Vago Damitio

ROUGH LIVING

Tips and Tales of a Vagabond

2013 Master Edition

What Folks Have Said About Rough Living Over the Past Decade

My thanks to the waitresses, reviewers, proofreaders, the vagabonds, and the wanderers. You have made it worthwhile for me to have written.

A Hippified Action Adventure Hero

…handy candid advice about living on the street, in the wilderness, your car, or just couch surfing. …a lyrical journal of Damitio’s adventures, both domestic and abroad … As someone who chooses luck and adventure over the indenture of employment, Damitio’s vignettes take place among the temporary communities of traveling foreigners and wizened urchins. As Damitio explores the planet, there’s a nice blend of jovial drunk and stoned adventures, and serious thoughtful reflections.

Like the Jacks, Black and Kerouac, Damitio’s style is both entertaining and industrial… Lao-lao whiskey, opium, and pot all thread their way into the narrative, and Damitio’s enthusiasm for intoxication is just one of the many facets of his political philosophy that are revealed in the book.

Like a hippified action adventure hero, Damitio’s tales of travel show the reader how to be resourceful (he got his plane fare to Asia at the slot machines) and heroic (he helps save women from a lewd tourist, then saves the drunk tourist’s life). Rough Living is a perfect example of the old road romance made contemporary. For those tempted to test their luck, it’s addictive, like missives from an eloquent friend abroad.

~MARJORIE SKINNER- Portland Mercury

Fun and informative

A quick read with fun facts about the vagabond life. Covers how to stay clean, eat well, entertain yourself, educate yourself, and be safe. Very enjoyable. Makes me want to quit my job and buy a van.

Entertaining

It may not be a book for everyone, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. If you’re into counterculture alternative lifestyle, you will enjoy the book.

Money Well Spent

It was money well spent. I recommend it to anybody who is interested in a simpler, cheaper way to live.

Optimistic and Positive

This book had me captivated with the optimistic and positive tone the author uses to uplift his situation.

Fantastic Read

I thoroughly enjoyed every page of this book! I felt like I was tagging along right there with you in so many of your adventures!!

Unique man, Unique book, Unique life

Recipes, methods, and experiences of a man that lives without a home yet manages to eat, work, play, and live without overburdening society , or bending to its every whim. Neat ideas for those that get tired of bending and a stooping for “your betters”, the American way, at minimum wage, and need a way out. The author has a method and a path few can handle indeed it is Rough Living, but living it is, and if you feel yourself circling the drain again, do not know what to do, or where to do it, these ideas maybe your cup of tea or even a liferaft.

Changed My Life

Reading this book made me buy a hammock. I’m not kidding–I actually sleep in a hammock now. Changed my life.

A Guide to Independent Living

I think independent living is a better way to look at this than homelessness. A very interesting read. I could not put it down. I hate my job, and wouldn’t mind a little Hawaii adventure myself. With our economy the way it is, Vago’s book should be read by all and kept for reference.

A Thought Provoking Read

Well sometime in the next half year or so it seems I will have to decide on selling up and hitting the road or whatever else I can do. I may try your techniques to try and make some kind of plan.

In your writing you seem very wise and well adjusted and decent guy. I’m almost suspicious how you can live how you do and still be like that? It also surprised me that a lot of things you talk about I also apply to living in this house. Common sense I suppose but its nice to see it written as confirmation.

An Eye Opening Experience

The information in this book was an eye-opening experience for me showing me how this can be done and how one can travel around and make things work.

Great, interesting read, full of information

I would recommend it for anyone considering going on a little adventure of their own, anyone that is considering shedding the shackles of traditional living or even someone who just wants a short but fun read. I would certainly recommend it.

Life Off the Grid

Rough Living is well and honestly written. It tells how to survive outside the mainstream on little or no money. It’s also a darn good story of one man’s adventure. Mr. Damitio tells us honestly that he did some things that he would not do again, nor does he condone nor suggest anyone else use some of his methods; he simply tells us the tale “in the raw”. I found the book useful, besides being a great adventure tale. I highly recommend this book to anyone who wants out of the “rat race”, it gives you an honest look at what it’s really like. Great book!

Tells it like it is

If you want to live on the edge but don’t want to take the risks involved, this book is a good way to do both. It showed me a world that I normally would never venture into.

The tales are interesting and his honesty and craziness are reminiscent of the beatnik writers of the 50s and 60s.

I Wish It Was Longer

This guy goes from having a job to being homeless and broke and then somehow ends up in China and all these Asian countries where he makes friends and has incredible adventures. Then somehow he runs out of money again and ends up in Hawaii…

A glimpse into the life of living under the grid

The apparent hierarchy among various homeless types was a revelation, as were the various make-it-yourself appliances.

Handy Info

An excellent handbook to an interesting lifestyle. Discusses both pros and cons; is unflinching in it’s honesty. Damitio writes in a style that is philosophical, practical and fun. Highly recommended.

Good Advice

This is a really good and practical book on urban camping; ie, voluntary homelessness. It gives a lot of good advice and delves into a lot of the concerns you’d have if you were going to do something crazy like live in your car for an extended period of time. There are some topics that he doesn’t cover in detail, little things like how important it is to eat healthy, and what happens when you are wearing shoes all day every day because you have no place to kick them off and relax. But mostly he’s got the major points covered.

Could Not Break Away From It

I just downloaded “Rough Living, An Urban Survival Manual.” I could not break away from the book until I had finished it. I am currently 25 and have just recently walked out on my very good job as a Toyota Fleet manager in Fairfield, CA to pursue a more fitting lifestyle so I would no longer feel as if I was wasting my youth. We are (or rather can be) intelligent, adaptable creatures, and I just need to know that I can survive and function on my own without electricity, cable internet, media influences,jobs…all these conveniences that more and more just feel like a choke collar stripping me (humans) of their natural resourcefulnessI enjoyed your book very much and thank you for sharing your adventures and thoughts with the rest of the world. I cant wait to download more of your writings.

Motivated Me

I just finished reading your book, and I must say, I liked it a lot. I am heading to New Orleans shortly to help out in anyway I can. I never did have very high expectations, but I must tell you, your book helped to remind me and motivate me for my journey from Pittsburgh to New Orleans. thank you!

A Fabulous Tool To Change the World!

I just wasted a couple of hours of my company’s time reading your book, Rough Living. Thanks for writing it, as it was a lovely read… I waitress and keep a copy at the restaurant, so when I bring it up with tables, I can show them. It’s fun… a great conversation piece and a fabulous tool to change the world.

You’ve Ruined the Family Name and Shamed Us All

You’re not supposed to write about some things. Have you no shame? What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t come begging for handouts from me. There’s nothing for you in my will so you can stop hoping I’m dead now.

~ Dad

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated it to my Uncles Larry, Morris, and Murray. They are three men who I am certain understand this book and I am thankful to them all for the lessons which they taught me. I think of you as a bizarre combination of the three wise-men mashed with the three stooges. Larry, Mo, and Curly. I love you guys, wherever you are.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND NOTES

I’d like to thank my brother for suggesting I stop living in a van in Seattle and find some way to go to China. I also need to thank the retired postal worker I met on the way to the North American Anarchist Conference who went by the handle ‘The Old Reptile’ — it was he who suggested I write what I was learning by being homeless as a book.

I’d like to thank my sister for sending me a book called ‘Hobo’ by Eddie Joe Cotton for Christmas in 2002. I’d like to thank Eddie Joe Cotton for getting published and thus showing there was actually a market for a book like Rough Living, even though the legitimate publishers never chose to publish it.

I’d like to thank my friend Izak Holden for doing the interview with Aquillo Mallot which originally appeared in my Anarchist Zine, Conchsense. I’d like to thank Aquillo Mallot (aka Two Dog Tom) and Hopalong Tom for being the type of crazy but generally harmless hobos who will accept all kinds of people at their fires.

I’d like to thank my friend Stephan Boudroux for always being a good buddy, wing man, and buying drinks for me when I was down and out because he knew it would eventually come around.

I’d like to thank Kevin and Candida Alvis and Joey and Sunshine Peppin for letting me park my VW in their backyards in Seattle and Bellingham and allowing me to use their kitchens and toilets as necessary.

I’d like to thank a lot of other people too, but for the moment, that will have to do.

Authors Note from 2005 Rough Living An Urban Survival Manual

I live like a prince. That’s what I’m doing at the moment. It’s great. Let me tell you what the life of a prince is like. I sleep as late as I want. I played tennis until late last night with my new friends from tennis class. It wasn’t cold, because I am in the tropics. Hawaii actually. So anyway, I slept a little late. I woke up at about ten. After using one of my many bathrooms to shave and brush my teeth, I went for a little breakfast. French toast, coffee, and Dutch apple pie. It’s great to be a prince. Pie for breakfast.

I took a brief walk through the gardens to my main library. I’ve been studying Japanese and wanted to look up a phrase I hadn’t understood. While I was there I used the internet to check on the news, stocks, and of course, my horoscope, not that I believe in such things but it is essential to have some trivial pursuits.

