Some names and circumstances have been changed to protect my ass.

Not too many things get your heart beating like downing a half a bottle of Black Label whiskey and being hugged by a killer…

In the bathroom I called my friend who worked for the Sri Lankan government. It was 3 am and yet somehow he answered. “Where are you?”

“Have you ever heard of (name to remain anonymous)?”

“Of course I have. Where are you?”

“I’m in his suite at the (fancy hotel to remain anonymous).”

“What? Get the fuck out of there! I’m coming to get you.”

Whiskey does strange things to people, and after downing a half a bottle the world seemed like a gentle, gummy bear filled place. A night out, or rather in, with a group of gangsters sounded like a great idea. I hung up on my friend with assurances I was OK and headed back to finish the rest of the bottle.

Clubbing in Sri Lanka During the War

I have always had a problem with curiosity, and the chance to drink with a group of gangsters just couldn’t be passed up. I was worldly; I could take care of myself. Who knew the evening would end with me worrying for my life. Well, probably a sober me would have known that. But Whiskey Todd went with the flow and didn’t let anything stand in the way of a good time. After club hopping amongst Colombo’s hip, sweaty, young and extremely wealthy with the gangster’s nephew for the evening, I was ready to head anywhere.

Truth is that I had no idea who I was out with that night. He was a friend of a friend and needed a drinking buddy for the evening. With my wife away for the week on business I stepped up. Nothing good happens when wives are away.

At that time Sri Lanka was still embroiled in its 20 year civil war. The Tamil tigers had control of over a third of the country, and the tropical city of Colombo was packed, corner after corner, with checkpoints. Young soldiers with automatic weapons stopped everyone who approached, hoping one of the frequent bombings didn’t occur at their checkpoint.

We left our last club for the evening with the nephew asking me to join him. “My uncle’s in town and I need to say hello. It’ll just take a few minutes.”

As we approached a check point in his large black Mercedes-Benz ML5500 SUV a soldier waved us over. We were both drunk. “Should I run it? I’m drunk and have an arrest warrant in Slave Island.”

“No, stop.” I was lucky I got it out in time. I was starting to get my first hints of whom I was with. Yes, like I said, a half a bottle of whiskey dulls the brain a bit. “They only care about bombs, and as soldiers they won’t call up your info.” Thankfully he stopped and a few minutes later we were on our way across town.

Into a Gangster’s Room

“Listen, I have a confession. My uncle is a big deal, and not exactly on the right side of the law. Just keep your cool and you’ll be ok.”

I followed him into the enormous roof top suite and into a world one assumes only exists in movies and cheesy crime novels. The Boss, his Lieutenant and the Muscle sat around a coffee table drinking Black Label. South Asians love their Johnny Walker Black Label. The bedroom door was open and a passed out Ukrainian hooker lay sprawled across the bed. (Please don’t read into the fact that I called her a hooker. I’m sure she was a perfectly nice person).

Everyone except for the Muscle was smart and handsome. I sat in the free spot next to the Muscle, who could only be described at thick and slow. I kept quite as the family reunion took its course. Inquires into business, questions about family, affectionate offers. Next it was my turn.

“Do you want a hooker? I can have her call a friend.” The Boss nodded toward the bedroom.

I declined politely.

“Don’t like Russians huh? How about an Asian?

I explained that I was married.

“We can hit the Casino and I’ll get you a Chinese hooker.”

I convinced him I only needed the whiskey.

The Love of a Killer

Suddenly, the Muscle next to me shot straight up and lunged at me, giving me the strongest hug I’ve ever experienced in my life. That is if a hug and being squeezed to death were the same things. The boss jumped and everyone tensed.

“It’s OK.” I gave the Muscle a hug back. “I like you too.”

“Let him go” the Boss said quietly but forcefully.

“It’s OK,” I repeated. Was I trying to convince them or myself? The Muscle squeezed tighter, not wanting to let go. The boss stepped forward and looked the muscle in the eyes. He finally released me, sinking back into the couch in a drunken haze.

“He’s too drunk, and he killed someone the other day.”

Oh…I just realized where the fuck I was and it was time to leave. I sat through offers of being taken to the north to meet the rebel leader, offers of drugs, offers of guns, and more offers of hookers. After what I assumed was a polite amount of time, given the circumstances, I made my way to the door promising to meet them again when they returned to Sri Lanka from their homes in England.

The sun was rising, and the nephew walked me out to catch a cab. Just a friendly tip to anyone who finds himself or herself in a similar situation: When you have made it out of a criminal suite alive, leave it there and don’t pick a fight.

I don’t know how it happened but between the suite and the road the nephew and I ended up in a screaming match. I spent the next week trying to smooth things over behind the scenes before my wife returned. It took 6 months before the nephew and I could be in the same room together, and I could stop worrying about suddenly disappearing.

Eventually things got worked out. But I learned a lot about choosing my drinking partners more carefully, especially during war time.

What is your craziest drinking story while traveling?

Photo Credits 1

A Night with a Sri Lankan Gangster is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

Ok, so this is not the exact photo of that night

Three to one. Three soldiers, to me. An ex-girlfriend on my arm, scared. How did I get myself into this situation? More importantly, how did I get myself out of it?

When we are kids we all have dreams of being the karate kid. No, not being lanky and whiny (I didn’t have to dream about that part), but being the guy who fights the bullies in the bar…and wins of course. In the summer of 2002 I had my own karate kid moment in Tokyo, Japan. I know, a very cool setting for the story.

Yes, it seems I jumped straight to Part 2 rather than training on the beach in California with a small Japanese guy who can act really really well. Despite not being in Okinawa, I still managed to find a group of US Soldiers. Note, I really respect all US military personnel and thank you from the bottom of my heart. Although, sometimes a few jerks slip through the recruiters

The Break Up

Fresh off of a break up, I decided I needed a night on the town. My relationship was one of those overly complicated emotional roller coasters where the girl’s ideal ending of the relationship was mutual suicide. Yeah…I really need to blow off some steam, especially after our last talk, “I think we want different things. I’m not ready to get married.”

“I never wanted to get married. I just want to be with you for the rest of my life.” We had been dating for 2 months. The water was boiling, the steam whistled, it was time to take the pot off the stove.

A Night on the Town in Tokyo

Dance Dance Revolution!

In Tokyo the options are endless, so I gathered a group of friends and we hit the clubs in Roppongi with the aim to drink and dance the frustration out. Clubs in Tokyo rage all night and after bar hopping in some seedy, sweaty, overly packed clubs in Roppongi we headed down the hill to the more refined, upmarket area of Azabu Juban to find a club where we could dance until the first trains started at the crack of dawn.

