Author Archive for maikael

Gone Fishing

Published
by
maikael
on December 5, 2008
in Celebrations/Holidays, Chile, Culinary, Culture and Lodging
. 1 Comment

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Our downtime on Easter Island has been spent in our casita, named for the French-Rapa Nui couple who own it. We have scarcely seen the wife since our airport pickup, and we’ve only spotted the enigmatic French husband in profile - a long, slender, Aqualine nose and wavy dirty-blond hair always pulled into a ponytail - as he passes our patio daily in his SUV. Instead, our care has been entrusted to the wife’s extended family, who seem to live out their lives in our backyard engaged in all manner of activity including: child care, barbecuing, impromptu construction on our casita, car repair, and, of course, drinking. Add to this scene the constant visits of friends and relatives, blasting music, barking dogs, and squabbling chickens, and you have damning evidence that the long tentacles of Latin American culture have reached even here.

But don’t get me wrong; our hosts are quite friendly. On my first night I met several of the male members of the family, and was promptly invited to go fishing with them the following night. I thought it a strange time to go, but it seemed a great chance to get off the beaten path and gain a window into the culture. I warned them that I’m prone to motion sickness, but was assured that all fishing would take place on the seaside. When I showed up at the designated time the next evening, no one seemed hurried to go. One of the men, named Mateo, was watching Scarface with Al Pacino, apparently to improve his English; he explained to me that fishing had to wait until the moon dropped below the horizon, lest the fish see the awaiting net. He produced a harpoon and told me that it’s sometimes used as a more sporting way to fish. As we waited, more and more people showed up, including an uncle of Mateo, an older bronzed bald man, who was incomprehensibly drunk, but somehow still walking.

dsc00816Around midnight, six of us loaded in to a mint green 28 year-old VW bus named Claudia. Claudia could not be started by traditional means, but had to be jumped by popping the clutch while rolling, meaning that I would be pushing the bus many times over the course of the night. A beer was produced, seemingly from thin air, and we were off as Claudia roared to life, copiously backfiring.

Our first stop was a volcanic moon rockscape on the edge of town, jetting into the ocean. Mateo handed me an underwater flashlight, which I casually turned on. The beam hit the water and Mateo exclaimed, “No, no! Be careful to never point the light at the water because the fish are intelligent. They associate light with danger and will swim away.” Two of the men had donned wetsuits and snorkel equipment, two pairs of white cotton socks on their feet. Waves were crashing furiously into the rocks, splashing frighteningly high into the air. “They’re actually getting in the water?” I asked, surprised. “Si.”

dsc00807Mateo explained that they study the waves to learn their cycle to understand the currents, then get in the water with a long net with floaters and weights, and direct the fish into the nets. The fish are scared into the nets by the powerful flashlights, as one man on each end of the net directs them inward. It is one thing to hear this and quite another to witness it. The men slowly lowered themselves into the black water from our elevated perch, somehow impervious to the pounding waves. I could barely see them from even a short distance away. Soon, they were far out, flashlights waving wildly. “Did you see that fish!?”, Mateo asked excitedly, catching details that I could not see with my untrained eyes.

dsc00806Mateo was not participating that night, but was critical of their technique. “We all have a different tecnica,” he said, “but you can clearly see that they have left an escape route for the fish on one side.” I asked him about the lucrativeness of fishing. A certain base amount is used to feed the family, but the surplus is sold at market the next day. A typical catch brings $400 US dollars, but their best night netted them - no pun intended - a whopping $1,200 US dollars. Two of his uncles have died in fishing-related accidents. One of them devised a method of weights to sink himself to a depth of over 60 meters - no oxygen tank, of course. Once the desired depth was reached, he cut his weights and harpooned a fish and started to ascend. He had miscalculated the amount of time it would take to reach the top, and drowned.

dsc00814Scarcely 15 minutes had passed and it was all over. The net was tightly wrapped around a wooden stick and thrown into the bus. After a small push, Claudia awoke from her deep slumber, and a fresh beer was produced. We drove to a patch of flat land with yellowed grass, where the net was slowly unrolled and trapped fish started to magically appear, which were removed and placed in a bin. As if by magic, the drunk uncle roused to life, and slowly approached me. It seemed he wanted to impart a few pearls of wisdom to me. He exclaimed, “Las mujeres…” His index finger jetted fiercely into the air to accentuate his point. I was eager to hear what he had to say, certain he would solve a life mystery about women for me. What followed was a series of slurs in Spanish and Rapa Nui, backslaps, and maniacal laughter, apparently pleased with what he had just conveyed. He jetted his hand out, miscalculating in both height and distance, and it ended up somewhere around my clavicle. I took his hand and shook it, and felt a surprising amount of power, given his age and current state.