I wanted to spend most of the day working on a novel I but I also wanted to take a drive. So I drove to the other side of the island to visit my other library. After eating one of my favorite sandwiches for lunch (kimchi and tuna) in the garden and drinking some watermelon nectar, I settled down in the library and began.

Sounds pretty good right? It is. The thing is though, I’m no prince. I’m homeless. I’m just pretty good at living.

Let me translate. Last night I played tennis in a public park. I paid $25 for six group lessons and in the process made a lot of friends. Plus, if you live in your car, the hardest thing sometimes is figuring out what to do at night. Tennis is a great option. My racket was $3 at the Salvation Army.

After tennis, I drove my car to one of my favorite parking spots. It’s another park that allows all night parking. Lot’s of scuba divers go there for night dives. I slept on the floor of the van I bought for $175. I was near Waikiki for a couple of reasons. 1) My tennis lessons were there and 2) I bought a ticket to Hawaii a while back because it’s a great place to be homeless.

Another cool thing about Waikiki is Burger King. They have those free food scratch off coupons on fry cartons and large drinks. Lot’s of folks don’t even peel em off. That’s how I got the free French toast sticks and apple pie. The coffee cost me 87 cents.

After breakfast I walked through the capital district to the state library. I study Japanese in my car and in the parks. Why? It’s good to have something productive to do. I choose not to work, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to learn. I have a library card so I get to use the internet for free.

I drove across the island because I keep my laptop (and my novel) in a storage unit on the windward side. It’s cheaper for storage there than it is in Honolulu. That way if someone breaks into my car, they don’t get the laptop. I can’t afford to get a new one. I got this one by trading a VW bus I bought for $100 for it. Not bad, huh? The gardens I stroll through are really public parks and I make my own lunches. So what did the life of a prince cost me today? Including gas and coffee… about $3.

It’s all in how you look at it. Trust me, there are times that this lifestyle sucks. When I really want to have a shower and don’t have one to jump in, it sucks. When I get sick and want to lie in bed all day, it sucks. When I meet some beautiful chick that is only interested in the money she thinks I have and I break it to her that I live in my car, it sucks. But most of the time. It’s not that bad.

The key is really in what you do with your time. If you are a millionaire or a bum, you’re probably going to be pretty miserable if you spend all your time drinking or drugging. Tennis is fun whether you have a home or not. Learning is fun. Life is fun.

Authors Note for 2012 Kindle Edition

It’s hard to believe it’s been almost ten years since the original Rough Living: Tips and Tales of a Vagabond was published by Booklocker. When I see those paperback books with Vagabond misspelled ‘Vegebond’ on the spine, I can’t help but laugh. The fact the book was never proofread or edited by anyone other than myself accounts for the numerous typos, mis-spellings, bad grammar, and horrible layout of the original. It might also account for the fact every publisher I spoke with told me my book was unpublishable, though the reason they gave was the same across the board — I’d written a book for people who don’t have money and people without money don’t buy books.

Lots of people have bought this book. I’ve only sold about a thousand copies, but the book has been downloaded and shared with upwards of 30,000 people! Certainly, there was and always will be a market for a book like this, whether the publishers choose to see it or not. I’m simply thankful I live in a time when I could self publish and share my work on the internet. There have been times when I’ve felt bitter about all those free copies that were distributed in direct violation of the copyright, but ultimately — it’s pretty cool, even if I didn’t profit from it. Consider it payment for any films, TV shows, or music I’ve used or enjoyed without buying.

I’m going to leave this version, essentially unchanged. I am going through and finally spell checking, fixing some grammatical errors, and hopefully fixing any and all of the formatting issues the book has suffered from in the past. Later this year, I am (hopefully) going to publish an updated Masters Edition of Rough Living with new material, photos and more. I am also in the process of putting the final edits on Smooth Living: Beyond the Life of a Vagabond.I hope you will enjoy all three of them!

Authors Note for 2013 Master Edition

The “What’s Your Provocation?” section comes from the brilliant work of Mr. Bill Larson of Bellingham, Washington. I attended a lecture of his in 1999 and was profoundly affected by his concepts of provocation and the 3 A’s. Thank you for allowing me to share your work, Bill. It changed my life. Thank you for being an awesome human being.

Over the past decade, the thing that has been best about this book has been and continues to be hearing from readers. From the waitress who wrote to tell me she kept a copy at work to the young and old guys who have written and told me how it changed their lives. I’ve received hundreds of letters and emails from people who told me that Rough Living was what they needed to read, that my words were what they needed to hear. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Those of you who wrote, your words have often been what I needed to hear and you’ve carried me through some dark nights of the soul with them!

I’m adding in a couple of things that weren’t in the original Rough Living: Tips and Tales of a Vagabond to this version. All the urban survival tips from the 2005 Rough Living: An Urban Survival Manual are included in this edition and I’ve also inserted the complete booklet I wrote about how to freelance and find your passion income. It makes sense to include it in Rough Living rather than having it on its own. I’ve added in some stories from my original manuscript of 20 Weeks a Bum which fit with the overall time period and theme of this book.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out once again that I dedicated the original of this book (my first book and one I’m still incredibly proud of) to my father who apparently thought I was writing something very different when he promised to purchase a hundred copies and send them out to influential friends. When he read it, he told me I should be ashamed of myself, that I’d ruined the family name, and we stopped speaking. We attempted to patch things up in 2009 but the same thorns came out again. Ten years later, we still have no relationship.

I refuse to be ashamed of what I’ve done. This is my life. I’ve made mistakes, as we all have. I, however, chose to write about my errors instead of keeping them hidden like skeletons under a closet or dust in a rug. I’ve always felt it better to just say what I’ve done, think, or want in life and that has often put me at odds with people, not just my father, but many others too.

I’ve grown, I’ve changed, and I’ll continue to do so. A few examples are theft and ‘working the system’. I’ve no interest in either technique these days, but it took me a long time to learn that ‘negative’ ways have ‘negative’ effects on your consciousness. It is my hope that my errors can save you some trial and error. I wish I’d learned some of this stuff without bumping my head and limiting my future.

I also want to mention the recipes. I’ve included them in the index because I still like them, but over the last decade, I’ve found it funny how many people complained about them on Amazon or other review boards. I’m a pretty decent cook. I’ve actually run some kitchens and I can cook meals that come out delicious 90% of the time from scratch and what is on hand. The point of the recipes is to show you that a few basic ingredients and utensils can give you enough to eat something that would make the judges on Top Chef say “That tastes pretty good.” I’m not trying to make a recipe book, but I think these ones are pretty tasty.

As I put this together, I’m in Morocco where I’ve been living off and on for the past four years. I came here after getting a degree from the University of Hawaii. I’ve married a Moroccan girl I met, we have a little girl who is going to be two years old this year, and we’ve lived together in Morocco and Turkey these past four years.

During that time, I’ve not been back to the USA. We are waiting on her immigrant visa to be approved in just a few weeks. By the time this is published, I expect we will be living in the USA. I have no idea how we will do it. I still don’t have a job.

I’ve written about the past four years in Smooth Living: Beyond the Life of a Vagabond. I may have to write a whole new book about finding a way to live on our own terms in the USA. Tentatively calling it Rough Living: Family Style which probably means that I’m afraid our life of Smooth Living might be coming to a close. We’ll see.

I wrote the original draft of this book back in 2001- since that time I’ve been to more than 40 countries, sailed a yacht through the Aegean, flown in a hot air balloon over Turkey, and rode camels through the Sahara. If my life is the pudding, the proof of these methods is there. I hope you find what you are looking for. I hope you enjoy these tips and tales of a simple vagabond.

The past ten years of my life have been better than most people’s vacations — a huge part of the reason for that is because I chose to embrace rough living to grab my freedom. This stuff works — of course, there’s an advanced course too. I’m working on that. Stay tuned at http://www.vagodamitio.com/

REVISED, EDITED, EXPANDED, AND PUBLISHED IN SEFROU, MOROCCO ON A CRAPPY ACER NOTEBOOK ON THIS 10TH DAY OF MARCH, 2013.

MEET THE GRASSHOPPER

What is rough living? Rough living is making do without. Without whatever you might need or want at any given moment. Without food, without money, without shelter, without whatever it is you think you want or need — immediately at hand. Rough living is spending your last dollar without knowing where the next one will come from. Rough living is about finding the rewards from making it any way you can.

The following is some of what I’ve learned and seen in my career as a vagabond. The book is broken up into two sections. The first section is made up of tips for living the rough life. In the second section are some of the tales of my adventures in 2000 and 2001. I hope the advice is useful and the stories are both inspiring and enjoyable to travelers and armchair adventurers alike.

This book is not intended for the homeless. It is not directed at street people. It is not a how to manual for people who want to live in public restrooms and beg for change. This is a book for people who don’t fit into the accepted paradigms. Let me illustrate with a well known fable.