It was 1 am and this was our last stop for the night, a dark, smoky sweaty club filled with well dressed 20 somethings. Past 2 am there was no getting back in, you stayed until you were forced to greet the morning sun. We wove our way through the crowds, grabbing shots and beer along the way until we hit the dance floor, beads of sweat flying to the beat of underground Japanese house music. The bass beat deep into our souls, it cleared our minds just as the booze erased the past. Only now existed. The beat, the rhythm, the…why was she staring at me? Through the haze I could see a girl at the bar, looking at me with an intensity you don’t ignore when you’re drunk and looking to forget the world.

Reality is a Bitch

I staggered over, preparing my first clever remark (“hello”) and…smack….I walked right into a wall. The wall of reality. I could now see the girl closely and who was it but my ex-girlfriend. Thirty three fucking million people in Tokyo, 23 city Wards, and thousands of bars and we choose the same one. I don’t want to bore you with the details of our conversation. You know how they go. We rehash the break up, she cries. We rehash why we can’t be together, she cries. I try to be polite but firm, I cry. She tries to emotionally black mail me. Good times.

We are sitting on stools, facing each other when suddenly three heavily muscled white guys, heads shaved, walk up. All were wearing t-shirts that were 3 sizes to small. Maybe they were better at working out than shopping. The leader takes her hand kisses it and says, “You’re the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.” He turns to me “you get the fuck out of here.” He turns back to her. She turns to me with frightened eyes.

Beat the War Drums

Amazingly, as if out of a movie, his two buddies stand behind him staring threateningly at me, cracking their knuckles. I tried not to laugh. The pressure was building and if I couldn’t dance to blow it off then how about a good fight? I was pretty sure I could take 2 of the cocky soldiers, but the third might have been a problem. What to do? My ex was looking scared, and she had no idea what was going on. Time to man up.

“Where are you from?”

“Fuck you. Get out of here before I kill you.” Cracking knuckles danced to the bass pulsing from the dance floor.

He tried to turn back to her. I kept his attention and his lips away from her hand. “Look, I’m here with her.” I kept my voice low and polite, he kept his loud.

“We’re going to beat the shit out of you if you don’t get the fuck out of here.” Why was he talking so slow? “We’re fucking in the army and you’re fucking nothing.”

I turned to face him further. He stepped closer to me. His buddies stepped up. I stayed seated. “If you don’t stop swearing in front of my friend you’ll have to leave.” Calm, controlled. I shouldn’t have been, but I was.

How you Beat 3 Guys at Once

“Yeah, fuck you! What the fuck are you going to do about it.” He released her hand. That’s what I had been waiting for. I raised my hand slowly, high over my head, and extended two fingers. Did I mention I know, Karate, Aikido and few other arts? No? Well, here we go. I extended my index and middle finger and…made a “come here motion.” The boys seemed confused.

Within seconds five extremely large Japanese bouncers descended on the group, wrapping the soldiers up in tight grips. “Throw them out,” I said in polite but firm Japanese.

From the corner of my eye I had seen the bouncers getting more and more tense during the conversation. Three in morning and the guys would never find anywhere else that would let them in. They would be stuck on the streets until the first trains started.

The bounces started dragging the guys out when the leader lunged for me. He got low and began to plead. “I’m sorry. I”m sorry. We were just joking man. It’s cool, we’re sorry.”

“Fuck you.” They got hauled out of the club. My heart pounded to the rhythm of the music. The club gyrated along oblivious to our drama. A bouncer returned with two warm yellow towels for us to clean our hands, to help wipe away the distastefulness of the situation and the unwanted kiss.

Moral of the Story…Nah, It’s Just a Good Story

The girl and I didn’t work out, but that’s no surprise. But I had my Karate Kid Moment. I like to think that Mr. Miyagi would be proud that I didn’t resort to fighting. “Todo-san, you have strooong Karate.” Sometimes you don’t have a choice but to fight, but in most instances there is always a safer way out.

Stay tuned for more alcohol induced judgement impaired situations in future posts. Like how I found myself in a penthouse with the head of Sri Lanka’s mafia and an empty bottle of scotch, and a sleepy Chinese prostitute. But that’s another story…

Have you ever felt unsafe while traveling? How did you handle it?

Photo Credit 1, 2

My Karate Kid Moment: Bar Fight in Japan is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

The Japanese Earthquake

We watched the horror unfold live on the television after the quake

On Friday 11 March 2011 just before 3:00 pm the largest earthquake in Japanese recorded history hit with a magnitude of 9.0. I was in Tokyo at the time visiting my wife’s family. As I sat at the kitchen table, happily posting pictures of Japan on Facebook, the room began to shake. The quake started small, but with a sudden jolt. When the shaking didn’t stop I started to worry as the large cabinet rattled at my back and the light above me began to swing violently.

I moved to the middle of the room, away from anything that could fall on me. The preparation drills tell you to get under a table, put a cushion over your head, and open the door to make sure you have a way out if the house collapses. You are also supposed to shut off the gas to prevent a fire. Too many tasks during a singularly frightening and dangerous moment. All I knew was that I didn’t feel safe in the house with its paper thin walls and ceilings. I knew that that my wife and I needed to get out of the house, but first we had to put on our shoes, a frustrating secondary step when you’re trying to flee a house.

We hit the road outside as the earth shifted beneath our feet, rolling in what felt like waves. Cars were stopped in the road and our neighbors came rushing out to join us. Many crouched low to the ground trying to find some sort of stability as the earth rocked like a ship hit by a torpedo. I tried to find the safest place and realized, in the Tokyo suburban sprawl that houses 33 million people, nowhere was truly safe. Above us the sky was blackened, not by smoke but by a cat’s cradle of swinging electrical lines. Inside, outside, it didn’t matter. Nowhere was really safe.

The quake lasted for almost 3 minutes. That is a very long time when the earth is moving under your feet. The country was hit with aftershocks reaching 7.0 that would have been massive if not compared to the original.

Alarm bells rang, the TV beeped and binged as tsunami warnings flooded the airwaves. In a country used to earthquakes this was something different. Lifetime residents of Tokyo remarked how it was the biggest they had ever felt, and we weren’t even at the center of the quake.

