2:02 AM - Caffinated Thoughts in Tokyo
Current mood: Wired
Category: Wired Travel and Places

The nature of travelling is contrast. Trading what is old for new, familiar for strange, work for vacation. This time the trade is ground to air, rail to wing, train to plane as I sadly leave Norway for my first visit to mainland Europe. In the process Ive traded the cool Scandinavian countryside for humid summer nights in Berlin and London to complete this 3-month mission across the largest continent. The flavour of this last leg of the trip has been adjusted to visit foreign friends in lieu of tourist attractions. There are no more mountains on my schedule, just the joy of seeing people from a distant memories and updating our lives over a pint or two.

The mountains and rugged coast of northern Norway provided me with my final overland leg of the Kathmandu to Olso mission. The first task was getting from the mainland out to the Lofoten Islands that arc out into the Artic Ocean. The Spaniards and I left on the 3 pm boat from Narvik under clear skies. As we throttled up to 24 knots, the KALB ore transport terminal shows it true size along the northern side of the harbour. Massive conveyor belts are stuck into the dark hillside between mountains of ore pellets and dark red operation buildings. One the receiving end of things a freighter waits patiently as the red of its hull disappears into the dark waters under the weight of its cargo.

We speed past the shoreline settlements of small square red and white homes under the two ski fields on the outskirts of town. Our boat is an 18 metre fibreglass hull rig with two 750 HP engines of German origin that require the sealing of all windows a doors due to spray and generally unfavourable deck side conditions. Along our journey I am surprised to see an abundance of small villages that do equal duty with fishing and agriculture. The North Atlantic current does much to make the climate more mild than the same latitudes in Alaska or Greenland. Here the fields that spread under the ever-present mountains are lush with the fast-growing summer crops.

The first mate notes a small island along the way being his home with the school for his first born being a few kms away on the mainland. There are more people up here than I expected, but he notes that Norway has made efforts to keep its more distant populations well-connected to the mainland to ensure that they need not vacate their traditional homelands in favour of an urban life. We jog about the islands, pass a few small whaling boats, and cross a few gaping fjords to eventually land at Svolver, the main northern port of the Lofotens, a few hours later.

The Spaniards and I get the hostel skinny and start a 5 km trek along the road to Kablevard with our box of now-communal food. A few kms later, we are reconsidering our choice of the journey on foot, but a beat up Volvo with some local climbers stops without request and drops us at the Sommer Hotel, an off season campus of sorts. In the dorm it becomes clear that this is a climbing mecca for Scandinavians with its massive walls of granite and endless bouldering opportunities. Its my turn for dinner and I dash to town to secure the standard spaghetti feed along with inadvertently purchased non-alcoholic beer. I still wish the clerk had said something.

An evening chasing the midnight sun sees us clambering about a shoreline with a distinctly Maine feeling to it and gazing north over the mountains. There is an odd black tint along the high tide mark that has a tar-like feel to your fingernails. We conclude that some crude has surfaced in this area in the past.

Oscar, Azsis, and I scramble towards the Cats Ears, a dual-submitted peak behind the village the next day under mixed skies that offered up intermittent views of the vast turquoise blue sea and the grey mainland mountains beyond. There are a few large waterfalls here, some plumbed in to small power stations which supply the towns with enough juice to watch the World Cup as well as power the lights during the winter. Between the village and the mountains are shrubby green lowlands with cross-country ski tracks and shooting ranges, all with lighting along the paths for the dark winter months of minimal sunlight.

After Oscar and I bag the summit, the three of us regroup at the hostel to pack gear for the trip south. On this leg of travel, I turn the box of food over to them and make for Stamsung while the Spaniards head further south for the village of A (pronounced oh). The little hostel I call home that night has some Minnesota pilgrims and a couple Euros, and we all take the time to use the free fishing gear and rowboats to try our hand and the Lofoten job of choice, hand lining. I pull a small cod aboard after 45 minutes and a witty Frenchman snags 4 of the local Coalfish, a mackerelesque fish that is plentiful in these parts. One can find this fish throughout the village, split open on drying racks like clean laundry. The dried product, or stockfiske, is the primary source of income for these villages; the lions share being exported to Spain and other Mediterranean countries.

