Lutuhyne Bound

I've been busy, as you can imagine. Training ramped up to a maelstrom of hectic stress, with teachers rotating, projects culminating, and a speech in Russian to prepare for the embassy, just to top it all off. We took trips to Kyiv and Chirnigov, the nearest surrounding cities. We cooked, chopped, built, planted, and conducted. It was a busy time, but the hard part was the lack of ownership. Everything in training was temporary: the town, the family, the school. By the eleventh week, as we all gathered in the capital for our swearing-in ceremony, I felt completely psyched being just days away from my own town in which I could integrate, my own students with whom I could interact, and my own kitchen in which I could cook in nothing but underwear.

In Kyiv, on May 31st, my fellow members of group 43 and myself officially joined the ranks of the Peace Corps, swearing in at the brand new American embassy. Unfortunately, there is no video documentation of my phenomenal rolling 'R's featured throughout my Russian speech, but rest assured that they were magnificent. Much handshaking took place as later that hour I found out I was elected to represent my group in the Volunteer Advisory Committee, a body through which the volunteer community can address it's concerns with the management in the head office. What a proud day it was.

Goodbye to my Oster family: Luda, Nikolai, and Ram

I was introduced to my counterpart, Tatyana Sergeyovna. More on her later, but suffice it to say I was scared out of my pants. Everyone knows I love to talk, but I found it hard to get a word in edgewise through all of her plans and opinions. At least her English is extraordinary and her enthusiasm is top notch. It certainly was a long train ride together though, out to the eastermost oblast (province?) with nothing but time and women beleaguered with goiters and snores.

But now I'm finally home in Lutuhyne (loo-TOO-gi-nuh), and so much is going well. The town is fantastic: green and friendly, located in the midst of rolling hills near a lake. There's so much possibility for good work here! I've already begun establishing connections with the directors of the music and art school, the mayor, the department of social work, and the House of Culture. I've been invited to concerts, tea, and family dinners by my neighbors, all of whom are absolutely welcoming. My apartment is sizable and comfortable, and my friend Slukom has joined me. I've worked at two English summer camps already, thanks to the extremely friendly community of other volunteers in my area. I really feel like this is going to be a good year. It's so wonderful to show up in the middle of berry season rather than the dead of winter, isn't it?

Good things to come, but next up: a bumping vegetarian borscht recipe!

One Down

I'm now over a month into what I could swear was either a year or a week of training, it's hard to tell. I'm slowly finding my way through a mucky, consonant filled language and a rather unexciting culinary selection. I'm getting to know my community and my students, though not in any substantial way. I am buried in a whirlwind of feelings, ranging from hopeful to discouraged, uncomfortable to giddy, bored to hectic.

On weekdays, I go to four hours of language class. We are hurtling through Russian, but the results are truly unbelievable. After 5 weeks, we are able to describe ourselves, our families, food and recipes, the weather, directions to a place, the contents of a rooms, request repairs, and throw around some key safety phrases. All of this can be done in multiple tenses, in compound or complex sentences, but still with very little confidence. Over time I have no doubt that we will all be excellent speakers of Russian, but for the moment it's a bit like trying to cram an entire doctor's office worth of files into one drawer: it's a mountain of useful information but we can only find something if we know where it is already. We'll certainly need it all in the future, but it'll take some organization and a lot of time to clean up before everything is swiftly and reliably accessible.

Two mornings per week I teach classes at a local school. Oster is a small town, but not so small that they have only one school building. In addition to the regional technical college, a kindergarten building, and the 400+ student secondary school called Gymnasia, there's my school, which is divided into two buildings: first through fourth graders in one, 5th through 11th across the street. So far, I've been working predominantly in the middle grades, though this coming week I will be taking my song and dance across the road to the 3rd graders. The classroom portion of my training is the part with which I am the most comfortable. I have no anxiety in front of the kids and plenty of experience with classroom management and lesson planning. Relieved that there's one portion of my life of which I'm fully in control, I can just have fun with my lessons and enjoy substitute teaching.

The rest of my time is filled with various tutoring sessions, medical or safety sessions, community project meetings, or field trips into the community. We've been tasked with visiting each other's host families, meeting with the mayor, touring the House of Creativity (an after school center for the arts), vegetable price comparison in the bazaar, and even navigating the transportation systems to get to the capital. All this plus lesson planning, Russian homework, and teacher theory reading leaves very little time to unwind or socialize, but we make it work. Sundays are relatively free, and my co-trainees and I enjoy strolling down to the restaurant on the river bank and relaxing on the patio in the beautiful spring weather.

The food isn't entirely questionable nor is it half as exciting as Korea. Potatoes at every meal, no joke. For a while it was just bland. In fact, American food may be terribly salty for my tastes these days, but a lot of food here could really use some flavor. The soups need a little extra something, the dumplings don't stand out, and there's not a spicy dish to be had. Fortunately, I've found some ways to liven up my meals. Garlic and onions are always plentiful, and I've finally gotten those as a regular addition to soups and potatoes. I've backed off of the exorbitantly greasy meats (some of which are in fact pure fat) and get my bread instead with a thin layer of extreme sinus relief horseradish mustard or even just pure хрен (ground horseradish and beet). My co-trainees and I made a kicking borscht, the recipe for which will surely make it's way up here. I feel confidant that once I get control of my own kitchen, I will be able to eat happily here.

It's been an interesting several weeks on the home front. I'm getting to know my family better and better. Thus far, my best relationship is with my host father Nikolai. We've planted tomatoes together, shoveled dirt, and played with Ram, his massive dog. Every few days I get a fresh tour of the garden. When my host mother is out of the house, I peel potatoes and reheat leftovers with Nikolai. Just last night, our relationship took a huge leap as he asked me to cut his hair. The other day, he showed me all of his old driver's license photos. "This is me in '69. This is me in '72. This is me in..." Sometimes I go out to the river bank where he's tapped a few birch trees for sap, which we collect and haul back to the house. We sat down to clean fish two nights ago, but scraping the scales off of and rending the guts out from still living river fish is where I draw the line.

My host mother Lyuda is a bundle of bipolar. For the bulk of the time, she is a doting mother, over-feeding and petting me. Occasionally she exhibits all the fire and brimstone of any Korean ajuma. Woman loves a good gossip, and can often be spotted on her favorite sofa getting all the latest gab from one of her local sources. She speaks very clearly and slowly for my benefit. Having had four volunteers before me, this is not her first rodeo. She loves her grotesque cat Mambo and is completely blind without her glasses, although she only puts them on when it's absolutely necessary. Our worst time together occurred last weekend, when I didn't want to stand through the 3 am until dawn Easter mass. Woman turned on the guilt like a professional: "I guess you don't want to tell America about our important cultural traditions. We're all tired but we will sleep all day Sunday. If you're so tired why are you awake right now? All my other volunteers went and said it was extremely interesting. My cousin decorated the whole church, but I guess you don't support this family." Woah lady, back off. On the whole, however, we have a very nice relationship.

