On a whim in late 1971 I traveled to Europe with a friend. It turned into the adventure of a lifetime. With little planning and no itinerary, we flew to London with a 2 month student rail pass and enough money to live comfortably for 1. Time passed quickly and after 2 months I found myself alone in Italy with time and money to spare. Getting used to flying by the seat of my pants I headed to the heel and took a ferry to Greece. On the beautiful island of Crete living was easy, simple and cheap. There was no reason to return I had been bitten by the travel bug and a voice was calling me, it said go east so I did.

You Better Belize It

It had been 25 years and little had changed in Belize. In 1974 I passed thru on my way to Cay Cauker, a sleepy island paradise with a laid back, no worries reputation. I had dreams of a simple vacation on the beach, fishing and snorkeling on the pristine well-stocked reef. Although the nearest reef lay almost a mile off shore and fishing was prohibited because of depleted stock the laid back attitude was confirmed when I met the local constable patrolling the beach barefoot in ragged khakis and he suggested a bottle of rum as a way of getting acquainted with island life. This was my introduction to Belize and it left a strong impression and a promise to return. Now it was 1999 and I had a more ambitious plan, first a few nights in a nature reserve, then a week diving in a marine reserve, finally a week to relax and decompress in a funky beach town.
There are 4 main roads, the Northern, the Southern, the Western and surprise the Hummingbird Highways. Technically they are called highways but I would say that is a stretch. In this context it is good that Belize is a small country because getting around is slow and difficult. My first destination was the Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary, aka the Jaguar Reserve, since the ultimate goal of all visitors is the sighting of this magnificent cat. After traveling by chicken bus on three of the 4 main roads for most of the day I arrived at Maya Center, a tiny community of indigenous people whose ancestors built some of greatest pre-Colombian cities in history. However times have changed and these people are now a minority with little status and no wealth. The reserve was created on their land so they control and manage it. It is another 10 km to the actual sanctuary and after my ordeal I am in no mood to walk so I’m stuck here until I can arrange a ride. These last 6 miles take 45 bone-crunching minutes on a potholed washboard track across 2 streams, but we finally arrive at a grassy clearing beautifully landscaped with native flora and a few rustic cabins. At check in I’m asked if I have reservations, which I find amusing since the place seems empty. I’m assigned a cabin, given a brief orientation and I’m on my own. Over the next 3 days I saw hundreds of exotic birds several large rodents and some monkeys, but few people and no jaguar or any of the other cats in residence (jaguarondi, puma, ocelot, and margay). I did catch the scent of some hidden creatures as I explored the well-kept trails in the reserve. I even ventured out at night in search of nocturnal creatures with similar results. Being a rainforest it goes without saying that it rains almost everyday and the trails are very muddy, the insects are a constant nuisance, but my big fear was snakes and luckily I didn’t see any. On leaving the rainforest I was filled with emotions, disappointed at not seeing a Jaguar, but elated at having experienced the pure beauty of the jungle, and looking forward to the next adventure with excitement and anxiety.
Since I needed a car to get to the Southern Highway anyway, I negotiated a price to Sittee River where I would meet up with the folks from Glovers Reef. Glovers Reef is bare bones, bargain basement “resort” located on a private island with a dozen very rustic cabins 30 miles off the coast. My 1-week stay cost $150 and included a deluxe cabin, and boat transportation period. After a brief orientation at their guesthouse again I’m off to buy supplies for a week of camping on the beach. This is easily done at Reynolds General Store, but the one thing they couldn’t supply was a top priority, rum. The Village of Sittee River is tiny, so when I’m told that the liquor store is down the road past the poolroom I am not prepared for the 2 mile hike there and back. After meeting a couple of my fellow guests and some nasty fire ants, the next thing I know I awake from my Robinson Caruso fantasy to the sound of a monster thunderstorm and the itching of a hundred new insect bites. After breakfast we begin to transfer the luggage and supplies for approximately 20 guests to the hold of a 40-foot sailboat for the trip to the reef.
The sail begins awkwardly but soon a spirit of community develops and we are free to relax get acquainted and enjoy the scenery as we motor downriver toward the open sea. It turns into a beautiful day for sailing but 3 hours pass and anxiety is building, then we spot land and slow to navigate thru a break in the shallow reef and into the lagoon. We dock on a neat palm covered islet studded with thatched roofed huts and basic zinc roofed cabins. Each equipped with camp stove, lantern and kitchen utensils. There are composting toilets and a well for bathing, laundry and dishes but drinking water is imported and considered optional. Because I have a deluxe reservation I get the best hut and choose not to share it. Impulsively I signup for the scuba course, maybe thinking I have a chance with Becky the cute instructor and daughter of the owner.
