...in response to a question I received from a woman who plans to travel alone.
My answer: Anywhere except a war zone!
Furthermore, let’s get a bit more specific, the majority of questions I receive from women in regards to travel are those about safety issues and for good reasons.
Take for example, when I was in Ghana, one of my travel companions had her shoulder bag snatched by someone in a moving car, she fell to the road, and bruised her hip. Another friend of mine stated when she visited France, a man followed her to her hotel and tried to make sexual advances. A third woman I met in Nicaragua complained that a man got into her cab and demanded that she pay for both of them and tried to go back to her hotel with her. I have also heard women complained about groping, having their stuff stolen etc...
Girl - Lake Nicaragua
Though, I must say in my experience the world is not as dangerous as portrayed on television, the majority of people do not want to harm travellers but they are curious about you as much as you are about them. Providing you explore your curiosities while being security conscious.
In the mean time here are some basic tips for women, in addition to regular safety tips and necessities:
- Understand that you may loose some of your freedoms that you are accustomed to: style of dress, places you can go etc...Do your research before travel.
- If possible find another female traveller who is by herself and team up.
- Avoid going out at night alone, if you have to only travel using clearly marked license taxi cabs.
- more than likely if you are inviting a male back to your hotel he is expecting sex, therefore avoid compormising situations.
- Go with your gut feeling, if it looks suspicious, it probably is, get the hell out of there.
- Pregnant women and mothers with children are some of the safest people to ask for directions.
- Speak and appear confidently as well as friendly, at all times.
- Firmly say "no" in the common tongue, if you don't want something you are being offered or propositioned.
- Always misinform about where you are staying, when you leaving, who you are travelling with, and when you arrived.
1. Guide Book: I recommend Lonely Planet guide books; they are precise, contain maps: street, city, and country, cheap to moderate places to eat and sleep, as well as things to do and see. I suggest you protect your travel guide with the same importance you protect your passport.
2. Back Pack: is easier to maneuver and carry than an awkward suit case or duffle bag thus, leaving your hands free at all time. You do not need as much clothing as you think, everything one needs can fit in a back pack.
Antigua, Guatemala
3. First Aid Kit: I don't carry a typical first aid kit, mine consists of three main ingredients. A tiny bottle of iodine, ciprofloxacin, and Imodium/Loperamide capsules. Cipro is very powerful, so powerful that it is used to prevent anthrax infections. I use it to kill bacterial infections I may ingest from water or food. You should not buy any medicine until you get to your destination; especially, if you are going to a "less developed country" the medicine is always extremely cheaper there than in "developed" countries. Iodine is for topical use, if I get a cut or bruised.
First house/hostel where I stayed in Barrio Martha Quezada
4. Recording Material: camera, laptop, journal, or video camera. My personal two recommendations are a journal and a DSLR. I favor the DSLR over the video camera because I can easily add photographs to my Facebook/blog/email to share with my family and friends while I am abroad.
Second, a journal because you are taking in a lot of new visual and auditory information and will forget details that you may want recall later. Who remembers that they stayed in and neighborhood called "Barrio Martha Quezada," a few years ago? I do because I recorded it in my journal...
5. Travel Towel: travel towels are made form a soft, synthetic, super, absorbent, lightweight fiber that dries ridiculously quick. I once found myself in a mountainous region of a Central American country during the rainy season, had I had a regular 'plush' towel, that would have taken days to dry.
Paris, France
6. Water Proof Hiking Boots: Protection of your most important transportation vehicle is necessary. A friend of mine and I hiked up Mount Pacaya and she wore sandals; needless to say the tiny volcanic rock irritated her feet. Your hiking boots should be lightweight, breathable, and waterproof.
7. Photocopies of your Passport and Drivers License: Incase your passport is ever stolen; like mine was, the photocopy allows you to easily visit an embassy or consulate of your home country to obtain travel documents. I recommend having two copies of each document and keeping them in seprate places.
8. Money Belt: The money belt is carried under your clothes and hidden from pesky pick pocketers. I also recommend carrying your passport in your money belt when you cannot find a safe place to keep it.
Most money belts aren't water proof so, put your passport in a zip lock bag then place it in your money belt so when you get caught in the rain your passport does not incur water damage.
