* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Howdy, my name is Wade and I'm a traveler. For the past eight years I have been wandering this here planet. Nearly 40 countries on five continents. What follows are my impressions of the world as I travel through it- The musings of the Wanderlust. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
You take the below list of travel blogs that have already been nominated (you can check them out if you want to) and then you add a couple more travelogues to the list that you think deserve to be mentioned. Then you copy and paste it all into a posts on your travelogue so that it circulates around between other travel writers. I found some pretty good travel blogs in here that I did not previously know about, so I think that it is a pretty good idea.
So here it goes- I would like to add tht following travelogues to this list:
I began my perilous journey into the French language today. After nearly three weeks of trying to turn up a tutor who would be willing to teach me for a decent price, I finally found one. His name is Abdel, and he seems to be as kind a man as they come.
We had a long walk from our meeting place in the ville nouvelle of Meknes to where our lessons would take place in a suburb called Combatar. I was told that this suburb was once a French military enclave during the time when Morocco was fighting for independence. The French lost and left the enclave behind for the Moroccans. They moved in. The place still looks French, as they left behind their trademark straight streets and made right angles out of everything- the streets, houses, parks . . .all perfect right angles.
As Abdel and I walked, we just talked about life and all the overtly simply things that people say to each other just because they are walking side by side. He told me that he wanted emigrate to the USA and asked me how he can go about doing it. “I don’t know, Abdel, I am just a peon over there,” I thought, but then proceeded to give him all the advice that I could.
“I have a Moroccan friend who emigrated to the USA,” he began, “and he is now very happy.”
Poor Abdel truly believes in the existence of a land of possibility across the shining sea. What could I tell him? To enjoy his life out in the arid wastes of Morocco? I could not do that. So I offered all the words of encouragement that I could and tried to sound hopeful. “A lot of people get there,” I said, “there is no reason why you can’t be among them.” My statement was the truth.
The straight streets and right angles of the old French onclave of Combatar.
Abdel and I then walked by a large group of beggars sitting on a street curb. This provoked Abdel to make a comment that I completely took me off guard and left me grasping for my bearings:
“Those people are retard,” he said with his usual mild manner of delivery.
I stumbled a little at the shock of such a callous statement coming from such a modest, kind hearted man. He continued:
“They are just sitting there waiting to die. They eat, drink, and if they smoke cigarettes, smoke just waiting to die. They do no good; they only reproduce. I think that the government should do something about them, I think they should take them away.”
The weight of these harsh words being spoken so calmly, emotionlessly, and almost nicely smacked me into a near fit of exasperated laughter. I was in disbelief that such a statement could be delivered with such a sweet tone of voice.
Abdel then flashed me a little sideways smirk and squinted his bright eyes ever so slightly. He was putting me on a little.
I was becoming rather fond of my new friend, I thought as we entered into the classroom where he would give me my French lessons. It was a small room full of little school child things: crayon drawings on the walls, cartoon drawings of lessons, pink and light blue everywhere, and little school desks that I was somehow suppose to squeeze my man-sized body into.
My first lesson in the French language began with a high paced run down of pronunciation. At one point we were going over the French counting system and Abdel was trying to think of a way to explain why there did not seem to be any reason to it, but then gave up and just exclaimed that:
“The French people are stupid”
I pondered this for a moment and realized that it was a completely ingenious statement. There could be no better explanation for the inconsistencies found in languages than this simple line of reasoning. Next time I am teaching English I am sure to answer all questions the same way. I was beginning to like Abdel’s teaching style.
I soon got the impression that Abdel really believed that education should be the main determinant of social status. He stood in the corner of Athens against a world of Sparta. He was an idealist, struggling against a world and time that did not mirror his ideas. Abdel is a dreamer, and all dreamers live in ideas.
I began feeling pity for this species of dreamers who stubbornly refuse to pervert their dreams into the set forms that providence dished out for them. I want to live and run with these dreamers, who are sure to be shriveled in their graves before they let their cherished dreams dry sterile. I stand among you, fellow dreamers, and I feel joyous pity for our fare in this cold unmoldable universe. Our dreams are our realities, and they are always beautiful.
Open area of Meknes Medina.
Family that runs the Restaurant Omnia, where I am given meals at a reduced price. Maybe I just look a little destitute?
Moroccan acrobats perform in the large meeting area near the Meknes Medina.
My fruit man tried to hustle me yesterday. Perhaps he thought that I am so stupid that I would not notice if he tried to charge me twice as much for my fruit than he usually does. I noticed, and just walked away, disgusted and mango-less. My run with this fruit man has come to an end. I once though that he was a beacon of urban fruit vending honesty, but I was mistaken. I weep because I liked this one; he was really really small and would smile at me when I would give him my produce to weight. But it is over. On to the next fruit man . . .
Finding a good fruit man in a city is, oddly, one of the most daunting task that I found in travelling. In only a select few countries (like China) do you not get routinely ripped off while trying to buy fruits and vegetables in urban areas (country people, as a rule, are less apt to hustle travelers and there is also more supply and less demand than in cities). Now, I realize that I do not know the going rate of fruits and vegetables in every country that I travel through, but I do know that a few bananas should not cost two dollars in Morocco; Mongolia maybe, but not Morocco. After you have been travelling for a while you kind of develop a world-wide gage for how much things should cost. But produce vendors in cities seem to think that I have no idea how much a bundle of bananas should cost, and they usually shoot high- way high- as a rule (all foreigners are rich, right?). I can not blame the vendors, as they are just trying to make an easy buck off of people that they think money has no value to anyway. I have also watched Europeans pay over two dollars for a few bananas in Morocco. I would actually assume that charging foreigners these exponentially raised prices probably works 8 out of 10 times.