The Tsunami

In Northern Japan, in Iwate and Fukushima Prefectures, the devastation was only just beginning. Soon after the first quake hit, while we sat glued to the T.V., our family gathered together, we watched in horror as a 10 meter tsunami destroyed the East Coast. Cars, buses and ships crashed into each other. Entire towns were swept away, houses ablaze as the tsunami waters flooded rivers and jumped dikes. We watch helplessly as Japanese news helicopters showed us live the wall of water advancing, overtaking unsuspecting people as they fled in their cars.

We sat, we watched, and we shook as more aftershocks hit one after the other.

We were fortunate. Our family and friends were safe, if not all with us due to the complete shutdown of Tokyo’s train system which trapped millions of people in the city. I was to fly out and return to Kosovo on Saturday. I felt helpless having to leave when the need was so great. As an aid worker I spend my life jumping from one crisis to the next. Now I was leaving this crisis and my family behind.

I am writing this from an overburdened Narita Airport on a Sunday, feeling sick to my stomach at leaving my wife behind. As another earthquake hits us in the airport the steady shaking sends a women next to me into a panic and she tries to flee into multiple walls of people, each waiting to get to a check-in counter. Her husband is the only one to leave his line, he gently pulls her back, her face swollen from the frightened sobs that rack her body.

Journey Across Tokyo

No way into the trainstations in Tokyo

My journey across Tokyo was like a post apocalyptic movie. It took me 8 hours to navigate the labyrinth of closed train lines, bloated stations, and swollen streets. Millions of people waited in patient lines, pressing into stations that had no outlet. People littered the hallways of the city’s underground shopping malls, sleeping, hugging and crying.

Throughout it all I was immensely impressed by the calmness of Japanese crowds, the straightness of the lines and the lack of pushing, shoving and anger that might have affected crowds in any other city in the world. The police funneled people to keep waves of people moving where they could.

When I finally got on a train moving towards the airport (3 train lines later) we were packed in like sardines. Picture Tokyo at rush hour, times 3, plus luggage. Except for the occasional outburst everyone bore the pain and inconvenience with remarkable stoicism during the grueling 3 hour ride. I of course missed my flight, but had my wife and family helping me to rebook as I concentrated on getting closer to the airport.

How you Can Help

Despite the trouble, and the fear of the past day, it was nothing compared to what the people of Northern Japan are going through. My heart goes out to the families of those who died in Tokyo (at the time of writing) and the nearly 1,500 dead in the North. Homes and families have been ripped apart and I’m flying away. While I can’t help physically I can help with my words, with my blog and with my network of development professionals and online publishers.

To this end I am organizing an ongoing Blog for Japan Event that will raise money for the victims of this devastating tsunami. My wife is looking for a worthy Japanese organization that non-Japanese might not know about and may have difficulty donating to.

In the coming weeks we will identify an organization (or a few) and we will promote a donation link through our blogs and online contacts. If you are interested in getting involved writing a blog post, sharing posts with friends, or just donating please sign up to the e-mail contact form below. This will allow me to send an e-mail to you when preparations are set and let you know how you can participate, donate or help pass the message along. This e-mail list will not be shared with anyone and will only be used during this short time to help raise much needed funds for the recovery of Northern Japan.

All of the money we raise will go directly to helping the victims of the quake and tsunami. We will let you know when we have found the appropriate organization(s) to donate to. We would appreciate you sending this story to others who might be interested in helping as well.

Our thoughts and prayers are with the people of Japan at the this trying time.

My Experience During the Japan Earthquake is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

Are bribes necessary sometimes?

If you travel long enough eventually you face the dilemma of how and when, or even if to bribe. But before we get into the nitty gritty of corruption I want to state right off the bat that corruption, the giving and taking of bribes, is an insidious practice that destroys the very fabric of the rule of law in countries and the trust between citizens and those elected to positions of authority.

Now that I’ve sounded off on my public service announcement let’s have a discussion about the realities of travel in potentially unsafe areas, in countries where the rule of law is loosely followed, and situations where it is in your interest to hand over $20, not because it doesn’t do any harm (it does) but because that $20 could save your skin.

Shake Down by Local Cops

The year was 2008 and I was traveling through Indonesia with my best friend. We were on the Island of Lombok after spending the past 4 days on the Gili Islands, paradise on earth, and beyond the reach of local law enforcement. I was living in Timor Leste during a time a lawlessness and my perceptions on danger was skewed…enough said. We were flying down the Lombok coast in our rented Jimmny on our way to a hidden reef. Twenty kilometers over the speed limit and suddenly we were caught in a police trap. A motorcycle cop waved us over and with his cheap Tom Cruise aviator sunglasses, leaned in and said, “Drivers license and papers.”

I handed him my American drivers license. It was all I needed to show to the rental company. OK, “company,” might be going to far. It was all the random guy on the street asked for when I handed him my money.

“No, give me your International Drivers License.” Shit.

“I don’t have one. But the license you’re holding is international.” He didn’t look happy, he put the license in his pocket and told us to follow him. He sped off at double the speed I had originally been caught for. Five minutes later we reached a small converted bus stop where the chief of police was hanging out with 7 other officers. It was converted into the local shake down station. The cop explained the matter to his boss, stepped aside and the chief, with a big belly and even bigger aviator sunglasses waved us in.

The Negotiation

We sat, the chief sat, the other 8 cops stood close to use, surrounding us, compressing us. “You broke the law. You need an international drivers license to drive in Indonesia.” I tried to explain that I thought my license was OK as the rental company only asked for that. It didn’t work.

“We will need your passports and then you can see a judge after the weekend to pay your fine. ” We didn’t have 2 days to wait, as our flight was leaving soon. He had us. Shit.

We talked back and forth for a little while until we came to that point. The point of silence where someone was expected to say something. We both knew what that something was…the bribe. I had never offered a bribe before, but as a negotiation specialist I knew exactly what was happening. I was not going to offer him money, that could very quickly go down a very dark and dangerous path.

“So, is there any way to settle this without having to wait until Monday?” I put the burden on him.

“Well, if you trust me I’m sure we could work it out for you. You could pay me the fine and I’ll appear in court for you. Twenty dollars.”

The truth is that I had no choice. I broke the law (maybe, I had no idea what Indonesian law said about this), and I had a time pressure to make my flight. He had us and there wasn’t anything I could do about it without more information.