After a few more days of the midnight sun and cooking spaghetti dinners and talking life philosophy with fellow backpackers, I returned to the mainland to catch up with a few Norwegians that Id met in far-flung locations in the past year. The train South from Trondheim to Bode wove its way through the rumpled fabric of Norways coastal regions as we ducked back below the Artic Circle. The night sun lit up tundra, mountains, forest, and fjords while I traded expensive beer for Norwegian lessons from Einer and Arne in the dining car. I made good progress with my Norske-speak with the Narvik truck-driver and the teacher from Lillehammer, and unleashed a fury of dialects upon Linda when she picked me up at Oslos central station.

The policewoman I had met under curfew in Kathmandu, Linda, had plans for the next week that included a two day run to Joutenhiemer National Park, a day or two sifting about Olso, and a visit to the family cabin deep in the heart of Norways central highlands. Joutenhiemer was sublime, with massive lakes and glaciers on an impressive, three-dimensional scale. The Norwegian mountain club does a fine job of providing cabins and huts throughout the park, some providing beer and salmon steaks a long way from the nearest roadway. My last night in Scandinavia saw a retune to Olso for a few drinks with a former aid worker associate, Marte, whom I had last seen in Banda Aceh at a rubblised wharf almost a year ago. We talked of last years times and on the wonderful aspects of Norway, New Zealand and otherwise. At the end of it all, we went our own ways, greater friends now due to a simple two-hour catch on the other side of the world from the dive resort where Marte had introduced me to Murakami and Royksopp. My departure from Norway en route to Germany the next day had the same melancholy joy as the night before, as if I was leaving too soon, and for no particularly good reason, with nothing more than a promise to return.

Berlin in the midst of World Cup fever delivered a full-strength dose of anonymity as I strolled through the throngs of football (read: soccer) T-shirts supporting all of the 32 teams in the competition. My ex-Jackson compatriot of 23 plus years, Herr King, and I spent our nights recalling our youth of snowy playground breakdancing and hand plants in Jackson, Maine. Hes been a Berlin local for 10 years and our daily environments are worlds part now, however that cynical Maine sense of humour provides a common basis for most discussions. I do my best to keep pace with Colin, his philosophy PhD colleagues, and two of Berlins 2 million Turks, at a Mediterranean bar somewhere deep in the dark 2am streets of the city.

My stay in Berlin offers the opportunity to see a few slices of contemporary history, most notably an infamous wall that was used by NATO to serve as an example to the rest of the world on how hostile regimes would be dealt with. Most East Germans have a definitive point in their lives where all of a sudden the world of capitalism had become available, like some huge outlet chain opening in the middle of Siberia. Some of these kids grew up pretty fast in those times when the wall came down.

From Berlin I headed south to Stuttgart, savouring my second round of cheap Euro air-travel in as many weeks, for a few late night games of petanque with an old friend from my 2003 South American mission. While the lush hilly city was a nice change from Berlin, a relatively unsocial boyfriend suggested that a speedy exit would help the domestic situation. Bowing out by train to Augsburg the next afternoon, I met my old friend Arne that I knew from a hostel in Vancouver in 2002 on the train platform. He graciously took an evening away from a thesis due in two weeks for the ultimate old-boys night out at the pub followed by the late night music exchange and discussions of all topics under the sun. I couldnt quite place his personality when I considered our last meeting in mid 2002 in Vancouver, but after that night, he would be one of closest friends I would visit on this trip.

Only one more spot in Germany remained on the list and that was Worms (yes Worms), Christines home in the west of the country that vies for the title of oldest town in Germany. I showed up on the last day of exams and was forced to revert to my own college days in the form of sticky basement clubs with sauna level temperatures. After a day of mountain biking on a 20-year old vintage fat-tire rig and tasting German wine, we topped off a successful semester with an outside party with a global guest-list. We knocked back a few Calprinas to loosen the trilingual tongues of a few folks from Iraq and Iran and we settled into discussing the current Middle East condition. The common consensus became that the region is simply a dangerous and difficult place to get anything done, due to the religious complexities and events of the past. Saddam was bad news, according to one business student who was 15 years a German, but he also offered stability and there was always the goal of a non-violent regime change inside Iraq. Were the Iraqi people capable of bringing about their own democratic change like the Nepalese? Well never know. All agree that things are in bad shape and intolerance continues to worsen the situation daily.

