No matter where the station clerk says the bus is going you can rest assured that nearly every 3rd world bus is coming from the same place: hell. Weather it is the cramped seats, livestock sitting next to you, or the people pushing past to puke out your window it seems there are always a few reasons to find yourself uttering the phrase again.
Oh my god, this is the fucking bus from hell.
I had just crossed the border from Thailand into Laos. The capital city Vientienne had a few charms to offer, such as not being Thailand, but the city Luang Prabang had been calling too loudly for too long. It was only a matter of hours before I was on my second bus excursion of the day.
It was 20:00 O’clock when I boarded for the nine-hour ride. It took no student of shit situations to see at first glance that this, indeed, was the bus from hell. The seats looked to be inspired by Guantanamo stress positions and the motorcycle in the isles killed any fantasy of ever standing up again.
Thanks to the young body it was a few hours before the pain started. By the time any real agony of note had set in I had already accepted that my knees were going to ride in my nose for the duration. What I could not come to terms with though was the geometrically impossible angle my seat was positioned in. It was nothing short of a modern engineering marvel. Between chair, window, and angle there was no possible way to position my head in a manner that even approached ‘kind of uncomfortable.’ Miserable was the only option.
The X Y axis of evil fought its good fight with my comfort until the early hours of the morning. My pain was pushed further by the gong that clanged out over the PA some noise that was a bastard cousin of melody. The sound was a display of sleep canceling racket I dare any anthropologist to call music.
The bus sped through tight turns that were invisible in the black night. Occasionally a headlight would offer a hint of a rock like a girlfriend offers a hint of cheating. As in, a hint you would much rather do without. Periodic crashes announced potholes and hinted at the possibility that the bus ride had the potential to be the last. The only consolation was that the stench of BO was coming from my own armpits and not the man next to me.
The voice that came over the PA caught my attention for a number of reasons. First, it was no longer a banging gong, and second, it sounded kind of good. Despite the totally unfamiliar language the echo on the vocals was familiar. In fact, it was something I knew. When the horns dropped and the rhythm started my brain refused to believe my ears. I was bewildered that not only was the song not causing me physical pain but was borderline fantastic. I listened intently waiting to realize that I was wrong and it was awful but the moment never came.
I said sleep be damned and sat straight up to sort out the tune that was unfolding before my eardrums. The ChiKA ChiKA rhythm was right, it was just in the wrong place. The lead singer’s scratchy voice turned the unpronounceable refrain over again and again. The only word I could understand was when the word “reggae” was shouted like an explanation that my ears were not deceiving me. The guitarist then moved to beat the snot out of his instrument in a poor mans Jimi Hendrix impression that said this is the raw, real, home grown spiel. I swear you could hear that guitar scream rape.
What could this music be doing here? It was real reggae. The rhythm, drums, and guitars were better than a message and bed. I moved with every bit of the song and its time changes soaking up the audio therapy. For me, the bus no longer existed.

But just as quickly as it started it was over. The gong commenced and I remembered where the bus had just come from. The feeling was awful. I had been felt up and left cold. The bitch of a song told me she loved me then left me high and dry. It was heartbreak. I did not know if I should be grateful for the experience. Or was it worse to have the glimmer of hope only to be dumped back to the dregs of a window seat on the Shit Can Express.
At 6:00am I got off the bus with the rhythm still in my ears. Lush green hills rolled through fog, and orange glimpses of the morning sun echoed the saffron clad monks that went about their business. It was a scene as far away from the pit of the bus as one could hope.
Days later while walking through a market in Luang Prabang I could not believe my ears again. The song was spilling out of a tall single speaker that had a TV set on top of it. On the set was the Karaoke video that accompanied my song. The grainy video was that type of fantastic that only low budget can provide. A fifty something year-old Thai man with dreadlocks wailed out the song in a club filled with real people in the only conceivable setting for a reggae karaoke video.
I did not even bother to ask how much for the disc. In three months the bootleg CD was the only item I purchased without bartering.
With no CD player I relied on chance encounters to hear the track. Once aware of the song it was suddenly everywhere. Markets, sidewalks, even hip-hop remixes in Phnom Penh blared the musical work of genius and graceful timing. It even was the first song played at the American owned bar after Barack Obama was elected president.
Every person I talked to about the song seemed to have a few things in common. First and foremost was the universal appreciation of the track. Even the Beatles had detractors but somehow this Thai reggae jam was beyond that. The second thing they all had in common was their response to a question. It was the question that I hoped would unlock what had become my mystery for Laos. The question was an obvious one. Who is this group? Their answer sits under the song’s “Artist” category in my I tunes library: I Wish I Knew.