The Deal

Everyone was tense. The cops all had big guns. I had a mask and snorkel. I was nervous. My buddy was nervous. “OK, that sounds fair. I trust you’ll pay for me. Thanks for the help.” Everyone relaxed. The cops, expecting a cut of the bribe broke out into smiles. Jokes flowed and slaps on the back echoed out of the shack. The only problem was we had no agreement, nothing to show for our bribe. We were on vacation and our plans for the day were ruined. I decided to take a chance.

“Just so I can be clear. How long will this 20 dollars last? I mean, we are headed down the coast and we might get stopped again.”

The chief leaned forward, I sweated. “I’m on duty until 6 pm, be back at your hotel and off the roads by then.” I smiled sweetly and handed over my $20. To our surprise the motorcycle cop jumped on his bike and led us down the road for the next 20 minutes, waving to other cops, smiling at his profit, until we reached another check point. Our situation was explained and we were given a pass for the rest of the day.

We swam, it was fun. We returned to our hotel and booked our boat off Lombok for the next morning cutting our trip short by one day. Corruption cost us $20 but it cost the economy of Lombok two tourists and a promise never to go back.

Shake Down by the Cops in Sri Lanka

I was driving back from the airport after dropping off my now wife. We were leaving Sri Lanka after 3 years and she was off first. I was around the corner from my home when a police officer, walking casually down the street, waved me over. He asked for my license and registration. I had a local license, yes, I do learn my lessons. But the registration was a different matter, it was expired. I had no idea it was expired as I was borrowing the car from a friend. She also had no idea.

“That’s a $100 spot fine.” The skinny cop said, his brown uniform wrinkled from a day’s work under the muggy tropical sun.

I smiled. “You mean you want me to pay you?” He nodded. “Sure, I replied, but I’ll need a receipt.” He paled and tried to recover.

“I can’t give you a receipt. I’ll have to confiscate your license and you’ll have to pay at the court. It will take weeks to sort out. ” I smiled. He frowned.

“OK, that’s fine. Give me the fine and take my license.” He straightened his back and frowned further, probably wondering what went wrong. He grumbled, handed me my license back and walked away without another word.

Unfortunately for him I worked in the legal sector and knew my rights. He was not a traffic cop, and couldn’t give out tickets. I knew it, he didn’t know I knew it. I had learned my lessons well. Don’t drive in a foreign country without knowing the laws.

Guides looking for bigger tips

I stood on the side of a cliff, a thousand feet in the air at one of Sri Lanka’s world heritage sites, Sigyria, admiring frescoes painted onto the rocks over a thousand years ago. The paintings are protected by ropes blocking access. It was an honor system as no guards where around. I looked to my left searching for my guest from Japan, it was his first trip to Sri Lanka and he wasn’t used to the loose rules.

I found him. He was with our guide BEHIND the ropes taking pictures with a flash despite a “do not enter” sign and an equally large “no photographs” image. I pulled him over and asked him to stop. In response he answered innocently that the guide had said it was OK if he gave him a $1 tip. He didn’t have the money I had to lend it to him. This pissed me off and I chastised the guide for taking advantage. The guide got upset, I got upset, and the guide lost any chance of getting a final tip.

I hate it when guides threaten the places that provide them with jobs just to earn a few more dollars. I equally hate tourists breaking the rules because they can. Yes, this includes me and my first cop story as well.

3 Rules to Not Paying Bribes

I have only paid a bribe that one time in 11 years of wandering. I can’t promise I won’t have to pay one in the future but I have learned these three rules to minimize the chances:

1. Know the laws. The more information you have the better position you are in to resist the fear that can lead to a bribe.
2. Never give a bribe to someone just to gain a free or exclusive benefit. You end up contributing to the ruin of that which you came to see in the first place.
3. Don’t put yourself in a compromising situation to begin with. Follow the laws, avoid driving when you can, and put the burden of responsibility on locals who understand the situation better.

Have you ever given a bribe? When do you think its OK? Share your stories below?

Photo Credit

When to Bribe, How to Bribe, Do you Bribe? is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

Death and Adventure in Ha Long Bay, Vietnam

By the end of this story a number of people will be dead.

The compact dirty white van left the tourist choked streets of Hanoi, Vietnam’s French Quarter early in the morning. We were a group of 10 strangers bound together by our desire to see the turquoise beauty of Ha Long Bay, and its breathtaking limestone islands thrusting out of the waters. We were also cheap, backpackers looking to save money but desperate to spend 3 days living on a boat, cruising the pearl culturing backwaters of Vietnam’s UNESCO World Heritage site, and exploring the natural caves dotting the area. Sixty eight dollars was a lot to us for two nights on the boat, three meals a day, and an English guide. Sixty eight dollars almost cost all of us our lives.

What you get for 68 Dollars

Seagulls screeched as the van jerked to a stop at the crowded fishing port near Halong City. The harbor was oddly full, tourists milling around watching the sea, the sky and the ever increasing number of groups ruining each others once in a lifetime trip. “Wait right here and I’ll see what’s happening.” Our guide jumped out of the van leaving us to sweat with the air conditioning turned off.

Twenty minutes later and he was back. He pulled open the sliding door with a forced smile. “I’m not sure if we’ll be able to leave today,” he confessed. Before he could get another word out the van erupted from the back as two French girls started yelling.

“What do you mean?” They never gave him a chance to answer. “We paid good money for this trip and I’m not getting screwed by you.” The other members of the group looked away embarrassed.

The guide blushed. Or was it the heat? “There is a hurricane moving up the coast and we are not sure if it will turn off into the ocean or make landfall here in Ha Long. Until we know we can’t risk getting out on the water.” That made perfect sense to me and the rest of the group. We got out to stretch our legs without complaint. The salt air scrubbed away some of the bitterness we felt at flying halfway around the world to be stopped at the water’s edge.

“We paid for this trip!” The blond French girl, dressed in dirty fisherman pants continued to yelled. “You will take us on our trip,” the other French girl demanded. The guide shrugged his shoulders helplessly. It wasn’t his call, his company was only hiring the boat and the captain said no.

The longer we waited the more frustrated the crowd became. The French girls led charge after charge whipping up the fervor of the other tourist groups, demanding to get on the ocean while the sun was still low. Our first destination was supposed to a massive cave used as a military hospital during the Vietnam war to protect the injured from constant air attacks by the US forces. The guides and the boat captains looked like they needed the shelter from the verbal bombs being thrown at them. Threats of being fired, losing their tips, curses and accusations of being cheated launched with laser accuracy.

The Journey Begins

Our guide returned from the front lines as the rest of us relaxed on the wooden dock. Movement in the other groups meant something was happening. Decisions had been made.