The problem for me comes when I refuse to pay a bloated price on principle. I stroll up to a produce cart, pick out what I want to eat, a nonsensical show of “weighing” the fruit ensues, and I am often charged a crazy price. Rather that paying it, I usually scoff, turn, and walk away fruitless. Who wins? I do not lower my “principles” and pay an increased price, but I also do not have any fruit to eat.
I need to just stay in the countryside, where I can gobble down fruits at will and pick vegetables right off the vine. Dogs eat other dogs in every city on this planet. It is just the way that it has always been . . . since Cain abandoned the ways of pastoral migration and build the first city walls. . . since Romulus and Remus battled for the right to found Rome . . .and onward into the annals of civilization: the history of brother fighting brother.
“Travelling and dreaming are part of the same phenomenon. If you don’t allow yourself to dream while travelling, you are missing half of the show.”
I wrote these words but a few days ago. I think that I momentarily stopped dreaming here in Meknes. I began going about my day as if I were programed: write, go to the internet café, find food, write, go to bed. It seems to me that people created computers to work on patterns that resemble human thought; but too much time on a computer can create a human who thinks in 111111's and 000000's. That is to say: become a mechanized, mechanical, computer of the flesh.
I must admit that I became a walking android for the past couple of days. I was beginning to feel worn out with Meknes, Morocco, Ramadan, and North Africa. I was beginning to loath the fact that I cannot get a meal here until 6:30 PM, and my steady diet of crackers and sardines was preemptively filling my mind with fleeting thoughts of anorexia. My daydreams were continually drifting north to Spain, which is less than a day’s journey away, where I could eat huge a breakfast of eggs and rice, a grandiose lunch of bean burritos and french fries, and I could wash down a big, cheap dinner with an even bigger bottle of beer while watching the sun set over the southern sea. All of this in a country where I could talk to people in their native tongue and dance with senoritas and run with bulls and all of that flaky Spanish dreaming jargon that you see in travel brochures at airports. But this was sounding pretty good to me.
And I was missing the show right in front of me.
Today, when I arrived home at the hotel I mounted the familiar staircase to my little room that sits patiently at the top. I was locked in the depths of melancholia and the programed mindset that comes along with working far more than playing. I was wasted, exhausted, and, yes, even bored- the sights of these busy Arab streets failed to interest me, the smells of the souq no longer roused my attention, and the sound of music was not warming my heart. But today I noticed something that I did not pay too much attention to before: the stairwell went up another floor! “Do these stairs go to the roof?” I asked myself. They did. I quickly ran up them. Once on the roof and out of the gloom of a midday hotel, I realized the majesty of the city that stretched out before me. “This place is ancient,” I thought. I knew then that this city was more amazing than what I was making it out to be. I stood out there in the cloudy afternoon sky, on top of a fortress looking over the rooftops of the city’s fortifications. I was recharged, refreshed. I leaped from my slumber and into the moment. I was in Morocco, I was at the northern brink of Africa I again felt that gentle smile of excitement comes across my face. I was back.
Streets of Meknes.
So I rushed out into the streets, laughed when two wrestling little boys wrestled themselves into me and noticed how funny turkeys look when a man is dragging them around upside down by their legs. I took in the entire street scene that was ever transforming and changing all around me: people talking, young men laughing and chasing each other into traffic, two Frenchmen helping an old beggar across the busy street, and the old lanes of the medina which looked as if they were groomed and molded my Time himself. “This place is amazing,” I said to myself as I ventured deeper into the old city.
I then realized that the old quarters of these ancient Arab cities look like great ant farms laid upon their sides- winding streets and lanes give way to even more curving alleyways and tight, dark corridors delve deep into the interiors of the colony. There are no real maps for these old quarters, as they seem to have been constructed before the age of planned architecture; these medinas are about as organic and natural a city structure that human civilization has yet spun out. Nothing that is organic can really be mapped. I relished the idea of this, and I took great joy in today’s wanderings around the old Meknes medina.
Sometimes in travel you just get a little tired, slightly unamused; sometimes in life you become wrapped up in abstract activities and forget to smell the beautiful flowers as you walk past. I think this is the way any lifestyle is. Sometimes you just need to be woken up to the splendor that blooms all around you.
Mira is good at doing this to me. She knows how to wake me up a little, like a good woman should.
The Cancion del Vagabundo website (which is the homepage that accompanies this travelogue) is finally taking a little shape. There is now content on all of the pages and I put up some new pages as well. Pleas note, that these pages will perpetually be growing with more content as I travel along.
A large and simmering clay tagine dish full of chicken and vegetables was placed down in front of me at a quaint little sidewalk restaurant in the Moroccan city of Meknes. As the westerner that I am, I quickly assembled my silverware and made preparations to begin my assault of the good, warm meal that tantalizingly sat before me. But, just as my gluttonous attack was about to commence, I was quickly stopped short by the sideways glances of the be-robed Muslim men who were sitting all around me. They also had delicious meals sitting on the table in front of them awaiting their oral splendor, but their faith decreed that they had to wait for the evening prayer before they could dine. For it was Ramadan in Morocco, and the Breaking of the Fast is an event to be celebrated, revered, and cherished- it was not something that I could thoughtlessly plunge into.