Never take out your money belt in public or carry all your money in one place. Carry a visa card for emergency.
9. Willingness to Bargain: for everything! even set prices you that are listed. Always remember that there is a tourist price and a local price. The willingness to bargain, walk away if you feel you are being cheated, and shop around will save you a lot of money.
10. Positive/Adventurous/Respectful-Friendly/Security-Conscious Attitude: Your attitude is your number one and most important tool as a traveller. Having a positive and adventurous attitude make a great travel. Take for example, pick pocketers once tried to steal from me when I travelled on a bus over night, had I allowed that one experience to taint my adventures, I would be afraid to go places and have fun. Security consciousness is important; you should memorize/write down or take pics of locations, faces, places, street name etc. I carry a pocket knife but the only thing I had to use it for was to cut fruits so far. Finally, being respectful of other's people culture and being friendly, by attempting to speak their language; therefore, sub-communicating that you are aware you are in their world and they are not in yours could mean the difference between someone helping or attacking you.
On a warm January afternoon in Nicaragua, I slipped into my white shirt, blue jeans, and slippers then headed onto a strip of colorful buildings consisting of rustic looking restaurants built around court yards and 4 star hotels. I had gathered, earlier that day when I visited the strip for breakfast was that the businesses are owned by foreigners and wealthy Nicaraguans. The proprietors catered to tourist: serving up some of the best mojitos and pancakes I ate in Central America thus far.
One of the most notable characters, my travel mate Dan and I met that day was John Oliver. After breakfast John came up to me and introduced himself as an artist. He showed me some painted tiles and a small canvas painting, some water colors, brushes, and then asked for a donation of $2 USD to purchase some more tiles. I gave him $1 and tried to hurry him along because I did not want to be bothered.
I've become so crafty at (not) dealing with street vendors and panhandlers in others countries that I can sometimes repel them form a mile away. Approximately 10% of the time when I am overseas, I don't want be or asked for money, so I derived tips and tricks to repel them. Take for example: I sometimes give away candy, gum instead or a mean face and closed off body language which leads to them leaving me alone.
Don't let any world traveller tell that they are 100% ‘Good Samaritan,’ and that they care about every "native" they encounter; therefore, they are always diplomatic with vendors, panhandlers, and proprietors. I have met many of my fellow travellers form as far as Israel to New Zealand and many of us who reside in "first world" countries go to the "3rd world" with our fancy iPods, cameras, Euros, dollars, cameras, and romanticize the notion of what it is to be a native. We pat the street children on the head, give them a dollar, share our food with the homeless, smile at pretty ladies, and then return to our countries feeling like humanitarians. Many of us rarely bring anything (presents, service, goods, knowledge etc...) but instead like colonialist we go there to extract i.e. exotic photographs, money, goods, new experiences, food, sex toruism, clothing, drink, and art.
Moreover, even philanthropist from first world countries who dedicate their lives to building a better world must understand that we bring our prejudiced historical, political, social, and gendered perspectives to interpret the lives of "the natives." I use the word native being fully aware that the term itself is politically charged. Some of us are so horrible at it, that we examine the culture we are visiting in explicit orientalist fashion.
Anyways, that evening when I returned to a one of the restaurants for drinks, this one in particular was owned by a young American business man who paraded the property with his friendly looking terrier. As sat in a comfortable wooden chair with my feet up and drinking; John Oliver came up and sat on the curb directly in front of me.
J.O. "Yo dread where you from?"
Ade: "I live in the U.S." where are you from? [Asking because he was the first black person I saw in Nicaragua]
John then takes out some of his art work, without warning the business owner's faithful terrier rushed at John and bit him on the left arm. Shocked, john jumped to his feet. I looked at John and asked him "are you ok!?" He did not respond. Hey your dog just bit him," I said to the American business owner, yes I saw...he always come to the restaurant begging customers.
A bit confused, I turned back to John and asked again:
Are you ok?!? "Yes," he replied. "Look at my leg," John raised his pant leg a bit, exposing a large scar on his left ankle. "He trained the dog to bite me, look what it did to my ankle."