Between morning classes and afternoon instruction, evening meal preparation and cleanup the days pass quickly and before I realize it the week is over and Im exhausted. Several other guests and I decide to stay a couple of extra days and that’s when the storm started. First dark clouds appeared then lightening in the distance and a light rain; at first my cabin was comfortable and dry. As the storm picked up the roof began leaking and the wind blew thru the walls making it very chilly. Finally I was forced into the ramshackle but dry bunkhouse with the other single I had refused to share my cabin with. Arthur is a cranky 70-year-old Jewish professor with a Boston accent, and a bizarre passion for rap music and psychedelic drugs. The storm lasted 3 days, during which there was little to do and little to eat, since it was too rough for diving or fishing. The bunkhouse was divided in half and had separate entrances but one kitchen so after agreeing to disagree, Arthur and I pooled our meager supplies and managed to cook a few hot meals during the chilly siege. During the storm time seemed to have stopped, as we had little contact with the other guests and none with the staff. When the weather finally cleared we were all so excited to be leaving that it never dawned on us later that we had been manipulated by the staff, keeping us uninformed and captive and charging us extra for the privilege.
Placencia is a funky beach town at the tip of a skinny 17-mile long peninsula. Akin to Cay West in the 50’s it lives up to it’s outcast rough and tumble reputation with a mix of characters from local artists to con artists, Caribbean cursers to the Garufuna, descendents of African slaves and pirates who have been around since Glovers Reef was named after one of their most famous. Some of these characters operate bars and restaurants with a funky twist which made them unique, like the bar on Caulker with a row of swings like gallows at the bar instead of stools, or the Lagoon Saloon accessed from its long pier, making it a hazardous return especially when inebriated on a moonless night, or the one on Tobacco Cay where I had my first Pantirippa and rolled my last joint out of a large pizza box. Then there was Brenda, usually found near the Placencia dock at happy hour, handing out potent cocktails followed by large portions of her delicious local specialties served picnic style on the beach as the sun set. The full figured Brenda presided over these impromptu dinner parties with her flamboyant personality, hospitality and chutzpah. Sometime later I learned of her destructive relationships with drugs and men. Unfortunately shortly after that marvelous trip Placencia was flattened by a hurricane and to this day is still recovering. Though not perfect Belize occupies a special place in my heart so to all its people I am thankful and to Brenda a special shout out we love you and “you better Belize it”.

Land of Beauty and Grace

Somewhere crowded among the memories are images of cottony clouds swirling among very tall mountains. These would be the Himalayas and I would be looking out the window of a UBA flight between Kathmandu and Rangoon daydreaming. It was evening by the time the plane landed; it had been along day, during the stopover in Calcutta I ran to the duty free shop for the purchase of two highly prized items, Marlboro cigarettes and Johnny walker scotch. Like everything in Burma, trade is strictly controlled, so a huge black market exists for anything foreign. On landing I breezed thru customs and was ignored by the swarm of heavily armed security forces, then mobbed by the black marketers who started a bidding war for my contraband. After selling the cigarettes and whiskey for almost 5 times what I paid, I was offered tempting sums for everything from watch and camera to jeans. It was getting late and I was tired so I shared a taxi with some of my fellow passengers who were also headed to the only decent lodging in town, the infamous YMCA.
Burma, part of the once glorious British Empire has fallen into a crumbling state of disrepair, due to paranoid isolation, shortsighted totalitarianism, and bungling bureaucratic inefficiency. The streets of Rangoon are full of fine examples of grand colonial architecture; few are habitable let alone function as intended. Through all the gloom the people remain optimistic, they are spiritual, mild mannered and education hungry, and their friendliness and hospitality made the Burmese experience one of my favorite. Grace and beauty are everywhere women commonly use thanaka (sandalwood paste) as a facial, smoking cigars is common but women tend to carry an ashtray for some reason.
Due to its literary reputation, Mandalay is one of the most famous cities in Burma yet to me it was one of the least known and most exotic places in Asia and a top priority. At the time Burmese visas were limited to a maximum of 7 days and extensions are not allowed. This is incredible considering how badly they need the money tourism could generate. So after less than 24 hours in Rangoon it was time to leave. The roads are few and poorly maintained, so rails and rivers are the main arteries. I arrived at the train station early in the morning and we left with little fanfare, but soon fell behind schedule and arrived hot tired and 4 hours late. The train was very basic, all one class, with unpadded wood bench seats and no fans, fortunately it wasn’t crowded and everyone was friendly. While there was daylight the tracks seemed to pass thru the middle of a dense jungle.