So I reluctantly lowered my silverware, un-cocked my gastronomical artillery, retreated to the back of my seat, and was awakened to the scene around me. The little sidewalk restaurant was full of Muslim men, who were all sitting one to a table, nobody was talking, and everybody seemed to be in the midst of quiet, spiritual introspection. The scene was austere and almost melancholy. As I became increasingly aware of the mood of my surroundings, I too assumed the quiet, introverted posture that permeated the atmosphere. Another man quickly rushed in to the restaurant and was seated right next to me at my table, but we did not greet each other or make any other friendly advances- he was simply there to break his fast and nothing more. So we all sat there with our hands in our laps awaiting the religious wails from the loudspeakers of every Mosque within earshot to announce that it was time for us to eat. During these waiting moments we all seemed to be entranced in our own little worlds; completely lost in the continuum of our own thoughts and meditations. A man in a long white robe and little white skull cap was sitting at the table in front of me. He would occasionally give me long sad glances from time to time and then go back to staring at his food. Why were these men alone during such a festive, family oriented season of celebration? Why were they not inside of a warm home before a great feast with their relatives talking and joking about the events of the day? Why did they seem so downtrodden, so weary, as they sat slumped in their chairs at a restaurant during this beautiful holiday season? Even more pertinently, why were they un-wittily sharing their evening repast with myself: a foreigner who had not a friend or acquaintance in the entire country?
I could not answer these questions as I sat there idly poking at the lumps of chicken that floated in my quickly cooling clay dish. My own isolation seemed to reveal itself all the more vehemently in the company of these men, whose language I could not understand and ways I could not interpret. I suddenly began dreaming my way across the sea, to a family that I have out there somewhere, and to a girlfriend who was probably dreaming about me having romantic adventures in Morocco. I all of a sudden began to fell not so adventurous, and, in this moment, I was able to sympathize with the lonesome, be-robed Muslim men who had not a family to share the joys of this great Ramadan celebration. We were all, for what ever reason, caste away into the lonely seas of ourselves.
These Meknes days have been relaxing to say the least:
I wake up casually in the morning Do a little writing or reading Eat a little breakfast Put my clothes on Walk a few meters to the internet parlor Work for three to five hours Walk a few meters back to the hotel Eat a little dinner Do a little writing or reading Casually go to sleep
This is a ridiculously simple way to live. Good thing that I am only going to keep this up for a few more days. Then I think that I will go off into the mountains for a week or so and use the www.couchsurfing.com database (my username is Canciondelvagabundo if any of you want to add me as a friend) to find some Moroccan families to stay with.
Staying in people’s homes while travelling has been both a rewarding and frustrating experience for me. Unless I was writing an ethnography, and therefore “at work” all the time, I do not think that I would want to live in a home-stay environment for more than a few days at a time. But staying with families has also provided me with great insights into what goes on “behind closed doors” that have been extremely interesting. But over eight years of travels has taught me that all cultures are the same and the things that go on “behind closed doors” is usually always the same no matter where in the world you lay your head. Though I say this not to detract from the special interest that is inherent to getting into a culture, but rather as a statement to the fact that human culture is far more homogenous than we are led to believe. But the real joy of staying with families while travelling is being privy to the stories that live and breath behind every closed door on this planet- I want to hear them all.
This is one of the great affairs of travelling: the stories and tales that you are privileged to hear on every corner of the globe. You kind of collect them as you move along. Then, when the mood is right, and you are with a paltry bunch of fellow road-dogs on a moon lit night, you pull them out to share one- by- one. The other travellers do the same and you end up in the midst of a great exchange of tales, yarns, and bad jokes that were gathered and collected from around the world and swapped like trading cards. It makes us all a little richer.
So I have been working away at this website project with great diligence- hours and hours every day- and I think that it may be coming together a little. I now average 26 visitors a day. Haha, I am such a small fish. But I have the resolve to keep going and, like we are raised to believe in America: I think that I can do anything, that everything is fixable, that anything can be how I imagine it, and hard work pays off. This is perhaps one of the greatest lies of our age, but I still believe it none the less.
This takes me to talking about another old friend, Marie Trigona, who seems to believe that there is a solution to all problems. I was on MSN Messenger yesterday and a window popped up in the right hand corner of my screen that said, “Marie.” I quickly clicked on this name, as I have not had any communication with her for a couple of years. She is an American journalist who has been working in Buenos Aires ever since the political eruptions at the beginning of this decade.
I saw her for the first time in 2002 at Chicago- Ohare. We were on the same flight and were waiting to board the plane. She walked by me and had one little dreadlock that was sticking up out of the top of her head. I could not stop looking at this curious little dreadlock. On the flight my seat was behind her’s, and I got to stare at this little dreadlock for the entire flight to Miami.
Once in Miami I saw the curious little dreadlock sitting on a seat in the terminal. I decided that I was going to introduce myself to it. So I went to sit down on the seat behind its owner (the seats were arranged in a back to back fashion) and she began talking to me. This startled me and totally usurped my plans for how I was going to break the ice.
She was a radical journalist.
I was a radical nothing.
So we chatted and became pen pals- a correspondence that we kept up for around three years; until I realized that the world isn’t so horrible after all and we quickly ran out of things to write about.