The two men in wetsuits asked me how to say bebe in English. “Baby,” I said. They were referring to the 17 year-old apprenticing with them. He appeared resentful, in the way teenagers do. I had the opportunity to talk with the 17 year old while the men went out for a second round of fishing. He was born on Easter Island, but had lived much of his life in Tahiti, and thus spoke French. I asked why he wasn’t going to school, and he told me he had been expelled for smoking marijuana, but could return next year if he wished. But that was not in his plans, he said. He would fish for a year, and then go to France to join the Foreign Legion. “Like the movie with Van Damme, you know?” I nodded. The fishermen submerged from the water. “Baby! Come and help us!” Defeated, he went over.

We went for a third, and, as it turns out, ill-fated round of fishing. Just as they were about to enter the water, a boat came by with a powerful floodlight. There would be no more fish to be had, and everyone promptly called it a night. It was not the most bountiful catch, but it would be enough to feed the family for a few days. We drove the 17 year-old to his house, and Mateo told me that Claudia is notorious for waking neighborhoods of people up. Claudia promptly backfired, as if showing her appreciation.

It was four in the morning when we arrived home. Mateo invited Liz and I to a traditional fish BBQ the next day. “You came out with us, so you get to share in the fish.” The drunk uncle, awake once again, delivered another slurred sermon, let out a large belly laugh, grabbed the back of my head, and gave me a hard head-butt. A fitting end to the night.

* * *

The next day we smelled something good coming from the backyard, and wandered outside to find a dozen whole fish crackling over a rustic parrilla fashioned from half of an oil drum. We joined the family circle that had already assembled, and were promptly offered “lay-mon ston-ays.” After agreeing to god-only-knows-what, we were passed a citrus-colored can of Lemon Stones, a curious mix of bad beer and lemon juice, and were relieved when a bottle of Chilean red wine was introduced minutes later. We discussed the events of last night, and I asked more about the drunk uncle. Apparently, he has been known to drink for up to three days straight, and had refused to go to bed the previous night.

When the fish was done, we were served first. A huge pua was placed on each of our plates, alongside fresh greens (where were they getting these vegetables?); roasted kumara, a South Pacific sweet potato; and a mound of yellow arroz fashioned after a volcano, with a plume of mayonnaise on top. We pried away the silvery paper-thin skin and dug into the white flesh. It was one of the best fish I had ever eaten. Even Liz, who hates seafood, nodded enthusiastically and exclaimed, “Que rico!” The rest of the family ate their fish hunched over the grill, which had been transformed to a kind of communal table. “It keeps the flies away.” When we were done, the remains of the fish were thrown back onto the grill. “An offering, so that next time we’ll have good fishing.”

***

Admittedly, when we first arrived, we were a little disappointed with our accommodation. The rooms weren’t as quaint and the view not as spectacular as our usually-trusty Lonely Planet had led us to believe. We briefly considered switching places, but the fishing expedition made us a part of this cozy little family. It’s a little like being in the mafia: once you’re in, you can never leave. And much like real families, for better or worse, they’re your family. And these folks have made us honorary members of their families - at least for the next week.

Camp Claremont

Published
by
maikael
on November 4, 2008
in Australia and Lodging
. 0 Comments

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

When I was a kid, I spent every weekend with my father. My parents have been divorced since I was two, and their joint custody agreement dictated that I spend non-school days with him. As it was, spending time with my father was like entering a different world where even the furniture seemed foreign.

The centerpiece of my bedroom were massive solid stained wood Ethan Allen bunk beds, laid out like an L. Despite their solid appearance, climbing on the beds revealed an unfortunate alternate reality. The entire construction would start to creek and moan, and the slightest movement of my body would amplify the beds into a terrifying wobble, belying a potential structural failure.

Picking the lower or upper bunk was the toughest choice. On one hand, I could sleep on the bottom and risk getting the top half of my body crushed by 500 pounds of oak. On the other, I could take my chances on the top, riding the giant bed down, perhaps only suffering spinal injuries and a lifetime of physical therapy.

