stop for an honor roll list of Latin American, mostly Mexican, entertainers. The “Variedades” at the theater featured the best singers, comedians, movie stars for several generations. Then, it died. Vacant, then a church, vacant again. But, there we sat, row Q, seats 5-6-7, in the partially restored, classic old lady, waiting for the most famous of the Mexican mariachi groups. I last was in the theater decades ago to see the incomparable, much loved singer, Pedro Vargas. A comedian or two was always on the vaudeville like shows that played regularly in the 2200 plus seat hall. Tickets were cheap, small kids ran up and down the aisles, customers whooped, laughed, applauded, had a good time. This time the tickets were $60 to $90 and there weren’t many children. But, it was packed, noisy, chaotic, the line to get in stretched a block, tickets were lost, the sound system way too loud, almost everyone present spoke Spanish and needed to go on a diet, and it was an outstanding performance by the group that helped mold the most Mexican of musical styles and started in the town of Tecalitlan, Jalisco. Great voices and musicianship fed on the enthusiasm of so many in the crowd, like myself, who were ecstatic and nostalgic that the entertainment palace once again was alive, it had survived the wrecking ball, the new owner promises to bring the variety shows back, a new generation will be able to enjoy the Million Dollar.

Another Limp Money Country, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, May 2008

Poor countries often use well worn, dirty, soft, limp, bills for money. This is a poor country. The money that looks clean, usually what you give, not what you get back, is U.S. currency. I should have brought more of Uncle Sam’s currency, not depended on ATMs. Money being dispensed, however, tends to be in better condition, I guess the machines can’t handle the overly used, abused version one receives as change from people.

Gua Guas, Santo Domingo, May 2008

In Cuba gua gua (wa wa) refers to a bus, though if it is one of those long high capacity versions pulled by a truck tractor it is a “camello”, camel. It has a hump. Here in Santo Domingo a gua gua is what in other Latin American countries usually is a “colectivo.” The small mini busses they use in Mexico are luxury transportation by comparison. Even the beat up old four-door Buicks and Fords in Cuba look better. These are very, very dilapidated vans, doors open on the sides, dents on every square foot of metal, glass cracked, people crammed in, a sign in the windshield with four locations. This will be an experience I skip. Several passengers smiled and waved as I took a video shot of them passing by. I have settled for the taxis with no meters (you agree first on price) that are mostly 20-year old Toyotas and Nissans, they too held together by prayers, wire, and duct tape.

Rafael Trujillo, Santo Domingo, May 2008

Yesterday, May 30, was the 47th anniversary of the assassination of the dictator Rafael Leonidas Trujillo in l961. Trujillo was in power for 30 years. He was a product of the American occupation of the country that produced a succession of military “caudillos,” ended with the toughest of the lot, Trujillo. One editorial writer noted that the USA began spreading its “dark wings” over the world after WWI, starting in Latin America. Trujillo had the tacit support of the U.S., he kept things in order, did not challenge the northern giant. His was a brutal time, rather than depend on legalities or discussion it was easier and cheaper to have critics silenced by gunshots. A small group of conspirators followed him late one night after he stopped briefly to see his daughter. They fired into his Chevrolet as it traveled down a darkened George Washington Avenida, he crawled out, managed a few shots from his pistol, his driver defended himself and his boss with his own pistol, an M-1 and a Thompson machine gun, but the caudillo was dead. Day before yesterday as I was walking back from the Presidential Palace sirens wailed, motorcycle cops flew by, and a long line of black SUVs, sirens blaring, passed. I guessed it was the President, Leonel Fernandez, but read in the paper the next day that he had returned from a summit in El Salvador later that afternoon. I doubt you will again find the president of this or many other countries riding down a road with only one driver-bodyguard.

Jimmy, Santo Domingo, May 2008

Feeling it more prudent to limit my walking around to daylight, I have for three nights opted for a beer across the street from the hotel at a liquor store and deli that serves as an outdoor bar, hosting an interesting collections of locals, ex-pats, and tourists. Patrons sit, listen to meringue or bachata, sing along, talk, and people watch. There are several hustlers, including “Chocolate,” who will arrange things for a fee. Says he will show me a spa across the street for $10, I wondered why I needed help crossing the street. Wednesday night a small boy “Jimmy,” was suffering from a bad case of conjunctivitis, eyes swollen and red. Chocolate showed me a nearby all night “farmacia” and I bought a bottle of eye-drops, told Jimmy to put drops in his eyes twice a day, gave him another 100 pesos. He wanted paper money, not coins. Chocolate says he lives in one of the worst parts of Santo Domingo, is homeless really, and older kids will steal his coins. Jimmy said he went to school, but I wonder.

Baseball Country, Santo Domingo, May 2008

With approximately 400 Dominicans playing professional baseball in the U.S., one expects much interest in this country of nine million in what is certainly more the “national pastime” here than in its home country. Most countrymen come home for the winter league, in what must be one of the best minor leagues possible. Listening to canned meringue in the disco, all eyes were on one of three screens. In the 13th inning Boston broke a 2-2 tie two against Baltimore and won. A Dominican, Manny Ramirez, had scored the go ahead run off the throwing error of another Dominican, Melvin Mora.

San Pedro de Macoris, Santo Domingo, May 2008

“Chocolate” found a driver to take me to Boca Chica on Sunday, and I said OK when he also wanted to take me to La Romana and San Pedro de Macoris the next day. We did not make it to La Romana. I did not like Manolo’s price, so settled for San Pedro. This large town has for years produced more professional baseball players than any other place of similar size for sure, and probably most large U.S. cities as well (my guess). I wanted to see for myself this site that I first heard mentioned decades ago by Vin Scully of the Dodgers. The L.A. club was one of the first to discover this gold mine of talent, had their agents planted early. Now all the major league teams know the entire country well, not just San Pedro. The town is almost overrun by young men on motorbikes, the local taxis. Without helmets they bob and weave through traffic, daredevils all. One led us to a sports complex, winding through streets, popping wheelies, talking to his friends as he passed by, hitting the curb once, almost dumping the 125 cc bike, smiling broadly, enjoying life. He found the place I wanted to see with young men training, throwing, pitching, running laps, watchful trainers coaching, guiding. It made my day to see this fountain of hope in another of the world’s poor nations. Two teenagers were working with a coach under a tree, repeatedly hitting a glove and a backpack with towels with a strong pitching motion. A larger group was making long throws to the outfield, another bunch running wind sprints. The several stadiums were run down, but served the purpose. There was an air of seriousness. It was fun, but not play. I am not a baseball fanatic, but I am very pleased that I can say I have been to San Pedro de Macoris.

A Second Highlight, Santo Domingo, May 2008

At the end of the day I often like to think of the highlight of the day. After returning to Santo Domingo on Monday I had my visit and photos of San Pedro de Macoris firmly placed for this honor. Sharing a “Presidente” beer with “Chocolate” in his outdoor office in front of the liquor store, two boys, about eight, came up. The one said “Remember me?” I thought he was just one of the local kids that hang around, small time hustlers learning the trade, asking for coins, offering shoe shines. Chocolate smiled, said “that’s Jimmy.” I had not recognized him, his eyes were clear and wide. He had a smile on his face, a clean T-shirt, and a haircut. He said “Gracias”. I had two daily highlights for this day.

Manolo, Santo Domingo, May 2008

My driver, Manolo, took me on Sunday to the closest beach with sand, Boca Chica. Both guide books I have say its only good point is close proximity. It is packed by locals on weekends, features very aggressive vendors, but is an excellent location to sit under a large umbrella, drink Presidente, and people watch. The fish dinner for Manolo and I was very good, though the $80 bill I received left me peeved. Manolo and his friend the manager had promised a great experience, low price. I was learning not to take Manolo’s promises seriously. The day was supposed to cost me $50, but my “buen amigo” managed to squeeze another 500 pesos ($15) out of me for gas, plus the lunch, toll road fee, a coffee. I was “un principe.” With trepidation I agreed on another day, to San Pedro and La Romana. He was there at the hotel early in the morning and we were off in his well worn Honda Accord that runs on $5 a gallon gas when he wants some speed, cruises on propane when not in a hurry. I had forgotten rule number one, agree on price before, not as you are half way to your destination. At $100, plus an extra $30 for gas, for the day I felt abused paying twice as much as the day earlier for a trip that would be shorter in time by two hours and further in distance by only about 50 kms. We were stopping in San Pedro because I did not want to pay $160 to go to La Romana. Also, I had gone enough miles to decide I preferred limiting my time with Manola as driver. He claimed to have slept the night before, but I had to keep an eye on him, holler at him regularly, tap him on the arm to keep his eyes open and on the road ahead. I watched my side view mirror to make sure a bus, truck or car was not about to pass as he straddled the middle of the road at 30 miles an hour. I had no trouble staying awake. Since I was his best friend, a great guy, well educated (preparado), a “caballero,” he took me to the “best” tourist shop in Santo Domingo where he guaranteed me “first class” treatment. I got away easy for about $70. At 10% for him, that was another $7 for the day I am sure. As we headed for the hotel he said he would ask his other “best friend”, Jesus, to bless me and my family, he thanked me for helping to feed his six children, and he would return later with a young lady for me, he promised a “flaquita,” skinny one. I assured him I was fine by myself. With this rebuff, how about if I would marry his young, pretty niece, though he knew that my lovely wife and son were waiting for my return? Manola is a prince of a man, very helpful sort.

“Hola Papi”, Santo Domingo, May 2008

The young, dark skinned ladies that patrol Avenida Independencia at night are very friendly, like saying hello to strangers.

Not Coming Back, Over the Caribbean, May 2008

The Dominicana sitting next to me, on her way back home in Boston on American Airlines, told her friend on her cell phone as we were to take off that she is not coming back to this country. She cannot stand being hassled constantly by her family for everything, money, gifts, school tuition, lunch, help getting a visa, and a few other things I could not interpret from her Dominican Spanish.

The Islamic Republic of Malaysia, Kuala Lumpur, November l994

This is an Islamic country. But it is a moderate brand of Islam. It will probably always be so, since only about 60% of the people are such. These are mostly the Malays, who have made the rules since the British left in the fifties. With Chinese almost 20% and Indians less than 10% of the population there is need for compromise and accommodation. English is the second most spoken language after Bahasa. Bahasa Malaysia is basically the same tongue as in Indonesia. The taxi driver, a Tamil speaking Indian, says the Indonesians speak faster. I wonder if this is his perception more than fact. People speaking different versions of the same language may blame the other side for talking too fast. As in Indonesia one hears of consensus. In a multiracial, several religion society this may be the only way to peace. Accordingly, this country gets criticized by the West as unprotective of human rights. The Prime Minister, Mahatir, yesterday on TV said the West should “Shut up.” He is quite outspoken and not too popular at present in London, Washington and Paris. Part of the problem is a clash of Asian emphasis on the group, West enthusiasm for the individual. Here one finds fewer rights, but less crime.

The Beethoven, Kuala Lumpur, November 1994

I had seen a sign about happy hour from 4:30 to 9:00 at the Beethoven Bar two doors from the hotel. It looked classy, so I gave it a try. There is something out of place about paper icicles, a snowman and Christmas lights in a tropical, Islamic country. But, this multi-religious/ethnic country tries to please all. In particular, they work on pleasing the money gods who do well at Christmas in lots of countries. Besides, this place catered to tourists and foreign businessmen I was told. I was the only customer, so ½ price beer prices were not the big attraction I had expected. I talked with several of the abundant, friendly staff. I’m from L.A, here looking for students, going next to Manila, etc. At about 8:30 one after another pretty, young ladies began arriving. They would go to a back room, come back to check-in with the hostess and disappear around a corner. I was getting the picture, but nobody mentioned to me any subject other than that beer prices doubled to 12 ringit at 9 pm and “How do you like Malaysia?” One young man finally decided I did not know the rules and was quite happy to educate me. The place had four floors above. Second floor was Japanese, two floors had lots of small rooms, and there was karaoke available. And, what else? For a girl to sit with a customer and talk it was 35 ringit per hour. A beer is 15, so at 2.5=$1 the tab could go up fast. For a girl to visit your hotel room, all night, 12 to 6 am, was 500 or $200. My instructor recommended the Chinese girls. They had no Indians. My friend also recommended a tall, good looker who went by. She was a he, has great breasts, according to my informant, and has no male equipment. He would be happy to arrange anything I wanted. I settled for the 6 ringit beer.

The Peterson Health Centre, Kuala Lumpur, November 1994

One of the first things I noticed at the Malaysia hotel was the Peterson Health Centre, doorway just to the right of reception. I thought that was great to have a gym in a no-star hotel. Upon inquiry, the clerk, smiling, said the only equipment they offered for exercise was hands. I was given a coupon for free steam bath and sauna. I was told a one hour massage was 63 ringit. Anything more than a massage was extra. I thought maybe this was just in the red light district or something, but later noticed other hotels on the block with “health centres.” I was told that it was just part of business in Malaysia, most hotels of whatever category provided “massage” services. The irony, of course, is that this is a very prudish nation in many ways. An exercise show on morning TV shows no uncovered skin, except face and hands. Many of the Islamic women cover their hair, though not their faces as in Arab countries. A movie I was watching on TV of Italian heritage had most of a bedroom scene removed so that nothing titillating could be seen. A doctor was just punished by having his license revoked for having sex with a patient. Today, as I write, is “Aids Day.” There is a big campaign to educate people about Aids. The Seven-Eleven next to the hotel has brightly packaged condoms for sale, next to the cash register. My first night I walked one block and got six or more offers, from men asking if I wanted a lady, and one pudgy woman who wanted me to give her a try. Irony makes for an interesting life.

Round the Island Tour, Penang, Malaysia, December 1994

Twenty ringit, mini-van, 9:45 am pick-up, Mr. Lee guide/driver, 74 km around, northern beaches with resort hotels, fishing village stop, will they float?, small boats work local waters, durian, cocoa, betel nut, mango plantations, buy star fruit and two small, not too great bananas, cyclists, motor bikers, winding road, pass butterfly farm, stop at snake temple, maybe 10 snakes in total, Lee says deadly, Malaysian Pit Viper, green, red spot on head, quiet, incense calms them?, “Here, be careful not to squeeze him, he’s friendly, I’m told, he is now on my hand, pretty little guy, his big brother is on my shoulder, cousin on my arm, I saw enough when second brother goes on my head, for 10 ringit I will get two photos in the mail in Los Angeles, have a shot on my camera for backup, must be de-poisoned, I hope.

Tom Lakin, Kuala Lumpur, December 1994

It was a shock to hear from Lissette in the office back in LA that earlier in the week Tom Lakin had died of the “flesh eating disease.” She did not realize how well I knew him. I ran in a race with him not long ago, he introduced me to Councilman Mark Ridley-Thomas. Tom was my predecessor as Evening Dean at Harbor College, then he was President at Southwest College, and finally Chancellor for the Ventura Community Colleges. On the plane to Singapore The Sunday Times, had a notice on the bacterial infection, now in the news because of the attack on the Separatist Party leader in Quebec. He has lost a leg and is in serious condition. The article mentions “Mr. Thomas Lakin, 50, a community college chancellor,” who entered the hospital in Ventura County with a severe throat infection and died. Another man died at Torrance Memorial after cutting a growth off his foot with a razor. My emotions are a mixture of sadness for a friend, fright at the idea of another germ to \worry about, and realization of how fragile and temporary life is. Tom leaves a young daughter, two daughters in college. The Funeral procession will be long. There is irony in Tom recently encouraging his three colleges to recruit more foreign students, and his death will probably keep hundreds of Japanese from coming to the U.S. to study next year. The Asian press covers this type of news well, and the Japanese are big worriers.