Well, she is still in Buenos Aires fighting the system, downing the man, and writing magazine articles to prove it to the entire world. It is amazing to me that she has been able to keep her stamina up to do this for so long. She is still fighting the same fight that she was all those years ago when I was mystified by that little dreadlock in an airport. It is commendable. I went to her blog : and could hardly read through the first article it was so depressing. I do not know how anyone could have the strength to face a world like that day after day. She remains hopeful though, which fills me with awe.
I have come to learn that struggle only breads more struggle and fighting only breeds more fighting.
If you like fighting then by all means fight the state (it is probably the most worthy thing to fight).
But I have found it way more practical (and enjoyable) to ignore it. To try not to smash through brick walls, but to just let them crumble of their own volition. Anybody can let these walls crumble, you just have to turn your back to them.
Turn your back for a second, peak over your shoulder, and the walls are gone.
I once heard someone say that the state has no natural defenses against people who just walk away from it. I believe this to be true.
It is my impression that Governments grow stronger proportionate to their opposition. That is the game.
Fighting the law only makes more laws.
The countercultural uprisings of the 60's and early 00's just left us with the police state that the United States is today.
Throw a brick at the wall and it is just reinforced with more mortar.
These are my impressions based upon my experience. My experience is all that I know.
Marie may never talk to me again for writing this.
I wish her the best in her struggle. She is one of those amazing people that you met every now and then On the Road. I do not mean to undercut or degrade what she does. To the contrary, I am amazed by it. She made a place for herself in this world; she has solidified her mark. Marie is the kind of person who leaves statues and monuments in their wake.
I have found that I laugh too much to leave behind a monument. It would simply look too funny.
Knows that “. . . an uncomfortable bed free is better than a comfortable bed unfree.” -Kerouac
Goes the wrong way. . . and doesn’t care.
Uses a television only to hang wet laundry on.
Always takes a free meal, even when they are well-fed.
Knows that cheap can always be cheaper.
Tries to stay in a country for the entire duration of the visa. Unless of course, he grows tired of it and decides that life flows more freely in Thailand (ha ha ha).
Has nowhere to return to.
Never turns back.
Travels in circles, arches, and circuits rather than round- trips.
“Has clothing from 5 different countries in his bag.” - Andy (www.hobotraveler.com)
Always says “yes” to everything (except to those who want money from him).
Never has a final destination.
Never gets lost (how can you get lost if you don’t have a destination?)
Is comfortable with not speaking to people in a language that he can understand for months at a time.
Has a girlfriend/ boyfriend who thinks that they are crazy.
Has most of their friends on the internet. (who also think that they are crazy).
Has ten different currencies in their pockets at all times. Reads all the time.
Writes even more than they read.
Is not deterred by cold showers.
Will walk a hundred miles before they allow themselves to be hustled by a taxi driver.
Laundry piles up. No matter how dirty a vagabond you are, and no matter how little clothing you carry with you, a bag full of soiled laundry is not fun to lug around, and it is a daunting task to clean an entire load at one time (what would wear if you are washing all of your clothes?). It is also a drain on your travel funds to always have to pay someone else to clean your clothing for you- and laundry service is often times ridiculously expensive no matter what country you are in. To subvert this end, I have devise a little rule that I follow diligently:
Always wash your clothes while you shower.
So every time that I go into a shower to clean my body, I bring a couple articles of clothing to wash as well. It is not too difficult. I simply use the same bar soap that I use for my skin and I wash my clothing like it was another part of my body: arms, legs, shirt, pants . . .
If you shower once every two to three days then you will only have to clean a couple articles of clothing at a time, which is not too much work and takes little more time than washing your body alone. In this way, your laundry load is perpetually going through a wash cycle and you never have to delay your travels with a “laundry day” or the hassle of finding a cleaning lady.
Also, another word of advice: don’t ask for permission to clean your clothes at hostels or hotels EVER. For whatever reason, lodging houses often do not like for travellers to clean their own clothing (often times it is because they like to charge you 5-10 dollars for this service). Just bring a few pieces of clothing in with you when you shower and then indiscreetly hang them out to dry in your own room (use a bed post, a doorframe, widow sill, coat hooks etc . . .). If you are only washing a few things at a time then this will not be a problem.
Doing a little bit of work everyday also helps to keep your spirits up while travelling long hauls On the Road. You don’t feel as lazy or burdened by the knowledge that you are eventually going to have to wash that ever accumulating bundle of laundry in the bottom of your rucksack. Plus, you always have clean clothes to wear!
So this is my piece of advice to all of you beat and battered wanderers.
Andy is still in West Africa, or so I think, his last posting was from BoboDioulasso or Bobo, BurkinaFaso, but he ominously hinted in his "African Guidebooks" post http://www.hobotraveler.com/2007/09/african-guidebooks.html that he was on his way to the long distance bus station to, "see what my options are." We all know what this means.
He also added that:
"I am thinking of turning the speed up, and taking some just the cream off the top taste of Mali, Guinea, etc up to Morocco in a quick sprint. Morocco is not my favorite country, so more or less in the way, and obstacle. . . How far am I from Morocco? The Kilometers is not important, it is the bus time that counts, the on the seat time. I am going to the one long-distance bus station today . . ."
Any day now I expect to see Andy on my front doorstep. I think I would recognise him, as I have a pretty good image in my head of what he looks like. A long time ago I decided to search through his voluminous website to find a picture of him. This is a seriously daunting task for anyone who has ever tried it. But I think that I remember finding one that did not have his face blocked out. . . I think. I guess I will know for sure when I finally meet him.
