A Hike in Big Bend - July 4th

A Hike in Big Bend - July 4th 

this is a story from a few years back. I remember it like I wrote it yesterday. OK, I found it in my archives and had forgotten all about it, but honesty is not my strong suit. But you already knew that if you have read any of my other stories. Anyway, here is what I wrote back then:

This is your intrepid traveler, reporting ‘from the “Edge of Texas”, a term coined by my youngest daughter Ali, when she was a young girl. (I will shamelessly steal anything that is clever.) I am writing this as I rest up from my July 4th holiday weekend. I spent five days in Big Bend National Park where I was visiting my lovely wife, the fetching Mrs. Intrepid Traveler. We shall refer to her as Gwen, since that is what is on her birth certificate. It is from Hawaii, so who knows if it is a legitimate document.

Gwen is working as a National Park Ranger for the summer. The Park Service was looking for an Elementary School teacher who could help them write curriculum as an outreach to school age park visitors. The Park Service canvassed the entire nation for a suitable candidate and Gwen got the job. She found out later that she was the only person who applied for the job, but she was still the best qualified candidate in the country to do it.

During the time I was in the park, Gwen and I went hiking every day for a few hours. The weather was spectacular. In the Trans Pecos area of Texas, it is typically over 100 degrees F at this time of the summer. But in the park, where the elevation is over a mile high in some parts, the temperature was amazingly cool and pleasant.

The last day of my visit, Gwen and I decided to be bold and take a 12.6 mile round trip hike on the South Rim Trail. This is an all day hike where the trail gains 2,000 feet in elevation. The trail winds around rugged cliffs and picturesque woodlands in order to reach the South Rim of the park. I was packing enough water to supply a 6 mule wagon team for a week while Gwen had the snacks and first aid stuff. After we had been walking a while, we met up with a hiker coming down from the trail who seemed a bit spooked. He told us he had run across black bear at 4 or 5 locations along the trail. He was nervously wiping his brow with a red bandana and talking to himself loudly as we passed. We figured he was doing that to ward off the scary beasts.

As we approached the summit of the trail a rainstorm began, with lightning and thunder. With no protection from the elements we got soaked as we waited for the weather to pass. Gwen and I hoped we had not walked this far only to be struck by lightning. There were other hikers on the ridge with us, also unprotected from the elements. I hunkered down in the lowest place I could find. I am a tall person and I felt very vulnerable to the lightning, so I began singing the Star Spangled Banner. My ploy worked. The other hikers quickly stood at attention, in honor of the 4th of July. With them standing, I was no longer the tallest attractant for lightning bolts. I really do love being patriotic.

After the storm passed, we carefully made our way along the slick rocks on the edge of the mountain to see what we had hiked so many hours to appreciate. And before us was an astonishing display of the vast west Texas desert terrain, a mile below. We could see for more than a hundred miles into the distance. The rain shower had partially shifted over to the land below us so we were literally looking down on a rainstorm. It was really unbelievable. We were awed by the view. Reluctantly we turned and reversed our direction back down the trail.

It may seem easier to walk down a mountain trail than come up it, but by this time my legs were as weak as Jello shots at a Baptist picnic. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other as we trudged along. I was walking a few feet in front of Gwen when I suddenly came across a huge bear sitting on its haunches less than 50 paces from us. It is all a blur to me now, but I think I saw him wipe his chin with a red bandana, and casually sharpen his nails with one of the handy attachments found in a Swiss army knife. I heard an audible burp from the dangerous beast as he stood on his hind legs. Our eyes met. The massive creature realized he was no longer alone on the trail. He stared at us. I think he licked his lips.

Even though exhausted, I still had cat-like reflexes. I immediately dashed behind Gwen. My first thought, naturally, was to protect her rear from any additional bear that might try to sneak up from behind us. Those crafty beasts always hunt in pairs. I believe I learned that fact from a Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom episode. What would Marlin Perkins do right now? My mind raced, and I quickly analyzed the situation. I knew I did not need to be able to outrun this bear, I just had to be able to outrun Gwen. My legs suddenly had the strength of ten men as I glanced around for an escape route.

Gwen was unfazed by the giant claw-wielding menace. She immediately took control of the touchy situation. She used her best 5th grade teacher stare and glowered at the beast. One look from her and he meekly scurried off of the trail and into the woods. I think I heard him squeak out a timid whimper.

Still shaking from our close encounter, we continued down the trail. Knowing that we should make noise to ward off any further encounters, Gwen and I spoke in elevated voices. After a while, I re-gained my manly composure and said “I guess we showed him a thing or two!” And, feeling braver, I hoped to tempt the bear into a repeat appearance by announcing “I guess I picked a bad time to smear my body with honey!”. “And did I mention, Mr. Bear, that I am carrying a huge picnic basket?” But, despite my attempts to provoke another bear encounter, no more bear were sighted.

In order to expand the boundaries of known science I suggested to Gwen that we follow the bear to see if it really did shit in the woods. We could have put an end to this fabled speculation once and for all. But Gwen calmly convinced me my idea was without merit. She emphasized her point, by beating me on the head with her hiking stick. Apparently she was still a bit touchy about my notion to out run her. Just how did she read my mind?

Editor’s note: The events depicted in the above narration are true… sort of. To the degree that a hike was made, the scenery was spectacular, and a bear was spotted. The National Park Service claims no responsibility for any injury suffered by hikers from their wives, who happen to be Park Service Employees.

Follow up: I sent this story to Gwen via email while she was still working at the park. She showed it to her fellow Park Ranger colleagues and one of them submitted it to the Park Newsletter. It was published and was a big hit with the park employees who read the newsletter. On my return trip to the park later in the summer, I was an instant celebrity for having authored this story. Everyone seemed to know who I was. But the funny part (sad, really) of this was that Gwen had been working diligently at the park all summer, quietly doing thankless work that no one else wanted to do. But now she wasn’t known for her tireless acts of good works at the park, she was known as the lady married to the guy who wrote the story about the bear encounter. She is still bitter about that and carries that hiking stick around just to remind me that she can still read my mind.

Remembering my business trip to Colombia in 2001

How are those 72 virgins working out for you in hell ?

Remembering my business trip to Colombia in 2001. 

