This is from Essaouira Morocco. The town is famous, in part, thanks to Jimi Hendrix who in theory wrote "Castles Made of Sand" after visiting the city. It was BS though. He wrote the song before he ever made it to Morocoo. But as they say never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.

Germany to Morocco Sept. 08

I contemplated our VW. It was a sweety. Including reverse it came with five whole gears, a stylish tape deck, and a painfully apparent lack of power steering. Normally I am not one to complain. Amenities are just that. Little extras. But I had to confess that this was not the way I envisioned traveling on the German Autobahn. The car would have made me slightly apprehensive in most situations, but traveling in a vehicle that could hardly hit 60 MPH on a highway notorious for its lack of speed limits; well that gave me the fear.

Tine (German girl who is the best travel partner on the planet) and I were traveling south from Lunenburg ( a college town that is a suburb of Hamburg) to Frankfurt where we had plane tickets to the Moroccan city Fez. We had managed to score the VW of question from one of her flat mates and another friend had volunteered to drive us to the rest stop where we could hitch the rest of the way.

From our haven in the right lane of traffic, the car shook like a small boat in choppy water every time another vehicle catapulted past us moving at Mach 3. After my initial anxiety the drive was almost disappointingly easy. It wasn't long before I found myself in a battle between manners and jet lag dozing off in the front seat.

Once at the rest stop Tine went to work politicking with people in the parking lot trying to arrange a ride while I sketched out the words of our final destination on a piece of card board. It wasn't long before I found myself in the back seat of BMW watching the speedometer climb and dilapidated VWs in the right lane of traffic rocking back and fourth from our jet stream. This was the Autobahn I imagined. When our speed maxed out at 210 KPH I decided it was for the best that I couldn't figure out how many miles per hour that worked out to. Our driver, a handsome Acme Brand human, muttered "Eesh normal en Germany" from the front seat.

We never had to wait more than an hour for a ride. On two occasions we were offered seats before we even had the chance to ask. One woman who drove us worked in finance and was into role playing games. On one occasion things went sour and the game turned into a confused battle with the police who, as it turned out, were actually police and not part of the game. Another woman was a former student in the states. She had done all sorts of good hearted volunteer work in Nepal and did not seem too interested in much besides doing well by the planet. I was most surprised by the business men in fine European automobiles who were willing to give scruffy twenty something year olds rides. They did not even blink at the prospect.

Each ride and experience distanced the horror stories of hitch hiking, the warnings against it from family members, and the stereotypes of people who pick up strangers. Some people who were headed in the wrong direction would pause for a conversation, just relieved from a break in the monotony of the road.

Our final ride was from a rest stop just a matter of a few kilometers from our final destination. The highway split, one direction to Mainz, the other to Frankfurt. The sun had all ready gone down and the process was getting a bit arduous. It had all ready been a few hours but losing a sense of humor was not an option. Tine had gotten all of our rides and I was sick of using the language barrier as an excuse for being so useless. I hung onto my sign but started to test the international language of yelling and being friendly.

A couple that looked to be in their seventies walked by and started speaking to me in German. I smiled and explained in English that while I had no idea what he was saying, I still appreciated the good energy. His switch to English was seamless and his accent gave away that not only was he was a native speaker but also American.

The couple offered us a ride to the air port where we could easily pick up a train into the city and hoof it to Tine's old apartment. Grateful for the ride we took them up on it and found our selves in the back of a mini van listening to their story.

The man had gone to Germany on business in 1971. While he was there he shyly asked the woman working at his hotel out on a date. His story was one about stumbling through accents and languages trying to communicate subtleties that were often lost in translation. As it turned out, he never left Germany. It was a story one had to experience themselves to truly appreciate.

In a blurt that probably would have been best left in my head I let everyone in the van know the entire arrangement sounded extremely dangerous to me. They were all polite enough to ignore my comment.

Less than an hour later we were on off of a train and in the city and at Tine's old flat, recharging for the next day's flight to Fez.

An Up-hill Battle

They say the worst thing that can happen to a drunk driver is they make it home safely. The logic behind this is that making it back creates a false sense of safety, or the illusion that they will always have the ability to make it. So, the drunk keeps drinking, keeps driving, keeps making it, until one day, they don't make it. The tragic end.