Corrida de Toros, Ajijic, Mexico, June 22, 2008

Of the six students who joined the summer program in Guadalajara, only two showed up for our second annual barbecue at the little yellow house in San Antonio Tlayacapan. Puerto Vallarta was a greater draw for the others. Jaclyn, Jazmine and I took the boat ride to and from Scorpion Island from Chapala, had barbecued chicken at our place and headed for Ajijic. I had seen a handwritten poster announcing a ¨Corrida de Toros¨, at the bullring in Ajijic, 4 pm. At 4 we were among a dozen other spectators. We knew this was not the big time. A truck loaded with ten bulls showed up at 4:15. Progress. An old timer assured me that this was a real bullfight, big bulls, not ¨novillos¨. In most bullfights you only get six bulls. We did not see anybody dressed for a bullfight, just lots of cowboys. At 5 a Sinaloa style ¨banda¨started playing. Not quality. At 5:15 a long haired, animated fellow made announcements, including that we could buy two tickets for a dreawing for 50 pesos. The prize was a long bottle of Corralejos Tequila. The bullfight was a fund raiser for a lady needing an operation. More people arrived. They obvviously had better information than I got from the poster. The ¨jinetes¨, riders, were announced. This was a different kind of bullfight I was realizing. Finally, as the clock approached 6 the first bull was placed in a pen, American rodeo style. One of the young jinetes boarded the animal, the gate opened and the kid lasted a few seconds before slowly sliding off onto the red dirt of the bullring. The ¨Corrida¨was more like parts of the traditional charreada, Mexican, Jalisco style rodeo. The now larger crowd enjoyed everything, especially when the third bull jumped the fence and sent assorted young men in all directions. The plus was that both Jaclyn and Jazmine were happy to see that the bulls would live to fight another day. My lecture on bullfighting: the ceremony, three parts, matadores, picadores, banderillas, blood, etc., can be used another time by the girls. And, I now can say I have seen a bullfight where the bulls had horns covered with duct tape and the animals were not someone´s barbecue the next day.

A Virgin at the Hash, Surabaya , Indonesia , October 1991

The Hash House Harriers are an institution around the world. They appear to be particularly strong in Asian countries. The chief purpose of the clubs may be to get together for a run as an excuse to drink beer. The Bintang Beer truck was an important part of the run that began at 3 pm. Margarita, our former student from Pierce College , had gotten an invitation from her Australian neighbors, Kate and James, to join the fun. Accompanied by the Aussies, and a 20-year veteran of Indonesia , a Dutchman names Wambas (or some such spelling), we found the starting place after a ride over some rough roads. I asked the rules and was told we were to follow pieces of paper. We had to avoid traps that would lead us to dead ends. When we came to a line of paper, the course would disappear and we had to find it again some distance away. “Are you?” meant are you checking to find the trail. “Checking,” means yes you are. “On On!” means you have the trail and everyone is to follow. Wambas, in his late 50s, is small, wiry and looks like a runner. He was chosen to lead and carried a small brass bugle. Off we went. No stretching or warming up. With a temperature in the 90s and humidity equal, no need. Cigarettes had been put out, half liter plastic bottles of water snatched and we were navigating the trail that headed off into dry rice paddies. I was following the Dutchman in a lead group for a kilometer or so when he obviously lost the trail. Everyone scattered. We were jumping over giant dirt clods, running along narrow paths. Someone finally hollered, “On On”, and everyone headed in a new direction. I had been warned that following Wambas too closely would mean running twice as far as the rest. I fell in with several others who were keeping the small fellow in sight, but at a respectable distance. I had no idea where we were. It was flat terrain, however, and I could always see someone to follow. I would follow whoever looked like he knew where he was going. I stumbled going over one of the dividers and earned a bloodied shin. I landed hard again and added a bruised instep. Nature began to call and I eventually had to stop to take a leak near a mango tree and someone yelled, “Irrigator”. We came to a “Pit Stop”, where several wives had set up refreshments, water, juices, beer and some sort of alcoholic cocktail. I still had not adjusted to the idea that this was not a race, this was a run, and I was off again in quick pursuit of several people who looked like they knew more than I did. For some distance we could hear Javanese music. We crossed ditches on bamboo bridges. Local folks watched this crazy collection of Europeans, Americans, Japanese and at least one Indonesian, Margarita, who was one of the walkers. Goats gave us room as we passed. After about an hour the hot sun was replaced by clouds and we were running in the cover of mango trees. I was hit in the head as I failed to duck. Following Wambas too closely I got a limb in the face another time. I had the feeling that we were headed back to the beer truck. Wambas was now reduced to a slower pace. Some alternated walking and running. I had developed a blister on my left heel. Marcel, another Hollander, had pulled a muscle in his knee and was going slowly. Off in the distance I saw a cluster of Hashers surrounding the beer truck. I was disappointed that I was not one of the earliest, but quickly realized that this was not important. Some of the first arrivals may have traveled half as far as I had. I was reminded that “this was not a race,” when I asked who had been first. I was given the impression that this might even be something to be penalized for. We checked in and were handed a mug of Bintang beer. It was difficult to sort the people by accents, everyone conversed in English. The Germans, true to form and heritage, were hard on the beer. Several Brits appeared to be leaders in the merriment. I got into a discussion with a Dane who had an Aarhus Technical College T-shirt on. He was working in setting up a local technical college. I then talked with Marcel who is Academic Direction of IEU, the Institute of Management , Surabaya . Stragglers kept arriving. About two hours after starting, Margarita and her group of walkers arrived. I did not realize it but the Hash was only half over. We bounced down the pock-marked road in a line of Toyota Kijangs to a walled home where a party was already in full swing. More Bintang, some food, and more talk. Then, the “Down Down,” began. It was time to hand out penalties, not trophies. For various infractions members had to down a mug of beer (or water for non-drinkers). “Animal”, the German who was built like a rugby player, was much penalized. He had made a big show of driving his jeep into the crowd at the beer truck after the run, ran over something and tore a big chunk of rubber from a tire, to the amusement of the others. As a “Visitor” I had to down a beer. Toward the end of the ceremonies, “Animal” had had at least eight beers. Two Welshmen had sung a song in Welsh, and “Animal's” wife was awarded a t-shirt for her 35th run. It was covered with chicken feathers, ash, dirt, beer and who knows what else, and she had to wear it. I was summoned up front again. Apparently because I had run with a camera in my pocket I had to have another beer. My big infraction, however, was that I had been seen “irrigating” the course. I was falsely accused of being near the “Pit Stop”. I argued that this was the first run I had seen where beer was served before the activity began. To no avail and I had to have another beer. I had to have one more for being a “Virgin”, on my first Hash. Margarita gained distinction by locking the key to the one bathroom in the bathroom. Most of the competitors, I mean Hash House Harriers, fortunately had drivers to take them home. Margarita's driver dropped her off at her mother's home, took me to the Garden Palace Hotel, the bath was much needed and appreciated. (Several months later Margarita married Steen, a Dane she met that day. I have yet to run another Hash).

Meiji Shrine, Tokyo, June 2006

My plan was to jog through the park leading to Meiji Shrine. The entrance is a short run from the main gate of the National Olympic Youth Center. As I entered the shrine a guard crossed his arms, shook his head, “No jogging,” he said in English. So, I walked through the trees, shrubbery, tranquility, at 6:30 am to one of Japan’s most hallowed temples. Trying not to be too obvious as a “gaijin” I bowed slightly, looking at the shrine, clapped my hands twice, lightly, and paid my respects to our ancestors, our families no longer with us. A four-sided wall nearby was covered with wooden tablets (Yen 500) where people could write a prayer and hang it with the hundreds of others. Many languages, many different views of life could be seen. Most wished for happiness, health, prosperity for loved ones, peace in the world. “I wish for QiQo and her mother to be healthy and for Puy to fall in love with me.” “I wish to join the NBA and play for the Celtics.” “I wish my mom would let me dress like a boy.”

Small World, LAX, July 2006

I was standing in line at the X-ray machine at LAX with my one small roll-on when a large, 30ish fellow joined me, lugging a large, cumbersome box that looked like it might contain a bicycle. “Looks like a bicycle,” I said. I noted that I travel with a fold-up Slingshot tri bike that escapes notice as a means of transportation, avoiding the $70 or $80 fee one-way most U.S. airlines charge for transporting them. We talked bikes, he was a touring cyclist, had done a triathlon or two. Shifting attention, he called out, “Dad.” To no avail, he got on his cell phone, said, “You passed me.” After issuing directions for a few minutes his bearded father found his son and I said, ”Alex, how you doing?“ You know my father?”, the son asked. I said, “Yes, Alex is a fellow Rotarian from the Venice-Marina club.” Alex Gorby’s son is on his way to see the Tour de France.

Kickboxing, Bangkok, January 1990

My big event for the day was to go see Muay Thai, kickboxing, at Lumphini Stadium. I was met at the gate by a fellow whose job obviously was to catch the foreigners and make sure that they sat in the most expensive, ringside seats. For 360 baht, $15, not a bad price, front row. This was the real thing. Crowds above were standing in fenced in areas, all Thais of course since tourists were grouped together. Betting was rampant above, shouting, waving of hands and holding up fingers, I was completely in a fog on how this works. The boxing was very high quality, knees and feet, fists, elbows, hitting below the belt, must have tough cups. There was lots of wrestling and throwing to the mat. My assessment is that this is a tough sport, but far more humane and safer than regular boxing. In spite of all the weapons available less damage is inflicted on an opponent. One consideration is the size of the boxers. They vary from 100 to 127 pounds. They also must retire young, most were under 20 in age. Their faces tell the story—no great damage seen. Only one bout produced bleeding and that was minimal. A four piece band featuring a flute played in the bleachers. Rounds were three minutes, with a two minute rest between, with bouts for five rounds. Lots of respect for each opponent, some showboating but not to denigrate—with one exception by an acrobatic kid who gestured something to the effect that he would bury his opponent, who typically for a Thai just smiled back. One bout was a traditional boxing match, with two fellows who were older than the kickboxers, both showed definite signs of their profession with beaten up faces. In the one minute of the bout, won by knockout, more damage was done than in all of the other matches combined.

Images of Trujillo, Peru, June 1997

Wooden balconies reminding me of Asturias, Spain, coffee at the hotel that was a liquid concentrate made with hot water, young men hanging out mini-busses looking and shouting for customers, the mini-bus going to C.U.N.T. (Ciudad Universitaria Nacional de Trujillo), taxi cab sideswiping BMW, gas in “:galones,” not “litros”, horns, sirens, alarms, neighbor’s snoring at Phil Gillette’s party, warm weather caused by “El Nino”, flak jacketed security guards, a bicycle team training, ad for the “Bagdad” nightclub, street kids, woman hobbling across the street with club feet pointing to the rear, scary taxi rides.

An Emotional Experience, Barcelona, August l992

One evening made the whole trip to the Olympics. I enjoyed the cycling finals in Los Angeles and Seoul, l984 and l988, but Barcelona will be remembered by me as a lifetime high. This came when Erika Salumae won the gold in sprint. She was a gold medalist in Seoul for the USSR. Now she is Estonian. She lost the first round to the German, Neumann. Very close. I figured if she could win the second race, she would still lose the third. Again, very close, she won. For the third race, she led out with over one lap to go, and barely managed to hold off Neumann at the line. It was a popular victory, especially for the U.S. team members, like Connie Paraskevin Young, a personal friend of Erika. It seemed odd, seeing her in green instead of the red colors she formerly wore. Family members just below me waved a large Estonian flag. She came to the rail, wrapped herself in the banner and took a victory lap with everyone cheering, a number shedding tears, including this observer. This was the first medal of any kind in Olympic history for the tiny Baltic country. I am quite sure she enjoyed standing on the platform, hearing her national anthem, more than she had in Seoul. Only Erika and a few others in the crowd knew that when her country’s flag was raised on the pole, it was upside down.

Andre de Kinder, Barcelona, August l992

At the semi-finals of cycling, Thursday, I met one Andre de Kinder. He was sitting in front of me, then next to me as he was displaced by the rightful owner of the seat. He was well soiled, needed a shave, his skin showed signs of extreme sun abuse. At all other days of the competition I was the expert for those around me. Not so much this day. He has been to the past six Olympics, starting in Mexico City. As much as possible, he rides his bike to the games. Since he lives in Belgium, he rode all the way to Barcelona. He works part-time, at what he did not say. He had a good supply of tickets, but none for cycling. He had bought his ticket from the Las Vegas agent he says he has seen at other Olympics. He also goes to world cycling championships, so knows the cycling world well. He knew most of the riders, was a goldmine of information. I did not see him at the finals and suspect that he could not get a ticket. He wanted to know how far it is from Washington, D.C. to Atlanta, so I expect to see him there in four years. (I did)

Noise, Barcelona, August l992

Bang, slam, clang! I don’t understand the Spanish tendency to make noise. And, they seem to want to foist it on everyone else. The best example is the garbage crew that seems to sweep through every night after midnight. They may feel that they are leveling the score with society. If they have to make such a grubby living, the world must pay!

Bambi, Nara, Japan, June l989

For Thursday afternoon we went from the Kyoto Handicraft Center to Nara. Slow bus ride through towns; one realizes how little land is not used intensely in Japan. Outside Kyoto is a district famed for sake production. One area inside Kyoto is well known for fabrics, production of kimonos. In Nara we saw the giant Buddha, or Daibutsu. According to our guide this is now the second largest in Japan. With some resentment in his voice he told us that a wealthy industrialist has built one larger—did not say where. It began raining and this was a problem, but interesting. The deer tended to hide from the rain but some braved it to eat the deer cookies (fortified with vitamins) that were sold for 100 yen. Pushy beasts, these deer. They will bow three times if made to, before getting the reward of a cookie. After several pieces of cookie, Josefina got nipped on the stomach by one ferocious Bambi. That ended her generosity. We then went to another shrine with lots of lanterns, before heading back to Kyoto.