With a German-Engineered hangover, I made it to London for my final stop with Aunty Jackie and my cousins Lauren and Caroline. An ocean away, Ive had limited contact with these facets of my secondary family over the years, yet our behavioural similarities still provides some evidence of a genetic connection, with a very British twist. Connections in London include a Kiwi Greenpeace logistics coordinator, Aussie wine-country friend, volcano skiing comrade from the 2003 Chile mission, and a longstanding Gonzo chica named Lucie, who will soon be crossing the pond to claim her Yankee status after 5 years pursuing sleeping pills to induce the American Dream.

The combination of this moving about the planet to greener pastures along side locking in for the long haul reminds me of the state of flux that is so common my generation. Its the ultimate exposure of your soul to the world, containing both the vast benefits and drawbacks of a lack of geographical and social focus. But those of us with this slightly hazy vision for the future wouldnt any other way right now, because we know that the rules have been amended to allow for this type of life approach for a while. Ive gotten my share at this point, and now will tidy up my last life in New Zealand before getting back to my favourite place in recent years that is the Pacific Northwest of North America. There all are invited to join me for salmon on the grille and the splendid coast range. Ill now gladly pass the travel life torch to anyone ready to take it.

This adventure-infused life of travel comes with a fine-print disclaimer:

Enjoy a life on your own, in the company of everyone.

En el Mundo, Pax Ahorra

Freeman

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8:46 PM - China - Liang
Current mood: where the hell am I?
Category: where the hell am I? Writing and Poetry

Ni Hao Tsung Chengdu,

The Internet Emperors of China have seen fit to allow hotmail to operate,
and thus I'm able to fire this missive through to you on the outside of the
red curtain.

This is one wiped out agent talking to you right now. To set the scene, I¡¯m
sitting in the foyer of my room here at the Rongcheng Hotel in the
up-and-coming western city of Chengdu. This is the heartland of China and
contains equal parts haze, agriculture and concrete set up against the
eastern slope of the Tibetan Plateau. The reason for my damaged condition is
the 60ish hour straight bus ride I edured to get here from Lhasa. The Tibet
squad parted company on the morning of the 2nd as all the team save for
myself flew back to Kathmandu. Simon had booked a ticket just the day before
as he had no interest in doing the overland trip again. I could have done
the same and saved myself 57 hours of spine-warping, lung-clogging,
english-free mayhem, but that would have been way too easy.

After the team split up I had set out for a leisurely day getting my onward
travel sorted and relaxing after the previous 4 days of monestary mayhem and
high road travel from Shigatse to Lhasa. After a bit of difficult dicussion
at the bus station it became clear that the next bus to Chengdu was that
afternoon and there would¡¯t be another for 4 days. So that was the end to
my down time as preparations were in order for this next phase of elevation
loss and penetration deep into mainland China.

Five days earlier my ill state of health in Lhatse left me wondering if I
was as tough an agent as I have alway purported to be, or at least if I had
underestimated the effects of 5500 metres. The next day we were promised a
short drive and a the first of the many monestaries we would visit. With
chin high and stomach on toast and tea, we got to Shigaste, the seat of the
Panchen Lama and a place of history and suspicion. The monestary was once
home to around 5000 monks, but today a couple hundred run about tending the
yak wax candles and small denomination monetary notes that pilgrims tuck
throughout the many statues like easter eggs. The Panchen Lama today is a
represents a predicatable Chinese twist of one of the main legacies of
Tibetan Buddism, however I¡¯ll let you make your own inquiries into this
matter as I want this email to go out uncensored.

Passing through the gates of Shigatse gave me my first look at the real
deal. A mazelike network of mud brick hallways, temples sleeping quarters
and stupas built in 1447. The rough stone pavers and walls are grey and
white with the black wood and mud roofs peering over top. Fabric ¡®ruffles¡¯
top each window exterior and painted wood of the windows frames, columns and
interior courtyards add colour and humanity to the random network of
sub-geometric building lines. Scattered amongst this world class
hide-and-seek arena are circular stupas with gold painted spires and
postulating incense. Ragged pilgrims march around various stupas and temples
at an easy pace, looking to match the number of times around with the number
of years they¡¯ve been around the sun.