In the evenings, after the parents turn in for the night, I play Russian card games with the three tenants: Lonya, Kolya, and Dima. Lonya has the deepest voice I've ever heard on a man, Kolya is constantly drunk or sleeping it off, whereas Dima never drinks but mysteriously is the only one with a girlfriend. The three of them are students at the technical college, and as the semester winds down they are often drafting one of the 6 architectural designs required for graduation. On the weekends, they leave Oster to go back to their parents' homes in different cities around the region, leaving all the internet for me! Unfortunately, that time is almost expired. There's still so much that will happen in the weeks between now and swearing in, and I'll do my best to keep the updates coming. Hope all is well wherever you may be.

Community Encounters: Leonid Antonovich the ex-Militiaman

NO! We are talking!

Scarcely an inch over five foot, Leonid Antonovich bellows up at me, his catastrophic blood pressure evident by the firetruck complexion. My clustermate J was assigned this cherry bomb of a host dad, who kindly issued an open invitation for any PCT to stop in for tea. I had considered this a good opportunity to start making community connections as well as practice my Russian self-introduction. No sooner were my boots off than was I at the receiving end of a very intense interrogation.

Where have you come to now?
I'm in your house.
NO! Where have you come to now?
Where have I come to now.
NO! We are talking!

Clearly this man has a very specific idea of how this conversation should go, even more specific than I do (and I only know one phrasing of one of the many possible answers.) He whirls on J and continues his tirade.

WHY doesn't he KNOW this??
It's not my fault! (I'm so sorry Steven.)
Show me your papers!

He means of course the passport copies that I'm supposed to carry with me at all times. J has already told me that Antonovich is a retired militiaman and that he has instructed J in all the tricks of dealing with his brethren. For example, you should never surrender your papers but hold them just out of reach while they are being read. I'm totally ready to impress Antonovich. My fingers have gotten the pocket zipper halfway undone when the bellowing begins anew.

NO! We are talking! Where are your papers?
[does he want me to repeat the phrase?]
Where are your papers.
NO! Where are your papers? WHY doesn't he KNOW this?
[does he want me to ensure that he's really a policeman first?]
What do you do for a profession?
NO!

At this point I pull out the page of "Really Survival Russian" phrases and turn to the emergency section, the one reserved for near-rape scenarios in dark alleys of the capital.

Stop! I will scream!

Antonovich's onslaught evaporates like a broken fever. A twinkle glints across his eye and he lets out a hearty guffaw. Now we're in the kitchen, cracking walnuts, sipping tea, and pointing out on the map the towns in which he used to hawk potatoes before independence. We come to the conclusion that Leonid Antonovich was just looking for some entertainment and the bumbling Americans posed a perfect target for some good old-fashioned chain pulling. Next time I visit, I'll hopefully be strong enough in Russian to return the favor.

(Perhaps it's improper to speak of someone else's host family before my own, but I'm a sucker for a good story.)

Ya Amerikanitz

Every story has a beginning, and this one started two Decembers past with a lengthy application process and a disturbingly thorough physical examination. 3 months ago it took an unexpected turn when the Kazakhstan country program was cancelled. Having been reassigned to another former Soviet country, I began preparing my belongings and my life for the Ukraine. Sadly, the majority of my enthusiasm was spent on Kazakhstan, so I did next to no research to prepare myself for this country or its language. I'll be as surprised as the rest of you by what's coming next.

I had finally gotten my two bags below the acceptable weight limit, which the Peace Corps is so kind as to augment from 75 to 100 pounds on account of the bitter cold winters. With the car piled full, my mother and I set off to Bishop International airport for the first of four flights this week. I hop to Detroit in the smallest plane I've ever ridden, then continue on to D.C. There in Georgetown, I meet the other 61 people who have committed to serving in Ukraine, bringing the total number of volunteers in the country to well over 400. There's a surprising and immediate camaraderie between the group of us, all being a unique personality type and all at the exact same point in our lives: same aspirations, same anxieties. Lengthy seminars seem to fly by under the pressure of such anticipation and in the midst of such good company. It seems like no time at all before we are all on a Lufthansa jet over the Atlantic.

I've done this all before, and not simply the prolonged transportation. Peace Corps expectation number one is that I am prepared to give my life to this country for at least 27 months, but I spent a cumulative 42 in Korea. I've learned a second language, and then without total immersion. I lived with a host family and integrated into the local culture. Despite having done all this and without the assistance of a 51 year strong organization or a family of 489 peers, I still can't get myself to sleep on either the flight to Frankfort or to Kyiv. When we finally touch down in a half dug up parking lot for planes and presidentially descend the staircar into the blustering flat expanse, I feel delirious but relieved. I'm finally here.

For the next 2 days, training abounds. What should I do to stay safe? What will my host family be like? What will my classroom be like? What's the alphabet? Already my peers are being more precisely defined. Separated from the other volunteers who have come to work with community or youth opportunities, the other 11 English teachers and I form what's known as a "link." Together we will live in neighboring homestays, meet for group work and field trips, and support each other for the next three months. Even more specifically, among the 12 of us two "clusters" are formed, each with six teachers. We will be a language, culture, and methodology class until finally we are separated further: we will all be alone when we are sent to our sites in June to begin actual service.

In the village of Orset, known for its discotheque and river banks, I drag my luggage off of the bus and am accepted into the arms of Ludmila. While my new host mother is kissing my cheeks, her husband Nikolai is heaving my 100 pounds of luggage onto the roofrack of his 1979 Lada Sputnik. On the dashboard, a bumper sticker reads "I heart IBM," but the icons of Jesus and Mary indicate otherwise. We drive across the street without even a rope thrown across the luggage for appearances. The rusting is so severe that I can count the pebbles whisking below through the jagged holes. Their home is a spacious, stove heated, one floor house with a shed out back for the dog Ram (spelt PAM in Cyrillic). "Koli," as he's called, sits in his smoking corner by the stove every thirty minutes while "Luda" peels potatos on a nearby stool, the two of them striking an almost perfect stereotype. My bed is in one corner of the den, across from the curio cabinet and beside the faded pair of recliners. Luda practically force feeds me borscht, apricots, buttery dumplings, chicken and potatoes, and rye bread with sausage, spicy mustard, raw onion, and cold pig fat. If you know me at all you know I'm absolutely thrilled.

The room.

The family has three boarders, all of them college boys going to a local university. Leonid and I look at pictures intently, then pull out my map for pointing time. Thanks to Google translator, we're able to explain our families and majors. Through the powers of Uno, we bond and learn colors in each others' languages. "Zilony!" he declares, knowing I haven't a single green card. "Again zilony!"