Adam has just returned home to San Francisco after travelling for the past four years in Asia, Northeast Africa, and the Middle East. He is now planning on buying an island in Nicaragua to begin an intentional traveller community. The webpage for this project is: http://www.floatingman.org/
This is what Adam has to say about returning to the USA and his plans in Nicaragua:
Two years ago, I landed in Egypt. In many ways, after exciting Sudan, touristy Egypt was a huge disappointment to me. I stopped in Egypt to figure out some things, and landed an unexpected job.
After quite a bit of lazing about, and reflecting, I came to a couple of answers.
1) I have something of an addiction for excitement and danger. With each country that I travel to, I have an urge to travel to the next most remote or next most dangerous place.
There is one obvious problem with that. If one keeps going that way, at some point you run out of more dangerous places to go to, and spend all of your time in Afghanistan, Iraq and Somalia. I know people like this, and decided while it would be exciting, it wasn't quite the life that I wanted to lead.
2) I also realized that I don't like the cold -- the warmer the country the happier that I am.
With these two thoughts in mind, I slowly decided to abandon my plans to travel overland up to Russia and beyond, and set about coming up with a new plan, which is less dangerous than traveling through all the worst of the war zones, but equally interesting.
Years ago, I used to go to Burningman and loved it. But Burningman is only one week a year. Back then, I dreamed of creating something like Burningman, except as a year-round community. I decided to revive that idea. And after two years in Egypt of throwing around ideas and planning, it's starting to look like that crazy idea is actually going to happen.
I'm working to bring together a bunch of other crazy artistic freaks to buy our own private island in Nicaragua. We're accepting applications now - 100 shares are available @ only $3000 each.
Check out Adam's website, as it has a large amount of travel stories, tips, and, in general, good resources. He is still updating it and maybe someday he will be all caught up.
Loren has just finished his wanderings through Asia . . . for now. He is currently at his family's home in Hawaii for the first time in years and is probably confused as hell about why I am sending him interviews (soon to be posted on the CanciondelVagabundo site) haha. Check out his blog, as there is a lot of writing on it from all over the world. He also has a photo collection of telephone booths and license plates from all of the places that he has travelled through (over 70 countries) on his website that is pretty interesting.
He is now preparing to embark on a teaching job in Saudi Arabia. Read his blog for updates.
Mira is currently in Philadelphia, PA searching diligently to find all of the items on a shopping list that I sent her. It is all stuff that we will need when we cross the Sahara into West Africa (well, and stuff that I forgot to bring with me). She will be joining up with me in two weeks in Morocco and I cannot wait for her to get here. She has a way of being able to pull me up to breathe . . . I also miss her always trying to kiss me.
I sometimes send Mark emails, as we are both wanderers who grew up near Rochester, NY, but I think that I creep him out a little haha. He is currently in the beautiful hills of Central New York working at a winery "without an escape plan," as Andy put it. It may be hard for us to get him out of there- it is a really beautiful, though hidden, part of the world. He still writes on his website though, so check it out.
Crag got a girl in Peru pregnant and is running towards the epicenter. I have never talked to Craig, but I commend him for his righteousness and valor. He is still updating his blog and I am curious to find how this all works out. I don't know the guy, but I sincerely wish him the best. Little kids are funny and, from what parents tell me, are worth the sacrifice.
Stubbs, my brethren, one time side kick, and hero is currently working on the bridges of the Erie Canal. As usual, he is planning a journey to somewhere cold this winter.
Erik, dreg5_99@yahoo.com
Erik is tearing through flight school and will soon be able to fly all of us dirty vagabonds around the planet. He recently got his instruments rating and is now working on his commercial license. Any women out there who are looking for a good man, and want free flights to anywhere in the world, he is your captain. He is my best friend, how could he not be a high quality specimen of a man?
“The Vagabond life is the logical life to lead if one seeks the intimate knowledge of the world we were seeking.” -Richard Halliburton, Royal Road to Romance
TheRoyal Road to Romance was the first work of the adventurous, horizon chasing romantic, Richard Halliburton. It, essentially, is an account of a Walkabout around the world that he undertook around 1926 and later wrote down in a New Jersey mental institution. It seems evident to me that Halliburton read (and probably reread) Harry Franck’s A Vagabond Journey Around the World and was deeply influenced by it. Everything from Halliburton’s route, his travelling style, to his somewhat unsteady use of vagabond slang echos Harry Franck’s monumental work. But this is not meant as a slight to Halliburton, as any wanderer, myself included, who has read Vagabond Journey has the spirit of the book forever etched into their very psyches. The Royal Road to Romance is completely able to stand on its own two feet, as it takes travel writing into a completely new direction- the direction of Romance.
At the onset of the story, Halliburton explains the impetus behind his journey by reciting Dorian Grey’s ominous warning:
“Realize your youth while you have it. Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, or giving your life away to the ignorant and the common. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. “Live ” live the wonderful life that is in you. Be afraid of nothing. There is such a little time that your youth will last- such a little time.”
Halliburton continues by exclaiming:
“The romantic- that was what I wanted. I hungered for the romance of the sea, and foreign ports, and foreign smiles. I wanted to follow the prow of a ship, any ship, and sail away, perhaps to China, perhaps to Spain, perhaps to the South Sea Isles, there to do nothing all day but lie on a surf-swept beach and fling monkeys at the coconuts."