***

Undoubtedly one the biggest disappointments of this trip has been having to prearrange accommodations much of the time, as we’ve been traveling much of the world during high season. I was, however, completely confident that we would visit Australia during shoulder season, and would have our choice of prime rooms.

My first inkling of my faulty thinking came in the form of a tall, frizzy-haired Aussie man we met while hiking in 100 degree weather in Cappadocia. He had the air of a slacker who drank his fair share of beer and enjoyed the ladies. As we walked, he proclaimed that, if we were lucky, the greatest party in Australia, the Melbourne Cup, could coincide with our visit and we’d be wise to book ahead. The most famous horse race in Australia, the Melbourne Cup apparently surpasses even the Kentucky Derby in its popularity, warranting a public holiday. It may have been the dehydration, but I quickly removed this thought from my mind.

Two weeks before arriving to Melbourne, we started to hear lots of press about the Melbourne Cup. I asked Liz if the big event would take place during our visit. Yep. Alarm bells went off in my head, and I immediately contacted several hostels and hotels. My dream of having our pick of rooms quickly evaporated as place after place informed us they had already been completely booked for quite a while. Then, the well-regarded Claremont Hotel informed us that they had a private double room available with bunk beds but shared bathroom during our desired dates. Panicked, I quickly snapped it up.

“It won’t be so bad,” Liz and I reassured each other. She quickly claimed the bottom bunk upon check in, relegating me to six nights of high-altitude sleeping. The bed itself must be a model Ikea sells direct to hostels and university dormitories. It has a minimalist, mass-produced appearance, with thin, black painted steel bars which give the feeling of a hospital bed. My bunk lets out an ear-splitting, prolonged creak each time I lay down or get up, and a coil pokes my hip when I try to sleep on my side. The ladder to the top bunk has two small hooks holding it in place, and climbing must be an exact science, or it will pivot from the top and crash loudly back into the bed frame. Each trip up and down makes me lament the loss of the pliable bones I once had as a child, making bunk bed sleeping possible.

Getting older (I am in my 30s, after all) has gifted me something else: the need to pee at least once during the night. If I’ve had a few drinks, double that number. Once trivial, the process of going to the bathroom has lengthened to a 10-minute ordeal. The process goes something like this:

  1. Sit up in bed as quickly as possible to minimize the god awful creaking sound.
  2. Slide body to the end of the bed and hang my legs over the edge, taking care not to castrate myself on the metal “footboard.”
  3. Slowly lower myself down the ladder, taking care not to bang ladder against the bed frame or, worse, fall and break bones.
  4. Rummage through clothes to find something presentable for my public appearance in the hallway.
  5. Slip on flip flops, taking care not to step on the trick floorboard, which also makes a god awful creaking sound.
  6. Go to bathroom, making sure not to close our room door too loudly, waking up the entire floor.
  7. Reenter room, taking care to avoid the trick floorboard, while disrobing.
  8. Make the perilous journey back up the ladder, slide the upper half of my body on the bed, legs flailing helplessly in the air.
  9. Mentally prepare for god awful creaking sound #2, flipping my body around and quickly laying back down.
  10. Ponder the absurdity of this process for an additional 10 minutes.

This was not our first experience with bunk beds. In Fremantle (see Backpacker Hell post), we also landed a bunk bed room at the Old Firestation hostel. Our saving grace was that the bottom bunk mattress was sized for two people. But many of our hostel rooms have come with two twin beds, separated by a small nightstand. Experiencing this very Ward and June Cleaver-esque sleeping arrangement is certainly not conducive to modern marriage. “Good night, Ozzie,” Liz calls through the darkened room. “Good night, Harriet.”

Backpacker Hell

Published
by
maikael
on October 19, 2008
in Australia and Lodging
. 0 Comments

Saturday, October 18, 2008

We’ve stayed in our fair share of hostels on this trip, which have surprised us in their variety. In many cases we’ve stayed in historical homes in quiet hamlets, and have chatted with retired couples, families, and middle-aged travelers. But it was only a matter of time until we stayed at a real backpacker’s youth hostel. You know the kind I’m talking about: a congregation of shirtless twenty-somethings (at least the dudes) on journeys of enlightenment, who employ self-rolled cigarettes, techno music, joints, and beer as the trusty tools of their trade?