I was musing the other day on another of my business trips that could have gone terribly wrong, but fortunately for me, and my creditors, I made it back alive and well. Here is a tiny slice of what I remember from a trip to South America.
Back in October of 2001, a colleague and I went to Bogotá, Columbia for a business trip. This trip was less than a month after the devastating terrorist attack on the World Trade Center towers in New York City by the followers of the terrorist leader Usama Bin Laden, No one in my family was enthusiastic about me making any kind of airline trip since four aircraft had been high jacked on September 11th. And to go to Bogotá, of all places, was really pushing luck since Bogotá was notorious for terrorist activity.

My colleague and I were undaunted. We arrived safely and were soon making business introductions to the locals with our agent’s assistance. But I got the strangest reaction to the Mexican speaking Columbians when I said my name. “Hi, I’m Bill L…..”. Without fail, the person I just introduced myself to would give me a ghastly look of confusion and say “Bin Laden?” “Why do you say you are Bin Laden?” I thought this was a charming joke that the locals were trying to play on me until this encounter was repeated over and over again by nearly everyone I met.

In Spanish, the double LL sounds to the listener like an “N”, so I finally figured out that they heard “Bin” for my first name and my last name syllables just ran together. And given the terrible notoriety that the real Bin Laden had suddenly achieved, his name was in everyone’s consciousness. So, here I was, a tall, slim, bearded foreigner, who was either a lunatic claiming to be Bin Laden or I really was Bin Laden, and happily admitting, “gee, you got me. Here I am”. With most of the world looking to collect a $25 million bounty for the dead or alive capture of Bin Laden, I was not too tickled with this situation.

A couple of days later, after I had gotten used to the idea that I could be the world’s most wanted Mistaken Identity, I was traveling with the manager of the company we were in Columbia to work with. For this story I will call him “Edwardo”, because his name was, well…, “Edwardo”. He told me of past kidnappings of executives by the local narco-terrorists, where their M.O. was to stop traffic, pull the unsuspecting victim from the vehicle and spirit him off in the jungle. A ransom then would be demanded and the victim may or may not be returned alive. What a cheery thought.

“Edwardo” had driven me out to their manufacturing facility on the outskirts of town. We were headed back to our hotel when the traffic suddenly slowed and halted. We were in the middle of three lanes of traffic and were, for all intentions, trapped in the street. I suddenly heard several quick, loud explosions off to my left. I strained to see what the commotion was about and glanced at my driver. He was tightly gripping the steering wheel, and staring blankly straight ahead. “What is going on?”, I implored. I was not sure I wanted to know. He mumbled something very un- reassuring to me under his breath and continued to stare forward. The explosions continued. Then to my right, a platoon of riot police in full protective gear, burst forth, running quickly towards the sounds of the explosions. Panic began sneaking into my brain as I watched the soldiers bearing riot shields and AK-47s rush past me. “Oh great, my wife was right. I am going to die and she will get to say I told you so”.

After the wave of soldiers had past us, the traffic slowly began to move forward. “Edwardo” finally looked over at me and asked “were you afraid”? “Should I have been”?, I asked, in stupefying ignorance. He calmly began to explain what we had just witnessed. We were driving past the University when this incident occurred. And on occasion the students at the school stage mini uprisings. They protest all kinds of things, from the poor wages being paid to Juan Valdez to pick coffee, to protesting the food in the school cafeteria. One of the ways they show their displeasure is to insert some kind of tiny explosive into potatoes. They throw the potatoes at the police and when the spuds hit the ground they blow up. These were apparently harmless explosions, but very loud and scary, none the less. It had become a silly ritual. The police would look tough and disperse the students while the students got to act like activists and can brag to their socialist friends what great causes they were fighting for. It was a relief to hear this story since my mind was thinking much more serious thoughts, like how my loafers would hold up in a jungle hike.

Well, I finally did make it home safely to the U.S after all of this. I amused my children with the exciting tale of how I could have been killed by the horrible exploding potato bombs wielded by vicious anarchists. I naturally was expecting loving admiration from my fawning daughters for my courage. But all I got as a response from my children was the sarcastic comment “gee, seems like a waste of perfectly good potatoes.” I bet Bin Laden wouldn’t get this kind of disrespect.

Still not over the Cold War

Karl Marx welcoming the world to Fantasy Empire

Nov 2011
Still not over the Cold War
Hello Gentle Readers, I just landed in Russia. I have a short layover here at the Moscow International airport on my way to Singapore. I have never been here before but I am not technically here now. Let me explain. Unless you go thru Customs of a particular country, you really aren’t “in” that country. So, by that measure, I cannot claim I am in Russia. And by that measure it also means I have never been in France, China, Antarctica, or Mars.

I was sitting in a window seat as we neared Moscow. It was a bright sunshiny day, but oddly enough, no other passenger on the plane seemed to notice William Shatner, in a furry gremlin suit, out on the wing. I had a great view the countryside from low altitude as we made our approach to land. We were flying over a broad, flat rural region. It is a huge area. I don’t recall the unit of measure they use for land over here. Is it Hectares?,Voltaires? Éclairs?

Much of the area below me was a blend of forest and open farm land. There were a few lonely roads etched in to the landscape. I could see occasional smoke stacks that were busy spewing out dark gray plumes of smoke. The vapors created a long wispy line along the horizon as far as the eye could see. I guess this is what caused the thick layer of haze in the atmosphere that we flew thru as we came down land. Thank goodness I never see that kind of air pollution in the U.S. any longer, unless I am flying thru Washington D.C. airspace.

As I Looked down on the unplowed barren fields it was evident to me that the communist system just doesn’t work. No crops were growing and the grounds were empty. The Commies told us back in the 60’s they would bury us, but they can’t entice the farmers to produce food? Where were the collective farms that would allow proud farmers to feed the world? I guess profit motive for farmers may actually make them grow stuff. Or maybe there was nothing in the fields because it is mid-November? OK, I guess that could be it.

We landed. But I never saw ANY sign we were even close to Moscow. There were no small outlying communities that you’d normally see near the large central business areas. Where was that giant evil city that was the scourge of the free world during the cold war? Where was Red Square and the famous minarets of the Kremlin? Not to be seen. I have quickly adopted a theory that it was all just a giant illusion. Moscow, and the entire Soviet System was just a menacing cardboard cutout of power that the communists created just to fake out the west. I have learned to hate fakes. Like the fake Rolex watch I bought in Indonesia, or the fake heart transplant I had in Mexico City. (Not really. I am a Conservative. I don’t have a heart. ) History has shown, with the fall of the Berlin Wall, that communism did not work.The wall was more valuable when it was broken up in to chunks to sell to tourists.