“The hurricane is moving out to sea so we can go.” The French girls grumbled that the delay was pointless. “But the captain doesn’t want to risk going to the main cave. We’ve decided to take a different route and see another, smaller cave. The area has better protection in case the storm reverses direction.”

“WHAT. Are you fuckn’ kiddn’ us. We paid for the Cave and we are going to the Cave.” The rest of us were fed up with the tantrums and agreed to vote on it. The French girls pouted and yelled when they lost. I’m from an island on the ocean and you don’t question the captain, even if he is a small Vietnamese fisherman. The French girls started to yell at him too when we reached our two story wooden cruising boat. He yelled back happily before slamming the the cabin’s door shut.

“He says the water from here to the hospital cave is too open.” It was clear he had also said something less polite about the French girls.

I wish I had not been so relaxed and shy back then. I might have questioned the sensibility of going to sea with a hurricane off shore. I was sure our guide was just mistranslating as no one would get near a boat if an actual hurricane was close enough to shore. Right? Plus, I had paid 68 dollars.

Ten boats set out from the harbor. Seven towards the main cave and two others joined us for the ride to the smaller, less spectacular cave. The sky was overcast but nothing to hint a hurricane was a just off shore. The waters were a bit choppy but I’d been in worse.

Stunning limestone cliffs burst out of deep green as we sailed through narrow channels. Standing on the top deck I never felt so alive, so enchanted by the stunning force of nature that at once eroded the surrounding bluffs and fed the greedy green ocean more limestone to maintain its jade coloring. The wind whipped through my hair as I posed for a photo, a majestic grouping of islands and cliffs behind me. The sudden shock on my friend’s face told me something was wrong seconds before a warning bell sounded throughout the ship. I spun around and and saw in horror as a massive wall of mist, rain, wind and power come pounding through a narrow gap between island and straight for us. The hurricane had shifted and it was upon us without any notice.

Battle to Save the Boat and our Lives

The shrieking of the French girls were drowned by the high winds as the boat erupted in organized chaos. The crew couldn’t speak English and yet we all knew what to do. The main cabin was made of glass windows and doors. We had less than a minute to lock everything down before the storm hit and we all pitched in, fastening locks, shutting doors. We battened down the hatches. After closing the front main glass door my friend Rob and I stared wide eyed as a side door began banging around as the waves picked up height and uncertainty. We ran together, the storm chasing us.

We reach the door together….BAM, the storm hit, knocking the boat steeply to the side. The world slowed down and we watched in horror, slow motion horror as the the door swung violently closed shattering the glass directly onto us as we desperately turned our heads and shielded our eyes. We were both only wearing bathing suits and a thousand glass daggers tore through our skin and spread like a minefield around our feet. Grabbing each other and the now glassless door for support we tried in vain to stay still as the storm pounded the boat rocking it from side to side. Torrents of rain streamed through the gap preventing us from getting a firm hold as our bare feet slipped across thousands of tiny shards of glass.

Blood steamed down our bodies. We gritted our teeth and bore it, riding the waves, pitches, and glass for the next twenty minutes. The storm ended as quickly as it started as an eerie calm fell across the jade waters. Rob and I were alive. The whole crew was alive. The captain kept us from hitting the surrounding cliffs, the hull wasn’t pierced. We were alive. We turned to see how everyone else was doing and stared into 8 faces of shock and pain. Rob and I didn’t understand until we started walking towards them and pain exploded across our bodies all at once.

A Dinner Celebration and a Time for Mourning

Rob had taken the worst of the glass spray and had a 6 inch piece of glass embedded in his left foot. We both had hundreds of cuts all over our bodies and our feet were so sliced that we couldn’t walk without falling in pain. The others, no longer tourists, but friends, survivors rushed to help us. It took over an hour for our friends to pick the glass out of our skin, and then disinfect our wounds. But we had survived. The specter of death didn’t do anything to mellow the French girls’ moods and we suffered through a tirade longer than the the storm and more painful.

“Haven’t you ever cleaned a wound?” one girl chastised the guide. “We are NOT giving you a tip” the other girl assured.

Rob and I groaned and that sent them into another tirade of insults, threats and irrelevant chatter. “Shut up and be glad your alive,” Rob said softly. Maybe it was the glass dagger being taken out of his foot or the shard being removed a hair’s breath from my eye that convinced them to remain quiet.

Bandaged, dressed in clean clothes a few hours later we relived the story under the shining stars, thanking the beautiful breeze that caressed our skin. Sixty eight dollars didn’t buy a fancy dinner but the rice and vegetables tasted like heaven, along with the beer that had survived the day too. Suddenly, a second boat pulled up to ours and a large bellied man jumped on board carrying a large bucket. He paid us no attention and walked straight to the steering room. He was the owner of the boat. He used to be the owner of a boating company. The bucket was full of crabs for the crew that had saved his last boat. He didn’t even look at us.

Our guide rushed to the celebration. He came back slowly, deep in thought. “The boats what went to the Cave didn’t make it. The storm caught them in open waters and capsized all of the all of the boats. Everyone is dead. The owner is here to thank the captain for saving his last boat.” The owner never looked at us as he left.

Aftermath

Almost 70 people died* that day and we only survived because we were on the right boat, 3 of 10 that decided to go the other direction. We drank our beer in silence and paid our respects. A few days later when we returned to the mainland we all rushed to the internet to tell our parents and loved ones we had survived. They all asked why we wouldn’t be! The outside world never learned of the deaths, or the news wires never picked up the stories.

Two months later Rob was playing softball and a ligament in his foot snapped. It turns out the glass dagger cut the ligament so that only a thread remained. I still have a few scars as well, but we made it out alive. This was the first time I almost died and I have respected the winds of fate and happenstance ever since. Live your life to its fullest, don’t complain about hard working folks doing their best to survive, treat each other with kindness, be happy. You never know when you will be among the seven other boats.

*Post script. While researching the details for this story I found an obscure BBC news report that quotes government sources saying 3 tourists (1 Thai and 2 Indians) died along with 2 crew members during the storm. My death estimates come from witnesses and other tourists from nearby boats who gave estimates from 20-100 dead. It is still unclear how many people actually died.

Photo Credit

The First Time I Almost Died-Ha Long Bay, Vietnam is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

Sure, it looks innocent now, but don't turn your back on it.