At night, I sleep in my corner with the obese cat Mambo at my feet. The bed is slightly short, but comfortable and exceptionally warm. I expected a perpetual chill to hang over the house and the country as a whole, but I had to learn the word for "hot" very quickly. The parrot serves as my alarm in the morning, screeching for food when the sun rises. And I thought it would have been the rooster.

The door between my room and the rest of the house. It's a curtain.

My cluster rocks. It's very encouraging to have five comrades in the same neighborhood who are all going through similar adjustments. We will be spending around half of our waking life together, so I'm relieved to find we all get along. The other half of my life is with Luda, Koli, the boys, and the animals. I couldn't feel more supported or safe, sometimes even overly so. Everything goes swimmingly for now, but the pessimist in me can't help but wonder how long this honeymoon period can last (at most until the winter...).

So Much Longer than 80 Days

After 169 days of roaming, I'm finally home. Private, internal applause. Now to work: tell the story, start the next adventure!

When relating any part of the trip, a question I frequently hear is, "Why? Why travel so fast? Why not use airplanes?" When I've traveled in the past, it has always been to one place: I would go to a city or country for a few days or weeks, then come home. When we stay in one place for a longer period of time, we gain a deeper understanding of its culture, but we also acclimate to it. Then, even if we only go one country over, we notice all of the myriad of differences between the two. Think about even traveling within your own country. Having grown up in Georgia, visiting Michigan was never an exercise in how unified Americans are culturally but rather a shock over what strange sodas "they" drink "up there." By increasing the speed at which I traveled, I was never able to acclimate to any one given place. The effects were two-fold: (1) I lost that pervasive focus on the differences and saw the similarities between cultures, and (2) I got a feeling for the gradient between all aspects of these foreign places. How do landscapes, faces, music, food, architecture, and language slowly change over distance? That kind of observation could not be made by teleporting with an airplane in a disconnected series of dots but only by crawling along in a line, emphasizing the importance of small stops and the view from the bus window.

All waxing scientific aside, on account of the daunting amount of material of which this story is comprised, I've decided to blog the basic breakdown and do something more substantial with the details. Perhaps publish? Unfortunately for you, dear Reader, the bullet points alone are a leviathan of information. Proceed at your own risk.

I left my home in Farwell, Michigan, on the morning of the 13th of September, 2011. This would serve as the beginning and end of my land travel, since I had flown in from Korea. I rode Amtrak to start with, going first to Chicago then to New York City. I hung around NYC at museums and restaurants with some old friends before taking a car to the shipping dock behind Newark Int'l Airport. My plans having slightly changed from when I posted earlier, I boarded the CMA CGM New Jersey to cross the Atlantic.

With a Filipino and Croatian crew hard at work, I sailed for 9 days, occupying myself with whale watching, Flannery O'Conner's collected short stories, writing my journal, exploring the bridge, engine room, and fo'c'sle, watching DVD's, and preparing myself mentally for the whirlwind to come. The conditions weren't quite as spartan as one would imagine. My cabin was comfortable and the food was delicious in the officer mess. On the next to last day at sea, we threaded through the Azores.

We approached Tangier, Morocco, in the middle of the night. One of the mountains stood out of the darkness, for written upon its surface in lights are three Arabic words: God, Homeland, King. In the morning, I hopped off the ship and into a small van with an employee of the shipping company. We drove through the windy roads and arid landscape. Roadside brush fire, no big deal. Once in the city, I chuck my stuff at a hotel and start exploring. Mint tea is fantastic, the hobos make excellent tour guides of the medina, and every city in Morocco has a casbah which one could rock, if thus inclined. Yes, I bought a rug. Perhaps a terrible idea given the fact that I don't have a home, but when I do finally settle somewhere the chances are high that it won't be anywhere near North Africa. Opportunity: seized.

On the 29th of September, I rocketed across the Straits of Gibraltar in a high speed ferry, in a mere 35 minutes finding myself in Tarifa, Spain. There, in a small surfers' hostel near the coast, I had a miniature panic attack. Time constraints were already beginning to feel like a Death Star trash compactor; I had to cover the over 5,000 kilometers between southern Spain and Moscow in just two weeks! Feelings of loneliness and inadequacy started seeping through my skin, but this was far too early in the game for a break down. I got it together and hit the road on the bright, making my way to Barcelona. The snaking roads throughout the craggy Andalusian mountains weren't the least of my worries: the police hauled me and another guy who looked like me off the bus in the hunt for a murderer. Never fear, they were looking for someone else.

Here begins a non-stop whirlwind tour of some of Europe's highlight cities. The pattern was as follows: arrive in the early morning to a new city and find lodging for the night. Tour for the rest of the day and all of the next, then take a night train to the next location. During this period I was in a new country every other day and literally never slept in the same place for more than one night. I allowed myself one awesome meal in each country and mostly ate bread and cheese otherwise. I took a free walking tour through the fun-house architecture of Barcelona, climbed up a clifftop castle overlooking Nice's Côte d'Azur, spent an evening among the fast cars and high rollers of Monaco, and got hopelessly lost in the acutely worthless city of Verona. It was at this point that I gave up hope of learning any language, and, wiping the linguistic soup broth from my chin, started to get smarter about communication (though it would not be until South East Asia that I perfected it).

When I jubilantly put Italy to my rudder, I also said goodbye to Western Europe. Although Prague was the harbinger of new and fascinating sights and tastes, it did not manage to slow me down. I was then only one week from my scheduled Moscow departure, and there was little time to indulge. Arrival in the Czech Republic did bring one important change, however. From this point until leaving Malaysia, I would exclusively couchsurf, a program that would consistently afford me some of my best experiences. For instance, my Czech hosts and I visited the overwhelmingly disturbing Sedlec Ossuary, a church decorated with the exhumed skeletons of an estimated 40,000 corpses. In Warsaw, I sang karaoke and watched Xena with an awesome couple of doctoral students. In Minsk, I saw a double rainbow sprouting out of the KGB building and cooked Belorussian with Andrei and his wife.

Finally, Russia. All feelings of dizziness aside, I had kept my deadline and still had enough time to prowl the capital with a few models, enjoy borscht, and attempt tightrope walking with my host. Finally, the Trans-Siberian Railroad was just a run-through-the-glittering-subway-station away. I would stop in the industrial town of Yekaterinburg at the foothills of the Ural mountains and at Irkutsk, the Siberian town on the edge of Lake Baikal, but my apogee was the people I met. Though I seldom understood their names clearly enough to write them down and we never once shared a common language, those days of watching the browning birches hurtle past the window exceeded my every expectation. Of course we boozed and stole, but we also miraculously grew to be friends across cultural, linguistic, and generational gaps.