I arrived at midnight by Tonga at the guesthouse, very tired after 16 hours on a hot train. Stepping inside I was not surprised by the lack of plumbing or electricity but the flimsy construction did concern me a bit. As I walked in the whole structure shook and by lantern light I could see everything was mad of bamboo and palm. A strong wind could lift it off its foundation and a spark could burn it to the ground. Another concern was the numerous frogs and lizards, which were feeding on the thousands of mosquitoes and insects, which were beginning to feed on me. Realizing that I was stuck here for the night I passed thru a partition and made myself comfortable on the springy bamboo flooring and was about to doze off but the innkeeper had another idea. He to tried to sell me everything from jewels to opium then he asked the value of everything I had, and eventually we engaged in a trading session both of us convinced we had out smarted the other and feeling pleased with our new possessions. That night my dreams ranged between contented opium soaked euphoria and an exotic primeval anti malarial nightmare. Waking anxious and excited Mandalay felt vaguely familiar yet extremely exotic. Mandalay Hill is a walled compound surrounded by a moat and guarded by a giant pair of gilded Fu dogs, once reserved for royalty, while in the colonial town roads are laid out in a familiar grid pattern but the numbers are out of sequence a subtle difference that made me realize I was in the Far East now.
Hot and sweaty from the walk back to town I walked into, what I thought was a grocery store and was ushered to a seat at a formally appointed table. I soon realized I had stumbled into a wedding reception looking for ice cream. To make matters worse I was dressed in rags compared to the formal wear of the invited guests and the royal finery of the bride and groom. Still my bumbling entrance was accepted as an omen and I was treated like an honored special guest and I got my ice cream.
Reluctantly I plan to leave Mandaly and travel by boat down the Irawady River to Pagan. The boat is an exciting new experience and all eyes are on me at the landing as we prepare to board. The boat a steam-powered paddle wheeler is reminiscent of Mark Twain. The deck is crowded with women smoking the popular cheroot like cigars and always an ashtray nearby. I spend the night sleeping on the deck and wake the next morning sailing down the river with banks dotted with temples, monuments and villages. The view from the deck is a timeless scene of life on the river, children swimming and playing, women cooking and washing while the men tend the fields. At each village we stop to discharge and accept passengers no matter how small. In the evening we arrive and a Tonga Walla deposits me at another flimsy bamboo guesthouse. In the morning the Tonga is there to take me the short distance to an open plain filled with a spectacular collection of ancient ruins. Laid out before me were dozens of crumbling and a few restored temples and shrines, some adorned with gold. Alone and with complete access I explored the ruins and learned all I could of Burma’s glory days. The most striking memory concerns the flattening of gold bars into paper thin sheets called gold leaf. This was done by monks wielding huge sledge hammers and pounding the gold thinner and thinner. The leaves were then used for decorative objects, spiritual offerings and sometimes for physical healing.
People followed me everywhere, eager to engage they shouted good morning, where you from? Sometimes they offered food or drinks but most just wanted to practice their English. They were mostly friendly and polite, but once I was verbally accosted by a large aggressive man at a train station. He badgered me about travel documents and threatened to arrest me. Maybe he was drunk or the town bully, after awhile I realized he was bluffing and only making himself the center of attention. It was at the same train station that I had an even more troubling experience. Suddenly struck with a familiar but urgent cramping of the bowel I followed the overpowering stench to the public toilet. Upon entering I saw 2 planks crisscrossed a foot or more above the floor when my eyes had adjusted I noticed that the floor was covered with maggots feeding on a massive mound of feces and floating in a sea of urine. One slip and I would be in deep shit.
Finally back in Rangoon on my last day in Burma I met a rickshaw Walla who was so sincerely friendly he had to show me the room he shared with several others and his few prized possessions. One was an address book signed by the many travelers he had befriended along with a few pictures of his family and his village. He was university educated, pious and humble, like most Burmese he could not find work in his field and thus accepted the hard work and low pay of a rickshaw driver to support his family. He worked 7 days a week and ate rice and little else, but he told me his greatest joy was spending a few moments talking with travelers. He really made my heart bleed when he gave me a token gift which I found hard to accept. I thanked him and gave him a large tip, but left with a lump in my throat and a pang of guilt in my heart.