I was excited, nervous and sweaty. It was 2000 and I was on a date in Japan. I chose the perfect spot, the 11th floor bar overlooking Lake Biwa, Japan’s largest lake and where I spent 5 years of my life after university (near the lake, not the bar). The bar was called Medusa. Small and smokey (like most Japanese bars at the time) the dark room was sandwiched by glass. One side was wall to wall panoramic views of the lake, distant mountains  glowing in the sun’s retreat for the day. A black light lit massive aquarium claimed the wall behind the bar. At first glance it looked empty.

“Look again,” the bartender advised. He didn’t look up and kept at his task of shaping a large cube of ice into a sphere to accompany the scotch destined for a group of black tied salary men. We found two small jellyfish, tentacles undulating as they pushed and floated around the tank. It’s hard to know if the bar was being cheap, or just going for ultra minimalistic sheik. I decided cool, and we were hip to be there. Everything was going my way. She was laughing at my jokes, almost touching my arm, and hadn’t once looked at the business men who really could afford the place.

But this isn’t a story about my date.

Everything was going well, the drinks arrived. “Kampai.” We clinked our mojitos together. Yeah, mojitos were very cool back then. No one knew what they were.

I know, you are reading thinking everything is normal, but please, please remember it was2000, and I was a shy, quiet young man with not much sense of style, short on self confidence and even less money in my pocket.

Halfway through our drinks I decided to play it cool. “I’ll be right back. Just need to use the toilet.” Smooth, right?

I walked through the dim, smokey den like I owned it. When I passed women whispering, they were talking about me. [in a good way, seriously, a little credit please]. The men avoided my eyes because they couldn’t compete. I had everything. Then I entered the restroom.

Small, like most things in Japan, but stylish, like the rest of the bar, brushed steel trimmings and a glass sink basin. But what really drew my eyes was the toilet. A shiny, ToTo, complete with heated seat and full control panel that was as complicated as a airplane cockpit. A airplane cockpit with all the direction written in Japanese.

I sat down to enjoy the heated seat, even though there was no need to sit. I stayed away from the buttons not wanting anything to go wrong. I hadn’t yet learned to read a toilet. But then I saw it, the button I had been looking for all my life. A cute little button with the picture of a bird and two chiming notes. Could the Japanese have invented a melody to prevent unfortunate bathroom noises from escaping into the absurdly nearby bar? It made perfect sense, a lack of space in Japan meant bathrooms were basically one poorly insulated wall away from the drinking and flirting.

And lets face it. If you have to flush more than once people start wondering what’s going on. If you leave the sink running you are wasting water and destroying the environment. Either way, your screwed with the beautiful lady waiting for you outside. That day I didn’t need to flush or use the sink. But I couldn’t leave without listening to the greatest invention of the new millennium.

A little tip to anyone in a foreign land. Don’t push buttons if you don’t know what will happen. Especially buttons on a toilet. But then again what harm could a cute little bird be?

Needing to satiate the same driving curiosity that led me to Japan in the first place, I extended my index finger and pushed the cute little bird. “WHOOOSH, WHOOOSH, WHOOSH…” The sound of a flushing toilet assaulted me. Over and over again, louder and louder each time. There was no end. What the fuck! Where was the cute little bird?

“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh…” the flushing sound continued one after another. I panicked and pushed the button again hoping it would turn off. It just extended the noise for another round. I panicked further. What if my date could hear? What would she think of me? I pushed more buttons out of desperation. I got hit immediately by a powerful stream of warm water. I jumped up.

Wrong choice. The water followed me out of the toilet and soaked my jeans. “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh…” the noise wouldn’t stop. Adding to the cacophony of embarrassment  a blast of hot air roared out of the toilet like a jet engine. There was no place for me to escape the stream of water so I sat back down into an odd mix of wetness and heat. I sat in misery for what seemed like 10 minutes but was probably just another 30 seconds until everything finally shut off.

I sat there. Jeans soaked around my ankles wondering what to do next. Who in their right mind puts a bird tweeting picture to describe the sound of flushing? Why the hell would you make the flushing sound so vigorous? Of course this was Japan and there must be special technology to sound proof the bathroom. Right? Of course, this was Japan. I could explain away the wet jeans by blaming it on a tragic sink malfunction. I stood and gather myself and remember that I hadn’t actually flushed the toilet yet. I cursed, gathered my courage and flushed.

Nothing. Hardly any sound at all. The water drained away peacefully. It made me even angrier at the little cute bird and its mocking tweets. I had been in the toilet for almost 10 minutes. I was soaked, and thoroughly embarrassed. My only hope was that that no one had noticed.

The lock clicked loudly. Why was everything in this cursed bar so amplified? I gathered myself together and was ready to walk coolly through the crowd. I opened the foggy glass door, stepped back out into the smoky room and stopped dead in my tracks. All 20 patrons were staring at me. My faced turned a deep red as I limped through the room, caught up by tight wet jeans. Everyone was now certainly whispering about me, bastards.

I reached my date. She looked at me. I looked back. I braced for the questions. The water spread to my underwear, and I smelled like the toilet. A fancy, evil, Japanese toilet, but still a toilet.

She smiled, looked away… towards the bartender. “Two more” is all she said. The music started again, the crowds stopped whispering, I was still soaking wet but I had another mojito, I was still cool.

So you have a toilet story or another misadventure while on the road? Share all your dirty, embarrassing stories below.

Photo Credit

When Japanese Toilets Fight Back is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

This article won the People’s Choice award from the Southeast Asian Travel Writing Competition. Thanks to everyone who voted!

No, Thank You Laos

How many people can you feed with a 600 pound catfish I wondered as I walked down the deserted street in northern Laos. Somewhere, in the darkness close by, the mythical Mekong River snaked its way through the intense blackness, hiding the massive catfish and the largest population of gigantic species in the world.

It was just after 9:00 PM but there was no one else on the streets. I walked cautiously, afraid to disturb the romantic stillness in the air and the humming wildlife from the encroaching jungle. I was in Luang Prabang, the ancient capital of Laos and a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1995.

Lost to a bygone era, the French inspired Indochinese houses surrounded me, converted to coffee and gift shops but still trapped in a memory of the past that attract nostalgic tourists in search of the Asia from grandfather’s stories. Latticed white balconies hung over the street as I moved farther down looking for signs of life. Nothing, no one was awake, doors were barred and windows shuttered. The only light came from an exposed light bulb dangling from a small overhang slightly ahead.