After freezing my buttocks off on the banks of the world's deepest lake, I veered sharply south to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. My first few hours are recorded in great detail, but I went on to sleep in a yurt-like structure, climb a tortoise-shaped rock (under the guidance of a stray dog), ride a Shetland pony-sized horse, and eat meat-ish substances. Upon departure, I distinctly recall wishing I had had more time there, the first such occurrence. Be careful what you wish for, eh? Ah, the infamous deportation from China. Let's just say that I was promptly but not inhumanely pulled from my train to Beijing over visa issues, forced to spend a night in a hotel with two immigration escorts (not the fun kind), and then gently pushed back over the border in the morning.

Getting stranded in the Gobi desert with a 200 dollar Chinese Lisa Frank sticker called a "visa" in my passport and no clue what to do next turned out to be the best thing that happened to me on this trip.
           [SPOILER ALERT::: the story only gets worse from here]
I got the opportunity to spend more time in Mongolia, and I had an improbable experience with the benevolent local who helped me back to the city. Having to break one of my criteria and fly over China was rendered less disappointing by the fact that I got to stop over in Seoul for one night of rancid soju, delicious duck, and great friends. Then I picked up my route on schedule in Hanoi.

In Southeast Asia, my paced slowed somewhat. Rather than racing through a city in 36 hours then catching a night bus, I had  room to spend four or five days in each: still meager, but comparatively much calmer. Alternately avoiding scooters while on foot and pedestrians while on scooter, Hanoi was all the steamy chaos I could have hoped for. Moving west through a mountain border crossing, the food kept getting better. I met a few couchsurfers in the capital of Laos for delicious food and what passed for beer. Vientiane was more a flat, dusty-road jungle town than a city, and exactly the sort of place in which you could lose yourself for months. Thailand offered the unique experience to play a part in the ongoing flood relief, a welcome respite from egocentric tourism, photographing locals, and gorging myself. I mentioned this being the high point in the evolution of my skills at communicating sans langue. The truth of the matter is that I was making do exclusively with thank you and I'm sorry, which I found could handle most any situation that pointing, a calculator screen, or the name of the next town could not. I suppose some may deem that to be a low point, but I 'm judging on the principles of efficacy, rapid adaptability, and ease.

FAQ 

What was your favorite place that you visited? 

On peninsular Malaysia, on the northwestern coast, is the state of Penang, regarded by its countrymen as "food paradise." Made up of little more than an island and its adjacent strip of land, Penang gained fame for its once bustling Straits of Melacca. Now overshadowed in the shipping industry by Singapore, Penang boasts all the character that its neighbor to the south sorely lacks. A gorgeous, colonial town is spread along the east side, but not so dispersed that one can't bike it easily. The multiculturalism is fascinating. It's not uncommon to find an Anglican church, Buddhist temple, and Hindu mandir at the same intersection while prayer call floats over it all. The Indian food is tied for second best I've ever had worldwide, and the local cuisine incorporates Chinese, Thai, and Indonesian with their own twist, all for prices cheaper than vending machines. Looking for some downtime? Take a bus trip to the backside of the rainforest mountain which serves as backdrop to this whole paradise, where you will find quiet fishing villages. Condos are cheaper than my rent in Athens, so you can bet your socks I'll be living here in my lifetime.

Leaving Penang was hard, but I had a powerful motivator. On the road I made many friends, but in a lifestyle of hectic change, nothing compares to a familiar and established sidekick. To my great fortune, I was met by three such cohorts during my race around the world. The first of those was flying from Korea as I clacked south through Kuala Lumpur to the island country of Singapore. (If you're wondering why I haven't added a single picture to this lengthy summary of foods and locales, it's because I suspect that it was on this train that my first 8GB of pictures slipped out of my bag and into oblivion.) Once in Singapore, E and I made the best of a fairly lifeless pile of iron and glass. The night zoo was a terrifying time of flying fox rooms, angry elephants, and other untethered creatures. The cable car (brought to you by Canon) afforded beautiful views of towering convention centers and magnificent hotels. The ritzy attractions too costly for our meager budgets, we tooled around Little India and the botanical gardens.

The fun continued in Australia, where I met the second of three magnificent mates. D and I rented a Yaris and drove that little hummingbird from Brisbane all the way to Melbourne, camping in the bush as we went along. We cooked on the barbie (burgers you racist), stood on the both easternmost point and the shore first  claimed by Cook, pulled ticks from chests as nature got all up in our business, huddled in a phone booth to shelter ourselves from the rain, sought kangaroos, both alive and in pies, and saw old friends, space exhibits, waterfalls, and koalas. We totally smelled unbearable by about half way through, and then it only got more nose-hair-singeing. Still wouldn't have traded it.

New Zealand was next, and was all anyone ever says it is. Breathtaking, variety, wonderful people, blah blah blah you've heard it all before. I did the requisite hiking and cinematic location visits without the extreme sky diving or bungee jumping. Then I hightailed it to North Island and my trans-Pacific freighter. The Bahia Negra was much the same as the New Jersey, except at sea for twice as long and with Poles instead of Croats. Together, we celebrated Christmas, combining the Polish traditions of pescetarianism and taking communion with the Filipino ones of roast boar on a spit and karaoke.

Only a few days before the new year, I watched as the locks of the Panama Canal emptied and lowered our vessel, then shortly after I disembarked. From the valley town of Boquete, I did a 12 hour hike up Volcán Barú, starting at midnight. We arrived at the summit to greet a frigid, gale-force dawn and scurry back down. In Costa Rica, I got up close and personal with sloths, parrots, and leaf cutter ants, then walked into town for dinner to choose my own sea bass from a cooler. Of course, Nicaragua saw my college education put to full use as I volunteered on a permaculture farm on the island of Ometepe for two weeks. Lots of rice and beans, machetes, and nature ensued. On my weekends, I attended bullfights, went for a dip in the springs, or biked around the island.

Having burnt all my Honduras and Guatemala time living on the island, I had to hurry to reach Oaxaca, Mexico at the same time as my third friend. I had some ugly dealings with some exploitative Hondurans at the border and my stomach finally started giving way to the forces of Latin America, but other than that I made it to southern Mexico uneventfully. B and I enjoyed local delicacies like chocolate, mezcal, and tlayudas, and visited some impressive Aztec ruins. The color and character of Oaxaca was all the more charming for the fact that the rest of Mexico possessed neither of those things in such quantity.

When it was all through I was ready for the victory lap. I passed through Mexico City with the time to stop but not the interest. I bused directly to the border with Arizona, where I slipped into Tuscon in the early morning of the 31st of January. From there, I visited my brother in El Paso and moved east toward Atlanta. Amtrak stopped long enough at San Antonio for me to go see the Alamo, but not having taken a single photograph I guess I'll just have to remember it. I stopped in New Orleans for a fun-filled night of seafood, beer, jazz, locals, and late night beignets. A series of stops in Birmingham, northside-Atlanta, Athens, and the 'burbs allowed me to visit the bulk of my friends and family still in the region. Lastly, a few days in D.C. mark my first trip to our nation's capital. On Leap Day 2012, I rolled into Grand Rapids Amtrak station in the snow, successfully circumnavigating by the two criteria that define the feat if not by my third personal challenge of staying on land for the duration.