NOTE: This guy was trying to convince me it was a good idea to smuggle gems from India to the States. Really it was the kind of employment I have always wanted. You don’t actually do anything and you get a fat pile of coin. But then I remembered I am not an idiot. Regardless, it was about a week after I wrote this. He had the song on a memory stick that I put on my computer and that lead to an album name, that led to a youtube clip, and that answered everything.

I often wonder if what it is the human race is missing is a natural predator. Imagine something dangerous, preferable with big claws and teeth, maybe thick fur, that could come and snatch anyone of us at any moment with no warning. SNARCH and gone.
A Scandinavian woman told me a great story. She had gone on one of those tiger safaris through a tiger reserve where nobody ever actually sees any tigers. After the drive she was enjoying a meal in the town when, behold, a tiger arrived. It sprinted down the block, grabbed a barking dog by the scruff of its neck, and was gone in an instant. Imagine what the other dogs thought. Not one of those pooches was ever the same again. If they had been suburban children the therapy bills would probably made orthodontics and college impossible. Each one knew that in their world there was no safety. I bet the next day they barked less and might have even been more considerate when marking the trees and lampposts they claimed as their own. Just think of the potential if these tigers were lose in NY. Rude police men and the walking spittle that occupies Wall St. They would all be fare game.
While India and Asia is full of things that are best described as fucking bizarre, I can’t say I have seen any creatures that would fill the requirements to be the predator the human race requires. But, I can say I dig the way holy cows keep people on their toes. Many of the bovines get pushed around and “Hut”ed away by the locals but every so often you see one of the creatures that have that air of authority. Kings of potential burger kingdom. I am never quite sure if smacking their ass and screaming is the best way to deal with the big fellas even though if is standard procedure for the others. Their height is close to five and a half feet. They have dorsal fins that would make a great white envious. Their racks look like medieval torture devices.
The traveling God Father has told me stories about the cows taking chunks out of people. Michelle the (flying) Frenchmen was apparently tossed a few meters by one. In Jaisalmer a man told me about a rude tourist being shit all over by another. And just the other day I looked up to see a calf running at top speeds down the narrow street right towards me. It was a close miss and part of me hoped that it would get somebody further down the block. In fact, most of me hoped it would get somebody further down the block.
Unfortunately I have never seen one of the cows really stick to somebody. It is my dark and (not so) secret fantasy to see a rickshaw driver (Branden’s mortal enemy) tossed, maimed, stamped, and/’or crumpled by one of these guys. While it has not yet happened, it is nice to know when you hear that ass hole on his motor bike honking his horn that at least there is a chance that this could be his fate.

Its pretty amazing the number of excuses a person can come up with for not taking a photo. Little kids are boring, I hate it when people look right into the camera, and I feel badly invading this person’s privacy. The last of those is the worse because I don’t honestly care about their privacy, I just feel awkward taking the photo.
Brooks set up this ideal photo in my mind and it has kept me from shooting some flics that by other standards would actually be pretty dope. It roughly works like this: The subject is up to some task, you can see their eyes, they are not looking at you, and it elicits some emotional response. There is also of course great light and nothing coming out of their head and No little kids. NO EYE CONTACT. Maybe the rule of thirds in play.
So I took this shot of these little kids. They looked right at the camera. I said huh, that’s kind of cool.

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.