Once upon a time there was an ant and a grasshopper. They both lived in a wonderful place filled with enjoyable activities and fulfilling opportunities. The grasshopper loved to play his fiddle, eat fresh fruit right off the vine, and dance in the moonlight. The ant, however, warned the grasshopper that winter would soon come and that he should follow the example of the ant by preparing for it. Meaning, the grasshopper should forego the simple pleasures in life so that he could prepare for winter. The ant did this. Each day he woke up early, said goodbye to his family, and went to work. He stored up resources for them, so they could live through the winter. In the evening, he came home and went to sleep early so he could wake up in the morning and do it again. The grasshopper couldn’t understand why the ant would do it.

“Come, play in the moonlight, there’s plenty of food. Worry about winter when winter comes.”

The ant didn’t listen to the grasshopper, just as the grasshopper didn’t listen to the ant. They spoke different languages.

The way this story usually ends in the uptight capitalist paradigm of the industrialized world is the winter comes and the ant watches smugly from his warm house stocked with food as the grasshopper freezes and starves to death. I never liked the ant.

That’s because I’m a grasshopper.

The ants control the world. They have been trying for a long time to turn all of us grasshoppers into more worker ants. They want us to produce, produce, produce and then consume, consume, consume. They want us to give up our pleasure in life and join them in drudgery so that they can feel they are making the right decision and perhaps enjoy the fruit of our labor. They want us to validate them by joining them, or they want to smugly look on as we freeze and starve to death. I say, nix to them.

I’ve rewritten the ending of the old fable. Here it is.

“You better get to work or you’re going to freeze to death this winter,” the ant told the grasshopper, ever so smugly.

“My life is my work,” the grasshopper said. “You better take a second to enjoy your life or you’re going to keel over prematurely of a coronary. You’ll wake up one morning a very old ant and wonder why you never saw your kids grow into big red ants. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. You better worry about you though.”

The ant continued working and the grasshopper continued playing his fiddle and dancing in the moonlight. In fact, the grasshopper had so much time to practice his fiddling and dancing, that he became a virtuoso!

When the winter came the ant waited to see the grasshopper freeze or come begging for warmth or food. It didn’t happen. The grasshopper had used his free time to learn where to get food and how to stay warm without the ant’s help. He spent the winter entertaining friends with his fiddle playing and staying warm using creativity. When spring came around, he was just fine.

So this isn’t a book for beggars. It’s a book for those hardy souls who choose not to be ants. It’s a collection of a few of the things I’ve learned to get through the winter. It’s a book for grasshoppers and ants that want to live like grasshoppers. I hope you enjoy it.

PROVOCATION

I like that word. Provocation. A pro is an expert. A vocation is the way we make ends meet in the world. The word vocation is the same as the word vacation except for one letter… Seriously, you have to ask yourself what it is that you want in the world.

Are you seeking redemptive social change?A new plasma screen television? More time to be with your family? More time to be by yourself? What PROVOKES you to even consider rough living?

Is it that you want a revolution?Are you into shattering the social structure?

Unleash your desire. Grab hold of empowerment and listen to a suggestion from yourself. Be honest…what you seek is self determination and freedom.

Now, let’s take a look at what you have to work with. It’s what we all have to work with. It’s the same for everyone but completely different. Or as they so charmingly say in Asia when languages are not in common… ‘same same but different’.

I want you to grab a sheet of paper. Divide it into three columns and label each one with following three A’s.

To get what you want from life you have the three ‘A’s’. Abilities, Accumulations, and Access.

Abilities. Your abilities are what you can do. Can you build a house, unclog a drain, put up fences, dig ditches, paint, write, draw, garden, accessorize, fix things? What are your abilities. Never mind if you think you can make money with them or if you think they are useful. Your abilities are what you can do.

Accumulations. This is your stuff. Some people have lots of stuff, some people have no stuff. George Carlin has a funny bit about how a house is just a place to keep your stuff. Stuff can be helpful and it can be a hindrance. More on this later.

Access. Access is probably the most important thing you can have in our global-society. Did you ever notice that when you watch the credits of movies there are lots of the same names? Maybe you thought, “Wow, that’s coincidental” or “What a talented family!” Don’t kid yourself. That is what access can get you. Access is who you know and where you can go. A library card gives you access to books and computers. A father who is President of the U.S. gives you access to business ventures and politics. Honestly, is there a remote chance in hell George W. Bush would have become president if his father hadn’t provided him with plenty of access? That is what access can get you.

Write as much as you can under each of the the ‘A’s. Take your time with this. You’re not some ant, are you? You won’t learn to play your fiddle good enough to buy your supper unless you know what you can do with it. That takes time. When you think you are done, hold on to that paper. You’ll find that you can add a lot more to it as time goes on.

You get the point, right? So let’s get crazy and say I want to have a steak dinner with corn and a big glass of milk. Easy, right? I go to the grocery store, go to the reduced price meat section (more on this later), pick up a steak, an ear of corn, and a pint of milk. Total cost $4.86. Then I go to the park, fire up the barbecue using hardwood sticks to get coals ( you don’t have to use charcoal from the store!) and I make my meal.

I can almost hear you though. “What if you don’t have the $4.86 to get the groceries?”It’s still easy. You may not get the immediate gratification of a steak dinner, but you can do it. Look at your list and see what you have to work with. Two quick examples should suffice….

Example 1: I go to the library and post on craigslist.com that I am offering rides from one part of town to another for $5 round trip. (I make sure that it doesn’t cost me too much in gas of course) and wait for my phone to ring.

Example 2: I make a sign that says “Historic Walking Tours of such and such area”, I go to the library, do a little research into some history of wherever I am living, learn a few facts, and I go to a place where tourists gather (rest area, beach, park, etc) and share a part of my local scene with a visitor. I can either set a fee or wait for tips. If I choose to wait for tips, it’s always a good idea to mention that I am working for free and that I live on my tips.

In all three cases, it is me, using my abilities, accumulations, and access to get a steak dinner with corn on the cob and a big glass of milk. I’m tempted to go on, but the fact of the matter is, my list is different than your list. Give it a try with your list. How do you get that steak dinner three different ways?

You want to make sure that you weigh the value of what you seek by the cost of what you desire. For example, it wouldn’t be worth it for me to use $8 in gas to get a $5 meal.

Aim for the easiest, most convenient, and most fun way to get where you want to go. Instead of saying “I apply for a job, go through a lengthy interview process, get hired, work for two weeks, get my first check, cash it, and then go out for my dinner at Sizzler”, I went with something more convenient , more fun, and more easy.

Flip your piece of paper over and write down a few things that you want. Leave plenty of room underneath so you can explore different ways to get them. Don’t limit yourself to the physical side of things. There are plenty of other things we all want.

We all want to be safe, we want to explore, and to experiment.

How can you do some of that with what you have?

(Once again, great thanks is owed to Bill Larson of Bellingham, Washington for originating and sharing these incredible ideas with me back in 1999. I’m not sure any of this would have happened without meeting Bill.)

HITTING THE ROAD

You’ve felt the call of the road at some point in your existence or you wouldn’t be reading this. It’s called me for as long as I can recall. The call of the road is irresistible and though I’ve tried to fight it, I’m eventually powerless to hold it at bay. I am seduced by the desire to see what lies beyond the bend or over the next ridge.

Rough living requires little, but a few things make your life a whole lot more enjoyable. The first thing you need to have is a will to live. The sheer desire to survive. The will to live comes in many forms. Curiosity has kept this cat alive through some desperate times. I want to know what is going to happen next and so I’m not willing to die. When the time comes, I’ll see what happens on the other side, but there isn’t any need to rush that particular journey. I have friends who have made it because they love their families. Others live to fulfill some religious devotion. The important thing is to refuse to die. Even when it seems like it would be the easiest course. Absolute refusal.

If you want to die, you won’t survive a week of rough living. There are far too many ways to end up dead. So, first of all, if you want to learn some of the lessons and experience some of the joys of rough living, you need to want to live. If you have that, the rest is a matter of personal preference. Totally up to the individual.

I’m almost never without a pocketknife, a source of fire, and my good shoes or boots. Add a blanket, a tarp, and a jacket, and I’ve got nearly everything I need to survive. One other key essential is proper ID. We live in a security conscious world and if you want to avoid hassles with the law you need a passport, driver’s license, and birth certificate to keep you form their grasp. These three pieces of ID are essential.

Not everyone that reads this book is going to live the way I do. Not everyone wants to. This is a very individual way of living. Here are three examples of very rough living:

Cat Lady- She wears taped together garbage bags for a dress. Obviously, she needs help. She has a couple of shopping carts strung together and loaded to overflow with stuff. I was curious and got closer despite the terrible stench that surrounded her. I was amazed to see that this madwoman was carting around ten cats in travel cages. Most of what she carried was cat food and cats. Obviously, she’s a nutter.

Bag Guy- There’s a crazy homeless guy in Waikiki that carries dozens of plastic shopping bags loaded with all of his possessions. Seriously, this guy has dozens of bags. Why are homeless people so obsessed with having stuff?

Surf Guy- I’m told that this guy used to be a world class surfer and had an accident that made him loopy. He seems to have a better idea of what is going on than the other two. He has a couple of pairs of board shorts, a duffel bag with some t shirts in it, a rice bowl, and a spoon. Simple and easy.