I don’t know what I was expecting to see in the airport of the Capitol city of the former Soviet Union. Maybe I envisioned a chorus line Cossacks in furry hats doing a folk dance, or a KGB agent in a trench coat asking for my papers, or perhaps a vodka swilling bear eating peasants for the amusement of the tourists. As a side note, I’ve actually seen a performing bear in a rural area of India once. But it was not swilling vodka, it was not eating peasants, and it didn’t ask me for my papers. It was just a sad captive bear that had all its teeth pulled out and was working for tips and tips alone. Seeing this made me wish I had become that dentist I originally went to college to become. I’d grab the owner of that poor bear and pull his teeth out to see how he liked it. But, as usual, I digress.

I am a child of the 60’s who grew up under the threat of immediate nuclear annihilation at the hands of the Soviet Union. I remember the agony of practicing “duck and cover” drills in elementary school. It seemed we spent hours doing the drill. We’d be sitting on the floor, bent over with our hands over our heads “for protection”. I wondered why it was OK for the teachers and faculty to be walking around and chit-chatting while the students were cowering in the hallway. They always seemed to let the drill go on a little longer each time. And they appeared to enjoy it way more than they should have. Now, thinking back on it, I am suspicious of what was in the drinks I saw them toasting each other with. At the time, I didn’t think about why they would have had olives and tiny umbrellas in their beverages.

Looking back now, as a mature adult (OK, age-wise mature, not mentally), I realize that these drills were not to protect us physically from a Rooskie sneak attack. These drills were designed by our government to make us think we were doing something to protect ourselves. It was rather silly to believe that covering our heads with our hands would do any good if we were exposed to a 2000 degree blast wave from a thermo-nuclear device.

I am beginning to have my suspicions that our government knew all along that the commies were not a problem. Our leaders just used that threat to get billions of tax dollars out of us. Never let a crisis go to waste. I thought that was a new term, but the concept behind it is as old as politics. We now are accustomed to the U.S. government using our money to buy million dollar toilets. I wonder if those toilets had built-in bidets? But, in fairness, those high dollar commodes must have done the trick. It turns out that we were never bombed by the Commies, or attacked by dancing bears wearing trench coats. But the KGB does ask for our papers, now, at the airport.

Human tragedy in the Hill Country!

Human tragedy in the Hill Country!

If you are a faithful reader of this blog you should seek help from a mental health professional, and you may recall that my wife and I own a hunting ranch in the Texas hill country. Or it owns us. I am not really sure. We go out there. We work like dogs to keep the place up, and then drive home. This is not a hobby for the faint of heart or for someone who actually likes to enjoy their leisure time.

The last time we were at the ranch we discovered that the toilet in the guest bathroom was broken. The water in it must have frozen last winter and broke the ceramic bowl. I brought with us a new toilet to replace it. (Not really new, of course. This is an old one from my house where I installed an actual new one. I am too big a cheap-scape to buy a new toilet for the Hill Country house) Let me say right here that I hate replacing toilets. I have six rent houses and two of my own houses. So over the years I have had to repair or replace lots of toilets. There is nothing more awkward to work on than a toilet, unless it is working under a sink. OK, I hate working under a sink even more than working on a toilet.

To get the toilet back in to operation, I needed to re-use the tank. But I could not get the tank bolts loose from the old bowl. They were all rusted up. I decided to use a hammer and break the bowl where the bolts were attached. I think I recall seeing this technique in a PBS television show called "This old crappy ranch house". The hammer technique worked. I broke the bowl, pulled off the tank and installed it on the new (OK, used bowl). The replacement toilet installed easily. Why is it I hate this job, again?

OK, so the toilet was installed. All I had to do was take the toilet seat off of the broken bowl. But when I grabbed the old bowl I badly sliced my index finger on the sharp edge of the broken ceramic. I had no idea that the ceramic would be that sharp. The ancient Aztec Indians, rather than using obsidian to make knives, should have just broken pieces off their toilets. My index finger looked like it was cut to the bone. It was pouring red liquid out like I had spilled a bottle of Big Red soda.

I wrapped my hand in a towel and my wife drove me to town. She found the Doctor’s office which was just off the town square. Dr. Todd is 75 and still practicing medicine. He took me in to the back, shooed the chickens off the examination table and took a look at my finger. Of course, I knew that it was just barely dangling on with only 98% of my poor finger still attached, so I was hesitant to unwrap it. He calmly asked me if I really needed that finger. I said “It comes in handy for picking my nose”. He said “OK, I can save it”.

He scrubbed it and shot it full of pain killer. (someone should invent a pain killer that does not hurt when going in). Then I held a flashlight for him as he delicately sutured the cut. He put five stitches in my finger. I had never seen this done before. All the other times I have gotten stitches, they have been in my head, so I never saw the procedure. Dr. Todd was a master at stitchery. He put cute little bows and curly cues on my stitches. I think he spelled out “Jesus Saves”. Then he gave me a tetanus shot and anti-biotics and told me to come back to his house in the morning to get the dressing changed.

They don’t make old time country doctors like him anymore. He doesn’t take credit cards and has his patients come to his house when he is not working at the office. I told my wife that the Dr. said that as a result of my injury I could never do dishes again or install any more toilets. It was just too risky. And he even wrote me a prescription for taking naps and getting back rubs. What a great Doctor!

I am sure I am on the road to a full recover, but I plan to milk this injury to the fullest. I am relaxing as I watch my wife clean the floors and do housework. I wish I could help, but I can’t risk going against Dr.s Orders. I should have thought of this scam years ago. I have nine more fingers that have room for stitches. And I think it is time for my physician directed nap.

the Road Warriors, an ode to India drivers

The Road Warriors an ode to India drivers.

Greetings Gentle readers, it is time for a current report from the country of India. It has been at least two years since I visited this odd country. And I mean odd in a good way if anyone from India, who holds a grudge, is reading this. As usual, I am here on business. Why would any right thinking person come here except for commerce? The title of this piece is “the Road Warriors” because I am going to attempt to describe the drivers in this country. As worldly as I may consider myself, there are no words to adequately describe the horrendous traffic and congestion in India. There are just too many drivers trying to use too few roads in India.