In two days time, everything begins anew. I will join the other members of Group 43 on a flight to Frankfurt and then Kyiv, the first steps toward my 27 month commitment to serving in the Peace Corps Ukraine program. I'm still unsure what that exactly means, but rest assured that this blog will continue to chronicle it. Many thanks to my family and friends for all the good wishes and help in preparing for this step. My next communication will be from Ukraine, but that's about all I know of the future!

Sneak Peak: Bangkok

10 November 2011

After sundown, I go with Pete and his family for dinner. There's a never-ending spread of food. Every time a dish is close to clean, the remaining food is placed on another partially clean platter and some new delicacy replaces the empty plate. My memory is unreliable because I blacked out from pleasure, but I recall rotisserie chicken, fried fish steak, spicy papaya salad, saucy laab, spinach omelet, crispy pork slices, and a sharp vinegar and fish soup. Each plate came complete with its own unique sauce, and we ate pinches of sticky rice like dinner rolls.

Tonight the moon is full, marking the second largest festival in all of Thailand. People have gathered by the river banks, where numerous food carts are set up and the smoke and crackle of fireworks is thick. Each person carries a painted foam lotus flower, the top of which is speared with a narrow candle and sticks of incense. Around the base of these are marigolds and irises, held on by the faux leaves of the lotus. The people light the candle and incense, then concentrate on all the sin and sadness they've experienced over the past year. Then, the shrine is launched into the river, hopefully taking all the misfortune out with it. The dark waters are filled with tiny pyres, each one a twinkling prayer passing silently toward the sea.

In the northern style of Chang Mai, some people are launching makeshift hot air balloons, a thin, rice paper cylinder turned upside down and lifted by burning fuel hung from the mouth of the bag. Now the river is reflected in the sky. Bright ruby stars float past the orange harvest moon up into the stratosphere, drifting and impermanent constellations that change the once familiar firmament into something alien and beautiful.

The festivities are somewhat grim in conjunction with the flooding in the west. Pete and I are discussing what to do with our day tomorrow, and he makes an original suggestion. He is going with the family to assist with the relief effort and invites me along. It certainly would be more interesting than another day full of temples, markets, and walking. Thinking it a great opportunity, I jump onboard. What Pete doesn't mention is the extent of the problem. Or the army presence in the district. Or the utter lack of other white faces, destining me to be a spectacle. Or the escape of hundreds of crocodiles from the captive breeding center.

Sneak Peak: Ulaanbaatar

The first hours of Mongolia.

20 October 2011

The train arrives in the dark of the early morning. We are all shaken awake by the sheet collector around 5 am and out in the cold by 6. Ben and I both have an address on Peace Avenue, so we decide to walk it together. With what little clues we have, we set out into the dim pre-dawn for what unknowingly will become a three hour trek.

Both of us carry poorly scrawled maps of places sprouting off Peace Avenue, and neither of those maps contain our homes-to-be. It wouldn't make a difference anyhow, since not a single road is labelled nor building numbered. Fortunately, when you're lost with another traveller, nothing seems quite as hopeless. The threatening situations of lost, cold, dark, illiterate, and getting mugged on a street called Peace are much diminished.

* * * * *

By now the city has come fully alive. The streets crawl with honking, dusty automobiles and over-laden buses, and once empty sidewalks are teeming with people. The staring is intense, but whether its the height, beard, whiteness, piercings, evident lostness, bulging backpack, or a combination of all factors, I can't be sure. Fed up with aimless wandering, we decide to stop someone. Who better to locate Gandan Monastery than two monk boys, geared up in their golden robes with sleeves hanging past their hands and maroon belts holding the garb together?

"Excuse me, can I ask you a question? Do you two happen to know where we can find Gandan Monsatery?" Ben asks. Silly British courtesy. I pick up the directions and point to the word Gandan and ask, "Gandan: where?" The gap-toothed monklets turn and point their droopy sleeves up the hill.

This particular hill is mounted by a major highway which runs along the eastern edge of the slums. As we climb up, a painfully obvious temple, reminiscent of pictures I've seen out of Bhutan, rises above the dingy hovels. Monastery? It has to be, but just to be sure we turn and look back down the hill to see if we've passed anything bigger and more Buddhist.

Jaws hit pavement. The sun has just crested the mountains in the southeast, turning a pale dawn into a golden painting. The city is like stacked sheets of gold, each further layer brighter than the one before it until finally the city fades into the sky. The dust rising off the now busy roads gives every roof, every corner, every antenna a golden aura. It's so magnificent that neither of us can move or speak.

For those who've heard about my Chinese...immigration complications...fear not, it's all sorted. Best thing that has happened to me was getting deported from that awful country. The universe works in mysterious ways.

Calendar!

Wow this is convenient. I've been using it since the start but only just figured out how to share...what's my age again? All entries begin October 2011.

Sneak Peak: Atlantic

I couldn't in good conscience leave everyone hanging for five solid months, so I've chosen an excerpt from my trip to share. Enjoy!

19 September 2011

After Marin's watch, he escorts me to the focsle, or forecastle, or that pointy front deck area. Because the weather is windy and the seas rough, we thread through the tunnels between the ship's hull and her fuel tanks. These are narrow but high ceilinged and protect those inside from the elements or pirate RPG's. Coming out into the sunlight again a few minutes later, I see the waves for the first real time. What I had been gazing down on all along from the fifth floor of the accommodation tower had seemed like the stuff of lazy rivers. In fact, this was not the kiddie pool. Undulations crested along the lip of the deck only to plummet back down into cavernous recesses. To look at them one would think they'd get air time on the crest, each wave a trampoline.

"Now we can play Leonardo," Marin instructs. We walk to the forwardmost point on the ship, peering off the edge while the freighter cut the ocean in two. The water, in protest, picks the focsle up until we can't see the horizon then drops us at terrifying speed toward the deep blackness. Marin begins to tell how dolphins play Frogger by jumping back and forth in front of the ship, when suddenly a massive sneeze of sea spray blasts over the edge and into our faces. I sputter and shake off like a Saint Bernard and we both laugh. Marin turns to me and says, "It's ok. This is baptism," and I agree.

The Eve of Departure

It's been a comfortable, satiating, relaxing 2 weeks, but my American vacation is coming to a close. My attempt at circumnavigation begins Tuesday, September 13th, at four in the god-forsaken morning. I will board Amtrak bound for Chicago and, ultimately, New York City, where I will catch a freighter across the Pacific and the adventure will truly begin. After 9 months of planning, paper work, and headaches, the route is finalized and the visas are in hand.