Each monestary has an assembly hall, a couple large temples, and countless
smaller alters and stupas. The temples typically have Budda in some
incarnation and the smaller alters have Budda or other deities present such
as famous past Kings, Lamas and the demonic looking ¡®Protectors¡¯. We step
into one of Shigatses main temples and gaze upon the largest interior Budda
in Tibet. This thing is 13m tall and you cannot see the whole thing at the
same time. All the statues, including this guy have their own colourful
quilted robes sewn to fit. The walls are covered with paintings or wall
hangings (thankas) depicting historic fables and scriptures. Several Large
urns of yak butter sit on a large flat wood table in front, each with a
dozen or so wicks that are tended to by the monks on duty. The monks
ritually snip the top off each one and tap the waste into a large tin pot,
making the most noticeable sound in the place. The only other noise is the
shuffling of feet in a clockwise direction around the Buddah by tourists and
pilgrims alike. . The countless 1 and 5 Jaio (0.1 - 0.5 yuan) notes tucked
around the statues as monetary offerings and presumably collected once in a
while.

There are only a few other parties today, one from the Netherlands and a few
others from Japan or China. Each has a guide who gives their own
interpretation or information on each statue. Our guide Tesring gives a
quick, broken English summary of the monestaries history and then notes each
statue as we pass by. ¡®Teaching Buddah, Future Budda, Compassion Budda,
Tsongkapa, and others are mentioned but I haven¡¯t got the mental capacity
to try to remember any yet other than the Compassion Budda which I'm about
to meet in extra-strength size. The next temple houses an 8m high Compassion
Budda and I spend more than a few moments staring eye to eye at this guy
from my lowly spot 1.9 metres above the ground. The serene gaze from the
blue, red and white eyes is as calm as a glassy lake at dawn, and is deep
and full of the purest intent, knowledge, and love for all sentient beings.
The Dalai Lama is the reincarnation of the Compassion Budda and as far as I
can tell, compassion the single greatest thing that humans can have, and
that we currently lack as a species.

I leave a one yuan contribution on a stack of sunflower seeds in a rough
gold urn and nod to the monk as I exit. He nods back with a smile conviced,
determined, and at peace with his lifes role. Our party plods along to the
main assembly hall, devoid of monks, and finishes the round by passing
through a large square with a 15m pole in the centre wrapped in colourful
prayer flags. The pole, our guide explains, represents the head of the Budda
and is used during festivals to hang all manner of flags and banners. If the
head comes down, Buddism will cease, however it¡¯s supported by two large
cables to the surrounding structures and gets changed every 10 years or so.
I¡¯m glad they choose not to take chances.

I¡¯m still coping with life at 4000 metres so I separate from the crew after
the tour is done and set out to find simple ramen noodles and the internet.
The internet caf¨¦ is a smokey lab of sorts is a 3 story Chinese department
store. I fire off enough emails to allow my mother to sleep and confirm the
shipment of my lifes possessions to Seattle and head back to my first
Chinese hotel clutching dinner in dry form. To quote Dr. Suess (I think)
¡°The beds are like rocks, and as everyone knows, the sheets are too short,
they won¡¯t cover your toes¡±. I like a firm bed and all, but these things
are stiff on a scale unknown to this westerner, and made for those of
typically Asian height.

We move on the next morning with the promise of a 3 hour drive over rough
country and the afternoon to explore another monestary in Gyanste. From the
wide river plain of Shigatse, we leave the tarmac of the Friendship Highway
and move back into the highlands and rough country of the southern Tibetan
Plateau. The drive moves up a smaller tributary river past two large
reservoirs. There is little flora save for the sparse bushes that crowd
along what ever water still moves freely. Caught up in these spiney soldiers
are a scattering of plastic bags of most any colour. This is a frequent
scene along all the roads we¡¯ve travelled in Tibet and Nepal. The concept
of litter just does not exist, save for the most sacred of temples and
Chinese government compounds. At high points in the road, the multicoloured
trash gives way to multicoloured prayer flags stretched out to take whatever
wind is available and send the thoughts of mortals skyward.

By noontime we are approaching Gyanste and can see ramparts above the town
that would make any Dungeons and Dragons player think he had passed through
some portal finally and could live out his dreams as a level 12 cleric or
something. The town is smaller that the last with only two main streets,
each about 35 metres wide and is primarily occupied by tractors, bikes and
motorcycles. The bags are stowed in the hotels and we set out with Tesring
to check out the monestary which is smaller that Shigatse by comparison, but
with a more relaxed vibe. This is probably due to my general improvement in
health more than anything. We roam the temple and pagoda of many Buddas
before setting off up the hill on our own to visit a lonely looking
structure above the temple and to walk the kora (large red perimeter wall)
on the hill above the monestary.