What do you need? Do you need cats? Do you need knickknacks? More importantly, since I’m assuming most of us aren’t crazy like the people above, what do you need to have with you?

As I said, it is a matter of personal preference. Here’s one of my lists:

The Knife: Everyone has his or her preferred blade. For me it is a medium sized Swiss army knife. Something which fits in my pocket but gives me a can opener, a couple of blades, a leather punch, tweezers, scissors, wine opener, and a screw driver. I have friends who prefer a good utility knife with a serrated edge, locking blade, and thumb lever. For anyone involved in commercial fishing this is the knife of choice. I’ve known a couple of guys who would be dead if they hadn’t of had a one handed opening serrated edge to cut themselves out of tangled lines when they were dragged under while fishing in Alaska and the Arctic.

Lighter and/or matches: There’s a few ways to light a fire. The easiest is to use matches or a lighter. You can also use your lighter to smoke cigarettes, smoke pot, cut rope, melt plastic, and much more. Fire is too precious not to have available.

Boots: I’ve probably put 10,000 miles on my boots. They’ve gone through three sets of soles, a dozen sets of laces, I’ve had them patched, replaced the insoles repeatedly, and will continue to do so. Once you find a good pair of boots…keep them forever. (Note: I let my boots go while living in Hawaii in 2008, but I wish I’d kept them!)

Jacket: Even if it’s not cold where you are a lightweight jacket is worth carrying. I use a simple waterproof shell with a hood. It blocks the wind and keeps me dry. I can wear layers underneath if it’s cold.

Blanket: A wool blanket will keep you warm even if it is wet. You can use it as a pillow, a poncho, roll it into a pack, and use it for a cushion, whatever. A good blanket has a thousand functions.

Tarp: A six-foot by six-foot tarp will keep you dry anywhere, it will keep your gear dry, it’s light, it folds up small, and if you combine it with the tarps of friends it can become part of a communal tarpatecture structure. More on tarpatecture later.

Possibles Bag: The possibles bag is a small bag you can carry on your belt, in your pack, or somewhere on your person. Basically it is a bag that has gear in it to help you in any situation possible. My possibles bag typically has an extra pair of eyeglasses, some fishhooks and line, a flint and steel striker, some basic first aid gear, and a pen and paper. Depending on where I am, the contents of my ‘possibles’ changes.

Four ways to get what you need but don’t yet have

Buying. The easy way to get what you want is to buy it. Whether you are looking for food, shelter, love, or excitement; cash can get you most of what you need. I’m not knocking it, but buying is not my favorite way to get what I need and not just because I don’t have a big wad of jack.

Making. This is my favorite method of getting the essentials. It involves looking around at what you already have and figuring out a way to make it into what you need. A monk I met in Thailand had this down to an art. He said, "First I look at what I have, then I figure out why it is exactly what I need." I’m not so enlightened as he is but I am pretty good at what the Marines call "adapting and overcoming".

Asking. This method is scary in it’s effectiveness. You figure out exactly what it is you want, who has it or can provide it, and then you ask for it. There’s no guarantee it will work, but I’ve found it invaluable to get over my shyness or sense of the ridiculous and simply ask, "Can I have this coat?" or whatever…you won’t know until you try it. Remember that loser from college who used to ask every girl he met for a blowjob? I bet he eventually got one!

Taking. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve done some taking. I always tried to restrict my theft to what I truly needed or to things that didn’t hurt individuals with their loss. Sure, it’s justification, but it feels better to know the bank, the airlines, or the credit card company will reimburse someone. If you truly want to learn how to take things, I recommend Abbie Hoffman’s “Steal This Book.”

Specific Example. Tobacco

Buying- you walk into a store, give a clerk your money, and walk out with a smoke.

Making- you pick up cigarette butts on your stroll around the neighborhood and then smoke the tobacco from them in a cigarette you roll using a cigarette paper or a piece of newspaper.

Asking- you ask smokers you see "Can I bum a smoke?" until someone gives you one.

Taking- you steal the tobacco from a person or a store.

The Types of Tramping

Like most vocations, there are a number of different ways to tramp or vagabond. Your needs are going to be different depending on where you are and what you spend your time doing. Like everything else we will talk about in this book. It’s a matter of personal preference.

Tropical Tramping is my preferred mode of rough living. The thing I like about it is the warmth of the water, the lack of necessary gear, and the variety of activities. Beach bums are what most of tropical tramps are called. It sounds almost respectable, doesn’t it?

Temperate Tramping is pretty good. You have to do a little more preparing to tramp in a temperate area. You need a way to keep dry. For both you and your gear. You probably need blankets at night. You are going to have a little tougher time finding a place to bathe. It’s all doable. It just requires a little more work.

Cold Weather Tramps work too hard in my opinion. Cold weather tramps have to have a shelter (or else they have to be tougher than they are crazy!) They need to have plenty of gear. They need to have fire on a regular basis. They need to eat enough calories to keep the body going strong. Again, it can be done, but why do it the hard way if you don’t have to.

Packing Heavy vs. Packing Light

When I first started living this way, I moved from a house into a VW bus. I tried to get rid of things but there was so much that I felt necessary to my existence, I wasn’t very successful. I had three pots, two pans, a cheese grater, soup ladles, four sets of silverware (in case I had guests), plates, cups, folding chairs, books, books, and more books, framed pictures, knickknacks on the dash, art supplies, computer gadgets, a guitar, a fiddle, a harmonica, three different size packs, three pillows, four sets of sheets, ten changes of clothing, six sets of shoes, a dog, the dog’s toys, the dog’s pack, the dog’s food, my food, electric razor, seven blankets, a camp stove, a backpacking stove, an icebox, an electric heater, auto tools, woodworking tools, metal tools, knickknacks, toiletries, and about fifty thousand other things. It all went in the car. It was an ordeal each night to clear out a place to sleep. Sometimes, I slept on top of things rather than move them at night so I could sleep and then move them back in the morning so I could drive.

The upside was I had everything I could possibly need or want. I would visit friends and they would be amazed when they would off-handedly say “It’s too bad we don’t have a croquet set!”and I would pull one out of my bus. Or when I made breakfast in the bus for a couple of friends and it turned out to be gourmet omelets with bacon, toast, and hot coffee. I made it in the parking lot of the radio station I worked at for my coworkers. They were surprised as hell at my gourmet kitchen on wheels! It was fun, but what a pain in the ass.

Let’s look at the merits of packing light vs. packing heavy.

Packing Light

Plenty of space

Easy to move

Not obvious

Limited functionality

Requires creativity

Packing Heavy

Variety of Goods means lots of functionality

Takes lots of space

Looks obviously houseless

Hard to move

Limits your mobility

There are plenty of ways to get rid of the extra stuff. If you have furniture and brick-a-brac you can call a second hand junk dealer and have them come pick it up and give you a few bucks for it. This is assuming you still have a house, otherwise you can drop it off. They don’t pay much, but it’s certainly better than carting all that stuff around, right?

Maybe you would feel better donating it to charity. You can drop off just about anything with the Salvation Army, Goodwill, and local thrift stores. Community Services for the Blind will pick things up at your house.

Maybe you have a bunch of things that hold family value. My advice is give that stuff to your family that has space for it. Either give it, loan it, or ask to store a few boxes of ‘grandma’s china’ in Cousin Eldon’s basement.

This brings us to storage. I used to keep a $20 a month storage unit. I have a few things I eventually want to hang on walls when I have some. I have a few family heirlooms and a few things that are too valuable to me to get rid of. Storage is a good option if you find yourself in a similar situation. I prefer paying for storage to keeping things at a friend or relative’s house because I know that my storage unit isn’t going to move, I’m the only one with access to it (because Cousin Eldon’s kids might not know it’s grandmas china and use it for slingshot practice), and because it’s one less thing to think about.

For those who want to have the most options in mobility, packing light wins. For those who want to have the most options in a sedantary life, having a lot of stuff is cool. I admit it, I still carry around too much stuff but my list is smaller now than that huge one above. My vagabond kit these days is a wool coat, a leather bag with a change of clothes, sarong, swim trunks, my laptop, chargers, notebook, sewing kit, identification, and phone. If I won’t be flying anywhere, I bring my Swiss Army Knife. I have a metal coffee cup with a lid and a French Press attachment that I made which comes where I’m not sure there will be cheap coffee.

The rest of it goes in storage somewhere. Here is my list from living in a van in Hawaii. One burner stove, mess kit, coffee cup, food, blanket, knife, sleep pad, hammock, duffel bag of clothes, running shoes, flip flops, guitar, tennis racket, LED light, journal, and a couple of books. I also had a walkman radio and a couple of cheap tools to work on the car.

The key is this. If you carry something for a couple of weeks and you don’t use it at all. Get rid of it.