This was the scene that greeted Elizabeth and I upon check in at the Old Firestation Backpackers hostel in Fremantle, a quirky and artistic suburb of Perth. We had just survived a three and a half hour overnight flight from Bali, followed by a few hours of sleep in the airport terminal, and finally negotiating our rental car on unknown streets. As a former fire station, the building has a beautiful, historic air, with a surprising number of nooks and crannies that would make M.C. Escher proud. We quickly checked in, dumped our luggage, and headed into the town.

dscf4232Our time in the downtown, reminiscent of Main Street USA, was productive enough. Half-drunk due to lack of sleep, we exchanged some books, purchased toiletries, Elizabeth bought a new T-shirt (she hated the shirt she was wearing so much, having served its baggy purpose through the Middle East, she had the store throw it away), and got haircuts. My lack of mental facilities peaked at lunchtime, when I took minutes to decide whether I wanted bread with my pasta dish. We made a beeline back to our room for a bit of sleep.

Waking up, we couldn’t help but notice the faint sound of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” and the sound of clinking glass penetrating our walls. Leaving for dinner, we saw a small group of men gathered at a large picnic table, conveniently placed outside our door. Surely, we thought, they will be gone by the time we get back.

Upon returning, the small group had morphed into a brigade training for alcohol nuclear war. The music had reached a fever pitch, with European techno blasting from a karaoke machine. Two men were engaged in a fierce drunken battle of table tennis. We were outnumbered, so we stealthily entered our room and got ready for bed. Elizabeth, clearly disgusted, exclaimed, “I’m too cute for the Old Firestation,” and then jammed her iPod headphones in her ears, cranked up the volume, and promptly went to sleep. Taking her lead, I grabbed some earplugs, fell asleep immediately, woke up realizing I had never inserted the earplugs, put them in my ears, and fell asleep again.

You may never guess it, but I enjoyed blissful sleep that night. Even twenty-something backpackers have their limits, I suppose, and they finally retired to bed in the late hours of the night. I was so exhausted, it didn’t matter anyway. The morning was overcast and eerily quiet, except for the random squawk of a seagull. I stepped outside the room, and saw a vision of the post-apocalypse with copious empty bottles littering the table and floor. The only signs of life were the clean-cut and responsible-looking ones who we had never laid eyes on before.

I made my way to an oddly placed bathroom entitled “The Philosopher’s Shower.” Inside, someone had painted an “Under the Sea” theme, replete with mermaids and a variety of colorful fish, but the centerpiece was that of a pair of enormous black-rimmed “Philosopher’s” spectacles, much like I imagine those described on that billboard in the Great Gatsby. Like many public restrooms, former guests had obviously spent time in this bathroom and pondered the world only to scribe their wisdom on the wall. Comments ranged from the inane, “Check out ya big ride!”, to the surprisingly deep, “I have pondered the world’s problems and I concede…I am at a loss.”

Elizabeth could not wait to check out, and we quickly packed so we could start our big drive south. Handing our keys over to the Italian desk clerk, he asked how our stay was. I was surprised to find that this was a hard question for me to answer. In truth, there were a few other guests in the over 30 crowd, and the 20 year olds I talked with were uniformly nice and interesting people. I muttered something about it being a bit noisy, but that earplugs helped. He looked truly apologetic, but I quickly asked how he likes the hostel life.

“I love it!,” he quickly responded. “I live in a beach side apartment,” he conceded, “but our guests regularly live here from six months up to two years. We even had a guy who lived here for three years! Personally, I wouldn’t want to live in any other place in the world.” He spoke with such conviction, how could I not believe him?

My First (Indonesian) Mobile

Published
by
maikael
on October 17, 2008
in Electronics, Finances and Indonesia
. 0 Comments

Thursday, October 16, 2008

I like my new Indonesian mobile phone. It’s a sleek little model made by Nokia whose sole feature is a flashlight, in case I get lost at night. (The next most expensive phone advertised an FM radio.) While the phone is devoid of standard extras like a digital camera, it is unlocked, unlike those sold in the United States. So in most countries we visit, we’ll be able to purchase a prepaid SIM card, a small chip placed inside the phone, providing us temporary local service and a number.

We hadn’t planned on buying a mobile for this trip, as it seemed like an unnecessary cost. But we’ve encountered enough frustrating situations in which we’ve sighed, “If we only had a cell phone!” that it finally seemed worth it. What finally pushed us over the edge was spending $5 on a four minute phone call.