...the first definition is how I playfully define Adeism and the second is of an actual branch of atheism.
1. Adeism: "a system of beliefs induced with all sort of elixirs and prestidigitatory roller coasters."
2. Adeism: "is identical to the position of weak atheism, nontheism, or negative atheism. Adeists, unlike atheists, are unwilling to make the positive claim of belief that a God does not exist. The adeist lacks a belief, or is without a belief in God. This is not to be confused with agnosticism, which states that the existence of God cannot be known. It is rather the suspension of belief that is the crux of the adeist position."
Wow! Forer's effect. Whosoever wrote the above is either selling me snake oil or has read my journal. I can't make this stuff up, I am Ade, and the branch of atheism in which I share my name with, precisely describes my belief about God.
So what does all that have to do with the dead?
Well, I'll tell you I don't believe in resurrection, an afterlife, or better yet I am wise enough to say: I don't have any proof. This is the main reason why I don't fear the dead nor do I fear death. So naturally when I am overseas, I spend time hanging out at molseums, burial grounds, columbariums, catholic churches, and tombs. The resting places of the dead are usually quiet, serene, and provides a place of solitude for the living as well. Travelling can be stressful on the mind and body so these places provide a space where I am able to temporarily escape the hassle of the living world. Additionally, I find graves stones to be some of the most fascinating artistic pieces of work.
Take for example, when I was in France, I spent about five hours at the famous Cimetiere du Père Lachaise. There I saw the grave sites of many famous actors, aritsts, poets, dancers, writers, teachers, lovers etc... Some of whom I chatted to and thanked them for their contribution: a few words with Richard Wright here, a few with Balzac there and some words to my favorite european classical composer Chopin.
My trip to Père Lachaise has been one of the most educational outings I have ever taken to any place that rests the dead. First, I met a younger man than I, who is from Brazil and had been travelling throughout France by himself. He and I quickly befriended each other, walk together, and talked about art, photography, philosophy, music, and politics all in the context of the dead surrounding us. I talked extensively about Pierre Bourdieu and his influence on my writings in graduate school, also about how irate I was that I could not find his grave site. My friend taught me about Allan Kardec and his thoughts on spiritualism, life in Brazil, and we later discussed his trip so far.
Tomb of Abélard and Heloïse
Second, the map of the burial ground listed many famous people, most whom I no idea who they were, so when I returned the US, I was forced to read up on and seek out some of their works. Additionally, I saw the grave sites of Jim Morrison, Proust, the famous lovers Abélard and Heloïse, Oscar Wilde etc...
Anytime I find myself hanging at places of the dead it always allow me the mental space to recon template my death and how I want handled when I die. Here is the simple winning formula: cremation, throw me a party, play loud reggae music, and absolutely no tears from family or friends. Why? I made sure I lived a happy and adventurous life.
Romance... I had previously heard so much about the Seine in my classical lit course and read about its banks in travel magazines which lead to me imagining a roaring, uncompromising river; similar to the Potaro, Demerara, or Berbice. These are the rivers I had known as a child which are dangerous life takers. On a chilly day in January, I saw for the first time a river; in which, its banks were busy with tourist and lovers from all over the world strolling, and holding hands with their mates while exchanging kisses.
France is a rich nation, which has the financial capital to promote Paris as the city of romance. As a colonial power it acquired billions of dollars from its colonies, it was the 6th largest colonial empire spanning across the world with a large portion of it satellites in Northern and Western Africa. The richness of the country is reflected in the classical architecture of the buildings, the pristine riverboats, the RER trains running along the banks of the Seine and through out the city, the Eifel tower, the Louvre etc... and even the automatic porta potties located on the sides of the streets.
France's strategy of marketing Paris and the city of romance is brilliant in that the Seine helps to upkeep the image. There is always something seductive about peaceful waterfronts and accordion music. The mood of river during the day is calm as the Eifel tower sits still on the bank of the Seine. On that day in January, everyone around the Eifel tower seemed at peace; as they snapped photographs, took the elevator to the top of the tower to have lunch, rode the river boats, or visited the museums.
Poverty...
Everyone except for North African immigrant women who were begging and male African vendors who were being chased by the French police for selling key chains to tourist. My heart went out to vendors, I exhaled for a moment, stood still and watched in disgust as the police harassed them.