I will depart from Newark for Morocco on the morning of the 17th. From there, I will cross the Strait of Gibraltar into Spain. Easing my way through early October and Europe, I will pass through southern France, northern Italy, Slovenia, Austria, the Czech Republic, southern Poland, and Belarus before arriving in Moscow. From there, I will cross Russia via the Trans-Siberian Railroad, plunging down from Lake Baikal, through Mongolia, and into Beijing before Halloween. I'll spend the next few weeks whisking southerly through China, Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand. When I arrive in Singapore or maybe Indonesia, I will ride a 21 foot crocodile to Australia (actually, this leg is still not tacked down yet...) where my pace will slow and I will sashay around with my friend D. Our traipsing will deposit us in Melbourne in time for my boat to New Zealand, set for November 30th. I will have a measly 3 days in NZ before I will again take to the high seas, this time for the long haul: Panama. Sometime between Christmas and the New Year, I will arrive in Central America, ready for a scenic January. I'll bus my way north through Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, and Guatemala, inching ever closer to home. After clambering through our increasingly hazardous Neighbor to the South, I will arrive at last in Texas. After that, it's a simple matter of getting back to Michigan by February first and thus completing my global circumnavigation by surface transportation alone!

Quick question: what foreign foods do Americans love best? I believe they are Italian, Mexican, Chinese, and maybe Thai as a distant 4th. Who is going to Italy, Mexico, China, and Thailand (not in that order)? Food trip extraordinaire! It only just occurred to me that this is what is happening. Maybe it's my subconscious at work.

Sadly, there will only be maybe one more blog post if that for the next 5 months. I will probably have the time and the means to post my trip through NYC and Chi-town, but everything else will have to wait. I would be remiss to share my stories without their accompanying photographs, and anyways the Internet access will be infrequent and unreliable. I will be documenting everything thoroughly, don't worry, and I intend to release the adventure day by day, as if were happening, except much after the fact. Believe me, you'll be glad for posts with pictures.

Also, big news for February! The international blur just won't stop since I will be shipping off to Kazakhstan for my Peace Corps assignment. Borat jokes: ready, aim, fire.

My Tribute to a Week of American Food

As promised, I’m back to liven the mood of the blog. No more gloom and doom, no more lamenting what’s over. It’s time to turn my attentions towards what I have and what’s coming. In the spirit of this new outlook, I’m here to gloat to all my friends back home in Seoul about the foods that I’ve missed so desperately for two and a half long years. I give you my food binge of the past week.

Act 1: Ingredients

What’s that? Limes?

Unlimited, fresh, versatile limes!!!

Breads of all types, for all occasions.

Focaccia in olive oil and balsamic, buns for hamburgers, bagels or whole grain toast in the morning, crusty loaves for sandwiches, pita for dipping.

Local maple syrup.

It flows as abundantly as soju.

Raspberries in your face.

Throw them in vanilla yogurt with granola or bake them in a pie!

Garden fresh vegetables.

Literally picked all this with my mom from the garden in our yard*.

*yard: an expanse of grass that surrounds one’s house**.
**house: a Western-style building consisting of many officetel onerooms in which each individual room serves a designated purpose.

Act 2: Sides

Corn, done right:

On the cob with butter.

Veggie tray to the rescue.

It comes complete with bleu cheese dressing. Dill pickles and celery on request.

Salads everywhere!

No cabbage or pineapple dressing here, folks. Just vinegar based sauces, fresh vegetables and tomatoes, whole milk mozzarella cubes, cucumber from the garden, and happiness.

Mac’n’Cheese.

Is it even fair to show you cheap pasta covered in legendary white cheddar goodness and baked to a crisp in an oven? Is that cruel and unusual?

Act 3: Mains

Wing night at the house.

That means big, meaty drumsticks off the charcoal grill slathered in mango habanero sauce. Face-melting good!

More grilling goodness!


Chicken thighs and vegetable skewers. Note the eggplant, baby portabella mushrooms, and yellow squash.

Chili dogs.

Homemade slaw. Optional upgrade to Amish sausage. Don’t forget the diced jalapenos.

Breakfast of champions is not called Wheaties.

It’s called cheddar grits, eggs over easy, and spicy breakfast sausage. Good enough for any meal of the day.

Act 4: Dessert

Rasberry pie.

It’s all there needs to be and more.

I’d say I’m sorry, Korea, but I’m trying to lie less. I do wish that you all could have been here to share it. It’s been a truly stodgy week here in Michigan.

Farewell

Stripping down the walls and wiping out the drawers. Sending off the clothing and heirloom bottle openers and Thom Yorke posters. Change of address, phone cancellation, key pass off. Tomorrow I must leave my apartment of two and a half years, my palace on F Floor, the one room to house them all for more time than most take to get a graduate degree. In other words, this shit is real, folks. Korea is definitively over and it finally feels as such. Months of planning and preparation for a some day which is finally today.

Only one tear-jerking moment as of yet: 2 weeks ago my students threw me an early farewell party. They taped balloons and a message on the board. They insisted that I eat the entire cake alone (After much debate about whether they should contribute to its consumption by merely picking the white chocolate shavings off the top or each taking a sliver of the cake itself, in the end they opted for both). The part that realy choked me up though were the letters claiming that they'd "never forget" me and thanking me for being a "great teacher." Hold it down, be strong, you can cry on the boat across the Atlantic. After all, what more will you have to occupy your time?

I've spent my last month in the way I love best: eating all my favourite foods, singing my heart out at noraebang, and introducing everything I love about Korea to the fresh eyes of replacement teachers. Between meals, playlists, and tours, I've spent my nights for the past several weeks bidding a fond, inebriated farewell to my haunts, my neighbours  my hometown, and all my friends. I don't use "my hometown" lightly here: I'd hate to be one of those foreigners who comes back from abroad and feigns a closer connection with a country after 2 years than after 20. However, since my family has left my hometown of Georgia, I've been faced with a unique dilemma. All the people I love are in one state, and all the places with which I am familiar are in another. It takes both people and locale to make a hometown, and now I don't have that combination anywhere in America. Until Korea empties of close friends, this is the most "hometown" I've got these days.

To all my friends here, thank you. There is little in my short years that I could describe as "stand out," but Korea has been an experience that will change me for life. I've experienced great happiness and tragedy here, and to the people who've shared either with me I am indebted. To everyone back home, it has been too long. Many will have to wait a bit longer, but I'm coming around the long way. Whether I see you before or after my trip this winter, I'm looking forward to the relationships in my life that I've always been able to count on, regardless of time or distance.

A coworker asked me this week what I regretted about my time in Seoul. Though a fair question, I didn't have an answer for him. Were I to be asked now I might say, "I wish I studied the language harder," or, "If only I could have made more local friends," but in absolute honesty there's nothing I would do differently. I came to travel, and I did a great deal of that. I came to hone my Korean, and I'm more than satisfied with where I've gotten. I came to bolster the resume and make paper: done and done. All the goals were accomplished without sacrificing comfort, experience, or fun. Korea has been good to me, and it will be under my skin during the foreseeable future.