The Royal Road to Romance is just that: the story of one man’s search for the Romance of life- not the romance of women, but the Romance of the pure, essential underpinnings of the human spirit and the quest for pure substance. In this search, Halliburton turns to the Open Road and lives out the ingrained human urge to travel, to seek out adventure, to find out what is on the other side of the hill, and to embrace everything that is joyous, exciting, and essential. Royal Road is a declaration of the base impulse that is the impetus of every journey: the Wanderlust. It also shows us the reasons why we need to travel and what happens when you throw all discretion to the wind and fully embrace the Open Road and providence.
In these journeys, Halliburton becomes a sailor, frolics with French actresses, has tea with the president of Andorra, gets arrested for photographing the prison at Gibralter, sleeps on top of an Egyptian pyramid, spends a night hiding inside the Taj Mahal, steals rides on Indian trains, visits Kashmir, is almost killed by a cobra in Thailand, is robbed by pirates in Hong Kong, sneaks into Siberia, and sends his lucky tiger tooth to the Empress of China immediately prior to her banishment.
“I suppose she never received the tooth,” he wrote.
The Royal Road to Romance is a story about running life to the very edge just to feel its gentle touch. It is Hallibuton’s approach towards living that really makes this book special. He places the substance with which we fill our days above any abstract notion of wealth and prestige. It is the kind of book that has the power to change someone’s life, as Halliburton’s message is straight forward:
“Let those who wish have their respectability- I wanted freedom, freedom to indulge in whatever caprice struck my fancy, freedom to search in the farthermost corners of the earth for the beautiful, the joyous, and the romantic.”
The Royal Road to Romance is a truly beautiful expression of the joy of the Open Road and adventure for its own sake. It is an ecstatic cry to jolt us into action so that we do not let another day slip by without living it to its fullest.
“Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly. Where be the bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me.”
"you should take more videos of the people. what do these people look like?? and further more....as I'm about to embark on this crazy adventure....what are the women wearing? i want to blend in too. <3">
So I set out yesterday with video camera in hand to get some photographs and videos of the clothing that women wear in Morocco. I found that it was difficult to get permission for close up photos, so most of these photos were taken "on the fly."
This video was taken in the medina of Meknes. Notice how the dog in the background scares these girls.
This photograph shows how mature women tend to dress here. A long robe and a headscarf seems to be the long and short of their attire.
This photo above was taken of some more "fashionable" younger women. Note how the older traditional styles of Moroccan dress are being blended with newer fashions- like jeans.
Again, this photo is an example of the blending of traditional and modern styles.
This is another video that I took in the Meknes medina to show women's clothing in Morocco.
A traditionally dressed woman.
This photo is of some young women who are dressed in very modern clothing. But I still find it interesting that these modern clothes still tend to be a little free flowing like the traditional robes.
Hand made, traditional women's robes in Meknes, Morocco
Three generations of Moroccan women's fashion. Notice how the style has gradually been changing. So basically, if you do not want to be overly conspicuous in Morocco I would just recommend wearing a head scarf, snug fitting blue jeans, some kind of flowing blouse, and very dainty shoes. Or you could go all the way with it and dress in the tradition style. Any way you do it just have fun. I have never really purposefully done this before, but dressing in the traditional style of a country that you are travelling through could be fun. It is not my impression that people will look down on you for copying their "style"- unless you dress like an obscure minority group- as I believe that they will just think that you are wearing "clothes." Because here in Morocco, women dress in robes with headscarves. It is normal. They may get a kick out of you dressing this way, but I don't think that they will find it objectionable.
I hope this helps.
Walk slow and feel free to get in touch with me when you get here,
The sole ripe orange that hangs outside of my window just beyond my reach.
There is one ripe orange in the orange grove outside of my window in the Maroc Hotel. There are many green oranges, but only one orange one. It is, of course, just out of arms reach. I have been contemplating plans on how to get this orange for the past two days. It just sits out there tantalizing me. I cannot reach it- I’ve tried. I cannot throw things at it- as it would just fall upon the ground of the courtyard and I will not be able to get it (I am on the second floor). Perhaps I could make a sort of net and scoop it in? Perhaps I could use one of my silly saddlebags as the net? Hmm . . . Why does the ripest things in life always hang just outside of your reach?
Other than coming up with plans on how to get this orange, I have been working diligently on the Cancion del Vagabundo webpage http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com and I think that it at least looks a little better. I have also added more content to some of the pages. Someday, it may be able to be use as a real source of travel information; right now, it is still in its formative stages. These websites take an incredible amount of work. I have a lot of respect for those people who can keep their websites going while travelling.
I have become really content here in Meknes. I have a nice room with an electrical outlet at an almost acceptable price (70 Dirham/ night), I can tease the squeaky birds outside my window, there is a cheap internet café really close by, and I have been able to procure good, cheap food. I just need to find a French tutor for a few days and I will be all set.
I tried to find a French tutor yesterday and went around to some language schools to find out what they had to offer. One school was not really willing to accommodate my travelling schedule: they said that I could not begin instruction until October- I want to be on the road out of Meknes by then. So I went to the American Language Center down the street. I walked up a dark stairwell and into a room full of men and women who appeared to be having a meeting about something.