Westerners should never consider driving here. One reason is that they drive on the wrong side of the road. This is very dis-combobulating for the passenger sitting in the front left seat. I keep trying to grab the invisible steering wheel and stomp on the missing brake to help my driver. My Indian driver seems determined to get me to my location with as little of my dignity intact as possible. He must enjoy seeing me scream like a little girl while he shoots the gap between an 18 wheeler and a stalled bus. The last trip I made to India we actually had a side view mirror knocked off in traffic. But these drivers don’t use mirrors anyway so it was not a loss.

There is no way to really appreciate the street activity without visual evidence of what is going on, but you will just have to use your imagination. A typical intersection might have four roads coming together. There are lane markers, and signs but these are completely ignored. If the road was designed for four vehicles across, then the Indian road warriors will make sure there are six or eight cars jammed in that space. And then motorcycles and bikes will fill in the tiny gaps. My driver is constantly shifting gears and honking his horn. He is the most dexterous man I have ever seen. He honks, shifts, steers and gestures at the other drivers; all while careening fearlessly thru a crowded intersection. The horn in our vehicle sounds like someone is strangling a goose. It must be effective because everyone gets out of our way at the last moment. Maybe strangled geese are worshipped in this country.

There seems to be some unspoken communication going on between all these drivers. I’ve never see a wreck but is seems impossible that with all the cars and trucks on the road that none of them ever collide. If I were poetic, I might describe the traffic flow as a symphony of movement but that would indicate planning. Or it could be described as a school of fish moving in unison. But that image would fail to include all the fish frantically swimming in the opposite direction with large barracudas barreling in among them.

To imagine what the traffic is like here you need to think in terms of a “Grand Theft Auto” video game type situation. And in India, just like the video game, it is every man for himself. My driver is determined not to let anyone pass him or get in his lane. It is a matter of personal pride for him to force old ladies, children and motorcyclists off the road. We’ve come within inches of hitting trucks yet he is as cool as a Zen Master. I wish I was so calm. I envy Fred Flintstone. I want to put my foot thru the floor to brake this thing.

The Indians who are the calmest are the pedestrians along the road. I’ve watched men stand right in traffic and text on their cell phone as cars and trucks zoom past them. Maybe they are texting a suicide note. But the champions with ice water in their veins are the road construction workers. I saw two guys today, standing in the middle of the road, turning some large handle which extended in to a manhole. The traffic was blasting past on both sides of them and neither bothered to even look. There were no caution flags or construction cones. But don’t worry. They were perfectly safe. They were each wearing a hard hat.

It rained last night and the water on the road has already caused damage to the “pavement”. My driver seems to know to avoid the water filled chug holes that are all over the place. They look like bomb craters. The “pavement” has been repaired many times and so there are humps of asphalt scattered among the craters. And there are speed bumps installed on purpose! in the roadway, about every hundred yards or so. In the U.S. these speed bumps would be considered Motocross jumps. My driver’s technique is to crawl slowly over the speed bump, and then accelerate like mad to keep anyone from beating him to the next speed bump. All the while he is darting back and forth to avoid the holes and slower vehicles. My neck muscles were aching from the whipping my head was doing. Who knew I’d need a neck brace and helmet for this traffic.

My driver speaks English but it is difficult to understand him. The common language here is Hindu. But there are about 127,000 different dialects of the Hindu language. I, of course, as your intrepid traveler, am fluent in most of them, if you count the ones that sound like English. But I am not about to interrupt my driver by speaking to him. He is having his Moment of Zen as he cuts off another 2 ton truck loaded with steel. Maybe it’s time for me to text out my last will and testament.

THE FRIENDLY SKIES?

I see a crack in the windshield !

THE FRIENDLY SKIES?

I was sitting in the Coach section of the plane on a fairly short (2.5 hour) flight from my home base to the western U.S. As usual the flight was overbooked and every seat is taken. This was one of the smaller jets, with two seats, the aisle, and then two more seats. Since I am tall, I covet the emergency row seats because of the extra legroom. But this flight was full and there were no ER seats available.

So I got on the plane and found my chair. It happened to be directly behind the emergency row. The emergency row seats have extra space for a reason. If the plane has a problem you need to get the passengers off of the plane as quickly as possible. There are restrictions on who can sit in the ER seats. You cannot sit in the Emergency Exit row if you are too frail to open the ER door, handicapped, or under the age of 15. These restrictions are announced before every flight takes off. Everyone is aware of them.
Or so you’d think.

On this flight, the Emergency Seating row was full with two young women traveling with their children, who all appeared to be under the age of two. One mother had two toddlers she was trying to cope with. There was a third mom was sitting in the chair across the aisle from me, with her toddler in her lap. And a pregnant lady was sitting right next to her. What is the deal here? Was I on some kind of Mail Order Mommy Flight? If Michael Jackson was still alive, I would think this was a flight chartered by him.

But I degress….. So what happened to the no one under 15 in the ER row rule? The flight attendant was helping settle these children into those seats at the same time as that announcement was heard on the PA system. Whaaat?? Was the flight attendant deaf as well as ignorant of FAA rules about ER seats? I guess I could have protested and made them move, but it would have caused more delays and we were already late for take-off. If you miss your departure time, sometimes you sit on the tarmac for hours. No one wants that, so I kept my mouth shut.

The little kid ahead of me had some sort of toy that he kept dropping and it would roll underneath his seat and end up between my feet. I picked it up a couple of times and gave it back, but soon realized that this was a losing proposition. I feigned sleep the next time I heard it hit the ground, and there it stayed for the duration of the trip. But all this did was cause mommy to bring out an electronic game for the budding hoodlum to play with. He would occasionally shriek in reaction to something that the game did, which was a bit un-nerving. Any time you hear someone shriek, it sends a tiny signal to the brain (or in my case a signal to my tiny brain) that something is wrong. In this case what was wrong was flying with children! The volume on the game was way too loud but the Mom was oblivious to it. I am sure she was nearly deaf from the noise that a tiny child can produce. The flight attendant finally had to ask for the volume to be turned down. Thank god.

As the flight progressed, all the toddlers started wailing in unison and squirming around like giant maggots. And I will bet that the pregnant lady was looking at this cluster of toddler mayhem with a feeling of future dread. I know I would have been. Their cries from hunger and boredom became louder and more irritating. It was like being trapped in a cylinder shaped daycare center. I was getting crabby just listening to them be crabby.