The solitary building above the monestary seems to be a monks residence and
we pass through dark corridors and up steep ladders to gain the roof. Small
alcoves with miniature fruit trees and washtubs indicate home to a dozen or
so monks who look at us with curiosity as we explore the upper floors and
roof carte blanche. I am invited into a side room with a low ceiling by a
cheery monk and sit on a rough bench with a few rugs on it next to a window
overlooking the monestary below. He points a laughs at my exceptionally
shaggy stubble and the rubs his face with my hand to show that he is amused
at this bona fide difference our physiology. He illistrates this further by
tugging up my pantleg lightly to note my leg hair and then offers his own in
comparison. A picture frame is taken down and he points to a few photos,
washed by sunlight, of an older couple at a farming village somewhere in
this vast land.

After pointing and gesturing a while longer, my new friend takes my face in
his hands and draws an increasingly startled me close as if to whisper
something. It appears he wants a kiss and I skilfully divert the attempt to
a hug (I've seen move before, although it's normally me who gets re-routed).
This man is human, with a very human desire for compassion and tenderness. I
give what I can in the form of a prolonged embrace with all love I can have
for a simple monk in a country that has lost much of it¡¯s identity due to
it¡¯s benevolent nature. With a smile I depart and rejoin my team of
intrepid explorers as they must be wondering where I¡¯ve disappeared too.
Before I leave, my host takes a string of prayer beads off a squat Budda
statue and places them around my neck. I fish out a short strand of cord
with a wire twisted at the end to resemble the infinity symbol at the end,
place it over the Budda, and duck under the doorway cover into the waning
sun.

Adam Josh and I head up from the residence to one of the kora towers with a
team of 3 Dutch girls, cutting a large circle around three mangy dogs
tethered to large rocks. I pick my way along a steep, narrow dirt path while
sorting out the recent events in the monk residence. Does this change my
feelings about Buddhism? Since last year I¡¯ve found solid support of my
beliefs regarding the need to incorporate kindness in all my actions by
words from the Dalai Lama that are ultimately from the scriptures of Budda.
How does this exceptionally friendly monk fit into the picture? As I puff up
the hill to around 4100m (elevation monitoring thanks to my very expensive,
heavy, shiny watch) I decide to file the experience away for future
comptemplation. Adam, Josh and the Dutch girls make it to the tower directly
above the residence and we begin to walk across the half metre wide shelf
along the top. We check out about half of the entire structure, taking
photos of a distant high monestary a set of vacant ramparts above the town
proper.

After Adam and I get cliffed out in a tower without a way down, we take more
dusty dirt paths down to the plaza at the gate. I notice the absence of
Simon in our group and Adam says he hadn¡¯t seen him since he disappeared
into a monks chamber at the residence. After a few minutes, I come clean
about my experience and the boys give me a good bit of abuse. Apparently
Adam had done the same thing, but his Christian roots got him out right
after the pantleg routine. On the street outside the gates, we flag down an
empty tractor and become the gringo parade through town to the hotel.

Later on Simon shows up and a good laugh is had by all as he had essentially
the same experience as me. Checking with our respective travel guides, it
becomes clear that Buddhist monks have historically had relationships
between men and women. As a French philosopher of sorts would tell me weeks
later in China, it is a ¡®grey area¡¯ that is part of being the human that
you have become and that you are. I wonder if the Archbishop feels that way?

The next day is a dusty one to Lhasa. Tashi Gompa takes us past Yamzhog
Lake, the most holy lake in Tibet, that the Chinese are slowly draining to
make hydropower. At a high pass between the lake and the river valley that
will lead us to Lhasa, he stops and purchases a roll of prayer flags. Tashi
Gompa, Simon and I string these up from two large rocks over the road cut.
These will be ours, to flutter away into the Tibetan landscape for years in
our absence. From the pass we descend into the Kyichu river valley and on to
Lhasa with it¡¯s majority Han Chinese population, tourist mayhem, and glass
clad Buddas. It is sad to think of what Lhasa once must have been.