HOME WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE ONE

You’ve gotta sleep somewhere. Vagabonds develop a knack for having a secure place to sleep. There are a few key things to look for when you’re seeking shelter. A good shelter protects you from the elements. It keeps your gear dry. It keeps your gear from going into some other hobo’s hands. Most importantly, it protects you from the human predators are definitely out there.

Here are a few ideas about camping to get you started:

If you plan to camp, you need to have a decent brown or green tarp. Whether you use it as your shelter, a groundcloth, or to sleep in, you will find it to be $10 very well spent. I maintained a camp in the woods behind a park in Bellingham, Washington for almost a year with no one stumbling on it. I even challenged a couple of friends to go back and find it and none of them could.

BLM and conservation land in the west are readily available for free camping although the laws are getting tighter year by year. There are also still some primitive campgrounds in National and State Forests (cheap or free). National Forests, in most areas, still allow dispersed (non-campground) camping with varying restrictions.

Another camping opportunity in the Mid-West and East, are Army Corps of Engineering sites. Some are very well developed and not too pricey if they have a cost at all.

Department of Wildlife areas in Washington State are set aside for hunting. Pretty neat for camping when out of hunting season. Many of the timber companies set aside areas for recreation too. There is a electric company in Ohio that set up camping areas. All you need is a permit, which you get on-line. Very nice and free!

In the Southwest, land is often unclaimed or government owned. If you’re there, I recommend the Mogollon Rim above Payson. Camping there can be free or you can pay if you want more security and services like bathrooms and site maintenance. In regards to public land . . .Your taxes (or mine) pay for them!

Here’s an important rule of thumb for camping; pack it out! Leave nothing to show you were there. Even if it means cleaning up after the jerk who was there before you.

I should add that sometimes the areas that look least desirable for a camp are the best..in the northwest blackberry brambles can be worth the work to clear a tunnel to the center of one and then clear out a room. the tunnel can be a pain to cut out, but if you do it right it’s easy to cover it up with some sort of foliage.

I’m also a big fan of tree houses. it’s not too difficult to build a simple platform in a tree and tarp over it. if you do it right you can make it invisible from the ground.

Houseless Hygiene

Proper cleanliness is the single biggest way to safeguard your health, bar none. Be a cleanliness nut. Keep your clothes clean, keep yourself clean, and show others think you are clean by grooming. Be sure to keep your hair trimmed and your beard shaved or neat. Keep a small pair of sharp scissors to trim your beard if you can’t shave and just learn to trim it by feel and going over your whole face. Don’t let it get more than 1/4 inch long if your camping out because you’ll look too scruffy otherwise.

Don’t ever let yourself stink. You’ll find potential friends will run from you fast if you’re not clean. Unless you really dislike the company and cooperation of others, be a nut about cleanliness because it will be hard to stay clean living in a camp. Being a cleanliness nut will help a lot. Last, remember the left hand rule-never touch anything dirty with your right hand--always the left. And never touch anything clean like your face, food, or a friend with your left--always your right. This will keep you healthier than you can imagine. It’s not just about bum washing (get it? Haha!).

Keeping yourself clean and well groomed keeps your self esteem higher and makes meeting people easier. Nobody wants to invite a stinky bum to dinner. Use a bucket and a sponge if you have to. Wash in a stream, lake, or under a faucet. Public restrooms are a good place to shave and wash if you have a small kit with a sponge, soap, and a razor. Take care of yourself!

Shelters and Missions

I don’t like homeless shelters or missions. I’ve visited them, but never bothered staying. I’ve talked with enough people to know that it’s not for me. There is an underlying edge of violence and theft that seems to pervade such places. I’m not interested in hearing about God in exchange for a bed. In visiting, I’ve found that shelters seem to be places devoid of hope. There are many options that are much more appealing.

If you need to stay in a shelter or mission there are a few things you need to know. First, you should find a way to safeguard your important things. If you are packing heavy with things you don’t want to lose, find a place to stash them. Most shelters are filled with unsavory types that will go through your bag. “Sure,” you might think, “but why would they want to steal from me, I’m poor too!” Exactly. It’s easier to prey on the poor than on the rich. If you have money, important papers, or credit cards, keep them on your person at all times or ask the person running the shelter if there is a secure place to put them. As for the rest of your gear, keep an eye on it.

I don’t mean to sound completely negative about shelters and missions. I’ve met good people that stayed in them because they needed to. It’s a valuable service. You can make friends with this kind of people once you are there. There truly is safety in numbers.

If you are not a person of a religious nature or if you don’t like having religion crammed down your throat, this might be a difficult place for you to stay. Most of the missions and shelters are religiously based and they love to shove that religion down people’s throats.

Couch Surfing

Ben Franklin said, "House guests are like fish, they start smelling in three days." My friends are usually more tolerant but the key to staying at other people’s pads is to remember they are working to pay for their space. As a couch surfer you need to make sure you give your hosts their space. Some definite no-no’s are hogging the TV, not cleaning up after yourself, and occupying space without giving anything in return.

Doing light chores will usually win the gratitude of your hosts. Things like washing dirty dishes, vacuuming the floor, and cleaning the bathroom don’t take long but make you look good. Personally, I like to cook meals for my hosts. I’m a good cook with a knack for taking whatever is available and making it into something tasty. If you don’t have the same gift you can never go wrong cooking eggs and toast in the morning. Breakfast is cheap and most people enjoy having it served to them in the comfort of their home. Some of my favorite cheapskate gourmet recipes are included in the index of this book.

The hardest part of couch surfing is dealing with the people that live there. Don’t get me wrong. I am appreciative of what they are doing and offering, but where people exist, problems exist. People want and are willing to help you, and that’s nice. However, they can start to resent you taking up their space in a very short time. They don’t want to be bad people and tell you to move on, they know you don’t have anywhere else to go. That’s when the passive-aggressive behavior begins.

When passive aggressive behavior starts is when I would rather live in a doorway.

(Note: When I wrote this back in 2001, there was no such thing as couchsurfing.com In 2004, Casey Fenton, the founder of Couchsurfing.com contacted me to see if I would pro have a stranger sleep in their home. I was wrong. Couchsurfing now has millions of members and is a great travel service — I met my wife through couchsurfing.com — but you’ll have to read Smooth Living: Beyond the Life of a Vagabond to find out about that! I also go into the how-tos of couchsurfing.com in that book.)

Urban Camping and Squatting

In a pinch you can do what I like to call urban camping. There are different variations depending on your circumstances. In a city like Portland, Oregon there are a lot of couches on a lot of covered porches. If you arrive late enough and leave early enough, these hospitable sites can be the perfect place to crash out. Once I was caught in a small Colorado town during a snowstorm and managed to stay warm by crawling under a 4x4 which pulled into a driveway at about 10 PM. The heat from the engine lasted long enough to get me through the worst of the storm.

Urban camping can also be more traditional. I once camped on a park bench in Regent’s Park across from Buckingham Palace in London, England for three nights in a row. As I lay there wrapped in my blanket, I had a recurring fantasy where the Queen was going to invite me to morning tea. She didn’t. On that same trip to England, I set up a tent in some bushes in Epping Forest for a week. No one discovered me — except a few dogs who came galloping in to see what was in the bushes and left in terror when they found me cooking sausages and beans.

The key to being successful in this kind of urban camping is to find a spot invisible from roads or paths, with an inconspicuous entrance and/or exit, and to be discreet in how you behave there. For example, fires are probably not a good idea in most cities but Sterno works fine if you need to cook something.

Squatting is a very different situation. In most American places they can bust you for breaking and entering if you take up residence in an abandoned building. In parts of Europe, the laws are different. Know the law before you squat. While hitching in the Southwest, I used to scout out houses for sale as I walked an hour or so before sunset. If you can find one you are pretty sure is not occupied it’s usually pretty easy to return after dark and jimmy open a back door or window. Older, run down houses usually don’t have security. If breaking in to the house is too risky, you can usually find a porch, shed, or garage to get you out of sight and the elements. I’m not advocating you break the law, but if you are in need of shelter, this is one option.

The Importance of Your Bed

We spend one third of our lives in bed. We use our beds for sleep, romance, reading, and recovering when we are sick. If you have a bed, be very glad. If you don’t have a regular bed, here are a few options to get one.

The Bedroll. I’ve had lots of bedrolls. The basic bedroll is a tarp or groundcloth laid out flat, a wool blanket over that (or two if you are in the cold), and a foam pad on that. Fold the blankets and tarp around the pad, and roll it up. Unroll it when you have a good place to sleep.

If you have the space, the tri-fold cushions you can get at Walmart make great beds. Cushions of any sort can be great to sleep on. Foam is good but it collects moisture and can get heavy and cold. My favorite simple bed is a Thermarest. It has a self inflating bladder, rolls up small, and can be folded into a decent chair.

I believe sheets are important. I highly recommend sheets. The higher the thread count the softer the sheets. Soft sheets can make an uncomfortable bed feel wonderful. Same goes for pillows. Crappy pillows can cause a bad nights sleep on a million dollar bed.