Gurus, Sadhus and Hippies

The Hippy culture was heavily influenced by the music, drugs and philosophy of India. In its heyday many made the pilgrimage, some lost themselves, some found themselves all were changed forever. I bought my bus ticket for Kathmandu from a very persistent hawker in the Nepali border town of Birganj. As a rule border towns are shit holes but Birganj is especially sleazy and the hustlers super aggressive. It was a sleepless night and in the morning I was happy to find that I actually had a seat on a real bus. My mood soon changed and not even the magnificent mountain scenery could lift my spirits. After being thrown around in my seat for 12 hours I came to appreciate the atrocious Indian rail system. Arriving in Kathmandu in January was a mistake, although it rarely snows the cold can be bone chilling and central heating was unheard of. Fortunately I had a down sleeping to keep me warm. Unfortunately it was too cold for trekking and I was stuck in the Kathmandu valley, a hippy Shangri la, more western than eastern, only restaurants fronted for hash shops. With names like Eat at Joes, Hungry Eye, Mellow pie and Eden Hash each with their unique menu including Mexican, Italian and American. My personal favorite the Pleasure Room had a great sound system and played Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, and the Greatful Dead. Peace and serenity was all around, I spent my days at the temples trying to soak in the karma and my nights in the “pie shops” smoking my brains out to my favorite tunes, drowning myself with vulgar sweets. By the second week the hash and pie was getting old, and I got involved buying rice paper prints in quantity, my friend Mark introduced me to Jas who was a printmaker. The prints are beautiful and simply made by inking the carved wood blocks, placing the course handmade paper on the block and rubbing with a clean cloth to transfer the design. At $50 for 500 assorted designs it seemed like a huge bargain and a way to finance my traveling. It was going to take a couple of days to produce the prints and while I waited Jas became a good friend but I realized I was cold and hungry for a change.
The south of India is warm year round so I sketched out a plan to stop at the spiritual city of Varanasi before heading to the beaches of Goa. Strolling along the sacred Ganges among the funeral fires, and bodies in preparation felt like a surreal circus with action everywhere and a cast of characters from high priests to low caste untouchables from oblivious livestock to in your face lepers. It is the duty of every Hindu to bath in the sacred river, many come to die and have their ashes spread in the Ganges. Getting caught up in the spirit I took the plunge one morning but stopped short of drinking the brown water and made a hasty retreat when saw a turd and a dead dog float by. The pilgrimage is most important to the old and the infirm. Many like Baba and his disciple are young sadhus, holy men who shun materialism and wonder homeless living on offerings from the less pious. I met Baba on the burning ghats, where I was warming myself after the chilling plunge, our lack of a common language led to a bowl and as my head swirled Baba quickly convinced me to give him the blanket I wore as a shawl rationalizing that I wouldn’t need it on the hot beaches of Goa.
I left Varanasi and headed to Bombay by train then a boat to Goa where I met lots of people from Kathmandu . In fact it was very similar but more cliquish, from the town of Calingute the beach extends north for miles with villages populated by fisherman, cults and hippies. I kept to myself as much as possible, staying in Baga a small fishing village between the uptight born again Christians and the naked acid freaks. I rented a house from a very poor family. The house had no electric or plumbing, was infested with fleas and rats, the mattress was hard and lumpy but it was on the beach and the price was right. Most Goan’s are strict Catholic’s, having been a colony of Portugal for centuries. The landlord’s teenage daughter was in constant trouble, one night we went to a festival where she turned me on to feni the powerful local hooch made from the cashew palm. Sometimes she would borrow money for liquor then her and her boyfriend would crash on my floor. Each afternoon the fisherman prepared their lines and sailed off in their dhow like boats, returning at sunrise with the catch, mostly shark 8-10 footers not uncommon. They butchered and divided the catch right on the beach in front of my house. Then they would sleep for a few hours and do it again, day after day their stamina amazed me.
Once again feeling restless, it was time for another encounter with the spiritualism India is famous for, the Hindu festival called Kumba Mela takes place every 12 years and attracts millions. I was on my way to Hardwar to witness the largest human gathering on earth, no it wasn’t Woodstock. Looking back I must have logged 5000 miles on Indian trains alone, at an average 20 miles an hour that’s over 10 full days. Needless to say I was doing a lot of traveling and some things stand out in a world wind, one was seeing tens of thousands of naked sadhus, dread locked and smeared with ashes, crushed between millions of upper class Brahmins and common untouchables, moving in a great migration into the confluence of three holy rivers to bath at the specified moment. This sight is forever etched in my memory alongside the scene at the burning ghats of Varanasi. Instead of raising my spirituality it lessened it. Life in India is chaotic, my idea of religion is peace and tranquility. I imagined a yogi in a cave high in the Himalayas deep in meditation with the discipline to find his personal nirvana, rather then expecting a communal bath to wash away the guilt of sin.