Tokyo Disneyland, Tokyo, June 1989

On Sunday with good weather I had no excuse, so we headed for Tokyo Disneyland. I used the English language information service provided by phone. Three trains and we were there. Very handy these trains. Warm, humid day. Images included very, very spotless everything. I was afraid to spill popcorn. If so, it would be swept up within minutes. It cost 4200 yen for a “Passport” with unlimited rides, about $29, popcorn 200 yen. A young lady was spraying the cement to get it clean. Kids took off their shoes to stand on benches. People were quieter on Space Mountain that you would find in Anaheim—Josefina made up for this by screaming loudly. This Disneyland has a lot more Japanese than Disneyland Anaheim or Orlando. Few Americans were seen (why come to Tokyo and go to Disneyland?). Some other foreigners were seen, however. Josefina was surprised (“Just like our Disneyland”). Most rides and attractions were close to exact copies. A country and western group was doing their show, speaking English with Texas/Oklahoma accents, and I am sure we were the only ones watching who understood anything. American entertainers, dancing, prancing, singing, sweating. Even dark headed Americans had to put on blond wigs—do not waste the Americans by putting them under Pluto or Mickey Mouse costumes. Disney Legends on Parade was seen, but the great show as always was the Electric Parade. Just like home, musical bugs, lights, Snow White atop a lighted float (“Hello boys and girls”). After that they had an impressive light, laser show, with rockets, but no Tinker Belle appeared on a cable. All in all it was a worthwhile and memorable experience.

Last Flight, Over the Pacific, July l989

“May all your winds be tail winds. May all your careers be as great and uneventful as mine. I do not wish to leave, but it must be so. Sayanara and thanks.” Early on the flight I saw Captain Enright walk through the cabin, shaking hands, walking with a paternalistic, secure smile and I thought of several years back when I was on a flight from Hawaii with a retiring pilot. I sensed that this was another last flight. It was, ending a thirty-year career.

Paradise is When, Boracay Island, Philippines, June 2000

Paradise is when:
You finish your meal and they have trouble finding change for $10
You did not bring a jacket
You feel self conscious and pretentious wearing shoes
The speed limit is not posted, but cannot exceed 30 miles per hour
The local transportation has either three wheels and put-puts or is named Blue Wave, Island Pearl, or Evelyn
The sun sets behind billowing white clouds
The kids play ball with woven palm fronds
Airplanes landing at the closest airport have one or two engines with propellers
You were better off not personally inspecting the plane before boarding
You shared your seat on the plane with a baby cockroach
The owner of the hotel remembers your last visit six years ago
The price of getting from the airport has gone down since your last visit, now costs the same for tourists as for locals, about 40 Cents
You still have to get your feet wet when landing on the beach
Golf courses still number only one
Tourism has not doubled
Happy hour gets you two mango shakes for $1.50, with rum
There is only one restaurant listing “Trinken und Essen”
The locals do not know what a Big Mac or Whopper is
Looking over a menu you are reassured knowing there are lots of dogs and cats hanging around
You are too busy doing nothing to write in your journal
Your chartered half day fishing and snorkeling boat, crew of two, costs less than $20—and you catch a dozen fish on monofilament line and a piece of Styrofoam with a single hook, and bolt for a weight
The one paved road is ten feet wide, concrete, and goes about 4 km
The one radio station, “Yes”, 91.1 FM, 24 hours, is in a 10’x12’ block building with a padlock on the front door
Even a Doberman you are not afraid to pet
You don’t wear shoes for several days, then only to go to an upscale hotel for dinner and show
Dressed up is jeans, polo shirt and sandals
Jogging is on six km white sand beach, with or without shoes
Though on a distant island, you can watch the Lakers and Sixers in the NBA Finals
Your day’s highlight was snorkeling among fish you recognize from aquariums in Los Angeles
You didn’t need to get used to the water temperature when you waded in
You sleep twelve hours and don’t miss a thing
You swim where every 25 yards does not have a wall
You didn’t check your email for an entire day and life went on
A 20 Cent tip brings a smile
If you shave at all it is a 6 pm instead of 6 am
An airport beer costs 60 Cents
The most seen fruits are mangoes, bananas and pineapples

But, it is also where:
Most people are poor
Mosquitoes and biting small flies love white meat
Sweating is the norm
Peptol Bismol, Off, and Campho Phenique are required every day
You get bonked on the head by a 4” bamboo pole while beach jogging
You are in a country where Americans are kidnapped for ransom
The gunboat off the coast would not outrun a fast speedboat
You would not want to get seriously ill
You cannot escape cell phones
You have to leave.

Local Helpers, Havana, January 2002

Walking the streets one finds lots of friendly types, willing to help master the complexities of Cuban life. The most heard comment is “Good price on cigars.” Also, “You want a girl?” And, “You want a good, cheap restaurant?” I got conned into buying a sack of powdered milk at $5.75 for a fellow who said his kids needed milk. Later I saw him approach a tourist, try his deal making and then was taken away, protesting vigorously, by two uniformed policemen. He was back the next day. The police are vigilant about the Cubans mixing with tourists except in officially sanctioned ways. Black marketeering and prostitution are not on the sanctioned list. Police are on most corners in tourist areas. I had a couple of Cristal beers in a bar around the corner from the Inglaterra Hotel, and was joined by Suzuki, a mechanic by day, hustler by night, good example of a jinatero. He could take me to a lobster dinner, three lobsters for $20. His father is in the merchant marine, gets $1500 a month under a foreign contract, gets to keep $400. Suzuki says he is not on talking terms with his dad, he’s a communist, Suzuki isn’t. His mother lives in Atlantic City, has become a born again pentecostal Christian. He talks with her on the phone occasionally. He thinks she should be in Cuba, he in Atlantic City.

Starting Out, Mexico, June, l973

A second rate bus with a third rate air conditioner, Greyhound, got us to Calexico, that bilingual hothouse sitting on the north side of the Mexico-California border. Our bus from Long Beach to Riverside was ok, as busses go, but the well used workhorse that continued our journey was an adventure. My first try at a hotel for the night, the Calexico hotel ($6.50 double), was not exactly stylish and air conditioning was nominal. Thus, we hoisted our suitcases on our backs, walked three blocks and checked in at the super classy De Anza hotel ($10.50 double). Tomorrow Leanna and I tackle Mexico. (Thus began our 57 day trip, 60% by train to Buenos Aires)

Crossing the Border, June, l973
It was breakfast at the DeAnza. Suitcases on our backs we walked three blocks to the border. After taking a few photos we walked through the turnstiles, turned left, fended off taxi drivers and small boys who wanted to get us a taxi and walked to the Banco Comercial to change $40 worth of Travelers Cheques. We piled ourselves, two suitcases, camera bag, purse, and shopping bag into the rattle filled blue bus. Taking the last two seats we wondered if this had been a good move. The blaring radio announced that it was 100 degrees and it was just after 10 am. We unloaded across from the train station. A taxi would have cost $1.60, we spent two silver pesos (16 cents), plus one peso tip to the small boy who recommended the bus.

By Train from Mexicali, June l973

Inside the train station was an odd assortment of humanity, milling about waiting, drinking beer and Squirt and standing in line. I took care of the visitors permits then stood in line to get our tickets. Since we had reservations for the Pullman car we had rank on the other passengers. Escorted to the front of the line, I rewarded myself with a cerveza. At noon we headed for the waiting train. Well dressed Mexicans, poorly dressed Mexicans, surfers, overstuffed Americans chomping on cigars, and lots of kids mostly Mexican, scrambled aboard. There it was, Alcoba B, Coach X-2. The car was one of George Pullman’s antiques, undoubtedly a veteran of the Santa Fe, Illinois Central or Penn Central. A long couch, a cupboard, several handles to pull, three mirrors, a fan, five lights that worked and one that did not and a cracked window. It also has a swing out table top where I am now writing. A tug on the handles revealed a sink and toilet.
On time, 12:35 pm we pulled out and headed for the Gran Desierto of Sonora. We had air conditioning in the coach but as the temperature rose outside so too did that inside. We found out later that when we stopped at Hermosillo several people were taken off the train suffering from dehydration.

Guadalajara, June l973

We rolled into Guadalajara sometime around 8:30 am. As we reached the lobby of the station we were approached by a fellow who would take us to the Hotel Colon, $9 a night for a room with TV and rug, sounded good enough. For dinner we ended up at the Copa de Leche, standard eating spot for gringos. The trio playing when we arrived soon stopped. The prices were not low, we had two Mexican combination dinners that resembled t hose found at home. After that it was back to the hotel and a shower.

Mexico City, June l973

Only woke up five or six times on the train. The bed was somewhat short, but ok. The train was supposed to arrive in the capital at 8:45 am and we were ready to get off when I realized that we were first standing still, then moving slowly back toward Guadalajara. The porter said something was wrong up ahead and we would have to take an alternate track. We finally arrived three hours late. In the station we booked a room, the Hotel Isabel, $6, near the Zocalo in the old center of town. After checking in we took a walk around town, rather crowded place, sure glad I am not driving this trip, it was bad in ’65 but nothing like this now.

Expenses, Mexico City, June 30, l973

Taxi to bus depot                            .80
Bus to Teotihuacan                         .40
Pyramid tickets                               .80
Book at pyramids                         1.00
Breakfast                                         .50
Bus back to Mexico City                .40
Metro                                              .20
Hotel @2 days                              8.80
Dinner                                           2.00
Bus                                                  .04
Polyforum tickets                            .80
Food                                                .32
Taxi to train                                   1.12
Train ticket to Guatemala            15.21

Veracruz, July 1, l973

It isn’t easy sleeping in a bouncing upper birth of a Mexican train. Veracruz was hot and seedy looking. Not trusting the train to stay as long as it was supposed to we only ventured one block away from the station, bought a newspaper. Heading in a southerly direction the tropical character of the land becomes more apparent. This is jungle territory. Somehow the snow covered peak of Orizaba that we passed early in the morning before arriving in Veracruz seemed out of place in all its majesty. It was surrounded by clouds on all sides but easily visible. From Veracruz we passed over the rainiest part of Mexico—over 100 inches of rain a year. Much of the land was under water and the rivers were full of brown water, the Rio Blanco was obviously misnamed. The Papaloapan was equally as brown in hue. The countryside became more interesting. The green, verdant land somehow conceals the poverty better than can the deserts of northern Mexico. Abandoned hulls of cars, tin cans, cardboard shanties, are replaced by stick and thatch huts that seem more comfortable, more appropriate. The kids appear to be well fed and happy, the cattle healthier. The tough Spanish type cattle of the north are replaced by the beefier Brahma cattle of the Orient. Occasional large ranches with tractors, ford pickups and good fencing show that some Mexicans are doing quite well.

A Relic of the Past, Southern Mexico, July 1973

Our coach is a relic of the past. Its décor is mid-1920’s. According to the conductor it was built in the late thirties to carry U.S. troops. It is far more modern than the second class cars that most of the campesinos are riding up front. Those cars were built in the age of Porfirio Diaz, who was kicked out of the National Palace in l910. The engines are diesel, the same ones that do most of the work in the U.S. The whistle on one of the engines must have been non-functional. As we approached the small pueblos a cherry bomb was heaved out the window with a resounding boom. We had no dining car, available food consisted of sandwiches, soft drinks, beer and a few other snacks sold by a fellow who came by infrequently. We were looking forward to a short stop at Medias Aquas. We were promised that a good bowl of fideos soup could be had. It was 9 pm or so and half the town was there to meet us. It was as if we were seeing one of John Wayne or Kirk Douglas’ Mexican movies, with the l910 train in a small town, full of sweating, dark complexioned people. The strange but not unpleasant aroma of the town—mostly from wood fires and cooking tortillas—added a dimension Hollywood has not successfully been able to achieve. Several very dark young girls, reflecting the black heritage of the east coastal regions of Mexico, found the gringos fascinating. Without any timidity they approached us and stared. I asked them a few questions, including if they had a movie in the town. One said yes, the other was not sure. The big event of the day in Medias Aquas has to be the train arrival. The soup we did not have. The only available food was huevos puros and that I was not prepared to chance. The restaurant has to be the most humble we have ever sat in. Our three legged table propped against the wall was able to hold a soda and beer, we chose to stick with the train food and what we had left in our bags.

Chiapas, July 2, l973

Now we were traveling across Chiapas, not missing a pueblo. The Indians hopped on and off, paying their few pesos to ride to the next town. One fellow grabbed on to the door of our coach as the train pulled away from one stop. I heard some kind of noise but it was the porter who finally let him in from his precarious perch. It was raining buckets and he was soaked. The rivers became smaller and bluer, though not clear, as we approached Guatemala. I used lots of film. An ox cart, the uneven tracks, they get worse as one goes south, the grass growing between the tracks, the kids, staring campesinos, bleak, simple homes, all were of interest. At 2 pm we were as far as our train went, Tapachula, some 24 hours behind schedule. We bade farewell to our elderly, pleasant, well-fed conductor who has a son living in Anaheim, tipped the porter 5 pesos and found a cab to the border where we found a snag. The bus left for the capital at 3, the border station was closed. We had to make a mad 60 peso dash back to Tapachula for a $2 visa from the Guatemalan Consul. Back to the border just in time to clear Mexican customs, then catch the Rutas Lima bus for Guatemala City. It was hot.

Guatemala, First Impressions, July 2, l973

My first impression was unexpected. Guatemala does not appear as poor as Mexico. In fact, it is a very different country. The stick and thatch huts of southern Mexico give way to board covered homes, some lined up in rows, looking slightly institutional, though far from luxurious. The roads are better, the cars, trucks and busses not as dilapidated and some of the ranches appeared prosperous. Texaco, Shell, Esso and Chevron signs demonstrate that foreign capital is not rejected as much as is the case in Mexico. Indians here are really Indian. Here the clothes are colorfully Indian woven rebozos of many colors, long dresses for the women, skirts for the men. Guatemala is mountainous! This did not deter the determined driver, however, as he wheeled the Greyhound type bus like Jackie Stewart and got us to Guatemala City just slightly late, despite the torn up highway we had to cope with as we neared the city. In Quetzaltenango we passed a funeral procession, carrying the coffin on shoulders. The people are rather short. The country in places is reminiscent of Switzerland, waterfalls, mountains, green, geysers, cultivated hillsides.

The Ritz, Guatemala City, July 2, l973

A policeman informed us of the Hotel Centenarios around the corner. They were full. The desk clerk dialed the phone to the Ritz and handed the receiver to a startled yours truly. For $6.50 they had a room. A fellow said he would take us for $1. I offered 50 centavos and he agreed. He was determined that we try his hotel, the Colonial. We drove up before the Ritz Continental. I knew something was wrong, a doorman was out front, the lobby was plush and the desk clerk spoke English. It was definitely out of our class. When the clerk said a room was $19.50 I knew this was not the senor I had talked to a few minutes earlier. I then told the taxista to take us where we wanted to go—the other Ritz. He said “how about my place?” He had made a good try by taking us to the high priced hotel, but I held my ground. He dropped us off in front of the Ritz and departed. I did not say thanks. This was more our style, a paint job needed, small TV is in the lobby, the tile in the bathroom is cracked, the bed lumpy—this is home. We did have a private bath.

Antigua, July 4, l973

This is a very charming city with 35,000 inhabitants. This is our third 4th of July in a row out of the country. We wandered through several museums, one the site of the first printing done in Central America. Then to the tourist office for a map and introductory lecture by an enthusiastic sort, who received 50 cents for his efforts. Following the map we visited several destroyed churches and convents. The usual small boys were there to help. They have such charm and persistence that sometimes they win. One stub of a fellow around 7 years old gave us a good lecture on his convent, then demonstrated how a whisper in one corner of an old chapel echoes throughout the room when you stand in one certain place.