We have met a few travelers using their mobile phones outside their countries of residence, but we figured they were paying an arm and a leg in international roaming charges. It wasn’t until our friend Paul explained this SIM card scheme to us. Whether it’s accommodation, transportation, or other areas of travel, I’m continually amazed by the creativity of our fellow travelers to better their lives. If you’d like to contact us while we’re in Australia, our number is 0432269839.

A Tale of Two (Scamming) Cities

Published
by
maikael
on September 24, 2008
in India and Stress
. 2 Comments

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

There’s no doubt that northern India has been our toughest travel destination yet. At our trip’s inception, we felt Portugal was a bit tough, though manageable, for the independent traveler who speaks a bit of a Romance language. But as we’ve snaked our way through Christian, Islamic, Buddhist, and, finally, Hindu regions of the world, crescendoing in India, Portugal now looks like a cakewalk.

Upon arriving in Delhi from Bhutan, our first order of business was the procurement of train tickets to travel around the “Golden Triangle” cities of Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. Our trusty Lonely Planet guide warns that trains fill days and sometimes weeks in advance, but that the International Tourist Office, located in the New Delhi train station, offers special seats, set aside by the Indian government, that can only be purchased by tourists. Elizabeth was in the throes of a nasty cold, so I set off on my own.

I hired an auto-rickshaw, a three-wheeled scooter that has a golf cart-like appearance, to take me to the train station. We set off, but after a few blocks, the grandfatherly driver pulled over on the side of the road and explained that the International Tourist Office had moved locations to a different part of town and produced an official city map to prove it. Our Lonely Planet guide had made me aware of the existence of scams where auto-rickshaw drivers work with travel agents, hotels, and restaurants, and will lie, misdirect, and confuse in order to get you there, but the map looked legitimate. He graciously offered to take me to the correct location for the same price, as “I reminded him of his son.” The driver was nothing if not charming as we weaved through narrow alleys in who- knows-what direction. We soon pulled up to a narrow store front, with the words “Government of India Tourist Office” printed on the tinted glass windows.

I entered the office, and was soon seated opposite a plain-clothes government worker. After explaining my requirements, he dialed the train station and asked me to speak to the official, who regretfully informed me, in exceedingly good English, that all trains were full for at least the next four days. My heart sunk and a bead of sweat formed on my brow, as our plans for the next week hinged on getting these tickets. Elizabeth was not around to offer her opinion; I felt alone. Before I knew it, the government worker had produced an alternate itinerary for us, including a private car with driver and all accommodations, all for a price of slightly under $700 USD. I felt a pang of uneasiness in my gut, that something was not quite right. Not willing to commit, the government worker became defensive, asking how I could afford my “expensive” Delhi hotel, but not his package deal. Miffed, I shot back with the strong insinuation that his “government” office was bogus. Accompanying me outside, he said something to my rickshaw driver in Hindi, and I began to wonder what their relationship was.

I entered the rickshaw, insisting that the driver now take me to the New Delhi train station. He repeated that the office is closed, but would take me there to prove it. I was deposited in another strange location, but several signs promised the station was nearby. As I walked around, another helpful stranger directed me to the International Tourist Bureau. With much the same feel as the “Government of India Tourist Office,” I immediately felt uneasy, as I was seated across from two tall men who immediately serve up chai. With formulaic delivery, they explained that some of my desired routes were unavailable (though some of the routes from the previous office are now, magically, available). The conversation quickly devolved into the predictable upselling tactics I had encountered in the last location.

My guardian angels came in the form of two English guys who happened into the office around the same time I did. We met outside and they explained that they had spent the entire day looking for the International Tourist Office, being misdirected to strange offices all over Delhi. They were about to give up, but I suggested we form an alliance, much like on Survivor, and look a bit longer. After a half hour, we finally stumbled upon the International Tourist Office, and the sense of relief I felt was probably much akin to what a sailor feels after crossing an ocean and spying that first speck of land. The real office was brimming with nervous-looking tourists deciphering the insane Indian Railway schedule. Otherwise, the office had a laid-back, no pressure feel, a welcome respite from the outside world. In the end, I was able to purchase all of my tickets for us both for under $50 USD. I explained my tale of woe to the real Indian Railways official, who shook his head, but offered a possible explanation. “Those men were just trying to run a business. It will be a long time before the system can change.”