We pack into the hotel, say our goodbyes to our maniacal, yet fully likable
drivers and look for the internet and food. The two days we have here are
spent checking out a few holy sites and monestarys along with the Potala
palace with it¡¯s CCTV security, uptight museum style intimacy, and throngs
of Chinese tourists. The monestarys out of town have a sizeable student body
and provide glimpses into monk life from the crackling debates held at the
Sera monestary to the sublime chanting in the grand assembly hall at the
Drepung monestary. I had planned to do some trekking here, but after more
than a week at altitude, the dusty Chinese signboards over Tibetan artifact
shops, and the overall feeling of the forced assimilation of this truly
unique culture, I am starting to want out. I want trees and Chinese where
they ought to be. The third morning, all the team but myself are off to
Kathmandu via plane so we get the final photo op at 7 am with Tesring,
exchange emails, and go our own ways.

So now I'm on my own, solomente mi, on this bus. It¡¯s a sleeper and by some
miracle, I¡¯ve been given the 4th out of 5 seats along the back bottom level
so I¡¯m in line and can stretch my legs out in the aisle. I¡¯ve got a
rambuncheous young monk to my right and a time tested security guard on my
right. No English at all. Tesring had suggested I go my air, but that
doesn¡¯t work with my plan for my trip. 30 hours later and halfway there, I
would rethink this position.

The first 20 hours are needed just to get off the plateau to Golmud on a
shattered roadway alongside large tankers and small farm vehicles. And
through the sun and snow, the recently completed railroad is visable within
km or two, but still not an option for passenger travel. The trip includes
three breakdowns and a 2 hours stop at a police checkpoint somewhere where
my papers get the least attention out of all. We stop every 6 hours or so
for breaks and eat once a day at untidy little courtyards with no signage to
indicate that food may be purchased within. The gate is usually locked
behind us as well. The routine begins to centre on getting me drunk and
making me eat food that gets more and more spicy as we get closer to the
Shizwan Province. Both rice wine and Piju (beer) are used and the whole
effort is laced with cigarettes. I try to start with my Chinese lessons, but
they don¡¯t seem to clue into my repetition as an attempt to say something
correctly and find it a source of great humour.

I¡¯ve no words to fully describe the 60ish hour ride, other than it became
the ¡¯Bus of Doom¡¯ whenever I was forced to get back on the thing and tuck
myself into my 30cm wide berth where personal space is purely subjective,
thankfully. We pull into Chengdu on a hazy morning and I¡¯m in a serene
state knowing that it¡¯ll soon be over, forgetting about the mess that my
back muscles are in now. By 10 am I¡¯m at a guesthouse, showered and ready
for anything. Time to reclaim my ¡®vacation¡¯ with ice cream, a
straight-razor shave, and a back rub, all for less than 8 dollars New
Zealand.

Zia Jian wei Xianzai,

Freeman

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8:49 AM - Fine, something more recent
Current mood: Chinese

The Gonzo Field Report from Goldfields Heights (Post dated 5 days)

Well, there you go, 2 years of soaking in the Queenstown ambience off the list. In this time we¡¯ve seen the Texan Terrorist claim term two and his cold war dreams turn into Iraqi civil war. Watching these events unfold from the New Zealand box seats has provided better view than the republicans in the front row seats seem to get.

These days the view has been a routine of gray downpours, rainbows, and frosted peaks from the deck of my third residence in two weeks. My Queenstown exit strategy on April Fools day has been delayed three weeks due to a messy wrist fracture courtesy of the Skippers Canyon downhill track and I¡¯ve cashed in most of my Queenstown favours for bed space to see me through. These extra three weeks has been needed to secure my Russian visa anyways. It¡¯s hard to argue with Russians.

My two years have run by at the speed of life, but every day of recent memory has highlighted the great times I¡¯ve had in this eclectic mountain community that counts me as one of their own. New Zealand is the best attempt at a modern Utopia on the planet as far as can I see. Aotearoa is grappling with the same suburban hassles as the rest of us (boy racers, racial identity, blind development? but the TV spots to encourage responsible drinking, physical recreation, and political involvement to it¡¯s citizens makes one feel more a part of the team and less like a fan in obscured seating. The lack of religious infiltration into politics makes issues quite a bit simpler and universal.

I¡¯ll keep silent on what the next three months itinerary, we¡¯ll just say ¡®Asia¡¯ and leave it at that. My plan is to return to New Zealand in July to get one more set of back to back winters before looking for my own Canadian 40 acres.