Opinions of Guatemala, Antigua, July 4, l973

I have moderated my opinion on some things. I am not so sure that crime is all out of hand here and the people that much of a threat to my pocketbook. A little bit of cultural shock has now been overcome. Even where cabbies bug you they do it with a smile and in a friendly way—if you firmly signal no and smile. Like most Latins, hands are important in expressing personalities. Holding hands, touching, shaking hands, are all a part of life well developed. Bus drivers wave at other drivers continuously, shake their hand in a downward motion instead of saying “too bad,” give a backhand wave if they are displeased with another driver. They never seem to be serious about their displeasure with others. The most commonly heard phrase here is “para servirle”, to serve you.

San Andreas Island, July 5, l973

After a bumpy ride on the twin-engined turboprop of SAHSA Airlines, we sat down at Tegucigalpal’s rundown airport. Then we were on to San Andreas, one hour and fifty minutes away. On our approach the 7-mile long island did not look very impressive. Palms cover the flat coral island. Very impressive, however, was the very blue water. Stepping off the plane we were in a steam bath. We walked the half mile into town and after several tries found the Tropicana Hotel. Hot, hot! A fascinating mixture of humanity is found on the island. The British were here until l822, when Colombia took over. The blacks remained when their masters left and most of them still speak English of sorts. The Colombianos might make up one third of the population. The tourists are mostly Latin Americans, with a sprinkling of Americans. The place is sloppy, run down, slow but much hotel building is going on and the future seems to be promising. The style of older homes is of interest. Very charming cottages with steep roofs, built of wood and standing on supports that allow air to circulate underneath, a common form of building in the Caribbean. They have one radio station, “Radio Morgan.” Henry Morgan the pirate used the island as his port at one time. Our hotel has limitations. No hot water, though none is needed. No toilet seat, I just killed a mosquito and a cockroach (small one), and the electricity did not come on until 7:30 pm. Something is swimming in the toilet. What can you expect for $6?

To Colombia, July 6, 1973

Leaving San Andres Island on time our Aerocondor flight was on a four-engined turboprop. The lunch wasn't much and the stewardesses were more concerned with themselves than their passengers. One hour and twenty minutes later we were stepping into the muggy air of Barranquilla airport, a second rate operation at best. A taxi driver said he would take us to a bus stop, where we could catch a ride to Santa Marta. A beat up, spring-less, shock absorber-less Dodge managed a twenty-five or so minute ride to a ferry on the Magdalena River. We were placed in the hands of a grubby young man and the driver departed. I think we were had on the rate, but at $1.25 or so who can complain? I bought a beer for 6 1/2 cents, then appraised our situation. We felt like we were on a Hollywood set. We sat beneath a thatch covering on wobbly chairs in the heat. To one side was a collection of sinister looking types playing an animated game of dominoes. Few women were to be seen and those few were nothing to behold. Cars, trucks and busses lined up waiting for the ferry. The road was unpaved, dust the norm. We were guarding our belongings with great caution. We had been warned to do so in Colombia by several traveling companions, the books we had read, and we do as told. Surprisingly to us, few of the locals seemed to pay us any heed. Before long a small bus appeared. The radiator was boiling over and it was packed with passengers. It was in class half-way between the cheap types that most of the citizens of Latin America ride and the better, larger "Pullman" busses. Two seats were available according to the young man, and with some trepidation we squeezed in. We were saving about $1 by not waiting for a "Pullman". We had to fight off hawkers who were selling sun glasses, soft drinks, assorted kinds of food, and baseball caps. A swift ride it was, passing through coastal villages filled with black folk, fishing boats, fishing nets, trucks and dusty, unpaved streets. The economic growth being registered by Colombia in recent years is not evident in this region. The ride ended in Santa Marta, crowded, noisy and dirty. Packs on back we walked toward the center of town. A toothless fellow, thirteen or so years old, latched on to us and led us down several narrow streets looking for a hotel. Several tries, including a phone call, we settled for the Hotel Corona. I munificently gave the boy 13 cents for his services. With luck he got a few pesos from the hotel proprietors. The Hotel Corona, hopefully, will be about the worst we will ever stay in. The toilet had neither seat nor lid to the bowl. The shower was a pipe with no head, coming out of the wall. Of course, no hot water. The door could have been pushed open with a gentle push, the lock was barely sufficient to keep it closed. A feeble light bulb hung from the ceiling. An old whirling fan also was suspended from the high ceiling. The beds were uncomfortable but clean. All that for $4.

To Bogota, Santa Marta, July 7, l973

Our train was built in the U.S. by General Electric. It was narrow gauge, meaning we would sway nicely from side to side. Inaugurated in l962 the Ferrocarril del Atlantico had seen much use, attested to by the deteriorated condition of the cars. We rolled out at 9 am, on time, and passed through the outskirts of the town where Simon Bolivar had died. At over 60 miles an hour the ride was a bone jarring experience. As we passed along the seacoast we could see the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Leaving the mountains we rushed across the flat, low country of Colombia. Banana trees were the principal agricultural item through much of the area. The heat grew worse. The humidity made the occasional stops hard to take. We had no air conditioning, all the windows were wide open. Even while rolling we sweated. Our guide on the trip was an English speaking Colombian with a Finnish born wife. They and their small boy with a very blond head spoke Swedish some of the time, Spanish the rest. He had lived in Sweden for eight years. According to him this country was opened to settlement only with the completion of the railroad. At most of the stops swarms of vendors attacked the train. We ate the food we had with us, stale bread from Mexico, pork and beans from Guatemala and Hearty Burgundy from California. The weather got worse, then the bugs started getting bad. Gnats, mosquitoes, flies, moths, butterflies, and whatever, found our coach as their new home. It was interesting watching the dragon flies devouring the smaller insects. After nightfall the countryside was lighted by fireflies. By this time we had endured twelve hours of torture. At one point we were entertained by the electrical connection between our coach and the next, it shorted out and caught fire, then left us in the limited light of early evening. We made one stop in oil rich Barranca. What a miserable fate to have to live in Barranca. Early in the morning our train came to a swift halt. Not swift enough, however, as we ran over three steers. Mercifully, the Andes finally reached us. Our windows were now closed, trapping the bugs, and some of the Colombians were covered by their ruanas, colorful ponchos commonly worn in Bogota. We were a smelly, grimy lot. Our armed guards were not in as bad condition, since they had been replaced at midpoint. Armed escorts were riding on the train and at each stop several others could be seen. As our Colombian guide noted, "We are not known as the most honest people." A guard, dressed in army fatigues, walked behind the conductor as he checked tickets. Twenty-three hours after leaving Santa Marta we were in the capital, Bogota. Never again!

Bogota, July 8, 1973

The hotel was very welcome, clean, had a bar, was situated in the heart of a civilized city. After a long bath and short nap we took a walk to appraise the city. At 8,600 feet the city air is clean, fresh and brisk. After a lunch at the hotel we took another stroll. We saw the bull ring where a novillada was scheduled later in the day. A park below the bullring was crowded with people. Montserrate, a monastery overlooking the city, could be seen. On another mountaintop we could see a large statue, the Guadalupe. We purchased two tickets at the Municipal Theater for a show that night, Carnival Popular de Barranquilla. The show started at 7 pm, the crowd was well dressed and sophisticated in appearance, coats and ties are even worn by bus drivers in this conservative town. The show consisted of songs and dances typical of the coastal city of Barranquilla. The musicians were black, the dancers of mixed heritage. What the performers lacked in discipline and professionalism they made up with enthusiasm.

Not Communicating Well, Bogota, July 9, 1973

I am not doing well communicating with the Colombians. They speak bad Spanish. As with all Spanish speaking countries television and radio people and the well educated speak careful, well pronounced Spanish. A heavy accent is noted with sports announcers on the radio. With the common people a large amount of mumbling is done, they do not pronounce all the sounds. Compounding my problem is their use of different terms than I am used to. Gaseosa goes for soda pop, instead of the usual refesco elsewhere. Piezas I heard instead of cuarto for room in Santa Marta, or maybe that was just a different pronunciation of piso used in Spain. Boletos in Mexico, billetes in Spain, tiquetes here. Tinto here is black coffee. The girl who served our breakfast can't understand me any better than I can her.

Museo del Oro, Bogota, July 10, l973

The Gold Museum is located in a bank building and is the leading tourist attraction in town. The pre-Columbian Indians were very good in working gold, the amount of gold artifacts surviving is impressive. The leading group producing the items in the collection was the Muisca tribe, a Chibcha speaking group. The fine detail of many of the items is something to behold. Three floors of glass cases constitutes the museum. The bottom floor is somewhat sparse, the second much better and he third is the big show. One walks through huge vault doors then you are closed in. Whole bunches of gold here. The star of the exhibition is the small balsa that was found only a few years back. It rotates in a glass case, represents the king who jumped into the lake--the El Dorado story.

Walking the Town, Bogota, July 10, l973

We set out after lunch to see some of the tourist attractions on foot. We saw the National Congress, the National Palace and the house of Manuelita Saenz, Bolivar's mistress. The palace was guarded by smartly dressed soldiers. Out front was an army truck with two large machine guns peering menacingly at us as we walked by.

Lomotil, Bogota, July 11, l973

Somewhat slow today, spent much of the time warding off the turistas. The druggist said the best is Lomotil, which we have, but just for good measure I bought more. I decided to give up plans for a trip to the Cathedral of Salt. It's a church in the bottom of a huge salt mine. Three hours on a bus out and back is not what I need now.

Montserrate, Bogota, July 12, l973

Our big project of the day was to visit Montserrate, the vantage point overlooking the city. It was worth the effort. We hiked up to the bottom of the Teleferico, the Swiss built lift that takes visitors to the top of the mountain in three minutes. The walk was enough to make us appreciate the altitude. At the top you stand at some 10,500 feet. The view was impressive. A restaurant, some tourist shops, a small railroad and the view vie with the church as the principal points of interest. We could see all of the city, including the airport some distance out of town, and the more centrally located train station. After our descent we visited the Quinta Bolivar, the home of Bolivar for two years before he left Bogota. It is a charming home with great gardens and every room seems to have three or four doors. A number of manuscripts from Bolivar's compatriots were in one section, nothing however written by the Liberator himself. We finished off the night at a small restaurant, Los Coches, where you eat in an imitation horse carriage while two fellows pluck guitars and sing Mexican tunes.

To Quito, July 13, 1973

Our ride to Ecuador was an Air France 707, real class after riding dated turboprops. About an hour after takeoff we were settling down into the mountain basin that holds the capital of the country. Our ride into town was a Chevy taxi, with an elderly gent driving with one hand on the horn most of the way. We found the Hotel Metropolitan, an ancient walkup, listed in $5 a Day. We scouted the city on foot, not a large place and one day is enough to get a good introduction. Good thing, since we found at the train station that the AutoFerro runs only on Saturdays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, returning the other days. Not wanting to ride the bus, we leave in the morning, 6 am. The people speak far better
Spanish than the common folk of Colombia. You see more Indians here than in Bogota. Awfully young girls carrying babies in their rebozos shows you why they age quickly. Lots of beggars, as with Bogota, but less street urchins. The little, begging kids in Colombia were very bothersome, seem to try to see how ragged and dirty they can be. There were, however, lots of pathetic sights in Quito. We ate dinner at the charming La Cueva de Luis Candelas, feeling fortunate to be able to afford it. On the radio later we could hear that the Huayno type Indian music that is popular, and the influence of Mexico is not hard to notice. The big story of the day was the arrival of Angelica Maria at the airport, the well known singer and actress we can watch in Los Angeles in a bad serial, novela, she stars in.

Bus on Rails, Ecuador, July 14, l973

There it was--our ride to Guayaquil. Just like the ad said, it's a bus on rails. They are called Ferro Bus in Spain, Schienenbus in Germany. It looked like a big school bus sitting on top of a railroad undercarriage. Most of the seats were filled as we left the station. A bouncy, not overly fast ride of about forty miles an hour was what we got. The countryside out of Quito is attractive, the homes sturdy, adobe structures populated by Indians herding sheep, growing corn, melons, wheat, raising a few head of cattle, pigs, etc. The dogs appear to be much healthier than we have seen so far on the trip, enjoy chasing the train as it passes. We were treated to the sight of snow-capped volcanoes as we progressed and the sun rose. I am not sure whether one of the passengers enjoyed the trip or not. He was a small, furry coatimundi. He periodically went on a squealing binge, was a friendly type. His owner was an enterprising twelve or so year old who sold Pepsi, cigarettes and gum at inflated prices. We were running on time until we reached Riobamba. On the way we went through Ambato, a town destroyed by earthquake in l949, 15,000 lives lost. We could see no evidence of disaster as we cruised by. In Riobamba we had to stop for servicing of our vehicle. Sand was put under the coach for ballast and traction purposes. Apparently the rain we had passed through had necessitated the job that, according to the driver, was a once a month happening. That took at least half an hour. We then backed into the city. It is maybe the fourth largest city in the country. I can't say I would want to spend much time there. While we waited for a departure at the station I tried a conversation with an Indian who was standing several feet away from us, studying us with calm detachment. I'm afraid the gulf between his culture and mine negates the possibility of meaningful dialogue. I asked him how many people lived in Riobamba. The answer, "bastante", enough. That is the second time I have gotten that answer to the query. Then I tried with "do the Indians around here speak Spanish." His answer came across as something like, "of course, you dummy." He was dressed in Indian garb and spoke very distinct Spanish. He then asked me where we had come, where we were going and where we were from. He seemed to think that we were daffy for having no real purpose behind our travels. Somewhat later than the one hour scheduled we were off. Less than a mile down the tracks we parked and sat for another 1 1/2 hours. The small office had a telegraph key which worked furiously for the whole time. We learned later that a train had derailed ahead and blocked the tracks. Finally, off again. We were now several hours behind time. The countryside was beautiful, high mountains, terraced for agriculture, the volcano Chimborazo, the thatch Indian homes looking like haystacks, the donkeys, native people in black clothes, tractors working large fields of wheat, and other attractions held our interest. Before reaching Guamote we were descending through a canyon with semi-steep sides, great country with tremendous color. One objectionable feature was a mountainside scarred by a sulfur mine . The stream running below was an ugly yellowish hue. With several frustrated toots on its whistle our rail bus came to a stop. It sure looked as if a freight car was off the track ahead. It was. What more could tourists ask for? Our mixed crowd of passengers, half Ecuadorian middle class, half French, Belgian, British and American tourist, hopped off the coach and assessed the situation. An empty boxcar had lost its front wheels and a flatcar was off the rails. With luck, according to our driver, it would take only a few hours to care for the disaster. It looked bad and soon got worse when the engineer of the derailed train badly bent the rails trying to pull his flatcar back onto the tracks. I asked one man when the crane would be there. His answer with a smile, "In this country we do not have cranes." Before long several crews of rail hands appeared on their small motorized carts. Here were some very small Indians with crowbars, undersized jacks, sledge hammers and rail straighteners. Including the crew of an ancient steamer that soon appeared there were now well over fifty men to help with the problem. The rails were ironed out in an hour, a pathetically shaky wooden cart apparatus with miniscule wheels was placed under the boxcar, the unattached wheels pushed to one side and we were on our way--after dark had descended and several hours had passed. It had been grand entertainment for the Indians who appeared from nowhere to gawk. Everybody had a good time.