Unfortunately, things didn’t change much upon our arrival in Jaipur. We were led to the wrong auto-rickshaw at the train station’s prepaid stand, which is supposed to be the most scam-free way to gain transportation. Other times, prices tripled upon arrival at our location. Sometimes tour operators appeared out of nowhere when we reached our final destination. And once, when requesting that we wanted to be taken to the movie theatre, we were driven 15 minutes out of the way to “go shopping,” despite our repeated protests. What makes the cities of the Golden Triangle so exhausting is the level of sophistication and pervasiveness of these scams; one must always be on guard. There’s even a Hindi word, dabbabazi, which refers to “the business of scamming tourists.” The difficulty is that these scams are born out of desperate poverty and fierce competition, a way to scrape out a meager existence. (And please don’t get me wrong — not everyone is crooked, and we met some truly wonderful people during our travels which, unfortunately, was often overshadowed by a few rotten apples in the transportation industry, our major interface.) I thought I was prepared to deal with the scams, but I realized that it’s one thing to read about it, and another to live it.

When I returned to our hotel, exhausted and soaked with sweat, I felt triumphant, as if I had just passed a test of biblical proportions. Elizabeth burst in to tears. “I thought something terrible had happened,” she cried. I asked how long I had been gone. “Four hours.”

We Were Had!

Published
by
maikael
on July 27, 2008
in Culinary, Portugal and Stress
. 0 Comments

I’m an idiot. Yesterday I was had for the princely sum of 1.30 Euros, about $2.00 for those of you in the U.S. I should start by saying that I’m not a particularly gullible person. I’ve survived innumerable solicitations for money, many scams, and even three robbery attempts, and have luckily escaped  these situations mostly unscathed.

dscf2141Last night, Elizabeth and I went to a fabulous dinner at Valdonas, a stylish converted 17th century manor house in heart of the Guimaraes historical district, serving nouveau Portuguese cuisine. The ambiance could best be described as a fusion between historic architecture and modern design, with smart pendent lighting that cast a warn glow over our table and hipster instrumental music (much like you’d hear in a Banana Republic) piped into the dining area. Elizabeth’s Iberian pork, a specialty in this region, was especially succulent, and my bacalhau, wrapped in corn bread, tasted as fresh as any seafood I’ve eaten, with only the slightest hint of saltiness. We were impressed with the attentive service, and even managed a full fledged conversation in pseudo-Portuguese, which lifted our spirits, giving us a great sense of accomplishment.

After leaving Valdonas, we headed to the historic central plaza, to snap a few pictures during the dusk’s golden hour. Guimaraes’s annual festival to honor its patron saint is slated for next weekend, and the medieval structures were appropriately adorned with a festive display of lights. As we meandered, our spirits could not have been higher. “Boa noite, senhor!” I heard this phrase enthusiastically repeated perhaps four times before turning around. A man with dark, lacquered hair and Cheshire smile blurted a few sentences at me in a rapid-fire fashion. Once he saw the look of incomprehension creep up on my face, he repeated the same well-rehearsed speech in Spanish. He expertly conveyed that he was collecting money for a foundation to stop the spread of AIDS in Portugal, since as a country it has the second highest incidence per capital in the European Union, or so he said. He was quickly joined by an older woman with similar dark features, that linked the two via a strong familial relationship. Not having heard the man’s speech, she repeated the shpiel almost verbatim.

dscf2149Feeling particularly charitable, I fumbled in my pockets for a coin. Not finding one, I deferred to Elizabeth, who had a “what are you doing?” look on her face. I opened my wallet and handed over a five Euro bill, asking for four in change. The lady handed back a few coins, and hurried off before I knew what had happened. I examined the change and felt that something was not right; the sizes of the coins were smaller than I expected. We looked at each other, mouths agape. A slightly queasy feeling took hold that quickly boiled into embarrassment and anger. “Why did you give them that money? It was obviously a scam,” Elizabeth inquired, a bit of resentment in her voice. “I don’t know… I felt so good about life tonight,” I responded.

Elizabeth was absolutely right:  I had fallen for a scam, and not a good one at that. Perhaps it’s very overtness fooled me. We marched away, watching the pair working the cafe tables. We both felt sour about the affair for a while afterward, and I continued thinking into the night, at the cost of a bit sleep. In the end, this was an inexpensive lesson for us that we’ll continue to use throughout our RTW trip. It’s impossible not to move on, as each day brings new, exciting adventures.