Makeshift Bedding. Old curtains or material can easily be made into a blanket. The ideal size is at least 60” wide by 2 yards. I like to sew a footbox into the bottom. Heavy-duty 33-gallon garbage bags can be used to make a ground cloth, a poncho, or a small tent. Large ziplock bags filled with air make good pillows. A bunch of them makes a decent air mattress.

Living in Vehicles

If you plan on living in your vehicle there are a few things to take into consideration. First, make sure you can sleep comfortably in it. Pickups with camper shells, vans, and station wagons are your best bet. Second, make sure the vehicle is legal so you don’t get your home put in an impound yard. Third, pick your parking spaces carefully. I’ve found parking in secluded areas is almost always a mistake.

The best places to park are places where there are people around and plenty of vehicles moving in and out all the time. I’ve parked in dead ends and had people report me to the police because it was "suspicious" to see a car parked there. Oddly, I’ve parked in residential neighborhoods where I didn’t know a soul for weeks on end and no one thought anything of it. I suppose they all thought I knew someone they didn’t know.

The best places to park are where you have friends. My friends in Seattle allowed me to park behind their house for months. It made them feel secure because my being there discouraged the local druggies from congregating and doing deals in the alley. I did yard work and helped out around the house to keep things nice for them and me.

I’ve lived in three different VW buses in Alaska, Washington, Oregon, and Hawaii. In every case, not having to pay rent allowed me to live alife I otherwise wouldn’t have been able to afford. With the money I saved on rent I was able to purchase airline tickets, train tickets, or able to go out on good benders now and then without a care.

Maintenance. If you live in your vehicle, you better pay attention to the maintenance. This includes oil, brakes, and tune ups. It also includes keeping your tags current, your headlights good, and your insurance card up to date.

Legalities. Laws vary from place to place. On Oahu, it is illegal to sleep in your vehicle from 6 PM to 6 AM. They call it habitation. The fine is larger than the fine for sleeping in the park. Know what the peculiar legalities are for where you are.

Localism. There are some places that you don’t want to be. Parking in some neighborhoods is just plain dangerous. Not only might you wake up without your tires, you might not wake up at all. Know where you are parking.

Sleeping In. Sleeping in can be a problem when you live in your car. Think about where you are before you go to bed. Otherwise, you might wake up to a surprise. If you are parked in front of an elementary school it may be quiet at night, but what about when the kids arrive. The urban street might seem quiet until the disco opens at 10 PM. One night, I went to sleep next to the remote control car racetrack. I woke up early.

Gas. Gas is expensive these days. The funny thing is, it can vary a lot in a short distance. There was a difference of 18 cents a gallon at two stations less than a mile from each other a few days ago. Try to save on gas. One good way to do this is to use the city bus if you find a good parking spot.

Getting Comfortable. Each car is going to be different. It’s not so hard for me to live in a car as I’m not a huge guy at five foot seven. Larger folks will have to figure out how to be comfortable if they want to live in their cars. Make sure you have space to move in your vehicle.

Being Inconspicuous. If you want to attract attention you can do it lots of ways. You can hang towels and sheets in the windows of your car, you can pee in people’s front yards, you can throw garbage around your spot. I prefer to be inconspicuous. I don’t’ have too much stuff. I made curtains for my van that look normal, I use parks and libraries for their free public restrooms, and I put my garbage in trash cans. Even though I usually slept during the illegal hours on Oahu for months on end, I never got pegged.

Drinking Booze. I like to drink once in a while. You have to be careful about it though. Especially when you live in a vehicle. Only drink when you know that you won’t need to move the vehicle. Never, put the keys in the ignition when you are drunk. This is not only to keep you from drunk driving, it is also to keep you from getting a needless ticket. Even if you only plan to listen to the radio and go to sleep in the back, a police officer can give you a DUI if the keys are in the ignition and you are drunk. Besides that, don’t drink and drive. It’s a good way to end up dead or in prison. There are better ways to kill or incarcerate yourself.

Cooking and Eating. I like to barbecue in the park. I make coffee on a single burner propane stove in the back of my van each morning. I’m discreet about it. I don’t think anyone sees me cooking in the van. If I go to parks, I cook at the picnic tables. No one seems to notice or care.

Living in vehicles can be fun, cheap and easy. I estimate that with insurance and gas it cost me about $100 a month to live in my van on Oahu. Much less than the $800 or higher most of my friends pay for rooms or apartments. Living in the Pacific Northwest was even cheaper.

Cheap Vehicles vs. New Cars

I’ve never been a rich man though I’d like to be someday. Maybe you figured that out by now. Because of that, I’ve never owned a new car. They’re too expensive. I see the price of a new car and I remember that my parents bought a house for that same price back in the 1970’s. Lot’s of people never own new cars. That’s okay, because there are plenty of decent cars out there that are dirt cheap.

Fixing an old car is a much cheaper than the new-buying alternative. For $10k you can buy the shittiest new car or you can buy 10 decent used ones. What will last longer? Despite that, thousands of people sell their perfectly good cars every day so that they can get a new status symbol. Their loss, our gain.

When I was 17, I met a bald guy that lived in a van and drove around the country giving motivational speeches to high school kids. Seriously. I wish I remembered his name. He was the original motivational speaker that lived in a van, down by the river. A couple of things this guy told us really stuck in my mind. He had a good ‘Don’t do drugs’ message which is what got his foot in the door of high schools. I don’t remember the specifics of that. What I remember him saying was “Don’t waste your time doing something you don’t love. Find a way to make your passion your career,” and, “Luck is where preparedness meets opportunity.”

The other thing I remember was his used car economics theory. It went something like this. If you buy a new car, a cheap new car, it costs you $10,000. It lasts you a maximum of ten years. Instead of that, this guy said, why not buy a $500 car, put no money into it, and drive it until it is dead. That gives you two cars a year for the same price. Chances are some of those cars are going to last longer than a year. So, for him, it was twenty used cars versus one new one.

The point I’m getting to is that the bald guy corrupted my way of thinking just like I’m hopefully corrupting yours. I blame him for everything. You can blame me for everything too. Ha ha.

Here are the last couple of cars I’ve owned and lived in.

1989 Plymouth Voyager Minivan… cost $175… name Pig.

I saw an ad for Pig and had to check it out. The car was sputtering and stalling and no one could tell the lady who owned it why. She tried to donate it to charity, but they didn’t want a car with a mysterious problem. So she sold it to me for $175. I changed the spark plugs and it fixed the problem. I ditched one of the bench seats, turned the other sideways, picked up a cabinet off the street, and spent $10 to buy flower print fabric for curtains and industrial velcro to hang them with. I lived in it for six months before selling it for $500.

1970 VW Bus…. cost $200…. name Paradise.

There was a hippie guy parking this bus near the kayak shop I worked at. He put a sign in the window and I bought it. I was living in the bushes behind the shop where I had cleared a space and set up my hammock. I cleaned the bus up. I don’t know how this dirty guy had lived in the filthy thing. I bought fabric for curtains, nice sheets for the bed, and moved in. This is the bus on the cover of this book.

1978 VW Bus….cost $100….name Turtle

(Picture is the pop-top on the previous page)

I was looking at this bus on the streets of Seattle when the owner came running out of his house and offered it to me for $100. A neighbor helped me get it running and it lasted me three years and four or five trips from Vancouver B.C. to California. I traded it for the laptop computer I’m writing this on because I couldn’t bring the bus with me to Hawaii.

1977 VW Bus… cost… TV and VCR… name Belle

This was my first VW. It was rusting away behind the radio station I worked at. They tried to give it away as a prize and I offered the guy my TV and VCR for it. He took the working TV and VCR. I bought a book on VW’s, fixed it, and then bought the interior from a junkyard before moving in. I took this bus to Alaska, where I lived in it and sold it for $1200 before leaving.

Not bad, huh? I’ve owned more than twenty different cars. They’ve almost all been pieces of shit. That hasn’t stopped me from driving all over the United States and Canada in them.

Overcoming the Darkness

One of the hardest things about being houseless is dealing with the dark. I don’t mean being afraid of the dark. I mean, what do you do when it gets dark?

In prehistoric times, I’m sure communities of cavemen and women sat around the fire, used torches, made candles, and utilized them as soon as the sun went down. People still do that, all over the world. It’s either that or go to bed.

The problem we have in being houseless is that we have to fly under the radar of modern society. Make no mistake. Society does not want to see us having a great time while they toil and trudge to the office 60-hours a week. That’s the reason why the police routinely sweep through parks and areas where the homeless set up camps.

If they see us having a decent time without the toil, it makes their blood boil. So even if you can scavenge up a decent little hut, make your own candles or set up a solar cell, and run plumbing to your cardboard shack; you can be sure that Joe Citizen will have John Law sweep through your little enclave and burn your corrugated castle to the ground.

So what are you supposed to do? You’ve got a few options.

1. Go to bed when it gets dark, wake up when the light comes.

2. Stay up all night and sleep all day out in the open. You can sit in Denny’s reading and nursing that bottomless cup of coffee for at least a few hours.