It Got Worse, Ecuador, July 14, l973

As the trip on the rail bus progressed our guide became a gentleman from Guayaquil, employed as a port "vigilante," whatever that is. Sr. Ruiz had once worked in Long Beach for six weeks and as a merchant seaman had seen much of the world. He was a proud Ecuadorian who blamed the problems of his country on the military junta that runs things. They know how to be good cops but don't know much about law. Under Velasco things were better, he claimed. Juan Velasco Ibarra, now resident in Argentina, has had at least five chances as President of the country. The generals don't give him a chance, voiced Ruiz. Just around the mountain from our scenic two or so hour rest was Guamote, not the biggest city in the country. There was some confusion do to the presence of too many trains, too few rails. We stopped long enough for the driver to talk to a friend and drink a pop. We then had to change tracks to make way for another engine. Slowly backing uphill the bus began losing traction, made some funny noises and stopped, listing slightly to the starboard side. Now we were off the rails. After half an hour of work, assisted by the ancient steamer, we were back on the track and headed down the mountain. This was all somehow unsettling considering the famous tracks that lay ahead. This entire road is well known because it was built with a heavy cost in lives by several American engineers in the l890s--or thereabouts. The single most spectacular part of their work was the cut made into the very steep side of a mountain. The site is known as Nariz del Diablo, the Devil's Nose. A short time after our stop in Guamote we were there. Much to my surprise we came to a stop as we coasted down the cliff. The conductor jumped off, turned a switch and we began backing down the cliff. We could have gone slower. Perhaps a mile down we stopped, repeated the switching procedure and headed off in a forward direction. A zig-zag railroad is new in my experience. We missed some interesting countryside and then the sheer cliff descent because of the darkness, perhaps just as well I thought later. Six hours late we arrived at the end of the tracks, Duran. I am disappointed not to have been able to photograph the rail yards that would put most railroad museums in the U.S. to shame. Except for a few modern diesels the place was littered with ancient boxcars, l890s steamers, cabooses, etc., many obviously still in use. On the way in we had passed a four or five-car train, pulled by a steam engine that takes two days to make the trip we were scheduled to do in twelve hours. One car was marked "Primera Clase", but it looked the same as the second class coaches. A few windows in several of the cars were not broken. With persistence I imagine much more of the country can be seen by rail, if you are not particular about your means of locomotion. From Duran we rode another old timer, a motor launch across the Guaymas River to Guayaquil, found a taxi, and ended up at the Continental Hotel. With two doormen it was not in our budget category but at twelve-thirty in the morning who can argue. Down the street work is almost complete on a new Continental, explaining why the paint needs redoing in places and the cockroaches feel right at home.

Guayaquil, July 15, l973

A good night's sleep and we were on our way to see Guayaquil. The largest city in the country, it's a commercial center, not much of a tourist town as is Quito. After a cup of instant coffee we walked down to the river. Canoes, jungle steamers, rusted fishing vessels and what-not cluttered the scene. Coconuts from Esmeralda up the coast were being unloaded on the backs of young men from a small coastal steamer. What was that Humphrey Bogart movie called? Being Sunday morning life moved slowly. Couples strolled, families were sightseeing, mass was being said. The cathedral here is very Gothic, and good sized. Rob and Don, Englishmen we had befriended earlier, wanted to take in a football match. The desk clerk got us 45 Sucre tickets to the big game of the day, featuring two matches for the price of one. The four of us rode a cab to what is not the loveliest of stadiums. A high chain-link fence topped by barbed wire surrounds the field. Armed guards stand at both ends of the field and others circulate through the crowd. Two officers with police dogs are also present on the field. Periodically, we also heard the booming of artillery in the hills behind the stadium. The generals are not taking chances. The first game was slow and uninteresting, the one goal scored by the Guayaquil club was headed in by a defender on the Cuenca team. But, we were a treat for the kids at the stadium, being foreigners. Before long we were surrounded by a herd of smelly, talkative young ruffians. When I found they were all vendors I felt better. For a time it seemed there were more salesmen than paying customers. They, combined with a few beggars, were constantly detracting from the limited action on the field. The second game was better, ending in a 1-1 tie.

Lima, July 16, l973

At the airport in Lima I exchanged money (43 to $1), after passing through three or four obstacles in the form of customs and immigration inspectors. We had been told you had to have a ticket out to get into the country. Nobody checked and we even listed railroad as the means for leaving the country. I am now convinced that the airlines enforce this rule better than the officials. We did have to sign a document listing how much money we had. We also had to show our vaccination certificates, the second country in a row to enforce that rule. In Quito a fellow had to get a vaccination at the airport when he arrived. I was talked into a room at the Alcazar Hotel for $15. Our ride in was through the leak outskirts of Lima. Sparse vegetation does nothing to relieve the lack of color in the hillside colonies of cheap houses. It was vaguely reminiscent of scenes we have observed in Baja California. The countryside is excessively dry, despite the fog that lies over the city for months each year. The majority of the way from Guayaquil by air was over similar terrain, I am glad we did not go by land, nothing but desert. This challenges one's usual concept of a desert in that this desert isn't hot. It just lacks water. This is caused by the cold Humboldt current that flows along the coast. Going for a walk we found American Express, checked the mail and tried getting some information. The American Express reps in Colombia and here don't rate high in my nice guy book. We did, however, get the information that SATCO, a Peruvian airline, has what we need. We went to Faucett to see if they flew the day we needed to Cuzco. They did, but were full. SATCO had that flight, too, so off to SATCO office. Back to Faucett to get our ticket to Cuzco endorsed. Back to SATCO to get confirmed flights. No cash so we'll have to wait until tomorrow. From there we stopped at LAN, the Chilean airline, to check on travel to that country. Last week travelers were required to cash $10 per day at the official rate of exchange. This week it is $15. The problem is compounded by the ridiculous rate they offer, one-tenth what black market operators are offering for dollars. Allende is not solving the monetary problems of his country very well. After some consideration we might go to Mendoza, Argentina, then Santiago. We'll have to see how things go. Afterwards we circled the Plaza San Martin and headed for Playa de Las Armas. On the way we passed John, a Bostonian who sat behind us on our train ride to Guayaquil. He had seen Don and Rob and said they had met some girls and had dates for tonight. This kind of friendliness you don't find traveling in Europe, too many people. We were returning to our hotel down a street cluttered with vendors. Everything from capri pants to cookies and puppy dogs were being offered for sale. Stopped to listen to Seals and Crofts blaring over a loudspeaker. We then saw a mad scramble as some of the vendors spread in all directions, carrying their wares with them. Then I saw their problem. Baton wielding policemen were scurrying along the crowded street. Behind them was a truck with reinforcements, obviously the salesmen were not complying with the rules in some way.

More Lima, July 17, 1973

We moved from the expensive Alcazar ($16) to the Pension Vasca, a very run down old building with creaky floors and sagging beds. There is hot water for the shower and the toilet flushes so it ranks above some other places we have seen. We seem to be the only Americans in the place. We headed down the road to care for our plane tickets. On the way we met Rob and Don. They kept us company while we took care of the tickets, then we said we would see them later at the Embassy night club on Plaza San Martin. After lunch we walked to Plaza de Las Armas, where Pizarro founded the city of Lima. On the Plaza is the Cathedral. Inside it looked much like the myriad others we have seen. The big attraction for me was the body of Pizarro, enclosed in a glass case. It was in one of the fenced in cult areas at one side of the church. It was barely discernable in the darkness. After a visit to the train station to check on our way out of Lima we visited the San Francisco Church, said to be the most beautiful in the city. It has its good points but do to several bad earthquakes is in sad condition. We followed one of the guides and understood some of his minute descriptions in Spanish. The most important impression I received was that much is not known about the church. Records have been lost or misplaced and much is conjecture. The church is Baroque with heavy Mudejar and Mozarab influences from Spain. Most of the paintings relate to the Franciscan order, as did most of the descriptions given by the guide. Underneath the church are tunnels and catacombs. The catacombs were discovered only in l940 and restored beginning in l950. Skulls were numerous, pits full of bones, leg bones, thigh bones and what have you were arranged in patterns in one room. It was neat. Some investigators say that the baby bones found there were from children born to the nuns. Tunnels led to the outside but to where nobody knows, 300 years of local building has destroyed the remainder of the tunnels. From there we walked to the site of where the Inquisition once sat. On the spot now sits a fire station. Across the street is a statue of Bolivar, mounted on his horse.

Impressions of Peru, Lima, July 18, l973
Much here is made of the revolution that has been going on peacefully since l968. Led by the army, land reform, nationalization of industries, state sponsored building projects, etc. have been taking place. There is no question that the generals run the show. Juan Velasco Alvarado is always referred to as General de Division, Presidente de la Republica. Patriotism, nationalism are big. Flags are abundant and posters urge the people on. Various organizations with revolutionary names are seen throughout the city. A newspaper article notes the building of a copper refining mill, with the assistance of the Japanese The majority of the capital will come from foreign sources. There are more Japanese living in the country than Americans, by several thousand. The weather is miserable. Foggy, damp and even drizzling last night. With no heat in our room I could have used another blanket.
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Museums, Lima, July 18, l973
We took a taxi to the suburb of Pueblo Libre for an investigation of the Museo de Antropologia. Surprisingly, it is a flat one story building, not at all imposing as is the museum in Mexico. The Nasca pottery and Paracas clothing were of great interest. The Paracas room was a round, large affair with dummies dressed in the intricately woven clothes. By far the best part of the museum was the sexual collection housed in a basement room and open only to adults. Starting at the far end of the room were examples of pottery depicting animals in sexual poses. Proceeding along the room the collection became more bizarre. Things obviously have not changed all that much in the last few centuries. Next door we discovered another museum, the Museo National de Historia. Old furniture, paintings of Peruvian heroes and, in particular, the belongings of Simon Bolivar were featured exhibits. I asked one of the employees if a Sr. J. Crupo worked there. She said no. This was the fellow we met briefly at the Archive of the Indies in Seville, Spain last year. She said they had a Juan Carlos Crespo, however. I had not read the fellow's handwriting well and this was our man. We had a delightful chat for 45 or so minutes. He had spent eight months in Spain doing research on the 16th Century. When I asked some pointed questions about politics in Peru he changed the subject. His female assistant joined in the conversation at several [points. Peruvians are very correct and polite and we comported ourselves well.

To Cuzco, July 19, l973
Before light we were off and looking for a cab to the airport, $3.50 for the ride. Satco is a new airline in Peru and has brand new Dutch Fokker F-28 jets. We pushed our way to the front of the line and grabbed window seats. The ride was fast, smooth and the most beautiful I have ever experienced. We shot up through the fog cover and were riding on top of a giant fluffy pillow, stretching to the mountains to the east. The mountains were snow-capped, rugged and imposing. An occasional river and village could be seen, but few roads. After a half hour of such luxuriant sights the mountains dipped beneath the clouds and I could proceed with my newspaper reading. Within minutes we were descending through the clouds and circling the mountain valley that holds Cuzco. The color brown dominated the view as we touched down. The hills, houses and ultimately the people are all a brownish, red color. We found a room without private bath at the Ollanta Hotel, a nice, middle class concern with hot water and heaters. It was cloudy, then rainy and cold. We took a short walk and found ourselves very lightheaded and breathless. After our stay in Quito one would expect otherwise, but not so. It takes a day to adjust. The city is small, has an abundance of churches, is filled with Indians, has several attractive plazas and is not overly colorful. I would rank it beneath Taxco, Mexico in being picturesque. We headed for the hills in a late model Dodge taxi, were treated to a tour of nearby Indian ruins, alpacas, llamas and Indians with outstretched palms. We saw the baths, another structure that served the old Inca road as a way station, and finally the fortification that guarded Cuzco. It bears the imposing name of Sacsayhuaman. The natives were very talented at fitting rocks together. All the time it rained off and on. Our taxi driver-guide did not have much to say. Later we were treated to a show of native dances and music in a freezing auditorium, performed by students and teachers who perform every night for the tourists. The high pitched singing of the girl dancers will probably be the most lasting of my memories of the night. Cuzco is by far the most tourist oriented place we have seen so far in our summer's travels. In particular the French have discovered the place. Air France must have some great deal to encourage their heading across the Atlantic.

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Corrida de Toros, Ajijic, June 22, 2008

Of the six students who joined the summer program, two showed up for our second annual barbecue at our little Yellow House. More attractive draw, Puerto Vallarta. Jaclin, Jazmine and I took the boat ride to and from Scorpion Island from Chapala, had barbecued chicken at our place and headed for Ajijic. I had seen a handwritten poster announcing a "Corrida de Toros", at the Ajijic Bullring, 4 pm. At 4 we were among a dozen other spectators. We. knew this was not the big time; A truck loaded with ten bulls showed up at 4:15. Progress. An old timer assured me that this was a real bullfight, big bulls, not novillos. In most bullfights you only get six bulls. We did not see anyone dressed for a bullfight, at 5 a Sinaloa style "banda" started playing. at 5:15 a long haired, animated fellow made announcements, including that we could purchase two tickets for a drawing for 50 pesos. The prize--a long bottle of Correlejos Tequila. The bullfight was a fund raiser for a lady needing an operation. More people arrived. They obviously had better information than I got from the poster. The "jinetes" were announced, riders. This was a different kind of bullfight. I was realizing slowly. Finally, as the clock approached 6 the first bull was placed in a pen, American rodeo style. One of the young jinetes boarded the animal, the gate opened and the kid lasted a few seconds before slowly sliding off onto the red dirt of the ring. The Corrida was more like the traditional Charreada, Mexican Jalisco style rodeo. The now larger crowd enjoyed everything, especially when the third bull jumped the fence and sent assorted young men in all directions. The plus was that both Jaclyn and Jazmine were happy to see that the bulls would live to fight another day. My lecture on bullfighting: the ceremony, three parts, matadores, picadores, banderillas, blood, etc., can be used another time by the girls. I can now say that I have seen a bullfight where the bulls had horns covered with duct tape and the animals were not someone's barbecue the next day.