Then, one of the spawn from hell started running up and down the aisle of the plane. And the predictable happened….I heard a big thump and then a blood curdling howl. The child just fell down and smacked her face on a plane component. Her scream had a louder DB than the jet engine produced. There is something particularly irritating about a child’s high pitched scream to a middle aged man’s eardrum. Hearing that sound makes me want to act like Van Gogh and rip my ears off.

The kid ahead of me was kicking and thumping some unseen object. The mother’s response was to yell at him, which added to the din. And there was something behind me kicking my seat. Was I completely surrounded by uncontrollable youths? Thank goodness the lady across the aisle hadn’t given birth yet. At least her kid was safely ensconced in a womb. Sort of like it being in the Cone of Silence from “Get Smart”.

There was a small Asian man in the seat next to me. He was strapped in and sitting straight up. Somehow he managed to sleep during the entire trip. And, as one can expect, he was drooling on himself. If he slimed me, I was ready to give him an elbow. His head would occasionally slump forward, and then whip around like he was on a carnival ride. This happened over and over. I was expecting his head to snap off of his pencil thin neck and roll down the aisle.

The flight attendant came back to check on the kids. She assured the moms that the pilot would make up the lost time so we wouldn’t be in the air any longer than necessary. She should have been re-assuring ME. I’d already been in the air longer than necessary. If it was later in the day, I would start drinking heavily. Why on earth did the good Lord put voices on tiny humans? Couldn’t that have been an option that grew in later, like body hair? And why don’t’ moms, who MUST know they are pissing off an entire planeload of passengers, figure out a way to gag these tiny noise making hellions?

There was an occasional lull in the commotion. But I was not fooled by the silence. Sorta like President Obama saying he wants to reduce spending. No one would fall for that either. The quiet was just a fake calm until something set them all off again. There was a child standing on the lap of its Mom and dancing, while pulling back on the seat in front of her. Then this little monster tried to climb up over the seat. Where was my stun gun when I needed it?

The squirming, the wiggling, and endless screech owl noises were starting to get to me. Is this the airlines’ way of getting customers like me to pay for Business Class seating? I refuse to be bullied in to spending triple for a seat in the quiet part of the plane when you don’t get to your destination any faster than do the Great Unwashed who travels in coach. Next time I will spend that triple amount in the bar before I board the plane. I am sure that sobriety is over rated when it comes to dealing with toddlers.

Dried Paint

the fetching Mrs. Intrepid Traveler

Dried Paint

As any seasoned world traveler knows that when you are done with your trip, you must have a place to come home to. You need a place to de-compress from the rigors of dining in fancy restaurants and staying in five star hotels on someone else’s dime. For me, that place to de-compress is the old family “farm” in Texas.

I put “farm” in “quotation marks” because a “farm” would indicate a place where vegetables and

animals were purposefully grown for consumption. There is nothing at our farm that is successfully produced like that. The only consuming going on is being done by the scrawny red foxes that have been consuming our chickens, or the cows that have been consuming our newly planted fruit trees and flowers.

Most of my effort goes into just making the property livable by modern standards. The house was originally built as just a weekend place. The floors all sag. Many of the old aluminum windows would not open, or close fully, and the outside siding was rotting at the ground level. There is no heat and the A/C is just noisy window units. But we call it home.

We have spent two years getting the place put in decent condition. I am very near to finishing a complete re-do of the kitchen and breakfast room. Re-do seems a bit understated. There was no kitchen in the space we put it in….just a large open room a ping pong table and a few folding chairs. This room used to be an open porch on the ground floor. Some time in the 80’s my Dad closed it in. We added a wall, new wiring, lights, plumbing, kitchen cabinets, crown molding and new windows and doors.

We tore out the “temporary” stairway to the second floor and had a real one built in its place. And I have installed all new kitchen appliances. Every weekend I think I can finish this job. But there is always more to do. I guess we will never really be done, so I might as well get used to the pile of tools, paint cans and brushes and are a permanent part of our décor.

My lovely wife is very patient with the slow pace of the fix up. She could demand we hire the work done and get it fixed quickly. Or she could have insisted we not leave our comfortable home in the suburbs for this dusty, bug infested, place. But she loves living here.

When I am slaving away on a ladder or under a sink for 12 hour stretches, my mind drifts off to another place where sawdust, sweat, and swearing are not a part of life. I imagine myself as a rich and famous song writer. In my fantasy world I am someone who can sit down and write a simple ditty, and sell it for a million bucks. But then, I read what I wrote and realize I better finish the kitchen because no one will ever pay me a dime for the crap I come up with.

For example: (with apologies to Kenny Chesney for using his tune for “She thinks my tractors sexy”)

She thinks dried paint is sexy
On my face and arms
No projects are ever finished
Anywhere on this farm.

I can’t believe she tolerates the undone mess
She has no place to hang a single shirt or dress
She’s even kind of crazy ‘bout this poor dirt farm
Cause she can raise her chickens in the old tin barn
I open up a bucketful of indoor paint
I brush it on until my arms just cain’t
There’s more to do than one man can ever finish
The repair list doesn’t ever seem to diminish

Thank gawd she thinks dried paint is sexy
On my face and arms
As I stumble thru the clutter
Piled up in both the barns

You’d never know that we were once city sophisticates
When you see that we have to go thru two cattle gates
The cows get in anyway and eat our plants
And now it looks like we can’t grow anything but ants
I’m sure I’ll get it organized one day soon
And when she sees it she will probably swoon.
I wish I shared her rosy view of the country life
I’d never work this hard for anyone but my wife

But she thinks dried paint is sexy
And the work to her is fun
She’s optimistic that
One day we will be done.

Cheers from the Bahamas

Maybe those drinks were larger than normal

Cheers from the Bahamas

As I write this I am in the process of returning from my first trip to Florida and the Bahamas. The final destination for me was the city of Freeport, Bahamas. I have a customer, believe it or not, who has a huge project planned there. They will be expanding a marine loading terminal and plan to buy several million dollars of my kind of equipment for the expansion. Of course, no one in my office actually believes that I have a customer in the Bahamas, but I swear on my mother’s thong bikini bathing suit that this is a legitimate endeavor.