“Is this the American Language Center?” I asked. Nobody understood me. So I tried in Spanish. Again, nobody understood me. Eventually, I learned that I was in fact at the American Language Center, but nobody there spoke English or Spanish. So I pantomimed what I wanted- a French tutor- and was actually able to get my point across. I exchanged phone numbers with a teacher and was on my way. I just had to wonder:
How can a place called the American Language Center not have anyone who is able to speak either of the two main languages of the Americas? What do they teach? I could not answer this question.
Erik gave me all kinds of flack because of what I wrote about him a couple of days ago. “You wrote everything good about Stubbs,” he said. It is kind of interesting for me to think that the rambles that I write could possibly have an effect on someone. I think that I live in a bubble. I want to write about my friends because I think that they are funny, but I am taken aback by the fact that they could possibly take what I write too seriously. If I spoke to them I could say anything and they would take it worth a grain of salt and just laugh at me. But now that it is written, does that mean that it is all of a sudden for real? That it is permanent? That I am serious? Well, for the record, I am laughing as I write just about everything on here (well, maybe except for the “how to” logistical stuff). The last thing that I ever want is to be taken seriously. What kind of sad fate would that be?
So, as my old friend Ethan once said to a gang of frat boys at a party who did not understand our humor and wanted to beat us up:
“Some of my jokes are funny, and some of my jokes are not funny.”
I have since used this line to get out of more jams than I can count.
Thanks, Ethan!
But the only thing my Mom wants me to do is to take myself seriously. She takes me seriously. The following are excerpts from a message that I received from her this morning:
“So if I were you I would not put it down and if anything build it up so that people who go to your blog will see you as a true professional and take you seriously and know that you must know what you are talking about . . . Think about it, most people will believe what ever you tell them. . . most people will think it is impressive and before you know it you are a true professional on travel and many people and maybe even companies will refer to you. If this is what you want you may want talk professional in your blog so that all can refer to you (Aldults, children, seniors, schools, and even corporations). Eventually you could be a well known professional and reference on travel and probably will be much more well known than your friend Andy. Who knows you could become a famous reporter on travel and be on TV or write articles in well known magazines and papers. So a word to the wise never put yourself or what you do down and always build what you do and yourself up.”
I find myself alone, comfortable, in a perfectly rectangular green room on the second floor of the Maroc Hotel. It is nice here. There are wooden shutters that cover the windows that I can push open to let the gentle breeze come through. But, usually, only the smell of a leaky septic system permeates. But this does not bother me too much, as eight years of travel have dulled my olfactory senses. The rooms of this hotel are stationed around an interior courtyard that has an orange grove in the center of it. The branches of the orange tree grow up to the windows of the second floor, where my shuttered window opens upon this ambient scene.
There is an army of little squeaky birds that have made a base out of this orange grove, and they squeak the day away in perfect squeaky bird fashion. Sometimes I throw something out into the orange grove and all of the squeaky birds get real scared and go silent for a few minutes. Then I laugh at them, and they start squeaking all over again.
Room #16 of the Maroc Hotel is perfect in every way. It sits at the top of the stairs and I can hear all of the travellers mounting the steps on the way to their rooms. Sometimes I poke my head out of my door and try to talk to them. Some of them seem to get a little scared, like the squeaky birds outside of my window. But others welcome my friendliness and we talk for a little while about travelling, Morocco, and the Open Road.
One of these days I expect to open my door to find Andy the Hobotraveler (www.hobotraveler.com) standing at the top of the stairs. I don’t think that I could scare Andy.
The streets of the Meknes old quarter are, simply put, old- some would say ancient. Mulay Ismail, “The Tyrant of Meknes,” once brought 16,000 Sub-Saharan Africans into the city and called them his Black Guard. He gave these soldiers women, food, an other sorts of creature comforts. In turn, they defended the city from the pirates to the west, the Europeans to the north, and the Turks in Algeria to the east. They were a tough bunch that, due mostly to the provision of women, soon multiplied to 160,000 soldiers. I don’t know what they did after this. Maybe they all just realized that they liked women better than fighting?
I like Mira better than fighting.
So I walked out of room #16 of the Maroc Hotel this evening and there was a large fight in progress in the beat old street. It was one group of Moroccan men versus another. I think that it was the customers of one café versus another down the street. It is my assumption that the men here divide themselves up into café gangs which go to battle against other cafes, but I am probably wrong. All I know is that a manager of the café out in front of the Maroc Hotel was yelling and screaming at a couple of men who were walking away. Then things calmed down a little and I proceeded to go about my walk. Then, out of nowhere, the manager of the café tore off down the street with a group of about ten men from his café towards the men that he was previously yelling at. I ran along to find out what would happen.
The manager pulled his belt out of his loosely fitting pants to use as a weapon and began swinging it around. Then, out of another café, that was in the direction that everyone was running to, about ten more men came rushing out to meet the manager of the café, his belt, and his men.
I reached for my video camera (what else was I going to do, fight?) but everything simmered down as soon as the two rival groups met. The manager put his belt away, everybody else just stood around looking at each other, and the two men that were being chased just walked away. It was as if it was all an act that was put up solely for appearance’s sake. It seemed as if nobody really wanted to fight, but they had to act like they were going to do battle so they would not look cowardly. What interested me most about this scene was that nobody seem to take this very seriously; like it was an everyday show. Sure, some people were yelling, but the mood of the entire group was not elevated to the level of a street brawl, as observers would stroll into the fray to say hi to their friends, and their friends would momentarily stop pretending to fight and return the greeting. I have witnessed this scene many times in Morocco.