Life was slow but predictable in Luang Prabang. The locals rise at 5:00 AM to offer rice and vegetables to the hundreds of brightly robed Buddhists monks who walk silently down the road each morning seeking alms. Nothing exciting usually happens in this small town, especially at night. As I approached the light bulb I noticed a crackling sound as blue sparks danced from the frayed, dirty wire. Worried, I watched for a few minutes before moving on, conceding that there was nothing I could do. Electrical safety is not a strong point of the region and as I took one last look behind me the bulb exploded and a jet of orange flame raced up the wire, quickly taking hold of the wooden eves.

I looked around frantically, forgetting that I was all alone, as the fire began to flare just above the wooden door to a small shop. “Bang, bang BANG,” I pounded on the rough door as splinters and paint chips flew in my face. The fire was spreading quickly as a short middle-aged man opened the door just enough to peek out.

“Sir, there’s a fire on your roof. Please come out!” I pleaded into a blank face. Behind him, through a small crowded store stocked with postcards and bottled water, I could see his family sitting on the floor watching television.

“Closed,” he said and shut the door abruptly. I knocked again, feeling the heat spread just above my head. The door opened again. His face was no longer blank as he shook his head and waved me away. His family, three generations packed together, looked concerned as a crazed stranger jumped up and down yelling. Just before the door slammed shut again I grabbed the father and pulled him outside by his shirt. Screams of protest erupted from the family inside.

The father struggled against me as I forced him onto the street releasing him just past the fire, which was spreading to the next building. He yelled, went limp and then rushed into the house screaming. The family streamed onto the street yelling at the top of their lungs. The cry was repeated and soon the whole town was awake as Laotians, young and old surrounded the house.

The town organized itself to fight the fire. There was no fire station, or water hydrants. A fire threatened everyone as the rows of wooden houses held each other up. Buckets of water were passed in lines from the houses across the street and others set off in search of fire extinguishers. Smoke, ash, and the screaming of babies choked the once silent streets.

A young man ran up the street with the first fire extinguisher as the crowd cheered. “Phsst…” nothing happened. One more try, still nothing. A second, and then a third extinguisher arrived with the same result. We worked harder at throwing water towards the second floor. Thirty minutes into the fire a fourth extinguisher arrived.

A sudden jet of white foam shot from the extinguisher to the delight of the crowd. Ten minutes later the fire was out. Just as suddenly as it began the people disappeared. Without a word to each other or to me, they gathered their buckets and went home. Doors shut in unison and before I knew it I was once again alone in the middle of the dark street. I was confused and hurt. I had just helped save a house, possibly a whole UNESCO heritage site from destruction. Where was my thank you, or at least the collective camaraderie that comes with a challenge overcome? I walked back to my hostel in a daze wondering what had happened.

I woke up at five in the morning with the rest of the town and walked back to the scene of the fire. The blackened wall was the only evidence of the previous night’s excitement. The family waited patiently in front of their store and home for the monks to walk by. One by one they placed spoonfuls of rice into the alms bowls of the silent monks. Neither side gave or sought recognition. When their rice was finished they returned home without a backward glance. The monks continued on without offering even the slightest recognition.

At that moment I realized it wasn’t the architecture or the Buddhist temples that offered a glimpse of an older Asia. It was the people of Laos, of Luang Prabang. They taught me, or rather reminded me, that you do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. Good is its own reward, something we’re quick to forget in our media hyped, competitive modern society. It’s a lesson I have not forgotten, so thank you Laos, if you permit me to extend a bit of my own culture to compliment yours.

[photos by: Hanoi Mark]

Fighting Fires in Luang Prabang, Laos is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

After almost 2 1/2 years I decided it was time to propose to Kay. As many who are following my wanderings are aware, I had been stuck in the United States for about 3 months as I waited for my work visa to be approved. During this time I began planning the proposal for March and relying on friends to help sort out the details as I sat halfway around the world.

Kay had no idea what was being planned behind her back. Once I returned I insisted that we go away for a weekend of scuba diving and relaxing on Unawatuna Beach. Kay had planned to do some work over the weekend….thankfully the computer never made it out if its case.

Diving turned out to be a disaster. The sea was rough, and we were the only people crazy enough to give it a try. Withing 5 minutes our dive master had deviated from our dive plan. He started going below 22 meters (we had set a 12 meter limit), and we eventually lost him as the visibility was only about 3-5 feet. Adding to the confusion there was a strong current. After searching for him for about 5 minutes we surfaced and headed back into shore, very unimpressed with him and the the dive company, but happy with each other and how we handled the situation.

After we packed up our diving gear we “decided” to climb to the top of the Buddhist temple that overlooks Unawatuna Beach. Kay still had no idea what was coming.

The pagoda at the top of the hill.

The views from the top are spectacular. Just past the rocks is the area where we went scuba diving in the morning.

Around the pagoda

Unawatuna below.

I am feeling really nervous at this moment, but hiding it well.

On the backside of the hill the views of the coast are spectacular. I waited for the tourists wondering around to leave before we had the place to ourselves and I proposed.

Kay accepted! I had the ring made in Colombo, by a diamond dealer that I was introduced to through a gemologist friend. Not only was the workmanship fantastic, but he had it ready in one week! I didn’t actually get the ring until one hour before we departed for the South, which was very nerve wracking.

Happy after the proposal. I had one more surprise for Kay….

Twelve friends waiting at a beach villa we rented for the weekend. Kay thought we were headed to a romantic getaway for just us.

With the blindfold removed Kay was surprised to find everyone waiting for her.

The celebration begins.

Beer in hand I can finally relax.

We rented out all 4 rooms at Amanda Villa so we had the place to ourselves.

The villa was right on the beach.

Ready for the party.

We had a traditional Sri Lankan lunch full of different curries and very spicy

The party continues by the beach.

The sea was rough but we still went swimming.

Drinks anyone?

Feeling content.

The rain moved in, but luckily it was just a passing downpour.

Kris helped plan the villa details while I was stuck in the US.

For dinner we had a full buffet of crabs, prawns and fresh fish.

We finished ourselves off with shots of tequila.

We weren’t the only ones up early in the morning.

All in all I can’t think of a better weekend I have had in a long time. Although now the competition is on for a nice honeymoon…

Sri Lanka Engagement Surprise in Unawatuna is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

Deep rumbling chants rolled out of the cedar temple, pushed by the rhythmic precision of the perfectly timed drums, as the Buddhist monk led the daily dawn service. The morning air was crisp and carried the scent of pine and earth from the remote Japanese mountaintop. Prayer beads wrapped around my left hand, 108 plastic balls reminding me of my earthly sins, I knelt Japanese style in a dimly lit temple wondering if feeling would ever return to my feet. Gold ringlets hung from the ceiling, radiating above a thousand armed statue of the Bodhisattva of Compassion sitting directly in front of me.