Since this is a important project for me, I did not want to risk any weather or mechanical delays while traveling, so I arrived a day and a half early. And 24 hours prior to my appointment time, I took a taxi from my hotel and did a dry run to the customer’s office. I timed out how long it took the taxi to come to the hotel and how long the drive took. I even checked with Security at the main gate at my destination to make sure there would be no problems bringing my laptop computer in to the compound. Some companies are very sensitive to computers being brought in, since data can be smuggled out so easily.

It took 25 minutes from hotel to destination. Good. This was going to be like a precise military operation. Everything would go like clockwork. Nothing left to chance. Except I wouldn’t need to wear camo or use my night vision goggles. But I considered painting camo stripes on my face anyway since that was kinda cool.

I took the cab back to my hotel and relaxed by the pool. After all, I was in the Bahamas. I changed in to beachwear and found the pool. I had originally thought about a snorkeling excursion that afternoon, but decided to wait until after my big presentation. I did not want anything, like getting too much sun or being eaten by a shark to keep me from doing my best in front of the customer. So I just relaxed in the outdoor bar chatting with fellow travelers who were there on vacation.

They were drinking a fruity drink they referred to as a Bahama Mama and seemed to be enjoying them. It was hot, and I was thirsty, so I thought I would try one too. Fruit drinks are good for you, aren’t they? It was tasty and the bar was running a special of two for one. So, I cheerily had another. And others, since they were arriving in pairs. I was on hotel property, and no cash was exchanged, just a signature and a room number. How convenient. The afternoon passed quickly. How did it suddenly get so dark? And where was my room? What was my name?

I woke up the next morning feeling as if I had been eaten by that shark. My back hurt. My stomach was in knots. I felt as if I had been left on a desert island to die. What had I done? And this was the morning of my big presentation! Good gawd. How was I going to make it? I crawled in to the shower. The gentle water instead felt like a fire hose of lava and hail stones hitting me. I staggered out and toweled off. I noticed something odd in the mirror. (and I know what you mean people are thinking, but you are wrong) I twisted around and realized I had a rather large tattoo right between my shoulder blades. Hmmm. I hoped it was just a hallucination. Lower down on my back I could see a row of ragged stitches about the size of a wallet where my kidney had been. Damn. That was probably not good.

I stumbled out, got dressed and found my way down to the taxi stand. No time for food or coffee. I looked at my watch. Amazingly, I had just enough time to get to the customer’s office. My military precision was still in operation. I met with the client, and even though he asked me a few times if I was OK, I think the presentation went well. I don’t think he noticed the weeping wound or could hear my brain pounding as it tried to escape from my skull.

As I write this, I do not know the decision of my customer and if I will get the largest order of my career. But I did pass some important milestones in my life. For one, I can add the Bahamas as another country to my list of nations that I have been to. And more importantly to me, I can finally claim fame for having visited all 50 states now that I have officially been in Florida during this trip.

But to be honest, other events mentioned in this piece were not actually experienced. I did not consume any fruity drinks, I do not think I am missing a kidney, nor am I sporting a new tattoo, that I know of. But I did have a bad case of stomach distress the morning of my big presentation. It was most likely the result of eating spoiled tartar sauce, but that does not sound near as interesting as consuming mass quantities of Bahama Mamas and losing a kidney.

What I did is what is referred to as “taking artistic license” with the truth. I like that. It allows me to lie, and to claim to be an artist, all in just three words. And if I have a license it must mean this is official. So, if you ever find yourself consuming too much fruit juice and waking up with fewer internal organs than you started life with, just remember that you do not have to resort to “taking artistic license”. You can honestly claim that your foolish behavior has given you a good story. You might want to be pro-active, however, and pick out a cool looking tattoo pattern, just in case.

A typical relaxing weekend in the country.

A typical relaxing weekend in the country.

It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend at our ranch the west Texas Hill Country. My wife and I were going out to our place to make sure the house and water system was OK after a hard, cold winter. We planned to have family members visiting here in three weeks for my daughter’s wedding reception. We wanted to make sure we didn’t have broken pipes or water damage.

It is a six hour drive so we didn’t get there until nearly dark Friday night. First thing I did was hike up the hill to check on our water system. I opened the valve connecting the water line to our storage tank, and then hiked further up the hill to the tank itself. I pulled off the access cover and peered down in to the dark tank. It was bone dry. And no water was coming in from the line I just opened. AAARRGH! I figured the Property Owners water system must still be down. I gave the bad news to my wife. Thanks to her, however, we had several two gallon containers of water stored in the house for just such situations. At least we would be able to flush and rinse the sweat off. (Not that I was planning to sweat).

The evening was glorious. The moon was so full it nearly burst in the eastern sky. With field glasses we could see the pores on the Man in the Moon’s face. He should see an Astro-dermatologist. We relaxed from the long drive on the large wooden deck and surveyed our personal kingdom. The dusty green hue of the rolling hills stretched out before us. All was good. We’d deal with the lack of water tomorrow.

l was just pulling the steaks off the grill when the dog started barking at some critter. He took off after it in the darkness. I let him go, thinking “what’s the harm? “ Then we smelled the unpleasant aroma of skunk wafting back from his direction. AAARRGH! The dog just got sprayed, and we don’t have any bath water to wash him with. He sulked back to us somehow knowing he was in deep doo-doo. His odor was not adding to the dining ambience so we made him sit downwind of us.

We piled the dirty dishes in the dry sink. They could wait until morning since I was confident we’d resolve the water problem. I covered the grill. It was windy but I was sure the coals would die out soon. We crashed for the night. It was cool, so we left the bedroom window open.

I was immediately unconscious, but about midnight I got a nudge from my wife. She quietly said “the deck is on fire”. Now, normally after a long drive, and a big meal, I am a bit lethargic when aroused from a deep sleep. But there is something inspiring about hearing the words “on fire” when you are in the middle of thousands of acres of dry ranch land with no water pressure. My brain has never engaged so quickly. I even astonished myself at my Ninja –like reflexes. I leaped out of bed, found one of those stashed water jugs, and ran outside to do battle with the inferno.

There was a yellow flame boiling out from under the charcoal grill. One of my thoughtful hunting buddies had placed a round black tray under the grill to protect the deck from falling sparks. Turns out this tray was plastic and not metal. Hot ashes from the grill had fallen down on to it and the plastic melted and caught fire. The wooden deck was burning too, but had just started. I emptied the jug of water on the flames which were quickly extinguished. I poured more water in to the grill itself and doused the glowing embers.