너를 사랑했기에 후회 없기에 좋았던 기억만 가져가라 I don't regret having loved you, so carry with you only those memories which were good.

~Big Bang

Speed Update

I could be back in the states at 5:35 pm August 31st! Maybe. Stand-by is 1/4 of the price, but the uncertainty makes up for the other 3/4.

Summer Vacation

In an effort to take a last spin around Korea and keep things cheap on the eve of a much larger trip, I used my summer vacation last week to scrape west along the southern coast of the peninsula. Busan, as usual, under-performed, but it did make for a nice springboard into Jeolla Province, a collection of largely farming communities and islands in the south west.

The first stop in Jeolla was the historical capital of the region: Gwangju. Unlike Gyeongju in the southeast, Gwangju's history is much more modern. Rather than the seat of the ancient government, these citizens boast the birth of the modern one. Although "democracy" in South Korea was established after the war in the 50's, it didn't really take root until the 80's. To spare you the boring details, after 2 decades of "presidency," Park gets assassinated and the military wipes out the interim government. General Chun becomes the new "president" of the "democracy" and on March 18th the people of Gwangju start demonstrating. The "communist rebellion" is violently put down however, and in what Koreans consider their own little Tienanmen Square, somewhere between 127 (government's claim) and 2000 (most extreme estimate) civilians were killed. Visiting the memorial grave site left me with both the awe of meeting a celebrity (for I had studied this event when I was at Yonsei) and the humility of being faced with sacrifice (especially for something Americans hold in such high regard).

Jeolla is known as the bread basket of Korea, and the food there doesn't disappoint. The highlight meals were the barley bibimbap (substituting steamed barley for plain white rice) and the massaged duck (massaged in sugar-vinegar-red sauce!), but everything right down to the barbecue or steamed pork was fantastic. The surprising thing was that it didn't rely on any "specialty foods" that couldn't be procured in Seoul, like Andong did. It wasn't even that the seasoning was more brilliant or complex. By and large, the stand out difference in the south west cuisine was freshness. Be it vegetables, rice, or meat, every ingredient tasted like it hadn't been packed up, cooled, preserved, or shipped, probably because it hadn't.

Compensating for the regions lack of vast cities, Jeolla's natural wonders were both breathtaking and expansive. I took the time to get up a mountain once I arrived in Mokpo, Jeolla's primary port. In contrast to the sprawling, tawny mess of spray-tan tourists that is Busan, Mokpo was the most quaint I've ever felt from a Korean town. A combination of the quiet atmosphere, the islands throughout the bay, and the wreath of mountains gave gave the effect either a hot version of Hokkaido or some Michigan lake town that was miraculously also in Appalachia. As wikitravel could tell you, there's not much to do here beside eat ray or leave, but somehow you don't care. Scaling Yudal mountain in the late Friday morning heat was not exactly agreeable, but it turned out to be one of the few times I've gotten a sense of gratification from a climb. For me, altitude doesn't add much to nature, but peering out into what looked like a mountain range sprouting from the ocean was terribly impressive.

Decisions

40 days remain until my contract is finished. The Iran hostage crisis was 11 times longer; Justin Bieber toured for 9 times longer; James Garfield's presidency was 5 times longer; Even the Chilean miners were underground longer than I'll remain in Seoul. The immediacy of the end has crept up on me, and so the time has come for final trip decisions. When I depart in mid-September to attempt (and probably fail) an around the world land bound trip, I have decided that given the absurd difficulty of securing a visa to Saudi Arabia and the state of the rest of the middle east, my most reliable route to Asia is the Trans-Siberian Railroad.

I've already made reservations to take a two-week tour through the Urals, Siberia, lake Baikal, Mongolia, and finally arrive in Beijing near the end of October. This means that I will have to crawl down through China and southeast Asia in order to make my way back to the original route. I'll cross the equator almost as I cross into Vietnam, completing one of my two trip goals in early November. I will probably fail the second goal (my challenge to stay grounded) somewhere beyond Jakarta, as no viable route from southeast Asia to Australia is presenting itself. I've not given up hope yet, but, like many others before me, I do have to start considering that the dream will be dashed in Melanesia. There's a looming feeling that the rest of the boating and training and trekking becomes fruitless if it's only for a partial circumnavigation, but we'll see how I feel after the new year.

In the meantime, having decided to spend more than two weeks on Russian soil or tracks, I took the opportunity last week to acquaint myself with their cuisine. In the heart of the Russian district (it's real) of Seoul, a friend introduced me to Gostiny Dvor (Гостиный Двор! I've been practising my Cyrillic). It had been so long since I'd had rich beer, rye bread, or potato-laden cuisine. Quite a gratifying experience overall, giving me yet another satisfaction to anticipate when I arrive in Moscow (Москва!). Food recap below.

Our Father, who art in Calgary, Bobsled be thy name.

Sunday afternoon,

raining on my window panes,

I need Jamaica.

That's a little haiku I whipped up in honor of our Cool Runnings party today. Yes, the Disney-portrayed Jamaican bobsled team that slid into the Olympics and our hearts graced my apartment today in one of the most random and awesome theme parties I've ever witnessed. What are the ingredients? For starters, you need a heavy supply of rum beverages. In this case, we used enough piña coladas to turn anyone into the kind of club-toting, raw-meat-eating, Me-Tarzan-You-Jane-ing, big, bald bubblehead that can only count to ten if he's barefoot or wearing sandals. Step two involves a bit of almost Caribbean dessert: namely, bananas foster.  Once you've got the coconut pineapple juices flowing and some happy bellies stuffed full of brown-sugar-rum-butter bananas, you're ready to feel good with Doug E. Doug and John Candy. We laughed, we cried, but there's one key element missing: bobsled style pictures. Nothing makes you feel like the best pushcart driver in all of Jamaica like lining up some chairs, setting the timer on the camera, and coordinating some fun. The inspirational classic of pride, perseverance, and friendship brings a little sun to any Asian monsoon afternoon.

Feel the rhythm! Feel the rhyme! Get on up, its bobsled time! COOL RUNNINGS!

"Left!"

"Crash!"

"Gold!!"

Where Have I Been?

Wondering what I've been up to? Resolving a lot of issues and finalizing a lot of details with my trip for starters, the details of which I'll publish soon. I've also been finishing up all my medical paperwork for my Peace Corps application. Friends have been in Seoul all last month it seems, which is time-consuming in and of itself, but I'm also trying to dedicate a lot of chill time to my friends who live here, since I've got 51 days (!?!?!) remaining. Although I've finally squirmed my way out of the head teacher position at my academy, I've not been entirely idle. Between grading essays (best line so far: on an essay about gender and toys, Tony writes with a wisdom beyond his years that "Boys like swords because they like fighting and fucking.") and making creative lesson plans (read: water bottles full of dirt to illustrate pollution or drinking games to practice grammatical structures), I've been digitally embalming myself for future Avalonian generations.