I had not forgotten about Nepal and being in Hardwar reminded me that I had unfinished business there. I had also not forgotten the back breaking bus ride, but I was determined to trek into the Himalayas. This time the plan was to take a bus directly to Pokhara which is the second city of Nepal but quite different, quiet laid back with a large lake and a beautiful view of the Annapurna range. Before I had a chance to explore the trekking possibilities I got sick. This was different than the usual jelly belly, this was a painful stomachache. So after several days I decided to go to a hospital, only the nearest one was 5 hours away in Kathmandu. Only a couple of years before it would have taken a week to walk. Upon arrival, the first doctor diagnosed a peptic ulcer, the second said hepatitis a third ordered a blood test which confirmed hepatitis. The doctor ordered 2 weeks bed rest, no fatty oily or fried food and no alcohol for 6 months. My old friend Jas had another idea, he took me to a local shaman who prescribed a home remedy of ground herbs to be taken every evening for 5 days. That week turned out to be a big turning point for me, instead of returning thru Europe I decided I would fly to Bangkok with a stopover in Burma. Then travel down the peninsula thru Malaysia to Singapore, Bali and Australia. So on my last full day in Nepal I was approached by a tall guy with a shaved head and the burgundy robes of a Buddhist monk. Although he said my name I had no idea who he was and I looked at him like a ghost. When he smiled I saw his gold tooth and realized who he was. In April 1972 I met Tec on a bus ride from Istanbul to Herat. During the next 5 days we were baptized and initiated into the third world. Now exactly 2 years later our lives intersected again but this time we were heading in different directions. With little time to catch up Lekshe (his new name) introduced me to one of his teachers, a Rimpoche from Bhutan after I made the traditional kata offering he gave me his blessing and an auspicious new beginning.

New Trip to an Old World

I returned to Pakistan in November 1973. 18 months after my disastrous first experience in Afghanistan. The taxi ride through the Kyber Pass is a blur but I recall meeting up with some friends at the bus station in Peshawar. One of these friends was Shapuan Haji Ali, we had met in Rome and traveled together periodically. He was a slight boy with olive complexion and features I could not identify ( Thai, Indian, Philipino) but definitely Asian. When he said he was Malay I wasn’t even sure where Malaysia was. He had gone to Europe overland, from Lahore where he was attending college. I wanted to know everything about him and his culture, including why he had traveled so much. Two things I learned were that Pakistan is a Mecca for higher education and that travel and curiosity are universal. As we climbed into a Tonga the sunset was so intense I had to shade my eyes with my hand. The intense beams formed a corona around the huge lettering above the Park Hotel. I remember the main road was filled with potholes, choked with dust and lined with utility poles strung with wire from every tea stall and chicken coop, more of a giant cats cradle than a grid and all seemed to terminate at the largest building in sight the Park Hotel. Although it was impressive on the outside it was drab and worn on the inside and very expensive, so we chose the nearby Rainbow Guest House. Beside it was already getting dark and we would be leaving for Lahore early the next morning. When we arrived in Lahore there were 6 of us and we were hijacked by an aggressive Tonga driver who had to get down and coax his horse to move. Finally we arrived at the Hotel Shaheen, his choice, and I realized that beside the taxi fare from us, he would get a commission from the hotel for each guest. This is where I met the infamous and outrageous Abdullah no sweat, a Nigerian vagabond who claimed to be traveling for 17 years and besides entertaining us with his tales of travel and adventure he rolled one hell of a joint. From Chitral in the north to Quetta in the south, he seemed to know everyone and everything, with his trademark funky fedora, dress slacks and sandals to his Cheshire grin his charm was undeniable. Before long I came under his spell and agreed to join him on his latest adventure, of which he told me little, only that he was going to visit a friend in Hyderabad, but first he must make a stop in Multan. The rail system in Pakistan is chaotic and corrupt, a sentiment I must extend to every bureaucracy in Asia. There are 3 classes, with many price concessions, complicated bookings, unruly crowds and undependable schedules. Lahore station serves as temporary home for some and permanent home for many others. Hundreds of passengers with their families, livestock, and sometimes all their possessions are barely distinguishable from squatters. All were on their feet as the train approached the station. Before it has stopped, luggage and people are shoved through the windows and there is a free for all for the unreserved lower class and best second-class seats. All this as some passengers try to exit. After fighting our way onto the train we change our mind and decide to wait for a later and less crowded one. The locomotive itself is a thing of beauty, an antique steam engine, the size of a ship with a smokestack billowing a trail of black smoke and ash from one village to the next. At one station a tray