One hour later, my prayers were answered. The monk concluded the ceremony and encouraged us to relax our legs before he spoke about the Buddha’s teachings. Sighs of restrained relief and pain filled the dim temple as seven Japanese pilgrims sitting on either side of me shifted their legs on age golden straw tatami mats.

The Buddhist monk, dressed in flowing purple, orange and vermilion colored robes bowed his shaved head and said in impeccably polite Japanese, “Welcome to Senyu-ji, The Temple of the Hermit in Seclusion.”

“Where have you travel from?” he inquired of everyone. He quickly put everyone at ease by commenting on each hometown and making short conversation. However, he only nodded when I mentioned I was from the USA.

Pleasantries dispensed with, he began.

“I hate America,” he intoned, letting the force of his words pound into the still air.

“If it wasn’t for America the world would be at peace. America has ruined all chance for peace in the 21st Century,” the monk preached into an increasingly silent room.

I heard every eye turn towards me. The temple’s intricately crafted joints creaked and moaned as the harmony, so valued in Japanese society, raced out the sliding wooden shoji doors.

Twenty days earlier, I arrived on Shikoku, the smallest of Japan’s four main islands, and home to the country’s most popular pilgrimage route. For over a thousand years, henro (pilgrims) have visited 88 Buddhist temples that ring the island, traveling in the footsteps of Kobo Daishi, the founder of Shingon Buddhism. Born on Shikoku in 774 AD, he wandered the island performing acetic rituals, leaving a steady stream of miracles in his wake.

Each year only one percent of pilgrims (out of an estimated 100,000-150,000 henro who perform the route by bus, car, train or bicycle) actually walk the 750-mile route. They hike footpaths that plunge deep into isolated mountains, through villages dominated by evergreens and rice paddies, and along a weather beaten coastline assaulted by frequent typhoon. Dressed in road worn white, they peer out from under conical straw hats that protect from sun and rain. Bell topped staffs steady their tired bodies as they transform Shikoku into a constantly moving human prayer wheel.

A pilgrim reaching the top of the long steep path to Senyuji

Like millions of pilgrims who came before me, I climbed the worn mountain path to Temple 58, Senyuji, on the 19th day of my pilgrimage. Clinging to the top of a mountain The Temple of the Hermit in Seclusion affords sweeping views of the Inland Sea below. A lazy summer breeze wound its way through the meticulously sculpted temple grounds as I sat under the large iron bell waiting for my breath to return.

The Inland Sea

I chanted Buddhist sutras, and received a smoothly inked kanji (Chinese character) and a vermilion stamp in my pilgrim’s book as proof of my visit. When the book is complete and filled with all 88 temple kanji I will be guaranteed to enter nirvana upon my death. Who else can claim they ensured their eternal salvation over a summer vacation? I was ready to move to the next temple when a short bald man, his face crinkled in a perpetual childlike smile with clothes deeply soiled by the earth, caught my eye.

“Would you like to stay and help me with my work?” asked Mukai-san, the temple’s groundskeeper.

Mukai-san

Taken aback by such directness, but infected by a smile that split his face in half and swallowed his eyes, I agreed to stay and help. Replacing my walking staff with a shovel and hoe, I spent a long but gratifying day under the hot sun helping to build a traditional forge for sword making.

The next morning everything changed as the old groundskeeper sat behind the monk and beat the drum that penetrated my soul. The Bodhisattva of Compassion looked over all of us.

“I don’t hate Americans, only your country and what it represents,” the monk continued into the awkward silence of the temple.

Taking little comfort in the monk’s attempt to clarify, I sat through the remaining hour planning my escape.

Immediately after the sermon I packed up my belongings. I was at the top of the steep mountain path when Mukai-san caught me and said simply, “Shall you stay another day? There’s lots of work to be done.”

I was torn between my insulted ego and the open generosity before me. I searched the face of the man who had renounced all of his possessions seven years earlier, dedicating himself to the temple. He received nothing in return except room and board. In that moment, I understood what it means to accept without judgment and I left the monk’s words behind in the temple.

Hard at work

Tired after work

I spent the following days working with Mukai-san. In the evenings the head monk would join us under the stars next to a ceder filled camp fire. We drank sake and ate various processed meat products. Mukai-san politely refused all but the vegetables and juice. We never talked about the monk’s speech, nor did politics come up again. However, in the haze of broken Buddhist dietary vows the monk and I came to a silent understanding of simple acceptance.

I left the mountain two days later with a light heart, certain I had met the true hermit in seclusion, disguised as a simple groundskeeper.

The Hermit in Seclusion is a post from: Todd's Wanderings

Sometimes life is not so easy and what can start out as a great time can devolve into a very stressful one. This story has been occupying my mind for the past week and I feel like I need to get it out.

Last weekend I took a trip down to Hikkaduwa, a beach town about 2 1/2 hours south of Colombo, to surf. I was planning on buying a surfboard for the season and spent the first day out on the waves and walking around the beach looking for anyone looking to get rid of a board. I had a great room looking out over the ocean, with a nice balcony just above the palm trees.

View from my balcony

Everything was in place for a great weekend: good surf, friends all around, and plenty of tables on the beach full of beers to drink under tropical palm trees. Then I went out at night to a party on the beach. Long story short, someone broke into my room and stole all of my money. Goodbye surfboard, and all the relaxation I had built up. What’s worse is how I was treated by the local police. I spent 2 1/2 hours being grilled by them as if it were my fault. It was clear they didn’t believe me and thought I was trying to pull some type of insurance scam. I left the beach for home depressed and pissed off at the cops.

Unfortunately, these are the type of things that can happen sometimes. As the week progressed and Thanksgiving in the US drew closer, I gradually came out of my funk. Last night I went out to a “Thanksgiving Buffet” at a local hotel. All they did was add one dish of turkey to the usual Sri Lankan mix. However, it was a perfect meal. I was surrounded by good friends, ate myself into a coma, and drank my fill of wine. There are so many things in my life that I am thankful for, and they reduced the troubles from the week before to just a bump in the road. Just focusing on what I have and appreciating them put things back into perspective. I am sure there will be more bumps along the way but in the end they will pass and I will be happy to still be on the road.

Thankful Thanksgiving is a post from: Todd's Wanderings