My favorite is slide 17!

Nomination

Although it's nowhere near definite or specific, I have a nomination from the Peace Corps. Assuming that I do my part with the legal and medical paperwork, I should be going to "South or Central America" sometime during "February 2012" for "Primary Education/Teacher Training."  All of that information is subject to change drastically, but even "we've narrowed it down to a month and a hemisphere" is progress.

Russia Was Nothing Compared to This

In all of my traveling, I have never had to bother with visa applications. Thanks to my blessed blue American passport, Japan, Taiwan, and Bangladesh have all let me in without a second glance. Now it seems it is time to pay my dues. The greatest challenge to overcome in the execution of this trip is not the planning or even the financing; it's the paperwork. I had a taste of this bureaucratic madness when I attempted Vladivostok in February. You know, when I had to apply for an invitation to apply for a visa?

Everything before Turkey and after Australia is a freebie on account of my citizenship, but that whole middle zone wants a full visa application. This means during the final months here in Seoul at least 10 embassy runs. While many of these have proven annoying (like only being open 4 days a week or only for 2 hours in the afternoon), nothing holds a candle to getting into Saudi Arabia. Here's the break down so far:

The Plan:
My route has me going through the middle east and then on to India, but this is hindered greatly by the fact that seemingly everything between Algeria and Mumbai is either in civil war or hates Americans. Even the waters are unsafe due to dysfunctional Somalia and somewhat less than vigilant Yemen. Now with Syria falling apart and Obama screwing my chances in Pakistan, the noose is tightening. If I can't make it through Saudi to the UAE, I have no choice but to scrap it and reroute through the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I've been trying hard for a week to discover if that Plan B is necessary or if I can lock down a visa to the Kingdom.


Click to view Middle East North Africa in a larger map

The Process:
The visa seemed next to impossible to get, but I have an in. My good coworker E was born and raised in Saudi for 21 years, and knows several people still inside the country. The necessary invitation for a travel visa seems plausible, so I started hitting embassies.

1. I went out to the location that was throughout maps and the internet indicated as "the Embassy to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia." It seems they've moved locations over a year ago and this building is a husk. Also, visiting hours are exclusively during the hours when I'm working. After some finagling I manage to secure the new address as well as permission to come in the morning.
2. The next day, I approach a lady at the counter of the KSA embassy. She looks at me as if I were insane, then tells me I have to wait for the consular to come in. You see, they're not sure whether I even need a travel visa (which they don't do anyway) or simply a transit one. Don't ask me why the consular is not in the consulate nor ever once showed in an hour and a half. In the end I had little choice but to leave my number and a copy of the map.
3. The KSA secretary calls me back with the information that, while the embassy in Seoul could not grant me the visa I required, I could get the necessary transit visa from the consulate in Amman, Jordan. My fear is that this is not true. What if I arrived in Jordan to find a dead-end, no re-entry permit for Egypt and therefore no hope of backtracking, and a wasted booking on a freighter from Dubai?
4. By now it is Friday, and though I attempt to fact check with the Saudi consulate in Amman, I have forgotten that Friday is the Muslim Sunday.  Of course there is no one there. Instead I call the D.C. one, but then realize that the time zone math I had done isn't applicable to both Jordan and Virginia...
5. When I finally contact D.C., they tell me that a visa is not even on my list of concerns: I will not be allowed to take this bus because I am not a middle eastern national. I know for a fact that this isn't true, as it was recommended to me by an American. However, now I have to confirm that it's still available for whities.
6. In the meantime, E sets Plan A.2 in motion, which involves one of her friends applying to sponsor my transit through the KSA. I spend some serious time researching the TSR from Moscow to Beijing, as Saudi is looking more and more unlikely.
7. This morning, just as I'm warming up to thoughts of Siberia, Raed Haddad of the Jordan Express Tourist Transport Company, or JETT, writes me a very cordial email informing me that riding the bus will absolutely be "no problem at all" and that I should specifically acquire a land transit visa. All this to be back where I was before calling D.C.  Can I get the visa here in Seoul, by mail to D.C., on the ground in Amman, or not at all?

Something tells me that the struggle isn't through yet, but until I answer the question of whether I can or can not pass through Saudi, I can't book anything further or calculate the timing of my trip with any accuracy. This one visa will determine the character of the middle 2 months. Will it be Turkey, the Middle East, and India? Or will I instead be in Russia, Mongolia, the Gobi, and finally city hopping through China?

Buddha's Birthday

Every year on the first full moon of the fourth month in the lunar calendar, millions of people gather at temples all over Asia to celebrate Buddha's Birthday. Preparations start several days in advance, with strings of lanterns popping up all over the city.  When the day finally came this year, it was a rainy Tuesday here in Seoul.  The dreariness didn't stop the festivities though.  I myself hiked up to my favorite local temple.  The street vendors were out in full force, which always adds a bit of energy to the atmosphere even in a drizzle.  Ajumas were serving up a free lunch of mixed mountain veggie bibimbab. My favorite part of the day is musical chanting of the monks, which I can hear from my window in the morning. I was able to record a sample of it.



While wandering around the vendor tents outside the temple gates, perusing the prayer candles and wooden kitchen utensils, I heard a racket. Coming from around the corner, the approaching cacophony was soon recognizable as a parade. Expecting a surfeit of men with ribbon-dancing hats, I was astonished when a barrage of 20 ajumas came barreling around the corner, skipping and drumming with big toothy smiles. Standing slack jawed at the sight of such energetic women, most of whom certainly had grandchildren, I almost became roadkill when the herd took a sharp right and stampeded right through me and into the courtyard of a house in front of which I had been standing. I followed them into the courtyard and watched with a grin as the ajumas jumped, drummed, and swayed back and forth as if they were reenacting a native american rain dance. They soon skipped on as merrily and suddenly as they had come, and when they did I followed them. This is a video of the very same troupe raising hell at their next stop, a tent full of diners.



After the scene had passed, I met up with some friends to see what was left of the weekend's lantern festival in the popular stream that cuts through the heart of the downtown area called CheonGye Cheon. The second musical surprise of the day was discovered underneath one of the bridges that pass over the stream. A seemingly impromptu rave was taking place in an small alcove, complete with boombox and the Japanese equivalent to Gatorade. Though those 10 or 12 friends weren't very impressive dancers, they did seem to be having a fair amount of fun. The most amusing part of it was the elderly couple who weren't completely undisturbed by the hooligans with their loud music. After we'd watched our fill and finished our stroll, it was time to spend the rest of our day off enjoying a microbrew and pleasant company at local pub The Table.