While I could hardly call surviving a drunk driving experience a worst case scenario, never mind the chasm in logic that suggests killing your self the first time is better than the fourth of fifth, I can certainly relate to the dangers of false senses of security. Since Robyn and I had first rented a motor bike we had done remarkably well. We stuck to a few simple rules like, only make left turns (Thailand, they cruise on the other side) and don't fuck up. So far we had only been in one accident and it had been when three people were on the bike. In the end of that one Robyn got to wear one of the 3 inch x 2 inch gauze pads over the burn on her lower leg. The little pads were as trendy as Full Moon Party T-shirts but a lot cooler so there was nothing to complain about. Accident numero dos....emmmm different story.



Separating our guest house from the pee trap called Hat Rin Beach were a number of cliffs that at some point had been disguised as hills when they were paved over and a road was built through them. However, the astute could deduce with a simple trick what these geological lumps really were: stand at the top and drop a tennis ball. If it rolls it's a hill. If it falls it's a cliff. These were definitely cliffs.



And there I was, with Robyn on the back, both lulled into a sense of false security, driving straight up a cliff on a motor bike that cost less than your last grocery bill. It was no surprise I had to down shift from fifth gear to fourth, or fourth to third, or even third to second but the bike was still dragging. Some little voice told me to stick with second. The problem was sticking with second also meant to sticking with pushing the bike up the cliff. I knew not to do it, I just didn't know why not to do it. So by my logic, which was the only thing moving up the cliff slower than the bike, I didn't really know not to do it. So why not give it a shot?

In the click of a gear the bike reared up like the meanest miniature pony at the petting zoo. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Robyn land squarely on her butt with a no questions asked thud. Unfortunately my rational thinking was still at the bottom of the cliff and I thought it was best to just hang onto the bike regardless of the fact that I was on my feet and it was standing up at about my height. The acute angles and pristine decision making cranked my wrist backward, pushing the throttle to the "hold the fuck on" position. My plastic/medal steed and I were launched straight up the cliff for about six amazing steps in display that, within the realm of my physical accomplishments, will never be rivaled. I imagined my flip-flopped feet moving in a blaze of dirt and friction like Fred Flinstone when he drove his prehistoric car.

With the best decision of the day, I let the bike go and got clear while it smashed to its side making a sound like a voice booming the word "UNINSURED" to the wind. But just like a movie whose sequel came too quickly, the theatrics would not end.

In the most touching display of genuine concern and fear for our well being, a dirt bike, that had more passengers than I would feel comfortable putting into a Cooper Mini, swung around us from the rear and pulled onto the shoulder. Every bit of my gratefulness melted into guilt as I watched their bike the moment it stopped teeter left, teeter right and dump, spilling no less than 45 Thai people all over the road. Many landed on their feet and before they could have possibly processed the fact they had just fallen off of their bike, found themselves in a down hill sprint/free fall with two white kids and a motor bike acting as hurdles just a few yards away.

I locked eyes with if not the worlds largest Asian woman, certainly the worlds largest Asian woman wearing a pink pastel polo shirt, and couldn't help but notice that she was moving at speeds that would have earned her a lane in any number of events at the Beijing Olympics. I gazed up the cliff and wondered if this was going to count as having died in an avalanche.

The fancy jig she through to dodge me, Robyn, and the motor bike further bolstered her credentials as a top notch athlete. I stood leaning on my slack jaw for support in anticipation of the next assault. When it came it was heavy. One man had the bike up and about a dozen others surrounded me with so much sweetness and care I knew they must have been family members in a prior life. My pastel assailant materialized from behind me and started in with the same treatment before I had the opportunity to give it to her.

Moments later I was back on the bike at the bottom of the hill with a number of spotters to make sure everything was going to be fine. I cranked the throttle and this time, with no passenger, zipped to the summit and waited for my rescuers to make the climb. Once all had reached the top the appreciation and embarrassment had the thank yous guzzling out of Robyn and I. The feeling of genuine care and concern was still present even after the drama had passed. We both held still and were barraged with bits of advice about how to take corners and ride the bike. I must have been told to keep left a thousand times in a two minute period. I got the feeling this was just one of the many common blunders that tourists had with the bikes on the island.