3. Be stealthy. Use only as much light as you need and cover it as much as possible.

An old military trick is to put a red lens on your flashlight to make it less visible to the enemy. It works. Within limits. Obviously you don’t want to light up the hobo jungle with an eerie red light that will make Suzy Homemaker think of a Stephen King novel.

Push lights are cool but not very efficient. They take a couple of AA batteries and provide a small amount of soft light. I prefer a small headlamp that directs the light where I want it and a key chain LED. Both can be bought at any outdoor or variety store. My LED key chain cost $8 and provides enough light to find my way in the dark or find something in a dark van. I’ve used it to read, but prefer the white light of a headlamp instead.

I realize that some of this sounds paranoid, but like Abbie Hoffman said, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they are not out to get you.

Tarpatecture: The many uses of Tarps

My friend Kalalau Larry introduced me to the term tarpatecture. Larry is a modern day Viking. He paddles kayaks, makes mead from honey and water, bakes bread in the jungle, and spends about half of his time living in one of the remotest places on the planet. The Kalalau Valley on the island of Kauai.

Kalalau Larry Master of the Spiritual Pizza

I was living in my VW bus on Kauai and Larry had built an incredible little shelter with tarps on the same vacant lot where I parked. You see when Larry isn’t in Kalalau he works in the real world and stays comfortably invisible under his brown tarps. When he is in Kalalau, he lives under the brown tarps too.

Tarpatecture is using a variety of tarps strung between trees, bushes, rocks, or frames to shelter you from the weather. Ideally, a good tarpatecture structure has geometric implications which are pleasant to the eye in addition to being functional.

Tarpatecture can be as simple as a lean-to or as complex as a bamboo dome. The key is using your tarp in the most effective way in the particular environment you find yourself in. I’ve seen tarps on sheds and even in giant trees.

Aquillo Mallot’s Camps

Aquillo Mallot is a homeless man of alternative housing. An occupational non-profit mercenary, Gypsy Moth Farmer, comfrey and mullen rancher, pie rat, and purveyor of exotic substances. He currently holds the position of Bishop of the Holy Primeval Coyote Church in his spare time. He is master of the Sacred Marriage bar none. He lives soully on food handouts, dead carrion along Interstate 5, and visions of extraterrestrial guidance. — by |zak Holden. Conchsense 1999

Aquillo Mallot is a master of creating cozy and comfortable camps in the Pacific Northwest. I’ve seen him build huts from driftwood on the beach. I’ve seen him dig pits and cover them with fallen logs and tarps. He usually has a wood burning stove in his camps complete with metal flashing glued to the tarps the stove pipe goes through.

Everything Aquillo uses is abandoned as garbage. He’s used tarpatecture to make derelict fishing boats into comfy homes after he used scavenged ropes and pulleys to drag the wrecks on shore during low tide and patch them up. The only limit to what you can do is your own imagination. Aquillo is proof of that.

Trolls Under Bridges

If you spend any time traveling among the house-less you will encounter some of the derelicts who live under various bridges all over the country. In my experience, they are a sorry lot who can’t figure out how to keep the rain off their heads any other way. Bridges are noisy, dirty, and uncomfortable. The one bridge I would recommend visiting is in the Fremont District of Seattle. There is a real troll there, made of cement, and about to eat a VW bug. Other than that I would suggest you find someplace else to keep dry.

Beach Bumming

If you are in a tropical climate it’s easy to live on the beach. Simply cover yourself with a tarp if it seems like it might rain and you are good as gold. If you are in the a little colder climate make sure you know how to build a fire. I’ll give you a few hints later in the book.

The savvy vagabond goes where the going is easy. Head to the beach. The beach can offer you fishing wrecks like Aquillo uses in the Northwest of the US or wonderful showering and bathroom facilities like you find in Hawaii and Southern California. Not only that, you can fish for food and entertainment, swim (if it’s warm enough), and generally, you can have a fire on the sand provided your not in Waikiki or Laguna.

The Beach Tarp Roll ‘burrito’. This is a great trick to have in your beach bum bag of tricks. Let’s say that you are sleeping out under the stars and it starts to rain. No problem. You are already sleeping on a tarp because sleeping on the bare sand is cold and uncomfortable. So what do you do? You simply grab an edge of your tarp and roll yourself into a beach tarp roll burrito and stay dry until the storm passes. You don’t even need to get up!

Showering is easy at the beach. Most marinas have free showers available. A lot of public beaches have showers available too. If they don’t you can always get a membership at the YMCA or 24 hour fitness. One thing you don’t’ want to do is let all that salt and sand accumulate on your body. It’s an easy way to get rashes and begin to look like a real down and out bum.

The sand can get everywhere. It will get in your food, your clothing, your car, your ears, your underwear, your butt crack. Rinse off well and don’t forget to wash your feet.

Shelter from the Sun. If you are going to be outside all day, every day, don’t forget to either use sunscreen or at least limit the amount of time you are in the sun. Schedule some time under a tree or in the library. Unless you want to be one of those ultra bronze old people with 28,000 liver spots all over your body.

Toilets and Bathrooms

Bathrooms are placed strategically throughout most urban and metropolitan areas so that normal folks don’t have to walk over the leavings of the homeless. That’s not the only reason the bathrooms are there, but it’s a good one. Use public restrooms. Nobody wants to see you taking a leak or find your wadded up toilet paper in the woods. Including me.

If you are in a place where there are no public restrooms look for a Walmart, Starbucks, or McDonald’s. They seem to be everywhere and they almost always have public restrooms. I think the best restrooms to use are the restrooms and stalls designed for handicapped people. They are bigger, cleaner, and generally the locks work.

I sometimes have people look at me funny when they come upon me shaving or brushing my teeth in the bathroom. No one has ever said anything about it. If they do, I have an answer ready. “Would you rather have bums with good hygiene or bad?” I don’t think there can be an answer of bad from anyone.

If you can’t find a toilet, the chances are pretty good that you can find a discrete place to do your business. Please though, use a stick or can to dig a hole and bury your shit and shit paper.

Never, ever, ever unless it’s a life or death situation should you attempt to sleep or camp in a restroom or public bathroom. This is what leads to locks, doors being removed, and worse. Be appreciative, show respect, and leave it better than you found it if you can.

Hostels and Guesthouses. A friend told me he no longer hangs out in bars because he has discovered if you drink at a hostel it is cheaper, more fun, and you meet more interesting people. I agree completely.

Hostels and guesthouses are also the poor traveler’s means of staying in exotic destinations the world over. A guesthouse in Laos can cost as little as $1 US per night for a private room with a king size bed.

A hostel in England will cost you about $20 US as opposed to spending a minimum of $50-$80 at a fleabag hotel. Hostels and guesthouses exist almost everywhere. The people who stay at hostels are usually more approachable than the people who stay at hotels. They don’t whine about inconveniences and you can usually find someone heading in your direction or who is willing to accompany you on whatever adventure you hanker. Hostels are great places to hook up with cheap tours, exciting adventures, cheap transport, and information about where you are heading next. Hostels and guest houses aren’t really rough living — they exist in a sort of middle space.

Most hostels provide communal kitchens you can store and cook your food in, activities, internet access, and more. In addition, if you come across as a somewhat normal person who is willing to work hard, you can usually find a bed at a hostel in exchange for your labor. The key to this is to be persistent and honest. Tell them what you want and offer your services in exchange.

Hammocks.

Hammocks are like a gift from the heavens for the houseless and bedless. I love my hammock. My buddy Jeremy gave it to me a couple of years ago and since then I’ve carted it with me everywhere I go. I’ve lived in it, I’ve relaxed in it, I’ve slept in it, I’ve eaten in it, I’ve made love in it, and I’ve hung it up all over the place.

My hammock is a “Ticket to the Moon” hammock. It folds up into a pouch about the size of a softball, is made out of parachute silk, and with two three foot loops of rope, I can hang it on any two trees, posts, hooks or beams, that I have found yet.

If I have a hard time sleeping at night. I take it to the park and sleep in the morning or afternoon. I always hear people murmur “Gee, that looks great!” as they walk by. It is. Get a hammock.

A hammock makes the difference between people seeing a bum on the ground or a guy practicing the fine art of leisure.

This little camp stayed hidden for almost two years in the woods behind Fairhaven Park. It might even still be there.

FILLING YOUR BELLY

There are plenty of ways to get food if you need it. This is especially true in the United States and other ‘Western’ countries. The following are a few ways to fill your belly in the USA.

Food banks.

The food bank is a free service, privately funded in most communities to provide food to those who need it. Most of the food comes from grocery stores which would throw it away if the food bank didn’t take it or from farms who have damaged produce they can’t sell. Produce which isn’t beautiful enough to buy, dented canned goods, dairy products which reach their expiration date but are still good for a week or so, and stuff donated by local people, farms, and business.

The corporate stores rarely participate. Once a month the government provides “commodities,” usually sub-par, unhealthy foods like powdered milk, canned beef, and surplus applesauce. Food banks are a great way to eat if you don’t have money. The best thing about them is if people don’t use them, the food goes to waste, so you’re doing a good thing by taking free food. On most trips I’ve taken to the food bank, people are bitching about the wait for free food. I can never understand that. Don’t be one of those people.