Zhang Mu

We¡¯ve made it through the border to Tibet but not without a 10 minute debate with our guides on the lack of jeeps and a poorly received idea to split up our tour. There are 6 of us from the US, Colombia, Canada, and Germany. I¡¯d guess that there are less than a dozen ex-pats in Zhang Mu, which is a dusty town 10 km up a contorted bed of rocky roadbed. We¡¯ve got to 2500m above sea level today and gain another 3000m tomorrow before we descend onto the Tibetan plateau. Tonight I polish off a Chinese Pabst Blue Ribbon beer at the Ganggyeng Hotel with Dolker as we listen to the Venga Boys.

I bailed from Queenstown on Friday afternoon the 21^st after a morning run to Invercargill to have a pin pulled out of my wrist allowing rotation of my ulna and radius for the first time in 5 weeks. I convened with my editor in south Auckland for the night at the Ultra Caf¨¦. The next day my last supplies were picked up and I headed for the airport with a final wave to New Zealand. My 12 hour Bangkok layover was largely spent stretched out behind the castle in the kiddie-land waiting for TG 319 to Kathmandu.

Kathmandu brought back the memories of Indonesia as I searched the name cards being pushed up against the window by an army of would be guides and porters. There was a subdued air about as the curfew was in full effect until 8 pm that night. Our tourist bus made a B-line through checkpoints along the Ring Road and deposited a handful of gringos in the trekka mecca of Thamel. As I sallied up to the lobby desk at the Kathmandu Guest House a shaggy 6¡¯-4¡± chap was mulling his room choices. I suggested a double and 10 minutes later I was back on the tropical nicotine train with a actor/teacher from Montreal named Chris.

Apparently we were free to wander the Thamel area but would meet police checkpoints if we ventured further afield. We knocked down a couple Everest Lager Beers an wandered out of the gates to the narrow streets chocker full of colourful outdoor adventure signs to rival our fair Queenstown. Tying everything together were the 5 story buildings and spider web of power and communications wires. Chris had been in town prior to the demonstrations that had caused the curfew to be imposed and lamented at the current lack of ric-shaws and street vendors. After I met up with my contacts and organized my trip north, we relaxed at the guest house caf¨¦ and I felt the first twinges of a serious travel holiday sink in.

The next days curfew came at 11 am so Chris, myself and another Pacific Northwest Yankee made some morning rounds to see the stupas and spin some prayer wheels. There were the obligatory salesmen at every turn, but as we ventured further from Thamel (to where?) there were fewer internet cafes and a noted increase in small wooden platforms with potatoes, greens, and spices being attended by aged Hindu women with colourful third eyes. Along any street you could find small brick monuments stained with the dye of flower pedals over scorched stones and incense leftovers. The daily routine of those that wander these narrow dirt streets includes many a visit to both microwave-sized shrines and 4-story temples. Daily life is a mix of work, socializing (standing around with conviction) and prayer. Argueably a polar opposite to that of the corporate G-8 world.

That afternoon we beefed up our security by adding Linda the Norwegian policewoman to the ranks of team Dwarka, so named as this was the false location we gave to the police checkpoint official as we attempted to be proper tourists. He kindly informed us of the curfew and suggest we look at places more local for cultural stimulation. The airport shuttle bus driver agreed to drop us off near Dwarka on his next run and after avoiding a few more checkpoints, we got to Pashitina in time for the funeral pyre to get fired up. From a line of port-a-loo sized temples across the Bagahati river we staked out a corpse in a yellow shall as it was prepared for its trip to the heavens. The male family members bless the body as a young man prepares a pyre of grass, wood, and sticks. The body is put in place and the eldest son takes a torch around it three times before lighting the fire. Wet branches are added to increase the amount of smoke to signify a successful journey home for the spirit. A few hours later we took the back alleys home to Thamel, catching the original checkpoints officials eye as we strode by defiant.

The word that night was a helicopter to the border in the morning which had just the right amount of Tom Clancy to make me jazzed for the idea even though it wouldn¡¯t allow the Kathmandu ¨C Oslo on surface travel concept fly. Not to worry though as the previous evenings speech by Nepali President Ganyerana??????? Kept a large planned demonstration from happening and the roadblocks open. We would go by bus after all. 100 km up the Bhasti Lomo??? River and on to Nylam. All went well until getting through the border and learning of the snow a jeep issues that would keep us in Zhang Mu for that night. So here I am. This is not the Pabst Blue Ribbon I know.