It reminded me of the days in my early childhood: watching the Old Earth (my mother) scurrying about Bourda market (Guyana) hiding smuggled goods: split peas, wheat flour, and cans of milk, for which she had travelled all the way to the end of the country's borders to purchase and resell to make a profit. Back then under President Burnham’s quasi-socialist government these items were banned.
Anyways, the African immigrants were scattered at the base to the tower, hiding and running in every direction. The bicycle police caught one of male vendors, collared him, and began yelling; fearful, the vendor dropped all his key chains to the ground.
I stood some 60 yards from him, feeling powerless; I had seen this scenario before: immigrant vendor vs. police, I have seen it too many times, also in New York City. I don't claim to have a full epistemological understanding of immigrant poverty in the context of vendors all over the world but I know these situations and how they end. I grow tired of seeing it.
In NYC, I have seen African Immigrants selling bootleg CDs and DVDs laid out on a bed sheet on the ground. The reason for this is so that they can easily grab the four ends of the sheet and run when the police approaches.
I remember reading in the NY times in the early 2000 that France had been struggling in figuring out way on how to deal with the influx of African immigrants. The immigrants are facing racism as well as a high rate of unemployment and had been rebelling in the streets of France, turning over cars and lighting them on fire.
As I stood watching the French police harassing the vendor, very few tourist or lovers seemed to have noticed or cared. Tourist walked casually by went about their business; observing for a few more minutes I too then left and went about my business.
I started off writing in high school, putting together elementary words to form prose; back then, I hardly read and had little command of English. As part of the school's curriculum, I was required to read Moby Dick, A Tale of Two Cities, Candide, The Diary of Anne Frank and a few other ‘classics.’ For the most part, I only read as much as the first ten pages of each book, then resorted to the aid of cliff notes.
I could not relate to those text, nor to lives of their colorful characters. Had I seen a whale off Guyana’s coast, had I ever visited Ann Frank Hubris, had I spent a week in Paris, and took a train to the Bastille area, had my parents been one of the lucky Blacks given the chance to be extremely optimistic about life as well as escaping poverty; maybe then, like upper middle class children, I too could have acquired the cultural capital necessary to aid in relating to those texts.
After high school (1997-2003,) I wrote articles and poetry extensively; I ended up publishing a few pieces in various literary journals and college newspapers. Today, whatever (articles, poetry, oped, short stories etc.) comes to my mind, I write. I sometimes scoff at poetric prose and rarely write any because it reminds me of a time in my eralier days where I was a hopeless romantic. However, there was a quick revival in my poetics when I crashed heart first into… But that was 'eons' ago and now I even refuse to write in greeting cards.
Presently, I blog on Facebook, maintain this blog, journal, and recently started back submitting my pieces to literally journals. Ironically, I do not post my most intimate thoughts on my blog(s), though titled “everythingade.” Why? possibly something to do with privacy, so my personal journal suffices for now.
As you may have figured out, I have been writing for a while. What you may not know is: I don't write for myself, I never did. Writing is my contribution to the world; it is a tool in which I use to share my thoughts, critiques, and ideas with others. For most, writing serves several purposes, the two main purposes being (1) the writer seeks to contribute ideas, critiques, theories etc. (2) writing functions as a form of therapy for the writer. For me it is simply a matter of sharing with the world, who I am and what I wish to contribute. This is not to say that writing isn't therapeutic but even as I scribble about my journal, I think about those who will be reading it when I die.
Heavy focus on ones target audience as one writes may be contridictory to one's puropse and problematic at its core in many respects. It is contradictory because though I try not to use writing as therapy, I still maintain a journal where I carefully pour my thoughts through my "pen" about my love life/lives, family, hopes, and dreams. And as previously mentioned, I think as I write "who will read my journal when I die." It is my hopes that it's a hippy, educated group of rebellious college aged young adults.
As far as being problematic, since I write with a target audience in mind, it begs the questions: to what extent does the mindfulness of an audience hamper or shape my creative process? Am I frankly writing my thoughts? Or do I construct my sentences primarly so that my audience can relate?