is unexpectedly passed thru the window, I don’t remember ordering it but I do remember eating the excellent curry, when a hand returned to retrieve the empty tray I realized we were moving very fast. Later we discovered that Multan was to be the site of a huge student demonstration planned for that week and was probably the cause of the overcrowding. We finally arrive at 6am exhausted after an all night train ride. While Abdullah tends to the business that brought us here, I enjoy a massage and recover from our ordeal. Multan is interesting, a mix of education and industry, but during our stay the demonstrations turn violent, one student is killed and shops close for 3 days. A week after arriving we were back at the station for another overnight train. This time it was to Hyderabad, to visit Abdullah good friends, the Abbassi family, this turned out to be the unexpected highlight of my stay in Pakistan. From the moment we met they opened their hearts and home to me and gave me the most intimate look possible into Muslim family life. There are 4 Abbassi brothers ( Maqbool, Mahmood, Iqbal, Nizar) their wives and extended families. They are middle class and live in a compound of which I saw only 2 rooms, my comfortable bedroom and a sitting room which acted as dining room and parlor. Even though Abdullah left the next day, I spent 10 days there and never met any of the women. I ate most of my meals alone, they would always be brought by the servants occasionally one of the brothers would join me. From Hyderabad I made several memorable side trips. One to Karachi to pick up mail and meet more of the Abbassi family, and friends of Shapaun Hajji Ali. Another time I went to visit a friend of Mahmood at college. I was apprehensive after being invited to join a post exam ritual involving a lesson in plant pathology and a trip to the local bhang shop. Bhang is an intoxicating drink made from marijuana. The cannabis is wrapped in gauze then soaked in water, it sits for a few minutes before all the liquid is squeezed out, and the process is repeated 3 times before drinking. It can be very potent but I declined fearing not the cannabis but the water. A third time I went to the family farm which was in a nasty dispute with a neighbor. When we arrived we were given a kings welcome, by a group loyal to the family and armed to the teeth. There were 10 men in turbans baggy pants and shirts that is the native dress all had guns most had shotguns. We were surrounded by fields, without a house insight, instead there was a tent like structure with walls of woven branches and leaves, with a canvas roof. We stayed only long enough to give moral support, sample the local produce and taste roasted goat they had slaughtered just for us.

Off the Beaten Path

Samaria Gorge is the longest in Europe; it is located in a remote mountain range on the island of Crete in the Mediterranean. I first heard of Samaria from a hotel manager in Chania who grew up in the village of Loutro, on the magnificent south coast of Crete, a short distance from the gorge. In 1972 most of the resorts and commerce on crete was confined to the north coast. I desperately wanted to get off the beaten path, so when I heard no road and electricity I decided to go. Instantly I packed my essentials but left most of my luggage with my new friend and departed by bus to the trailhead. The bus left me off south of the town of Omolos near the top of a mountain. The trail descended steeply thru a magnificent lush forest all morning. As I descended off came the jacket then the sweater and out came the water bottle as the temperature rose. After a couple of hours the trail led into a canyon with a trickle of water running down the side. As the afternoon went on and the trail flattened out I came to a clearing maybe 100 feet wide with a rustic hut in the middle. I timidly approached and knocked at the door. Receiving no answer I let my curiosity get the better of me and I entered. It was dark but I could see signs of habitation including some food a bed and a shotgun. I assumed the hut belonged to a hunter and since it was now twilight, I decided to take advantage of the situation and didn’t think he would mind if I spent the night. I ate most of the ham and cheese, bread and wine I had bought, then laid down on the hard mattress and read by candlelight before dosing off. The next morning with rain falling and the river rising I knew I was in trouble. I was warned that the river could quickly become a raging torrent filling the gorge with water and drowning everything in it. Should I turn back? I hesitated before heading into the narrowest part. Before long I was wading knee deep between rock walls rising a thousand feet, only a few yards apart, and the ocean was nowhere in sight All of a sudden 2 hikers appeared from the opposite direction. Just as quickly my spirits rose, realizing that the way must be clear to the coast. Sure enough within an hour I reached the tiny settlement of Agia Roumeli and inhaled the salt air of the Mediterranean. The rain had tapered to a drizzle but I still had 2 concerns, first I had very little food left and second how far was Loutro. The whole settlement consisted of 1 family who were less than friendly and didn’t understand a word of English, but they did manage to explain that no food was available, and then set me on the path with the understanding that Loutro was about 4 hours away. Frustrated I set of in mid afternoon following a narrow