To Machu Picchu, July 20, 1973

Another early start as we had to catch our 7 am train to Machu Picchu. It was cold but the skies were clear and a nice day seemed assured. In front of the train station was an Indian market, cluttered with women and kids. Potatoes, stubby carrots, various other vegetables, mandarin oranges, bananas and half green oranges predominated in the offerings. I cannot say it was all that clean. Three trains were readying to leave Cuzco. One was hooked to an old steamer, was filled with Indians, and goes beyond Machu Picchu, stopping at every settlement along the way. Another was a diesel railcar that the tour people generally use. It left first and arrives at Machu Picchu a short time before the other train, which we were on. Ours was pulled by a diesel made in Schenectady, N.Y. and consisted of five Japanese build coaches the equivalent of most second class European coaches. Our train was loaded with tourists. The predominant languages were French and English, with Spanish running a close third. The ride was fairly smooth but not overly fast. Just outside of Cuzco we made a series of zig-zag switchbacks, wound around the mountains and headed up the valley of the Urubamba. The Urubamba is a dramatic, white water river most of the way. One small hydroelectric plant straddled the stream at one point but otherwise the river was wild. Some small towns were passed on the way but most of the people were spread over semi-barren land in clusters of several huts each. Most of the homes were made of adobe brick, covered with thatch. As with Ecuador the eucalyptus and maguey are commonly seen. The eucalyptus is widely used for building purposes. Most of the journey was through countryside scorched dry by lack of rain. At 10,000 ft in elevation the transplanted Australian trees thrive but not much else. Surprisingly on the very tops of steep mountains an occasional patch of wheat could be seen. The town of Ollanta lies to one side of the tracks and has a variety of old Indian ruins. The town has seen better days. As we approached Machu Picchu we rounded a mountain and the vegetation changed within a matter of yards. The vegetation was green, abundant and damp in the morning air. Some banana trees could be seen and it was obviously an easier region in which to produce food. On both sides of the valley snow capped giant mountains towered above the immediate peaks.

Machu Picchu, July 20,1973

At 10:30 we were at Machu Picchu station. Before we realized what was happening a frantic scramble was in progress for the few Volkswagen microbus seats available for the last part of the journey. We had to wait a half hour. Soon after scurrying away from the station the Peruvian lady next to us said it's the "Carrera de Indianapolis". Better yet I would rate it with the Baja 1000. Up the dirt road shot our blue microbus. A Mercedes microbus had to give way to a determined driver. Very quickly we were at the top. Most of the busses parked beside the tourist hotel had front end damage, generally missing headlights. After paying our entrance fee we walked through a gate and into the famous lost city of the Incas. The ruins could be seen partially from the railroad station, lessening the impact on our senses. The shaft of mountain Huaynapicchu sits to the right with terrain almost to the very top. We began our investigation on the right side of the city where the rock walls and steps often led us to dead ends. It was the lower side of the ruins and most of the tourists had headed for the higher ground. We were treated to a quiet that well fitted the clean mountain air and green carpet of grass that was everywhere. In the central of the ancient city were several open areas, quite suitable for a football game. This was the domain of four alpacas or llamas, one of whom straightened back his ears and started to aim a spit wad in the direction of approaching strangers. We then joined the crowd and climbed the other side of the site. Guides were giving those in the escorted tours learned and vigorous dissertations on the complicated questions that remain about the place. Just when was it founded, what purpose did it serve and why did it die are still warmly debated matters. We saw the sun-dial, the sun temple, etc. We then climbed to the highest point, excluding the terracing for crops, and rested a while. We had lunch and began our descent. Our three hours passed quickly. It is not so much the city itself but where it is located that makes it impressive. The feat of moving giant rocks around, carving out hillsides and being self-sufficient jolts the imagination. The place sits on top of a mountain. [As I read again these notes many years later I rate this site as the number one most impressive place I have seen in my life].

Down from Machu Picchu, July 20, l973

Just after we started down the dirt road a small fellow waved at us, hollered and disappeared down the road. Several bends in the road and there he was again. We were not going slowly. By taking a path he knew all too well he beat us to the bottom. Several of us in the bus who appreciate athletic endeavors rewarded the sweaty lad with a few Soles, part of which he promptly invested in a Coke. He said he made the trip twice a day.

Back from Machu Picchu, July 20, l973

Half way back to Cuzco it was dark. Several of the villages had no more lighting than candles. Even larger towns had only a few lights. In one town a brass band played music in the dark related to the martial sounds of Spain or the banda music of Sinaloa, Mexico.

To Arequipa, July 21, 1973

After paying our bill at the Hotel Ollanta, about $11 for two nights, we were on our Satco flight heading for Arequipa, 509 kms away. The countryside below was stark, brown and barren. A few lakes helped break the monotony. On the higher peaks on both sides of us snow capped the summits. One solitary road and a few villages could be seen between Cuzco and Arequipa. It takes much imagination to see this bleak region ever being a viable area for agriculture. Without minerals the land is next to worthless. Approaching the city we flew between the peaks of snow clad volcanoes, Misti and Chachani. The city from the air seems medium sized, has the appearance of an oasis surrounded by dark desert. The airport is small, almost deserted. Three or four flights in and out a day is the workload. As we waited for a cab on the steps of the airport building we could appreciate the quiet serenity of the place. The air was fresh, clean and the skies blue. The 7,000 ft altitude combined with a bright sun and low humidity made this the best weather we have seen on our trip. In physical appearance the land stretching before us had the appearance of San Bernardino or Riverside, minus the smog. Our cabbie took us the eight or so miles into town, on some very rough roads. He dropped us off in front of the Hotel Sucre, certainly what had to be one of the rock bottom places in town to stay. Our room is on a patio, has high ceilings, the usual light hanging by a long wire, a sink, two sway backed beds and some beat up furniture. A sign on the wall says something about 65 Soles, about $1.50. I forgot to ask the price but that might be it. We parked our suitcases and strolled one block over to the Plaza de Armas. Three sides are surrounded by commercial buildings with arcades and arches often found in Hispanic countries. The cathedral occupies the fourth side of the plaza. We sat and watched the locals watch us. We must have been very obvious, with a few French tourists sharing the area, the rest Arequipenos. Life is certainly slower than in Lima. The people are predominately mestizo. The Indian class seen elsewhere in the country is not common here. The word criollo is used often to distinguish the Spanish heritage from the Indian. One hears very little Indian music.

Cousin Jeanette, Arequipa, July 21, l973

At the airport we had found a phonebook and looked for the name Ricketts. Jeanette Ricketts is a cousin of my mother. First impression is that telephones were limited locally, the slim volume covered half the country. Then we found that there were many Ricketts in the city as well as a Ricketts and Company. We called the number for Alfredo Ricketts, a servant answered saying that they were gone for the day. When we returned to the hotel a message was waiting for us from the Jeanette Ricketts. She had simply started calling hotels until she found us. Soon after she appeared at our showplace room, and invited us to their place for dinner. Alfredo's grandfather was an immigrant from England and founded a now wealthy Peruvian family with much standing in the community. Our cabbie from the airport not only knew who he was but knew where he lived. Ricketts and Co. deals in commerce of various types. As we sat in the comfortable den before a fireplace I noticed that the bottle of Scotch we were working on was imported by the company. Jeanette met Alfredo while a student at the University of Wyoming. They have four kids, two girls, the oldest, are in California going to school. The two sons, Mike and Felipe, look like gringos but are very Peruvian, speaking English with a heavy accent.

Different Standards, Jomtien Beach, December 1, 2011

Yesterday I spent the afternoon under an umbrella on the beach here in Thailand, main objective to just enjoy the warm breeze, look out at the also warm, blue green water, and finish a book or two. But, I spent more time watching people than reading. I was surrounded mostly by overly fleshy, light complectioned, cigarette smoking Russians. The Russians are definitely coming to Thailand. The rest of the beachgoers were mostly darkly tanned Europeans from half a dozen countries, sitting with their Thai boyfriends. The dress code here is for sure in another category from what one would find at Redondo Beach, Newport or even home of lots of exotics Venice Beach. Speedos we might see on California beaches, where they cause occasional stares and giggles. Speedos here are on the conservative side. Of course the few Thai women one sees heading for the water are usually in modest T-shirts and shorts. I saw one young Thai lady in a one piece suit that covered her well, and she was one who would looked great in a bikini. The bikini clad women sunning themselves were something different. I guess it can be considered a virtue to not be inhibited about one's body, accepting of what you've got. But, my god! With rolls of fat, wrinkles, cellulitis, warped bodies and just plain ugliness, how about a tad of modesty? I thought some of the far overweight, younger Russians, men in bikini suits that hid in their cracks, ladies in skimpy outfits that belonged in the girly bars of Pattaya's Walking Street more than on their well provisioned frames, took the prize for exposure. That was until I spied an elderly gent, bent over from his eight decades of existence, deep brown, including his shiny head, who paraded slowly down the beach sand in a string bikini. Hands down he won the prize for the day, for gall, if not for exhibitionism. He would have been arrested on lots of beaches worldwide. He also would have been disgusting if he were not so absurd, laugh generating and entertaining. Most of the crowd up and down the beach did not seem to notice, so maybe I am the one who was out of place. Today I was seated close to where I was yesterday. Again, I had a goal of reading. But, Norman who lives a few miles north of the U.S. Border in British Columbia, joined me, and talked nonstop for over four hours. Late in the afternoon, two Singha beers down, the string bathing suit came along again. Today, however, he gets the silver medal. Gold goes to the two slow moving, ancient, maybe German, men sitting in front of me. Both changed from shorts to bathing suits, seated and standing, without any concern about showing their everything. Even with his sagging, stretched out of shape bikini suit, the one partner did not manage to cover his under endowed privates. This time I did notice a few other spectators trying to smother their chuckles when he changed for the third time after taking a dip in the ocean.

Don't Wash Those Feet, Jomtien Beach, December 1, 2011

The guidebooks advise foreign visitors that Thais hold feet in particular disdain. They touch the ground. You are not supposed to point with them, and be sure never to step on an image of the King. Perhaps this helps to explain the sign above the sink in the men's room of a new restaurant in Jomtien, "Do Not Wash Feet in Basin."

The King Rides in a VW, Bangkok, December 5, 2011

Today is the King's 84th birthday. For the past two years the frail, fragile monarch who inherited the throne in 1946 has resided in a room art Siriraj Hospital, not the Royal Palace. He only rarely ventures out. So, this a big day for the country as King Bhumibol appeared on the balcony of the ornate Chakri Throne Hall, delivering a message to the nation and to the hundreds of government officials below, suffering in the morning heat in their white uniforms. The medal bedecked military in high furry helmets must have been even more uncomfortable in the bright sun. The TV showed the King being pushed in his wheelchair to the most unassuming vehicle in the long motorcade, a cream colored Volkswagen van. As the procession headed for the palatial hall, family members were next in a long, older Rolls Royce, followed by a line of red Mercedes Benz four-doors. The speeches were mercifully brief, including words from P.M. Yingluck Shinawatra, and the King's son and prince, and the King himself. His message was given in almost a whisper, the princess had to come to his help changing pages, but he managed, was greeted with songs, chants, and then moved back, a curtain closed, the crowd disbursed. As the ruler in this constitutional monarchy headed back to the hospital, his wheelchair was the most elegant one I have ever seen,. I wonder how many more years before the country has to face the question and problem of what next.

It's Cold, Bangkok, December 13, 2011

I don't remember ever seeing street dogs in Thailand in coats. Several times in the past two days I have seen mutts wearing cast off T-shirts. This morning I noticed that a number of the locals also were sporting jackets. I was thinking how great the weather had been, high for the days barely hitting 80F. Thais, and I guess this includes Thai dogs, think it's cold if the thermometer dips into the 70s.

Controlled Confusion, Manila, June 4, 2011

Five days in Manila, educational, university, Fil-Ams to Philippines for university, lots of talk, optimism, ideas, laughing, smiles, hierarchy, same as always, new President Aquino, fresh hopes, but Imelda and son Ferdinand Jr. as elected Reps, heritage of Spain, elitism, family, church, corruption, economy slowly on the rise, 300,000 unemployed nurses, concern about underachieving schools, colleges and universities, grads can't pass exams, calls for closing down some, no jobs for grads, underpaid, underemployed, still depending on OFWs, Overseas Filipino Workers, remittances, Western Union signs everywhere, exploitation, Saudi Arabia sending overstays home,. unemployment there 10%, 18,000 in Brunei, Noynoy visiting, discussion on family issues, Catholic Church opposing two measures, divorce bill, reproductive health bill, divorce bill stopped, no divorce allowed in country, church says strengthens family, reality that it results in too many single women with three kids, too many unweds, irresponsible fathers, RH Bill would encourage a limit of three children, education, women's health, church stuck in the Middle Ages, always recognition of corruption, but little action, fish farms cover lakes, shorelines of ocean, no control, officials bought off, overstocked, overfeeding, huge fish kill in Taal Lake, no oxygen, crocodiles in zoo well fed, Filipino Americans always important, in the news, calls for Fil-Ams to help develop tourism, trade, Fil-Am arrested for customs abuses, Chinese arrested for illegal coral, hunt on for killers, massacre twenty years ago, suspect leader in U.S at the time, more discussion with rebels in south, pirates, kidnappings, clan rule precedes arrival of Spaniards in early 1500s, how to change way of life, culture of corruption, lack of respect for human rights, dispute with China on Philippine Sea, Spratlys, Philippines going to U.N., China ships firing on Filipino fishing boats, planting posts on uninhabited islands, Brunei, Malaysia, Taiwan, Vietnam, also have claims, Thailand and Cambodia sparring over border temple, schools start in two days, uniforms, supplies, shoes only $20 but eliminate many, families of darker skinned, skinny sitting on corners in Makati begging, homeless in doorways, no fear of freezing, rainy season, typhoon just missed last week, Ondoy of two years ago remembered well, I wonder about family I saw in Marakina with five children, ruined shack, traumatized parents, cheerful kids, not the season to trust weather, still need to get north, Spanish colonial Vigan, Rice Terraces of Banaue, but not this time, dollar continues slide, not as much of a bargain, concern on CNN, Bloomberg, Fox about U.S. economy, stock market reaction to bad report, Philippines very aware of interconnects, U.S. presence, heritage of 47 years domination in fact, minus Japanese in WWII, continued ties, outside the U.S. this country is second best market for the NBA, last night's game two pitting Miami against Dallas was watched by millions of Filipinos, I watched until the Heat were 15 points up with just a few minutes to go, decided that was it, Dallas won.

Immigration, Some Thoughts, San Antonio Tlayacapan, December 30, 2011

The paranoid folks back home worry about all of the "Illegals" in the country. The push is on to build the Bush wall even higher and longer,. We add border guards, increase regulations of employment, have unmanned drones patrolling the skies of the Texas, Arizona, California, borders. Josefina's grandfathers went back and forth, working on the railroads to the north, heading home regularly. Her mother was born in Denver, returned to Mexico, is now a Mexican citizen. Uncles and aunt went north, stayed. Josefina, born in Mexico City, is now an American citizen. At home we live in what was Mexico. Maybe half the population of the Los Angeles speaks Spanish as a first language, less than the percentage in l870. The taxi driver from the airport to our little yellow house talked about how he worked in the fields of Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, made as much as $1800 a week in the soybean fields of Nebraska. He bragged that even other Mexicans did not last two days in the extreme 16 hour days, blisters, heat, aches. For some time he had an easier time as a cook for Outback Steakhouse in Omaha. Now he is happy to be back in Mexico, taxistas make a living, do not get rich here. Another taxi driver, Marcos, is one of our regular drivers in Ajijic. He has a B.S. in engineering from Cal Poly Pomona. Says he is back in Mexico, though born in California, because his undocumented wife was unhappy in California, and he had lost his job there. He has two passports, can move wherever. He says he paid $4000 to get his wife across the border, half to Mexican "polleros" and half to U.S. Border Patrol agents. He said his wife was held for hours at the border with forty others lacking papers before being allowed in. Most of the taxistas here seem to have worked in the States, have a sister in Anaheim, a brother in Riverside, speak some English, prefer living in Mexico as long as they can support their families.