Later it occurred to me that If my wife had not awoke in time to see the flames while they were still manageable, I might be writing this tale from Heaven. (OK, I am an optimist). I wonder if there is a burn unit at the Pearly Gates. I hate the thought of going through eternity as a crispy critter. Everyone would know that I was the dumbass that set my own deck on fire.

Early the next morning I got up to fix the water problem. I followed the plastic pipe down to the well and didn’t see any breaks. I traced the line back up to our tank and decided, just for grins, to open one of the extra cut off valves that is never closed. Sure enough it was closed. I opened it and water gushed in to our storage tank. Boy, did I feel stupid for not opening that valve last night. Anyway, all is good. We have water.

I walked back down the hill, following the line to the house. Then I see that the valve near the house was split open from freeze damage. This is why our tank went dry. All the water leaked out when the valve broke. AAARRGH! If I had just looked at this closer last night, I would have already been to town to get a replacement. I did not see the need to hike back up the hill to close the valve from the tank to the house. Even though the tank was filling I knew water would not come down the hill since we had lost the vacuum on the line. I told my wife that, and that I’d be back in an hour with a new valve.

An hour later I returned. She then tells me that I was wrong again. When the storage tank filled up, the water pressure in the line pushed thru the air pocket and spewed all the water out thru the damaged valve, like a geyser. Now the storage tank was dry again. AAARGH.! I replaced the valve and the 800 gallon tank began re-filling one more time. I am seeing a disturbing pattern of errors in decision making on my part. What else can go wrong?

The storage tank finally filled and we had normal water pressure in the house. I stepped in to the kitchen and heard the sound of rushing water. I pulled open the cabinet below the sink and found water boiling out like someone had a garden hose running in it. I yelled for my wife to shut the valve I had just replaced. I discovered that the water filter had apparently broken during the freeze and was dumping water all over the place. AAARGH!

OK, now I am thinking.” If I had only let that fire burn this place down, the heat would eventually melt the plastic pipe, releasing 800 gallons of water which would douse the flames before all of west Texas was toast”. And I would not have to deal with these water problems. But real men don’t react that way… or so I have heard. I did what all real men do, when they know they have been beaten….I packed up and we left. Six hours back behind the wheel never seemed so relaxing.

Malaysia

Mr. "R" (not his real name) and his sister

Malaysia

Hello Gentle readers,

Editor’s note: There is still time for you to gouge your eyes out to avoid reading this.

Yes, it is time again for another fact-less, farfetched, and fictitious report from your Intrepid Traveler. As usual, be prepared to be intrigued by tales of wit, wisdom, and ..…(insert in some other word that starts with W, please to complete the alliteration. (why do I have to do all the work?)

Today’s story is about my current trip to the country of Malaysia. I am here to help my agent, Mr. “R”, sell my equipment into the oil and gas market here. It is a busy time and Malaysia is going to spend a lot of Ringits (their currency) in the next 5 years on offshore drilling and production. Mr. R and I want to help them spend it. Malaysia is bustling with activity, but it is such a quiet, laid back, country that I don’t have anything unusual, or silly to report. I will have to use my own creativity instead. Damn, I hate that. We all know how badly that will turn out.

This is my second trip to this small nation. In fact, Malaysia is so small, it can’t reach the light fixture to change the bulb. It is celebrating 50 years of nationhood this year. (If I am older than the country I am in, shouldn’t that make me KING, or something?) It was 50 years ago that Malaysia gained independence from Great Britain. And the country seems to be thriving despite the Brits forcing them to drive on the wrong side of the road. It seems to be a polite country. They actually use their brakes and turn signals while driving. What a concept. (Are you listening, India?)

The population is about 60 % Muslim, 30% Christian, and 100% petite. Since I am 6’2”, I tower over these people like Gulliver in Lilliput. Mr. R fits that description. He is a jolly little fellow, who looks a lot like Budda, but thankfully, he wears a shirt. He is so short, that the top of his head only reaches my armpit. Why anyone would want to reach my armpit in this warm and humid climate is not something I care to speculate on.

I first flew from Houston to Kuala Lumpur, (KL), which is the capital of Malaysia. This is a very modern city with a lovely sounding name but it means “bay mud”. I know this because, I am an expert on local dialects, and because Mr. R told me what it meant. Apparently Kuala Lumpur has a drainage problem.

The very next day I flew to the city of Miri, which I mistakenly thought was in the country of Brunei. It is not, but my family back home got a chuckle out of me not even knowing what country I was going to. In my defense, Brunei is a really tiny nation, about the size of a mobile home. It was carved out of a sliver of Malaysia, and on a map, it is not clear where one nation ends and the other begins.

We stayed one day in Miri, then we flew to KK, or Kota Kinabalu, which is on the eastern side of Brunei from Miri. Wasn’t Kota Kinabulu the central character in the movie “Roots”, or was that Kunta Kinte? Or am I thinking of the odd growth removed from the backside of Ross Geller, in the TV show “Friends”, or was that a “Koondis”? Anyway, I digress. There is a lot of offshore oil and gas development occurring here so my agent will be setting up a warehouse in this city.

There are some islands just offshore from KK which are world renowned for snorkeling. I had planned to book a boat trip to do some diving, but Mr. R changed the schedule at the last minute and we flew back to KL that day. I wish he had told me sooner. I probably looked rather silly at the airport wearing my snorkel, mask and fins.

Mr. R and I have crisscrossed the country once already. I am five days into a 10 day trip. Since Malaysia is divided in half by the South China Sea, the only way to get from one part of the country to the other is by boat or plane. On this trip, if the plans continue as they are now, I will have taken 12 different planes and connections. I have gone through so many security x-ray machines that it has affected my DNA. I think I am growing gill slits and webbing between my toes. I am de-evolving! My wife always said that would happen if I was out of her care for any length of time.

The country of Malaysia shows very good sense in one small way, which I will explain. Those of you who are avid readers of my Intrepid Traveler stories, will undoubtedly recall, if you are not too heavily medicated, my reportage from Indonesia. This story was written a few years ago about the fruit called Durian.