footpath climbing gently along the coast to the west. All I had to do was keep the ocean on my right and eventually I would reach my destination. An hour or so later my spirits rose again as I noticed the beauty that surrounded me, the rocky cliffs, studded with wild flowers and fragrant herbs were washed by lapis colored waves from North Africa. Then suddenly out of nowhere a man appeared and passed me without saying a word, he moved swiftly, I struggled to keep up but soon lost sight of him. Soon my mood changed again as the pitch increased the footpath disappeared and I found myself up a creek without a paddle. I found myself advancing on all fours following pellets of goat dung. With daylight fading I continued for lack of a better plan. Finally accepting that I was totally lost and alone and in fear of plunging into the sea below my mind and body began to shut down. I dreamed of a cave, which could protect me from the elements, and viola, there it was. Really no more than a flat hollow with a protective ledge above, I made my bed and now would have to sleep in it. I sought out the last morsels of bread and cheese as the wind started to howl and it started to rain, I awoke dreaming of room service (eggs pancakes and coffee) but opened my eyes to find I had nothing to eat or drink but the rain and wind had stopped and the sun was shining. As I gathered my thoughts I heard a tinkle I listened hard and heard it again, I rolled out of my shelter and found myself surrounded by a pack of goats then as if by magic I saw a robust man walking toward me. The hat, boots, moustache and staff the exact image of a Shepard, but to me it was a miracle, He appeared like an angel in my time of need. Contrary to my reception at Roumeli he greeted me with a smile, as if we had an appointment, not at all surprised to see me. Kaleemera we say in unison then he brings his hand to his mouth and lifts his head slightly in a universal gesture, he produces a wet goat skin bladder and takes a drink without touching his lips, then hands it to me and begins to open a neatly wrapped fabric tied to his staff and produces a loaf of course bread a hunk of cheese and some sausage. This simple breakfast does wonders to recharge my body and spirit. With gestures and a few common names we bond in brotherhood. I tell him I am going to Loutro and he nods and holds up 2 fingers, is it 2 hours 2 days or 2 kilometers, who cares, Im not going back. Then he leads me up to a better trail and we depart, realizing that chance brought our worlds together for a brief moment and now it was over. Dripping in sentiment I continue, when he is gone I think of Hansel and Gretel and marking the trail with bread crumbs this time. The new trail is flat and well worn and I make good progress for the next couple of hours, hardly noticing the ruins of chapels, monasteries and numerous military artifacts. I am still hundreds of feet above the Mediterranean, at times it is all I can see because the view is blocked by protruding ridges, then I summit a ridge and dramatically the view opens and there it is half a dozen white washed houses tucked between a rocky hill and a sandy beach in a protected horseshoe cove. I take a deep breath and let it sink in there is no hurry although It is a significant milestone I feel relief above all, no more questions, doubts or fear. I am perched on a point protruding into the sea and it looks like another half hour down to the village. I m determined to soak in as much as possible, ignoring nothing, imagining every stone to be part of something manmade and indeed there are many ruins that would have passed unnoticed in my desperate state just 24 hours ago. I spend four nights in Loutro, I sleep in 4 different houses, I eat and drink with nearly everyone in the village. They are used to guests and are happy to receive them as I learned from other travelers passing thru. Although they do charge a small fee for hospitality I wouldn’t have it any other way. Unfortunately this has all changed as word spread. Today Loutro is crowded with tourists, the lights are on and homes have become hotels and restaurants, there are still no roads but a boat stops there several times a day turning the once remote rustic village into a chic crowded beach resort. Samaria now has a ten dollar entrance fee and the new town of Roumeli is mobbed with day trippers and has carnival atmosphere like a grotesque caricature of all that is Greek.

A Taste of the Third World

My first trip into the third world began as a side trip to Morocco in early 1972. I was on a Grand Tour of Europe. Doing the usual things in all the usual places, London, Paris, Madrid, but when I got to Granada I was struck by the Moorish influences around me and reminded that Africa was so close physically. I had seen the chaotic mix of African cultures in Marseilles, become friends with a Moroccan student in Paris, but now at the Alhambra I was reminded of Moorish dominance for hundreds of years. I would have to go, but because I was only halfway through a 2-month student rail pass, it would have to be a quickie. From Granada to Algeciras was an interesting overnight train ride. As we traveled south we found ourselves the only Caucasians in the third class coach. The majority were Moroccan laborers and the odor of stinky feet was overwhelming, aside from the smell their behavior was rude and offensive as well and I couldn’t wait to be off the train, but was still enchanted by Africa.