As we were about to take off the pink pastel assailant, who was actually much smaller and less threatening than she first appeared, offered one last bit:

"Remember stay left. AND NEVER GIVE UP!"

It was an exclamation point to all the care and concern of the last ten minutes. The words were no longer just about motor bikes. It was the analogy of motor bikes and life that you can't feel unless the things are a daily part of your life. I carried the incident around in my head for the rest of day but no bit stood out more than that offer of NEVER GIVE UP. Never Give Up. It is a piece of love and advice I have tried to recall each day since.

Bangkok

Who knew that a person could do so much in so little time that they could be so ashamed of? My first act after getting settled in the backpacker ghetto of Ko Sahn road was check out the bootleg documents a street vendor had for sale. Call it an issue of alphabetical order, but when I tossed open the thick three ring binder and on page numero uno was a journalism degree, complete with transcripts prettier than mine, from none other than Arizona State University, there was a simultaneously wonderful and horrible feeling of having arrived. It was if the universe has taken a moment to whisper in my ear "Bangkok's been waiting for you Branden." Let it be known only fools ever think that Bangkok has been waiting for them for any reason other than to play some terrible trick. It was a rather ominous welcome considering what the city had to offer. Bangkok is to Las Vegas as all the crack cocaine in New York is to a sip of decaffeinated coffee. While I have been to Sin City I have never made it to the Nevada Suburb of Slight Indiscretions. But honestly, who could be bothered? Can Cesar's Palace of inaccessible excess really compete with Muay Thai kick-boxing in bars filled to the rim with Thai hookers dressed like Catholic school girls? Designer clothing? Ed Hardy and Evisu jeans for 900...as in Baht...Yeah man, I got fifteen bucks for that. The city is the closest thing to the island of lost boys that Pinocchio did a brief stint on that I have ever seen. It is a free for all slug fest that only those with floating standards of morality can appreciate.

Of course this is not so much the story of Bangkok as it is the story of Ko Sahn road, the holding cell and spring board for westerners into SE Asia. The obscenely cheap food options and international vibe makes for a great scene in some regards. You can get your i-pod updated and charged while a Lady-Boy serves you a helping of Pad Thai noodles for less than a dollar. But all these people looking for something, whether they are chasing dragons, enlightenment, themselves, or just experiences. The good news is somebody, or several somebodies, just around the corner does have what you are looking for. "Special price. just for you friend."

In the context of a SE Asian city Ko Sahn road hurts. It is like every situation that involves sacrificed values for the ability to survive in a capitalist market. The place caters to Westerners worst taste and often darkest secrets. In the Lonely Planet a sex tourist was quoted saying "We don't come to Thailand for the ruins."
Come for the ruins?
Mother Fucker! We all brought the ruins.

Almost an Israelite

In the past when I had found long standing platonic female friends sitting on my chest in their bathing suites or with their faces inches away from my penis, it had usually marked one of the last acts of the friendship. But in the case of Robyn, who had assumed both positions within five minutes, it was quite the opposite. A surface description of the situation paints a lovely if entirely inaccurate portrait of the situation:

I was half naked, on my back, in a beach bungalow, after a vicious party, with an intelligent and attractive woman; bonds were being formed, friendships strengthened and all involved, especially the woman, knew that there was a serious J.O.B. to be done. And guess who got to sit back and watch?

It was Robyn's drunken commitment to the job I most appreciated.
"Isss okay Brannan....were gonna get yer dick unstuck from your zipper."

It was the night of the Pre-Full Moon party on Ko-Pha Ngan, a tropical island off Thailand's long SE coast. In the late 1980s a psychedelic mushroom birthday bash on Hat Rin beach was such a success that the Full-Moon parties became a monthly tradition. The party grew in scope and reputation through the nineties and was at some point usurped by the most vile cadre of tourists who turned the event into a revolting hedonistic bash that ranks up on the scales of guilty pleasures next to watching a video of Sarah Palin pleasure her self with the barrel of a shot gun. Realizing the economic upside of the festivities, the island's business' and communities responded in a US Military industrial complex like fashion. As it is almost always good for the economy to be at war, it is always good for the economy to be throwing a party. Full Moon pre-parties, Full-Moon after parties, half-moon parties, the-moon-is-still-up-their-oh-my-god parties, and just about every other occasion you could imagine that involved the moon and a hyphen became a reason to party. Remarkably enough, sacrificing the South Eastern peninsula to the ghastly masses had a pee-trap like effect. The bad stink stayed down and the rest of the island managed to hang onto some charm of a backwater.