A Short Visit: Belize, on the Carnival Liberty, January 19, 2012

Like other cruise ship visits we have made, we had only a few hours to gather a glimpse of another country. This time it was Belize. I had the intention of visiting a Rotary Club that was meeting, but when we got off the ship I was told with a laugh that Plasencia was at least three hours away, the other end of the country. So, we settled for a tour that included Althun Ha, a Mayan site that was excavated and turned into a top tourist stop a few decades ago. We also had a good introduction to the main city of the small Central American nation, Belize City. Our guide was Fred Sutherland who called himself a Criole, mixed heritage, with six kids, a daughter who lives in Inglewood, another in Cerritos, has applied for immigration to the U.S., but he likes his own country, has several homes and judging from the forty dollar per tourist fee and his twelve person van, he makes a decent living. Cruise passengers had been warned about going outside the gates of the terminal, but my interpretation of that is that this is one more way to encourage the booking of the boat's own tours, not those of the Fred Sutherlands. Others agreed with me later that the country is not that dangerous. It is a small country of less than 400,000 and only 1000 in prison, a far lower per capita rate than the U.S. It is a poor country, but not that poor. School attendance, for example, is mandatory and costs parents. All schools are private, but teachers are paid by the government. Fred said there is no welfare system, no unemployment pay, so everyone has to work, or have lots of kids in old age. Tourism, agriculture, and mahogany are major income producers. There is great diversity with all major religions reflecting the different origins of citizens, Taiwanese Chinese own lots of businesses, most small markets, for example. Mennonites are seen, some with furniture laden pick-ups. They provide most of the wooden furniture used in the country, according to Fred. On the borders many of the people are Latino, Spanish speaking. The Blacks divide themselves into "English" and Garifona, both descendants of slaves brought to the coasts of Central America primarily by the British from other Caribbean locales. Most people speak at least three languages, English, Spanish, and a Belizean, Caribbean version of English. Althun Ha was a typical Mayan ceremonial site, surrounded by lush jungle, I climbed to the top of the highest structure, which was not that high. Most of our fellow van passengers from the ship would have struggled to move their overweight bodies up the stairs, settled for photographs. One of the vendors selling souvenirs and soda graduated from Venice High School, says he prefers Belize to L.A. In spite of independence from Britain in l981 the Belize money still has a picture of the Queen, is valued at 2 to $1 U.S., apparently they are afraid that their money will deflate badly if the monarch's image disappears, and they are probably correct. As we headed back to the dock I still maintain my opinion that I have yet to meet a Belizean who was not nice.

Off Cuba, Carnival Liberty, January 20

As we cruise along the north side of Cuba, fifteen or so miles off on the horizon, I wonder how much longer the U.S. will keep its losing policy regarding the island. We can see it with our own eyes but cannot visit without either breaking the law, risking a fine, or pretending to be a serious student, journalist or preacher. The Obama administration has loosened up, but appears unwilling to risk conservative, and particularly Cuban American, wrath prior to the November elections. The immoral, internationally illegal, and just plain stupid restrictions will remain for now.

Roatan Island, Carnival Liberty, January 20

Our third stop on the Carnival Liberty was Roatan Island, Honduras. I have to rate it my favorite destination this trip, though it is probably second to Belize in significance. It is well regarded as a retirement location for Americans, is green, lush, warm, populated by friendly people who appreciate tourists and foreigners, is low cost, and unlike its mother country, quite safe. Bad guys usually avoid small islands where it is hard to hide or make a quick getaway. Osman was our private guide for the day, a native from the mainland who was pleased that he did not have to struggle with English for the day. Besides the mandatory stop at a souvenir shop, driving through several types of neighborhoods, we were treated to a visit at a monkey zoo. We now have pictures of several friendly monkeys and a macaw climbing on me. And, Josefina actually loved having a young fellow clinging to her. She has learned that a monkey wraps its tail around your neck for balance, not to strangle. The island is beautiful, would be a great place to live, but anyone looking for excitement or culture should look elsewhere. I now can add another few bills to my foreign money collection, the Lempira at 18=$1, but the dominant currency is the Dollar.

P.S. I read several days after writing the above that Honduras has a homicide rate of 81 to 100,000. The U.S. is 6.1 to 100,000.

Grand Cayman, Off the Coast of Cuba, January 20

Our fourth and last stop was at Grand Cayman Island, largest of the three U.K. territory islands that are best known as a tax haven for billionaires and businesses. About 60,000 people inhabit the island, a mixture of locals who are white, black, and mixed, and newcomers from around the Caribbean and the world, including lots of Americans. I heard more than a few Canadian accents, understandable since yesterday the weather report from Winnepeg was deep snow and minus 0 fahrenheit. You see lots of banks, and this is one place in the Caribbean that is for sure not Third World. Josefina and I went to the Westin Hotel looking for the weekly meeting of the Grand Cayman Rotary Club, thought for awhile we would be disappointed, but learned that Fidelity Bank had usurped their space for the day and they were meeting at the Wharf Restaurant, where we could have walked from the ship dock instead of investing $23 U.S. in taxis. The club is prosperous, has over 100 members, many island businesses are represented, their program consisted of business only, golf tournament, telescope for a local school, Polio Plus, lots of fines. They started with a toast to the Queen. My hundred dollar bill did not cover the day, as we added a tour of the island, turtle farm, rum cake and rum stop, the Hell post office, and the dolphin center. We can now say we have a fairer image of the Cayman Islands, nice place to visit, but I would guess that most of the Rotarians make regular trips elsewhere.

Can't We Get Along, Off the Coast of Cuba, January 20

Since l959 when Castro won his revolution things have been bad between the U.S. and Cuba. Maybe both sides should study how Carnival Cruise Lines manages to function so well with an Italian captain, Greek in charge of the hotel functions, and muscle and smiles provided by another 58 nationalities. National, territorial, religious, cultural differences take a back seat to providing service, making things work, getting along.

Walmart of the Seas, The Caribbean, January 20

Carnival Lines is not a luxury cruise operation. Prices are lower than others, they make up for this by pushing overpriced shored excursions, alcohol sales, slot machines, photographers galore, art sales, etc., etc. But, they put what once was only for the rich within reach of the middle classes. As I sit on the Lido Deck I am listening to the second country singer in a row, a glance around shows that we are in Middle America. Statistics say over half of Americans are overweight. No doubt about it here. The longest line at lunch was the dessert concession. The Liberty was refurbished several months ago and now has more opportunities to gain weight than ever. The new hamburger operation provides more calories on one plate than is needed in an entire day--by two people. They now do have a Mongolian Wok counter that can provide a healthy, lower calorie meal. They as usual have an outstanding gym and it is busy for several hours a day, but does not have the usage one sees at the bars and pools on both sides of the main party deck. Josefina, as usual on a cruise, has spent considerable effort working on language acquisition, thinks she needs to study Bahasa before her next time on a ship. She surprises lots of the crew who have certainly never met a Mexican who can speak English, Russian, Greek, French, handle a short conversation in Italian, and be polite in Japanese.

Costa Concordia, The Caribbean, January 20

Earlier in the week the captain came on the ship's public address system, said that he was asking for a moment of silence to recognize the victims of the tragedy that had beset the Costa Concordia, on the coast of Italy. I had not heard about this, we do not have 24-7 news here. The ship had hit a rock, was now on its side, half submerged, the Italian captain is under arrest. He had been at the helm as he made a close pass by the small island of Giglio, and had abandoned ship early, must have missed the lecture about the captain going down with the vessel. Now he is claiming that he slipped in the dark and fell into one of the lifeboats. What our Italian captain did not mention was the Costa Lines is owned by Carnival. Carnival stock lost 15% of its value two days ago.

South Beach, Miami, January 23, 2012

Taxi driver from Haiti, head for South Beach, Miami Beach, Lorraine Hotel on fashionable Collins Avenue, old, weathered, three floors, no carpets, one clerk, one star, free coffee, what can you expect for $140 a night, high season, 100 yards from the beach, upscale hotels, cool cars, hot bodies, Cuban accents, the Carnival Liberty heading out at 4:30 pm, pleasant weather, 74 degrees, pleasant scents, miles long beach, bikinis, Europeans, Brazilians, topless, suntans, white bodies, snack bars, beach rentals, pizza, early to bed, beach run, warm morning, boardwalk, kids in the blue green water, Jewish elders on benches, luxury hotels, pools, Art Deco, forties, fifties architecture, late model high rise condos, residences, wealth, continental breakfast in lobby, hunt for double decker tour bus, $39 each for two tours, beaches, Miami, Coral Cables, Little Havana, business district, AA Arena, Miami Dade CC, our personal guide, memorized speech, not too bright, concert halls, bayside shops, restaurants, Cuban restaurants, Cubans, cigar stores, Dominos Park, Cuban music, watch your head on the London transportation, trees, residential islands, waterways, yachts, manatee habitat, Espanola Way, several blocks, restaurants, Mexican meal, Spanish restaurant, flamenco show, dancer, cajon, Luis Linares on guitar, southern Spanish accent, Puerto Rican, grew up in Texas, studied in Spain, Haitian taxi driver, warmed up when he heard the Mexican speaking French, 4 1/2 hours sleep, Cuban driver to airport, 20 minutes, $33 plus tip, self check-in at Delta, Cinnabon for breakfast, almost full plane, $6.50 sandwich, $25 each small bag, the new world of air travel. Miami is lovely, great place in winter, short sleeves at night, but I well remember a stop at the Miami airport in the humid summer. One taxi driver said business was not so good in July and August.

Survived, LAX, January 28, 2009

Again, I have survived China Airlines. This time, however, they pulled a dirty trick on me. I was upgraded to Business Class, Bangkok to Taipei, full plane. I have gold mileage on my frequent flyer account. So, I was spoiled. Could not even reach the seat in front of me with my feet. Champagne, quality wine, too much silverware, service, attention of pretty ladies. Then after rushing to the connecting flight I found my seat. The very last seat, 62B, at the back corner, seated next to a smiling octogenarian Chinese fellow who went nine hours without getting up, so I did too. Back to dismal food, aching legs, bad manners of passengers, a sneezing lady who kept her seat back the entire trip in front of me, not an empty seat on the plane. This is what I expect from China Airlines.

Chaos, Bangkok, April 14, 2009

Total chaos gripped Bangkok yesterday. Youths in the back of pick-up trucks roamed the streets looking for victims. I ventured out from the hotel for a couple of hours but managed to get back without too much trouble. The miscreants were well armed, some small groups were gathered on both sides of the hotel. Today I had no trouble on an hour's run around the neighborhood of hotels and high rise condos, but I made sure I was safely back at the hotel by 8 a.m. I do not enjoy getting drenched by the high powered water cannons, buckets of water, baby powder, that the juveniles of all ages have so much fun with, at the expense of everyone and anyone. A formerly quiet, respectful, Buddhist holiday, Songkhran, celebrating the Thai New Year, has degenerated into a yearly event known for excess merriment, drinking and carelessness. More than 100 people will die in these three days, mostly from motorbike accidents. (Actually the number was more than 200). On the other side of this city government police and army have taken control after yesterday's rioting, bus burnings, clashes, two deaths, caused by the Red Shirts, supporters of ousted former Prime Minister Thaksin. The very patient army and police commanders finally decided to put a stop to the craziness that I watched on TV. The encampment at Government House has been cleared out, protesters are in jail, streets are being swept.

Senior Citizen, Alaska Airlines 284, March 2, 2011

I decided to backpack it to LAX on my way to Mexico. Carry on only will get me to our little yellow house a few minutes early and I don't need much anyway. So, I stood on the corner at Lincoln and Jefferson waiting for the Big Blue Santa Monica Bus #3. When I stepped on I asked how much for a "senior", was told 50 cents, better than the $20 taxi ride with a driver who resented the short distance to the airport. I grabbed a pole on the standing room only vehicle, no problem, it was only 15 or 20 minutes at most. Several minutes later at the next stop the driver turned around and told the young types sitting in some of the front seats that they had to get up and give their places to the "seniors" who were on the bus. I spotted an older fellow standing a few feet away, "Must be him," I thought. The heavy set, almost middle aged lady driver looked at me, fixed me in the eye. She meant me. I said, "No, that's OK, I can stand." She confirmed my opinion that lots of busses are driven by black women because they have that "attitude." The bus was not going to move until I sat down. I did as told and we were back on our way.

GRO, Manila, February 16, 2011

Several times I saw "GRO" listed on signs seeking help in Makati. Filipinos like fancy names. Upon inquiry I was informed that it meant "Guest Relations Officer," and meant bar girl in one of the local nightspots.

Enjoy the Journey, Manila, February 3, 2011

I just finished Paul Theroux' latest novel, Dead Hand, about a second rate travel writer with writers block who finds himself in the middle of a mystery in overcrowded over everything Calcutta. Though he did not mention it this time he has a regular theme in both his fiction and his non-fiction, both forms usually involving travel and exotic locales. To me his attitude toward travel is that one needs to enjoy the journey more than the destination. When he gets to his goal he is already thinking of how quickly he can move on. Besides being great advice for life in general, it fits well into my liking of travel--for the sake of travel. I was thinking of this as I was crammed into a van at Caticlan, heading for the airport in Kalibo, two hours away with luck. Behind me was an impatient, foul tempered European of some kind who was upset that two more passengers were being pushed into the vehicle. My thought was that if you do not want to be sardined in, don't take a $5 ride across an island for any length of time in the Philippines. The oversized gent wanted out, his money back he said, when a chubby Filipina was told to take the narrow space next to him. The van attendants paid no attention, packed another lady up front and we were off. I had someone else's bag sitting in a good part of my space. But, I enjoyed bouncing along the road in Aklan, passing kids going to school, uniformed, perky, smiling, detours that slowed us down a little, churches in every village, lots of denominations, sari sari stores, rice fields, wood stacked in piles for sale, dogs almost getting run over, a delivery truck that had gone on its side, it was raining, Aklan State Univerity in Ibajay, a big sign noted a reunion of the Pelayo clan in town, peering into the humble shacks serving as homes and mini-stores. There was plenty to see.