The skies are clear today as we load up two early 90s vintage Landcruisers and start the winding trip to Nylam and the Tibetan Plateau. Our guide Tsering is in the rig in front of us with Joshua, Adam, and Remy. Anette, Simon, and I, along with our guide Gompa Tashi stop near the top end of town and pick up three more passengers. Passang, Tenzig Norgay, and Kenzi are joining us for the ride to Tingri. Passang and Tenzig have been in Dharmsala for three years since Tenzig was born and they are now returning home.

The drive creeps up an immense and steep-sided mountain valley with wiry trees and bushes that are beginning to show the arrival of spring. We pass through 3 or 4 snow trenches in avalanches from the recent spring snow and leave the vegetation behind for the alpine zone. Here and there a yak herder can be seen sharing the one lane road with us. Tenzig is up front with me and clutches a rack of milk treats.

We reach Nylam amidst soaring knife-blade peaks of the Hymalaya and stop to talk with Tsering. When he sees our passengers, he asks if they have asked us for permission to travel with them. We indicate that it is alright, but he requests that one of us write our approval on a piece of paper so he has something to show the authorities. I scribble out an avidavit of sorts and put my John Hancock on the bottom.

From Nylam, it is up and up to the pass that will take us onto the Tibetan Plateau. Clouds and flurries have arrived reducing visability and dashing any hopes that we will see Everest. We make a quick stop at the ?? Pass for photos and a cleaning of the windshield, and begin a mucky rough decent that goes on for 2 hours until we reach the tarmac strip of a centre road in Tingri. The town is about 200m long, but he blacktop stretches for a full km from one end of town to double as a runway for fighter jets should the need ever arrive. Tingri is our lunch stop today and we slip behind a heavy curtain into a mud-brick meeting house with a large dung-burning stove in the centre. Simone and I relax and sip tea while a few locals chat with a new child. I can feel a nausea coming on, and order a noodle soup in hopes that will calm this altitude affected stomach of mine. After I put down a cm of soup, thick with yak butter, I politely excuse myself and go outside for more air. Four and a half minutes later I¡¯m getting rid of the soup and tea on top of three puppies heads. Get it while it¡¯s hot kids. I¡¯m not alone as Passang is doing the same thing as we pack up and hit the road a few minutes later.

The next 4 hours sees us decending barren valleys with modest yak herder villages here and there. We leave Passang, Kenzi, and Tenzig in New Tingri and call it a drive at Lhatse. I bury myself under covers in a mudbrick guest house and try to ward of the cold sweats. One more heave and I try to get to sleep, feeling the distance between me and a familiar world.

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11:48 PM - The First Gonzo Field Report
Current mood: Dharma

Sent: Saturday, September 06, 2003 4:31 PM
Subject: From the Lan Lenas Gonzo field office...

Right! Here we go. Obviously if I wrote to everyone Id be here for hours. This is the current status of your field operative in Las Lenas, Argentina.

All of this is true, I swear.

Pulled in 2 days ago at Las Lenas to melting corn snow and green grass. So I can make the most of that by getting right sideways on good local wine and sipping swill with the gringo rippers from Whistler to London. There are a couple of just plan silly night clubs (OONC, OONC, OONC, to heavy bass beat) so there was a grand representation of Maine swing and contra dance on de dance floor. I can swing to your techno anyday chicas!

Woke the next day to 5 cm of new snow in full harf. By the next morning we had 20 cm at the base and 40 reported on top (Upper lifto no runno due to winds). But we rode today on 20 cm of windy smooth stuff and only hit a few rocks, ect. Looks like the big shit will open tomorrow. So we have gone from spring to deep winter in a day.

The currency exchange is kicking at 3 to 1. I figure to be here for another week or so depending on conditions and then down to Bariloche. My espanol es no bueno, but improving.

Buenos Aries was mucho loco but things are starting to make a bit more sense. It is such a totally different culture with its own interpretation of modern life. The architecture is some of the towns on the east side of the Andes is fantastic. What they do with what they have is astounding. I highly recommend a tour by anyone. Getting here is an exercise in large space awareness, if that makes any sense.

At any rate, the snow is good and some great folks, local and gringo.

Thats the score for this skybox, more to follow as events warrant.

Freehatz

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