Nevertheless, whatever I write, I hope my audience can see themselves in my paragraphs and never have to resort to cliff notes. Also, by deduction, I beleive I may be a bit of a narcissist seeking the praises of my audience in this life or the next, who knows? What I do know is that this is my journey and I am going to travel it and refine it as I see best.
P.s. I since went to France, visited Anne Frank’s hubris, and I aspire to see whales off the coast of Long Island, NY next summer. Thus, I resorted to (re)/reading Candide, The Diary of Anne Frank, and is currently reading Moby Dick.
As I reread the title of this piece, I laugh at its inherent satire. I laugh at almost everything; even that which sometimes hurt, it is a method I use to enjoy my own reality and also to take away the power from those things that sometimes stings. Similarly, I’ll take negative situations and ask myself how I can reframe them to find the positive and then focus on said positive. I use the technique so consistently that I sometimes have to remind myself: "Ade you are not Buddha, its ok to be angry at times."
Take for example, back in college I was resident assistant…my neighbor a white “farm boy” from Brookfield, New York who had a confederate flag hanging on the wall in his bedroom. He would proudly leave his room door open for the majority of the day which annoyed the other Black students. Additionally, he had drawn a four feet confederate flag on his room door for a dorm wide decorating contest. I like the other Black students was uncomfortable with both of his decisions but what I did was to randomly go and sit in his room and chat with him. By exposing myself to something I was uncomfortable with I was taking away its power to affect me.
Ade the Weed Smoker Fast forward approximately five years later, I grew locks/dreads, as a result people worldwide would automatically assume I am weed smoker. I have been mistaken for Bob Marley on a New York college campus, a Rastafarian in Suriname, Italy, and Barbados; as well as, I have been asked if I smoked, have, or sell marijuana on three of continents that I visited. The notion use to bother me when I first encountered it but I choose to take away its power. After doing so, every time it occurred there after, it became so hilarious that I reframed the situation and turned it into one of my most famous and successful pick up lines. I would walk up to a woman with cock-in-the-hand-confidence, pull her hair and before she could react, I’d say:
My hair is totally longer than yours. You know everywhere I go in the world people assume I am a weed smoker. Do I look like a weed smoker? And before she could answer, I start off with one of my wild adventurous stories; generally the one about the time I got off the plane in Ghana and soon as I stepped out the airport I and was offered to purchase marijuana. I'd imitate the Ghanaian drug dealer's accent and have her laughing. So what is the problem?
That Nigga Ade The problem is when I have been called a nigga and offered marijuana all at the same time in a foreign country. No matter how hard I tried to take away the power from that particular word, it still stings a little. I once heard both Gail via radio and Oprah via television explained that when they were in South Africa, if I remember correctly, they went to visit Nelson Mandela and was called a nigga by one of his bodyguards. Both of them blame hip hop for the exportation of the term and for foreigners having no concept of its hurtful, orthographical, and developmental history. I partly agree and would like to add that the exportation of the word extends beyond hip hop. The exportation to Latin America, Africa and the rest of the world stems from television (movies, cartoons et al,) culture, art, US Supreme Court cases, and good ole’ White American racism etc. Therefore it is understandable why Americans encounter the term when travelling.
Niggas in Latin America While backpacking in Nicaragua in 2008 a young boy approximately 11 years old, in a dingy white shirt rode by in the opposite direction towing a younger boy on a bicycle. As our eyes met he called out to me: "Nigga," smiled as if we had been best friends for years and nodded his head in acknowledgement. It was apparent that he meant it as a term of endearment. But guess what? That weed smoking nigga Ade, did not think or feel so. Not at all!
Recently (2010,) when I visited Guatemala, my travel companion Jamal and I sat outside on the curb in Antigua, while Zenobia stood in the street and Vivienne as well as Denevia (my other travel mates) were shopping in a bazaar. A young man in a blue shirt, who appeared to be in his twenties approached, trying to sell us something. As we had rehearsed many times before, if we did not care to buy what street vendors were selling, we simply said "no gracias." However, he was different from the other vendors, he spoke fluent English and was a little less pushy.
Dude: “you want to buy….”