It is overwhelmingly interesting to me how blog storylines inherently weave in and out tales, yarns, and anecdotes of various real life people that the writer interacts with. People who, for whatever reason, either communicates continuously with the writer, or have made such an impression that the writer just cannot stop referencing them. For example, Andy the Hobotraveler has Craig, Mark, his mom, and me, and I have Stubbs, Mira, Erik, Loren Everly.org, and Andy.
Now Introducing: My Characters
Stubbs.
Stubbs transgressing sanity's tender bounds in Thailand 05.
Stubbs is a man who does whatever he wants. He cares little for approval, or if he has company or is alone. He is completely on his own cloud, which is one that happens to drift over the entire planet. He is scared of computers, girls, and monotony. He drinks his alcohol with romance, a sort of modern day Hemingway misanthrope. He acts like he does not like anyone. He probably doesn’t (except for me and his friend Mike in Peru). He says, “There is no greater friendship than that between two men” and things like “We are kings of the world,” while speeding through the night across a country by train. He loves Moby Dick. He also loves nothing more than sitting in a dimly lit room alone with a bottle of Scotch and a book. He is a writer who does not write to be read. But he has lately been finding humor in writing “letters to the editor” of a local Buffalo newspaper.
I know that he has a secret treasure trove of hidden writings that he will not let out. Someday, I vow that I will break into the vault and shower him with praises. He likes to be left alone, so why would he want me to shower him with praises? But I think that he should just take my praises and get it over with. It is just something that is bound to happen.
Stubbs is a genius, but one that does not waste time with all of that genius nonsense. He knows how to live. He rides a line that is close to the fires of life, sometimes even stepping a little too close and getting burned. He is, at root, a feral character who sometimes goes deep into the woods just to live as the trees and shrubs (while shooting his guns, of course). He is a good candidate for the original human.
His home is in the snow and cold. He was born in Buffalo, likes Alaska, has a thing for Siberia, and wants to go to Mongolia in the winter. He is also sometimes a Nova Scotian fisherman. We both love whales, and want to kill them like the whalers of old, and write about it like our hero:
Herman Melville.
I would not fight Stubbs. He is big, although he doesn’t seem it at first. I think that he grows in size proportionate to the amount of time that you spend with him. Now, I think that he is a giant. He has become a legendary bar fighter as of late, or so I’ve heard
“Stubb’s country” is how I referred to China for a long time, as he had lived and travelled over that great expanse for many years and kind of fits the character of the place. He has since given this title over to me though, and I hold it dearly. The first time that I went to China was with Stubbs in '05. Whenever I pass his way he talks of returning to China or, more likely, Mongolia; so that he can live with outlaws, horse thieves, and packs of wolves, wear cowboy boots, and be a cowboy. Or just sit alone, cross legged in a gert. I think that he likes the sound of a one person per square kilometer population density. He could have an entire square kilometer to himself (that is how they dole out the land in Mongolia, you know).
When he finally finds the end of the lone moose trail, I will throw a party, because I will know that he just woke up one morning, looked out the window, shrugged, and decided that he just didn’t feel like doing it anymore. I don’t think that he will waste time with despair. It just doesn’t seem like a thing that he would do. He likes to laugh too much.
Stubbs knows how to live.
Stubbs is my brethren.
Mira.
Mira posing in the ways of the Rajastani princes that she is. India 06.
Mira http://wanderjahrjill.blogspot.com/ is the far-gone gal who is my lady. She did not become “far-gone,” she was born that way. Her parents are odd. She is Barak Obama’s cousin and calls him Barry. She also does not seem too interested in the fact that her cousin is running for the presidency of the United States of America. I suppose when people run for president they are not really people anymore. Mira thinks that she has to do things in life that she does not want to do. I tell her that she doesn’t, but she does not believe me. She has been travelling around the world for the past two years, and has lived in Costa Rica, India, and China. We have been travelling together for the past year, because she has nothing better to be doing. And she loves me.
Mira is a poet. But she does not care enough to share her poems with anybody else, because she thinks that poets are assholes. I tell her that she can be an unasshole poet, but she doesn’t believe me. All Mira wants to do in the world is sit on some far off beach, drink beer, and love me.
Mira also talks about writing masterpieces in Turkish cafes. She would probably love to smoke really long Turkish cigarettes while doing so, but I won’t let her. I tell her that smoking will kill her, but she doesn’t believe me.
Mira is wonderful and beautiful and has the unique ability to put up with me.
Mira is the girl that I love.
Erik.
Erik in Costa Rica 06.
Erik is the logical, righteous counterweight to my thoughtless, free-flowing ways. He tells me when I am being too stupid. He tells me what to do when my weak skills of logic fail me.
He is the Confucius to my Lao-zi.
He is the yin to my yang, the yang to my yin.
He is also baldo. I like it that he is bald. If he were not bald then I would have some troubles, as we would not be able to laugh at each other as much (he would only be laughing at me).
We have been best-friends since the fifth grade. We were ice hockey line-mates, drank our first beers together, picked up our first girls together (well, I did), and he was right there to put out the fire on my head when my long hair fell down into my marijuana smoking bowl- that I made from a Chi-Chi’s cardboard placemat- and went up in blazes- we were 15 years old and thought that we were cool. We also played in bands together. Abe Gjerdan was the f