We arrived exhausted but eager and in haste we booked a ferry and arrived in Cueta to find we were still in Spanish territory. I blame this on the 2 Germans my traveling companion had aligned with during our contentious train experience. Cueta is a strange place on the border of 2 cultures and 2 continents and we were vulnerable intruders. It is full of seedy hustlers of every kind moneychanger, pimps, and drug pushers were everywhere. In the next 48 hours we were harassed and turned away at the border for reasons unknown 3 times. Finally we returned to Algeciras and took another ferry to Tangiers the fabled city of intrigue. Once there we breezed thru customs and were met by another group of young hustlers one of whom I recognized from Cueta. Since it is impossible to get rid the gang without choosing one, Salim became our keeper. Like most touts Salim spoke English and was charming and genuine, he took us to the Hotel Miami and made his first commission.
Feeling tired from our 4days of near constant travel we were laying low in our beds when Salim returned with the product for which Morocco is most famous. After a little smoke it we all went out for a meal and Salim insisted we visit his uncles shop located in the medina. The medina is a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys filled with exotic sights and smells, easy to get lost in. Our senses being overwhelmed we followed Salim paying little attention, but when we reached the shop the mood changed, Salim disappeared, the shopkeeper and his not so charming assistant became pushy, backed deeper into the dark narrow interior I felt paranoid and fled followed by my companions. Without delay we raced through the medina until we stumbled into the European city and back to the hotel. At the hotel I couldn’t shake the paranoia and decided to leave the next day.
The bus to Casablanca took all day and had a positive effect on our mood. We arrived around 8pm and were immediately invited to have a cup of mint tea with a group of friendly locals. The lively conversation lifted our spirits even more, but we decided to continue to Marrakech that night and began to negotiate a taxi to take us. For the next several hours we sat 4 across in the back seat of a 1960 chevy. While the driver and another passenger sat comfortably in the front. Finally at 3am we arrived in Marrakech, the streets were dark and empty. The one bright spot was the tower of the Koutoubia Mosque, and in a garden with orange and palm trees we opened our sleeping bags and waited for dawn. At that moment I realized an incredible fantasy had become a reality and my perceptions would never be the same. Marrakech is a mind-bending experience, part menagerie, part sideshow, entertaining and intimidating, spiritual and sexual, filled with energy and excitement.
The Djemma El Fna (assembly of the dead) is the focal point of the Unique Marrakech experience. During the day the huge square is center stage for snake charmers, storytellers, musicians, dancers, assorted hustlers and benign lunatics who make their living off the mesmerized tourists. At night the square is crowded with a variety of savory food stalls lit by lanterns casting shadows and an ominous glow as the local’s line up at their favorites take home or eat and gossip while drinking in the atmosphere. After a couple of days we began to get comfortable when a confrontation escalated to a near riot. My hot-blooded companion banged on the trunk of a car that had brushed by in the crowded street. The driver took extreme offense and began to berate us, when he exited his vehicle and continued to verbally assault us a shoving match began and a large crowd gathered. As they surrounded us and shouted insults a policeman arrived and I thought we were saved but instead we were marched off to the police station where there was more shouting and confusion. Since they didn’t understand English and we didn’t understand Arabic they told us in very basic french that since it was Friday afternoon we would have to return on Monday and they confiscated our passports to make sure. This cast a cloud on our plans for a weekend on the beach at Essouira (formerly known as Mogador). The trip there was sunny and pleasant but soon turned dark and damp dragging our spirits with it. As the wind whipped the sand and surf an ominous mood reminded what awaited us in Marrakech.
On Monday morning when we arrived at the police station we were told to return on Tuesday. At 9am on Tuesday we were asked to return on Wednesday, no explanation was ever offered. On Wednesday we were finally asked to explain what had happened, with a 10-year-old street urchin acting as translator an officer wrote down our story in Arabic. When he finished he handed me the pen and told me top sign it. When I refused I was made to strip to my underwear and led down a flight of stairs and locked in a cell filled with dirty, smelly and mean looking criminals. It took me less than 1 minute to say uncle, and start yelling OK ill sign. Thankfully they didn’t make me sweat too long, within minutes I was dressed, my passport returned and I was freed. I never felt such instant relief, like being snatched from the jaws of death, it felt like I hit the lottery.