Night Train to Nongkhai, Udon Thani, February 11, 2011

In Paul Theroux' The Great Railway Bazaar, written over 30 years ago, he has a chapter, "Night Train to Nongkhai." He did not say that much about the train or Nongkhai, as I remember. The sleepy town on the Mekhong River he dismissed in two or three sentences, as he passed through on his way to Laos. Three nights ago I took that train from the grand old station in Bangkok, on the first class sleeper, to Nongkhai. We left on time at 8 p.m., arrived only 25 minutes late at 9:50 a.m. the next morning. A charming, squeaky voiced cabin attendant of questionable gender took my order for dinner and breakfast, I settled down on the firm, plastic covered seat with Bangkok Bob and the Missing Mormon, and we were pulling out of the station, heading north to the Laos border. Riding a train was a first for me in my many visits to the Land of Smiles. I had the compartment to myself until half an hour later we stopped and I was joined by two Japanese fellows, one English speaking, who were returning to their jobs in Laos. In the darkness I could observe stations along the route, trackside homes, humble eateries, then the not much more. After my basic meal of rice, chicken, a vegetable, a Singha Beer, the bunks were pulled down, the one roommate took the compartment next door, and it was time to sleep--or try to. Soon I was realizing this would be a long night. My upstairs companion began snoring, long, loud sucking and blowing of air. I tried covering my head with the pillow, punched the bed above, that worked for one or two minutes each time, and tried to tune out the concert of noise. I think I might have put together 90 to 120 minutes of fitful sleep, between the constant din and several trips down the low ceilinged hallway to the Asian style toilet. I was glad finally to see a lightening sky outside, got the video camera out, stood by the open back door guarded by a low, rickety folding gate, and watched the countryside, farms, dirt roads, railway crossings with not even a warning sign, motorbike riders, rice paddies, papaya plantations, a hazy horizon from burning brush and dry rice fields, and then the sun rising behind hills to the left. A number of travelers got off at Udon Thani, I ate the very basic breakfast of instant coffee and what passed for ham sandwich. Fifty minutes later we were at the station in Nongkhai.

Yuk! Seoul, May 25, 1989

I decided to be brave and eat at one of the portable, tent covered restaurants lining the streets outside the Lotte, in Seoul, great experience. Mr. Choi spoke some English, got enthused about sending his son to our planned program with the L.A. Community Colleges. I had squid, soup and Korean, vegetable, sushi. I tried a small bottle of subok, 16% alcohol Korean sake. Had it cold. A young couple sat next to me and ordered a live octupus from a small aquarium. With scissors Mr. Choi cut it in small pieces and served it still squirming. The girl said no way. The young man tried it with hot sauce, but he was not as brave as he thought. He settled for having it cooked, stir fried.

Pattaya First Visit, Pattaya, July 3, 1989

As we topped a hill we could see the ocean and bay, with islands in the distance it was impressive, but to my surprise there was the U.S. Navy in force. With the U.S.S. Midway aircraft carrier farthest to the south, a dozen ships could be seen. This would mean up to 6,000 sailors chasing a good time for the weekend. We were dropped off at the Ocean View Hotel, barely had time to take our luggage to the room and then rushed off to a boat ride to Coral Island. Our stay on the island included a primitive lunch and meeting several interesting folks. One German was a TV film producer. He was with a pretty Thai girl and was going on and on about the real tourism of Thailand. Said he could not do a documentary on the subject because it was too much. He had seen the worst, he said, heroin shooting, disgusting sex shows, etc. He was somewhat physically ruined and I think his preoccupation with the seamy side of the country showed his interests as much as anything.

Floating Market, Snakes, Pattaya, July 5, 1989,

We took a day trip to the floating market at Damnoen Saduak. Saw the farms, industry, shrimp farms, salt production, papaya, guava, cocoanut and sugar from coco flowers. We rode through canals on a "Long Tailed Boat" or "Cigarette Boat", powered by a Japanese diesel these are lean, able to maneuver through the narrow thongs or canals and can go fast as when on the big rivers. We then visited a snake show, much to the chagrin of Josefina. She worked up a real sweat. The show was standard tourist stuff. Young, brave men teasing cobras, a "jumping snake", grabbing them, fight between snake and mongoose--the rodent and snake both wanted no part of the show and the snake was spared for the time being. Josefina disappeared when a snake came near, the Brit next to us almost came unglued and had a heart attack when the trainer dropped the python around his neck.. "See!, see!", said Josefina on her way quickly back to the bus.

What About Vietnam? Bangkok, October 15, l991

Instead of the obviously wealthy, developed city of Kyoto, below me lay Vietnam on my flight from Japan. Again at six miles high how close, but how much further even than Japan? Small, poor villages do not give off much light. Roads are not seen in the darkness. I saw a string of what might have been streetlights. This small, lush, green, fertile country populated with the relatives of University of California valedictorians, Orange County businessmen, and long haired, Toyota driving young hoods who terrorize Little Saigon, has far to go. It is only a matter of time before things change. The U.S. will make concessions, the Russians will go home, the hard working residents of Ho Chi Minh City will assert themselves directly instead of through third countries to avoid the trade embargo, and Vietnam will be hard on the tails of the other Southeast Asian tigers. Ten years from now I will be sitting in the lounge at the airport in newly renamed Saigon, just having spent five days looking for business for the Los Angeles Community Colleges. Or, maybe it will be five years?

The Finch, San Antonio Tlayacapan, February 25, 2007

The tiny finch in the cage made of sticks flitted from one corner to the other. I carefully opened the door and the bird was almost out and free when I grabbed it, covering it with both hands, holding it down against the sandy path. I could almost feel its heart pounding. I held it firmly, the struggling slowed. Once again inside the cage, it lay quietly, then moved with what seemed pained effort, hurt, but alive. I left the door open, hoping it would try once more to fly off. Turning in circles several times it found the opening and rested. I watched for several minutes. Questioning eyes looked at me. Slowly righting itself, wings fluttered briefly. Turning a head toward me, it was off, just like finches are made to do, rapidly, in graceful swoops, and it was gone. Then, I woke up. I felt better. Earlier the day before I had watched the video of Christian making a wish, then opening the bird cage at the Buddhist temple on the hill in Pattaya and freeing the finches.

Not LAX, Singapore, February 12, 2008

Sparkling new buildings, a skytrain between terminals, smiling, uniformed people standing around waiting to answer questions and direct you to your gate, colorfully brown and beige carpeted floors, modern, comfortable and clean chairs for waiting, free internet, Burger King and Coffee Bean, lots of shiny, clean restrooms that do not smell like outhouses, supervisors and janitors riding Segways, wide flat screened TVs showing the England-Italy rugby match in the Six Nations Tournament, no long lines, and though they all speak English and accept American Dollars in the shops, this is Changi Airport, Singapore, not our LAX, my next stop.

The Country Stood Still, San Antonio Tlayacapan, February 27, 2007

Mexican soap operas, novelas, are world famous, watched in dozens of dubbed languages, followed religiously by whole families, the grand champion for the past year has been "La Bella Mas Fea," with the idea imported and now copied in several nations, in the U.S. it is "Ugly Betty", but here in Mexico it has been massive, as with other novelas the actors are well known, work extremely hard, the story of bright, educated, socially awkward, badly dressed, teeth in braces, unattractive attorney, "Leti", her escapades, victories, defeats, heartbreaks, especially her loves, yesterday this country slowed to a crawl, three and a half hours of the final episode, husbands had to find their own evening meal, children wept in wet diapers, the nightly show was ending, a parade with the actors moved through the streets of Mexico City, the nation watched, the biggest night for Mexico in Hollywood, four Oscars garnered, took a very distant second place for the evening, estimate of 65% of the TVs in Mexico were tuned in, ugly Leti is transformed into a smartly dressed, perfect hairdo, glowing complexion, whitened and straight teeth, if slightly plump, beauty who wistfully says goodbye to the pathetic cad who deflowered her, and marries the dashingly handsome second lover. (I write this weeks later as I found out that I did not watch the last episode well, Leti married the cad)

Always More to See, San Antonio Tlayacapan, February 26, 2007

My favorite travel writer is the usually grumpy, always inciteful, Paul Theroux, who looks at things I have seen and sees so much more, but I am just a traveler who sometimes takes time to put words in a journal, Theroux is a world class master of observation and words, I think of this as I look at the old church in Ajijic, what can I see that Theroux might, that I have not seen the various times I have walked past this small colonial gem of a place of worship much, how come I did not notice he red blocks of stone high on the right hand side of the facade, the red cross in the glass panes of the window, that the church was obviously built in stages, repaired, added to, generations show in its face, and what about the gleaming, polished floor leading to the altar, and the painted designs that frame the top of the wide front door, though I have seen in past visits the crowd of humble people crowded in during Sunday mass, others standing outside looking in, the priest counseling his parishioners to come to Christ, live spiritually, that humans come from, return to, dust, the small children squirming, running around, babies crying, and a dog, this one a happy, large, dirty, part Dalmatian that walks with a limp, I wonder how Theroux would have described the scene.

Follow the Music, San Antonio Tlayacapan, February 26, 2007

Sunday is party time here, follow the music, find the festivities, I headed toward the lake, in Mexico do as the locals do, no helmet, jeans is normal for bike riding, through San Antonio to the beach, banda music is in the air, a crowd of men, women, children gathers around a group playing their instruments with more energy than quality, tuba, trumpets, drums, Germans can claim parentage, I dodge soccer balls, kids run, shout, bottles of beer, tequila, Coke, sit on the hoods of thirty-year old tired cars, everyone laughs, shouts, has a good time, ignore the Gringo on the bike, down the dirt road I hear more music, also banda, but amplified, coming from Ajijic, it grows louder as I near the what serves as the town futbol stadium, bull ring, outdoor arena, the loudspeakers blast from the Plaza de Toros, a good portion of Ajijic's young people crowd the seats, an announcer screams over the clamoring brass band sound, everyone is smiling, the small girl selling sodas says business is good, smiles.

Grandma, Torrance, August 2000

In explaining to Lucas why his mother was crying, Christian said, "It's because grandma's up there." "Where, you mean upstairs," replied Lucas. "No, you know in the sky," added Christian.

Piglets, Torrance, August 2000

We were watching TV and the Australian crazy fellow that chases crocodiles, Steve Irwin, was rounding up feral pigs in a rural area of Australia. Christian asked what they were going to do with the pigs. I said, "Well, probably kill them since they do lots of damage to the environment." One of the pigs had a litter of piglets. "What are they going to do with them," he asked. I said since they were little guys and cute, they would probably just keep them. A few minutes later I heard Christian praying, hands together, "Please Jesus, Don't let the little pigs grow up."

Caught, Torrance, June 12, l997

For several weeks Christian has been playing a game. He walks up, usual smile on his face, stretches his arm out and hands me something. I reach out, thank him for this imaginary gift. Figuring it to be something to eat, I obligingly put it to my mouth, say "Ummm, good, thank you." He smiles again. How great that kids have such an imagination, I have been thinking. Showing how imagination is often based on reality,
however, I realized several days ago that this bright two-year old was being generous and making his gesture just after I had picked my nose.

Burp, Torrance, June 1997

"Burp is from this end, fart from this end," Christian pointed to the correct ends of his anatomy. Progress. Several weeks ago he was burping from both ends.

Lady Boy, Phuket, January 2004

I asked Christian if he noticed anything special about the pretty, petite clerk who checked us into the Patong Swiss Hotel in Phuket. "You mean the way she talked," he said, realizing that she was a he. "How come he dresses that way." I had to answer various questions about the Thai "lady boy" the next several days, such as, "Does he wear a wig?" and, "Why does he like dressing like a girl?"

Culture Club, Bali, February 2000

Balinese culture is wonderful, still survives in spite of tourism. In walking through Kuta Center Sunday night I saw a restaurant-night club offering Indonesian dancing and music, from various regions of the country. I decided to give it a try, but when I climbed the stairs, took a table, ordered a Bintang Beer, I noted some obvious cross dressers sitting around. It was explained that the culture show was at 8 pm, the 10 o'clock show was "Transvestites." "You know, men like women." After a boring wait, the show began. About seven different "Boy Girls" each did one number, lip syncing to a rock song, swaying and prancing. One had great legs, another was very pretty, petite, did a Latin number. The rest probably looked better as men, Adam's apples, muscled backs considered. So much for Indonesian culture and the Culture Club Restaurant.

Through the Wall, Bali, February 2000

Occasionally in my travels I have been kept awake at night by sounds of amorous behavior in the next room or room above. So it was last night when the unmistakable, rhythmic pounding of the bed could be heard. Increasingly the lady's encouragement could be heard, capped by heavily accented, "---- me much." She got the message across, soon after the activity peaked, the sounds stopped, soon replaced by the sounds of plumbing being put to use. Twice more during the night and morning I awoke to the same routine, though the second time was considerably less impressive, and the third time was a quick affair at best. Later in the morning while I ate breakfast I saw a westerner, thirties, good shape, balding, escorting an exceptionally pretty, shapely, black pants clad Indonesian lady, about 20. They looked like the probably neighbors. Going back to my room, however, I passed a couple, leaving room 207, next to my room 209. She was a tall, attractive girl, he was a short, slight Asian fellow, not very handsome at best. Things are not always as they seem to be.

Matching Mole Menu, Seoul, March 2000

"Matching Mole in cool city Myung Dong...there lives Mole & Moli who is the finest matching mole. Moli is mamma mole who charming male mole is adventurer who sexy female mole. Moli & Mola is the funny matching mole." (I hope it reads better in Korean)

Kimchi Pilaf
Octopus, Pilaf
Combo Kid
Pork Cuttlet
Grilled Chicken Cream
Combo Kid
Lunch Buffed (salad)
Kimchi Pizza

For Cocktails--
Cherry chocolet monkey strawberry coco banilla bucweiser beer is 5,000 won.

Drinking Culture, London, May 2, 2000

I am made very aware this trip of how much there is of a drinking culture in England. This has been a six day trip to Barnsley, Bournemouth, Oxford and London. My first evening in Barnsley, after a ten-hour flight on United from Los Angeles, tube to Kings Cross Station, two hours to Wakefield, half hour drive courtesy of David to the Queens Hotel, beautiful downtown Barnsley, was capped by a brief walk through the pub infested district up from the hotel. College is not in session, students were out en masse, along with the locals. I cannot help being impressed by the younger Brits who revel at night in cold weather, guys in t-shirts, gals in sleeveless, tight, short dresses, skirts. It is obviously a fashion statement, though most of the females look silly in corny, usually black clothes, stumbling along in too high heels or clunky boots. In London there is a sense of style, though sameness permeates, stands out in black and grey, no tie, leather, wool, short jackets, sweaters. In Barnsley it is South Yorkshire style. The place lacks class. But, it is active, fun loving. Unfortunately, it is not that much fun to an American male within weeks of birthday number 60, or the 17-20 year old protected, socially backward Chinese students here at Barnsley College, that are here due to the Culton-Eade friendship. I wandered around, looked in, but did not join the packed scene on Thursday. Friday I did go into the Emporium, down the street from the Queens, and got into a good discussion with the "Door Supervisor." He showed me his I.D. card, said he had taken a class, worked nights, got his pay while I was talking with him, was big, did exercising at a local gym, had a hernia operation six weeks ago, was reducing his drinking because his liver was stressed, had been to Florida, but not California, typical of so many working class Brits. Two or three door supervisors guard every pub in Barnsley. At 7 p.m. there is little need. At midnight the need is obvious. The places are busy, the crowds rowdy. With 5% beer the norm, even Budweiser , things are understandable. I went to bed at 10 p.m., was awakened several times by drunks on the street below, the last time at 3:30 a.m. On Monday I went from Bournemouth to Oxford. The Saddleback College semester program has come face to face with the pub culture of England. Last Friday a group tour to Cambridge and Stratford ended with eight students in the doghouse. Instead of enjoying the Bard, these spoiled brat South Orange County kids got loaded in a bar instead. Our instructor, Carolyn, bounced them from the program, let them back on condition, could not wait to get home ten days hence.

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Journals of Don Culton