Ade/Jamal : “no gracias”
I cannot remember how the conversation went at this point but I remember explaining something to him and he firmly replied that he was aware of what I meant. By this point the brief conversation had shifted away from Jamal and he focused directly on me.
Dude: “You want to buy weed?”
Ade [thinking in his head]: “here we go again.”
Ade: “Nah”
Dude: "I am just trying to help you out Nigga.”
At that moment Jamal and I locked eyes, both caught a little off guard and looked at each other faces and laughed. Zenobia in the moment captured the expressions on our faces using her camera. And by the time we looked back at him he stood there in our presence for about two seconds and left.
The troublesome term nigga/nigger as author and lawyer Randall Kennedy points out in Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word is protean in use and delivery, to some it a term of endearment to others it is device that carries with it a great lot history and hurt.
Black artist have used it to paint vivid pictures and racists alike to induce pain. Some non Americans having no idea of its etymology use it freely and openly and refer to themselves as such; take for example the Panamanian artist: “Nigga.”
My experiences and thoughts may get thrown in a pile with others who have made social commentary on the term, yet I am still thankful for young dudes right to say what he wishes. Though this reminds, of how Season 1, Ep#9 of the popular animated television show "Boondocks" begins, it starts with a quote from the Martin Luther King:
“I want young men and young women who are alive today to know and see that these new privileges and opportunities did not come without somebody suffering and sacrificing for them.” - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
And if those words are not remembered or taken seriously we can always focus on the next quote that followed in the episode:
At around 11:30am, Dan my travel mate and I had left our inn and walked approximately two miles to Liberia’s main bus station to purchase our bus tickets back to Guatemala. We had recently came to Costa Rica by bus via Guatemala and our plan for that particular Tuesday was to get our return tickets and then take a bus to Playa del Coco (coco beach), located on the south coast of Costa Rica.
As we approached the ticket counter, we were told that we need our passports in order to purchase return bus tickets. The walk back to the inn seemed longer than it was because the sun felt hotter than Africa! Among inner city black folks we always describe hot weather as “hotter than Africa.” Well, I’ll tell you this, I went to West to Africa, and the weather is tamer in comparison to New York City but I digress. As we walked back to the inn to grab our passports, I dragged my dusty feet in my worn out beach slippers, carrying with me a Gap butt pack, in it my Visa Credit card, Nikon D50 with 5O mm prime lens and cash (Dollars, Cordobas, and Colons.) We returned to the inn, gathered our passports and then went back to the bus station.
So far Costa Rica had been a “ball”: the innkeeper laughing at me and refusing to take my United States Dollars because of its plummeting value, the foods, my new Saprissa soccer jersey, the exciting yet laborious trip across the Nicaragua/Costa Rican border, the two female tourist we met two nights prior and shared a hotel room with, the garden like inn in which we stayed etc.
By this time I was hungry and I settled for a plate of rice and peas with chicken which I took on the bus. Dan sat in the window seat and I on the isle. I prefer isle seats on any type of coach, simply because I may be a tad bit cluster phobic; additionally, I dislike having to swoop by the person(s) in my row when I have to go to the bathroom.
As I fumbled about on the uncomfortable bus ride, I placed my butt pack in the over head and begun to devour the overcooked peas and rice with tasty chicken. While the bus made designated stops along the way. At approximately 15 minutes out of town, I heard a loud banging on the back door and from the little I understood the person(s) was asking to be let off before we arrived at the next bus stop.
Never the less, the banging on the back door continued and the driver came to an immediate stop. No less than 40 seconds as the bus pulls off, I thought that my pack might have been stolen and climbed to the over head and checked. I then realized who so ever was banging on the door had made off with my bag. Immediately, I panicked, ran to the front of the bus and tried to stop the driver. At this point, I realized it might have been a good idea if I'd paid attention in Spanish class in college and high school. The driver did not understand what I was saying and someone in the front seat translated and he stopped approximately a hundred yards away from where they men had gotten off. I exited the back door and there was no one in sight. I got back on the bus, did some breathing exercises to calm down and immediately started trouble shooting.