But back to my dick...

After retreating from Hat Rin, lame people, and bad techno the post-card perfect beach by our bungalows and almost full moon was just too inviting, and the buckets (yessiir, that says buckets) of whisky too inspiring. I went Directly from the pick-up truck taxi to the beach and found my self splashing naked in the crystal blue water, enjoying my self way beyond the ability of simple words to describe. Once my tree hugger whims had been fulfilled I hastily jumped back into my shorts, giving next to no thought to the fact I didn't own a towel, and headed for the Bungalow to change into clothes for sleeping. That's when the troubles started.

The stiffness of the zipper was not at first a problem that I thought would turn into a two hour ordeal. When I realized what was hampering the action of the medal clasp it was just a little humerus. Little bit of penis, little bit of humor...big part of penis...well, I didn't think it was too funny any more. After a half hour of fighting the medal teeth in the bathroom it became obvious that my struggle was about to become a group activity and I called to Robyn to bring the drugs. I had planned on turning my nose up (probably right after taking) at the over the counter Valium purchase. But now it had a brand new significance in my life, pants, nose, and blood/brain barrier. In my new and much more agreeable state, I leaned back and let Robyn go to work. While she slowly pulled, assertively yanked, and aggressively ripped around my groin, I shrieked along with my i-pod to the White Album. May I say Rocky Raccoon and his tribulations seem far less traumatic than they once did.

As an hour and a half passed, the sun came up and no progress had been made a new tactic was a must. Robyn vanished and reappeared with a small sword disguised as a knife. This was my cue to re-involve my self in the process. No doctor, Moyle or regular person had ever been close to my penis with a sharp instrument and I could not think of any good reason for that streak to end. I took the knife and slowly started to cut the material between the zipper and shorts. After about ten very careful minutes, Free at last Free at last!!!!

The damage assessment was quick:"I can't handle this I am going to sleep." In the morning however, there was a 3/4 inch scar that looked like a splotch on the highway where a car tried to stop too quickly. The smell of burning rubber was oddly present too.

After a week or so the physical scars have done a remarkable job of healing up, the jury is still out on the emotional.

Been a while

So it has been quite a while to say the least.... I have been having nothing short of a ridiculous time on this here trip that has included three continents, six countries, and a few more adventures than I am entirely comfortable with. The last three weeks I have been all over Thailand and am now in a small city in the far North East. It is a legal entry point for Laos so it sees a lot of back packers. I am in a great guest house that looks over the Mekong, but considering that I can't remember the name of the town, and Luang Prabang (a small UNESCO listed city on the Mekong that is supposed to be jaw dropping) is only a few hours away, I may have one more trip before hunkering down for a prolonged period in one spot.


Over the last eight weeks I have walked up to a war zone, gotten my dick stuck in my fly, stumbled in on a wild Buddhist ceremony, hooked up with a tranny (whoops), hitchhiked in the developing world, showed up fifteen minutes late for a riot, been in multiple motor bike crashes, and pretty much just exhausted my self. To date the biggest lesson I have learned, which is perhaps more of an affirmation of what I already knew, is that you can NEVER over estimate the value of being able to laugh at your self. Yeah, that one has really come in handy...

So I am gonna start ya'll off with a doozy. This story struck me as the most traumatic and funny of the things that I am willing to talk about. By the way, Chronology for the blog is totally out the window. It has been too long so stories are just going to come in the order I feel like writing. I hope to either buy a really cheap computer in the next few days or get mom and dad to ship me mine so I can include photos and run a much slicker looking blog. You should check back on a regular basis because after this, the updates are just gonna keep coming. Keep in mind I love comments and always want to know what you think I should be doing to make things more entertaining, improve writing etc. so let 'em fly, I know Heather will. And let your friends know. I'm trying to turn this into a job.