The locals in the small town in Indonesia I was passing thru had built a statue in honor of Durian. The fruit of the Durian is about the size of a pineapple, with dull spikes on the outside and putrid smelling flesh on the inside. This is really horrible stuff. I was brave and tasted it while in Jakarta, and it was perhaps the worst thing I have ever had in my mouth. The awful smell is overpowering, and the taste, as I recall from my repressed memories, was like dead skunk. Of course, I have not actually tasted dead skunk, but I did eat at the campus cafeteria in my college days, so there is a similar culinary history.

So back to the small town in Indonesia; they built a statue honoring this horrible fruit! They are proud of it? Are they insane? Have they been reading this Intrepid Traveler blog too long? Where is some U.S. Government defoliant when you need it? Anyone spraying Agent Orange would be a super-hero in my book if doing so would eradicate this pestilence from the earth. Anyway, in Malaysia they grow and sell this same fruit on the street corners. But at least the hotels and airlines have the sense to FORBID Durian from being brought inside any buildings or on a plane. Thank goodness.

So, not much else to report to you, Gentle Readers.. I sit in my agent’s office at this moment with no giant insects crawling up my leg, no threat of Tsunamis, and no one thinks I am Bin Laden (as they did in Columbia, South America). And there are no political hotspots to worry about in Malaysia. It is quite boring in fact. But that can be good. Not for you, the reader, but for this writer, his family, and the actuaries that wrote that big life insurance policy for me last year. So I will end this message, and I will go consult a map to find out where I am. I may also do some research to find what permits I need to import Agent Orange in to Malaysia.

Your Intrepid Traveler.

HAVE YOU STOPPED BEATING YOUR WIFE?

11 Angry Men and one who is just mildly annoyed.

Have you stopped beating your wife?

Greetings Gentle Readers. Today’s writing effort does not have anything to do with traveling. So, if you cannot stand to drift off subject for even one exciting installment of the Intrepid Traveler, I suggest you stop reading this right now. Of course, I have been suggesting you stop reading this blog for years but some of you must be deranged. I hope that the remaining readers… OK, reader (thanks Mom) of this blog will bear with me as I discuss and review an event that I have been preparing for now for many months. Without giving away any industrial secrets or legal positions, I thought I would tell you about my first experiences with the legal profession.

I am learning that Lawyers and their minions live in a completely different world than I do. Their world is a world of black and white, yes or no, where I live in the world of grayscale. I don’t see things as having yes or no answers. Life is too complicated for me to boil it down to yes no / black white. I am a simple man, with simple wants and needs. I want to start my day with a hot cup of coffee. I want a clean, orderly house, and I want the power of Invisibility. I am still hoping for the clean house. But, as usual, I digress.

This legal matter I mentioned is a law suit between a giant multibillion dollar corporation and the small company that I work for. There was an incident and damages, but thankfully no injuries. I was selected as the Corporate Representative for this case since my knowledge of the situation exceeded that of our janitor. I have spent months reviewing documents, reading emails and watching Perry Mason re-runs to prepare for my deposition. I have been given thousands of pages of notes by our team of attorneys so that I could master the subject. I got very good at carrying those massive files around under my arms while walking around the office. This sorta reminded me of being back in college, when I’d go to the library, gather a giant pile of important looking textbooks on my table, then take a nap.

Anyway, the day came for my deposition. The meeting was in a very imposing skyscraper in the heart of the city. I was ushered in to a large conference room. I sat at the very end of the long table. At the other end of the table was a camera man and video equipment. My lawyers had prepared me for this and told me to wear a coat and tie to look “professional” for the camera. They did not, however, instruct me to wear pants. Oops. Soon the room was swarming with attorneys, the corporate reps of the other companies involved, and a few street performers. (it did not take long for the Mime to get annoying. The Mime was standing in the back of the room silently depicting me, with a noose around my neck) My stomach was in knots. My heart rate was off the chart. My spleen was having a world class jousting match with my gall bladder. But on the outside I was cool as a cucumber. I was sure my uncontrollable drooling would stop before the camera started rolling. I picked a bad day to stop smoking.

Each team of opposing lawyers had a lead person designated to ask me questions. Keep in mind that this incident happened over six years ago, and I cannot remember how to find my garage, so you can imagine how difficult it has been to prepare to respond to their queries. When one lawyer exhausted his list of questions, the next lawyer at the table took over. This hand off of inquisitors happened four times. I was picturing in my mind a pistol revolver aimed at me and each attorney was a potentially deadly bullet in one of those chambers. When the last lawyer was finished, they started the cycle again! The first guy now had a whole new set of questions based on what my previous responses had been.

But surprisingly I am feeling like Errol Flynn sword fighting with the King’s guards. I am thrusting and parrying and deftly avoiding their razor sharp questions. If only there was a candelabra on the table to whack the top off. But after several hours of this it was getting fatiguing. The round-robin questioning just never seemed to end. For those of you who are familiar with the movie “Airplane!”, there was a scene where a hysterical woman was slapped in the face by her companion in order to calm her down. Another passenger on the plane steps up and slaps her too. The camera pans away from the scene and you see a long line of passengers waiting for their turn to slap the woman. Some holding baseball bats and Billie clubs. Well today, in this conference room, I was like that woman. I picked a bad day to give up heroin.

Late in the day, after endless testimony, they wanted to get on the official record of my lack of technical expertise. “Sir, are you a Corrosion Engineer? I couldn’t stand playing it straight and proper any longer and said “No..., but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night”. There was a long moment of silence. It was deathly quiet in the room. I could hear the steel beams in the building creaking. Then the room exploded with laughter. I could see in their faces a look of dumbfounded confusion. No one in the room could believe that I would insert an answer in my sworn testimony referring to a hotel commercial. From that moment on, I felt even stronger. More empowered. Suddenly I was the champion of the Little Guy, taking on these fancy hired legal guns armed solely with my wit and charm. At least that is what it seemed like in my fried brain.

The session finally ended around 6pm that night. I was ecstatic that it was over. I had survived! I still felt strong until they told me they needed me back for another deposition. This one would be for my personal knowledge and involvement in this case, not as the Corporate Representative. Damn. I should not have used up all my wit and charm. I guess this means I have to pay for another room at the Holiday Inn Express. Oh, and to answer the question posed at the beginning of this piece: Have I stopped beating my wife? Answer: “No, I did not know there was a time limit”.