I attempted to speak to everyone who sat behind me and who might have seen the person(s) who took my bag. A woman who I assumed was approximately 25 years old and spoke fluent English saw the entire situation. Thanks to all those spy movies I saw in the past, I grabbed a pen and had her write down a description of everything she remembered, then instructed her to tell the bus driver to take us to the nearest police station and told her to get off with us so I can file a report. She later told me that it was two male Nicaraguans. Whether or not the men were Nicaraguans, I was not concerned with their nationality. What I had previously observed as I was travelling into Costa Rica was that Nicaraguans were travelling to Costa Rica in large numbers to seek employment. As I was travelling to Liberia from Nicaragua, there were random stop and searches at various check points. I enquired and found out that police were looking for illegal immigrants entering Costa Rica.
Anyways, as we arrived at police station, in some tiny village in Guanacaste, this place and to be the smallest police station I ever seen. There was only one police officer with a woman, whom I assumed to be his girlfriend, a telephone, and television that looked as if it escaped from the 1980s crowned with a wire hanger antenna. The two people both look sweaty and bothered as if we were interrupting a love session. Never the less, the woman who exited the bus with us gave the information to the lone police officer and told us we would have to go to the main branch and file my report there. The kind young woman then gave me change to take the bus back in the other derection and went on her way. I pulled a cab over and tried to talk my way into a free cab ride to the station but to no avail. As we arrived at the Main Police station, there were two people spoke English and was delighted to help us. One, a tall stellar looking police officer and young female clerk who took the report. I gave details of what happened, and between my inability to speak any Spanish and her ability to speak some English we came up with a report that had a few missing details.
At this point Dan was surprised how calm I was. The reason being is that I knew there is a US embassy in Costa Rica and my passport could be easily replaced. Secondly, Ade is the kind of person who gets excited for about a few minutes then his brain calms down and begins to compute. What actually bothered me was all the photographs I lost, especially my art.
Back in Nicaragua, I took photographs claiming a volcano, I woke up at 5 am to photograph a sail boat docked at a beach, pictures at the mall, photographs of Costa Rican and Nicaraguan daily life, photographs of Dan and I riding horses with a volcano in the back drop and the list goes on. These photographs cannot be be replaced and this is what was most upsetting. The camera and the lens could be but the time spent investing in my art was gone forever. I have zero pictures of Costa Rica and only memories of the country. So why was I complacent with passport? Simple, I was accustomed to the ex fiancée carrying it for me. I use to jokingly call her the passport Nazi. Because soon as a ticket agent had finished viewing my passport before they could fully close the book and hand it back she would grab it and secure it in her purse. Nevertheless, my passport was stolen and needed to get it back.
To be continued…
I am going to travel this world; I mean to, I will because it belongs to me. I recently placed a projection board on the wall at the side of my bed, written on it are a list of things I plan to accomplish. One of those goals is: "to travel the world extensively." Thus far, I've been to about 4/7 continents (Africa, North America, South America, and Europe) as well as Central America and a few islands: Trinidad, Dominica, Barbados et al.
...an experience junkie of sorts, if I hadn't had the experience, I want it.
One's life aligns with what goes on in one's head: the universal law of attraction. I believe I cannot sit still; therefore, I refuse to take relaxing vacations, peruse a beach, drink cocktails, and get massages. My preference is to backpack across countries' borders; photograph places, people, animals etc. as I go, drink the local ale, swim in different bodies of water, purchase embroidered flag patches for my travel pack, document my experience, learn, grow, and enjoy some time spent with the "locals." Dreams to reality...
My new dream destination as of recent is Turkey and India. And I will talk about travelling from California to Guyana via land another time--aaaahhh, that's therapy. For the past five years, on random days I find myself going to expedia.com to price check flights to random destinations, and believe it or not, those are some of the happiest moments I spend in front of my computer.
So where to, immediately? I'll be returning to my homeland in a few months; 'repatriating' for a week and then a border crossing to the country south west of home.
All while following the Ade travelling rule(s) of course i.e. travelling lite. So what does it mean to travel lite: a bag pack, few pairs of underwear, socks, few t-shirts, toiletries, my trusty pocket knife, iPod, 2 books, 2 SLR cameras with a variety of lens, slippers, and pair of hiking boots all on the back of one awesome dude.