Food Not Bombs

Food Not Bombs is a group born at the height of the Nuclear Protest Movement in 1980. It is organized collectively and relies on consensus decision-making. Food is donated or saved from dumpsters is prepared into healthy vegan (no animal products) meals.

Howard Zinn, the noted historian and author, gave this description in the forward to the Food Not Bombs Handbook by C.T. Lawrence Butler and Keith McHenry.

The message of Food Not Bombs is simple and powerful: no one should be without food in a world so richly provided with land, sun, and human ingenuity. No consideration of money, no demand for profit, should stand in the way of any hungry or malnourished child or any adult in need. Here are people who will not be bamboozled by “the laws of the market” which say only people who can afford to buy something can have it.

Zinn goes on… They point unerringly to the double challenge: to feed immediately people who are without adequate food, and to replace a system whose priorities are power and profit with one meeting the needs of all human beings.

I remember a plate of food at a Food Not Bombs event I went to in Seattle. It was served in a white plastic tofu container. I had salad and vegetable soup. There was guacamole made from ‘spoiled’ avocados and day old sourdough bread from a local bakery. Forty or fifty people were fed. Lots of hands helped the FNB folks unload and then pack back up. A couple of bags of clothing were handed around and shared throughout the meal. It was inspiring. Most of the people eating were the homeless people you don’t really notice when you’re downtown during business hours. There were also crackheads, bag ladies, and spare changers. They picked through the clothing occasionally making an exclamation of delight as they found something which would keep them warm or appealed to them.

People sat and ate while having discussions with the people they knew, meeting new people, and overall behaving like normal people at a picnic or barbecue. It was an atmosphere of respect and human dignity.

Churches

Many churches and missions have regularly scheduled free meals. People who volunteer their time to make the world a better place cook most of these meals. Most meals I’ve had at churches or missions were cooked and served with love. If you have one of these meals, please take the time to thank the people who serve you.

Food Stamps

Food stamps are as simple to get as having valid identification and an address and phone number in most states. To get food stamps, go to the office, jump through some administrative hoops, and claim to be homeless (whether you are or not). I’ve heard numerous stories of people taking advantage of the generousness of food stamp programs. I’m all for it. I would rather see the money go there than to building new prisons or supporting the wars on drugs or terror (or anything else we’ve had a war against in my lifetime.)

A lot of people don’t like using food stamps. I’m one of them. I prefer to struggle a bit rather than have the state provide for me. After all, I’m a healthy, somewhat intelligent man, and it feels good to earn my keep. Don’t get me wrong though, I’ve used food stamps to get me through tough times. I’ll do it again if I need to.

Dumpster Diving

Americans throw away enough material goods every day to feed, clothe, house, and educate everyone in this country. Most grocery stores throw away produce which is perfectly edible but not visibly appealing enough to sell. Dairy products are usually good well beyond the ‘sell by’ date on them but are thrown away to comply with safety rules.

If you get to know the restaurants in a certain area you can pull unsold hamburgers, donuts, or fried chicken out of the trash with the wrappers still on. I’ve had burgers from the dumpster which were completely wrapped and still hot. It’s all about knowing your dumpsters.

Successful dumpster divers usually have rounds and sometimes if you hit a dumpster which is on someone’s established rounds they can react as if you are robbing them. If this happens to you, my advice is to simply apologize and offer to give back what you’ve taken from that dumpster.

You never know, that diver might end up a friend that can show you where the best dumpsters for clothes, food, and other things are.

Cafeteria Grazing

I’ve done this a few times when I was desperate. It works if you’re hungry and have no other option. If you go to a self-cleanup kind of restaurant, the kind of place where you put your dishes in a bin before you leave, you can usually find large uneaten portions sitting on plates. It’s unsavory, to say the least, but if you hang out for a bit and watch you can usually find someone who eats nearly nothing from their plate and looks clean enough to alleviate any fears of catching a rare disease. You might even catch them when they are getting up and say “I’ll take care of that for you, Sir,” as if you work there. Cleanliness and good hygiene are essential to pull that particular stunt off, but it means you can sit down and enjoy the meal

Shoplifting

As a youngster I shoplifted. I don’t recommend it. The risks are too high. If you’re going to shoplift there are a few ways to minimize the risk involved, though. One method is to have a baggy coat with big pockets and to slyly slip a few items in while you shop. I used to buy something trivial with my pockets loaded to alleviate any suspicion. Another method is to buy a few items you use regularly and then go back for more with the receipt in your pocket. If you get caught, you can say you were coming to return the item (s). The problem with shoplifting goes beyond morality to the fact that in all likelihood, you will get caught.

My good friend George Hush was an expert shoplifter for years. He had taken literally thousands of dollars in food and clothing without ever getting caught. One day he was in the grocery store and saw a 99-cent package of fresh herbs that he thought would go well with some pasta he was going to cook. With a casualness born from years of lifting he dropped them in his pocket.

Seconds later a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he was escorted to the managers office where he was made to wait until a police officer arrived before being told anything. He was charged with theft, banned from that store for a year, (it was the store with the best deals on beer too!) and had to pay a hefty fine. All in all, it would have been a lot better for George if he had bought those herbs.

Natural Resources

If you are familiar with the plants that grow in your area, you can probably survive. In the Pacific Northwest you can get by eating dandelions, nettles, and blackberries. In Hawaii you can live on coconuts, guavas, mangoes, and taro. In other places you can go to the library or a bookstore (you don’t have to buy the book!) and usually find books on what grows wild and is edible. It’s amazing how many ‘weeds’ are actually nutritious and delicious.

Shopping Smart

Shopping smart is the best way to make sure you have enough to eat. There are some simple things you can do to save lots of money wherever you are.

1) Pick the store that has the lowest prices for what you want to buy. In these times of fancy yuppie grocery stores you can pay double or triple the price for the same item at grocery stores a few miles apart. Sometimes Safeway has better prices on meat, Foodland has better prices on potatoes, and The Grocery Outlet has the best prices on canned goods. Know your grocery stores.

2) Asian markets. Most major cities have a Chinatown or Asian Grocery store. Check them out. I can buy a pineapple for $6 at Foodland or $1.50 in Chinatown. I can pay $3 for a can of sweetened condensed milk or $.75 Asian immigrants generally eat well on a low income. Follow their lead, learn to eat the cheap foods you can get in Chinatown and Asian Groceries.

3) Food choices. It’s been said plenty, but obviously, if you eat a pound of meat, three times a day, you are not only spending a lot, you’re probably pretty unhealthy. Rice, noodles, and potatoes are cheap, nutritious, and filling. I don’t care what Dr. Atkins said.

4) Bakery Thrift Shop. This is the leftover and damaged bread from local bakeries. I can pay $2 for a loaf at the grocery store or $.20 for a loaf at the bakery thrift shop. If I want to get day old good bread, I can get that at a bakery for half price or less.

5) Reduced meat section. Most grocery stores have a reduced price meat section. The meat that doesn’t sell while it still looks pretty gets the price cut drastically. Don’t be scared, they won’t sell you diseased or spoiled meat.

Cooking and Storing Food

I spend a lot of time talking about food and cooking in this book. The reason is food is one of the great pleasures in life. You don’t have to have a gourmet kitchen to make a meal that satisfies your soul. Hell, you don’t even have to have a kitchen. In this section, I’ll give some of the options available to people that don’t have stoves, ovens, refrigerators, or cooking pots.

Hobo packets and rice in the park on a homemade BBQ

Refrigerators. I lived without a refrigerator for three years. There are people all over the world that have never had one. There are folks that have lived on sailboats for years on end without having a reefer. It seems impossible to most people in the US that have never been without one.

The refrigerator is part of a massive conspiracy by General Electric to enslave us all by making us need electricity. The labels of far too many things say “Refrigerate after Opening”. Is it really necessary?

People existed on this planet without refrigerators until about 100 years ago. At that point some whiz kid came up with a pretty cool way to extend the shelf life of perishables without having a cool well, root cellar, or ice room. Pretty cool. I’m not knocking refrigeration as a concept. I think it’s good.

The thing that bothers me is when the big production companies didn’t have anything to produce following the Second World War, they decided that everyone in America should have a refrigerator. They took a page form the car companies and began making new models, having showrooms, and lobbying the government to require ‘safe food handling’. They lobbied the food companies to put those ‘refrigerate after opening’ tags on the food.

Most fruits and vegetables don’t need to be refrigerated. Refrigeration can extend the shelf life of them, but it’s not necessary.

Eggs can be cracked open and put in a plastic container. If you use one with a spout the eggs will generally pour out one at a time. This is usually good for about four days barring too much heat. Eggs in the shell can last anywhere from a week to six months without spoiling. To test them, drop the egg in a cup of water. If it floats, it is no good. To extend the life of eggs in the shell coat them with Vaseline or shortening. This seals the porous shells and prevents air from getting inside. Store them in a box on soft material.

Meat lasts for quite a while without spoiling. When I was a kid and lived on a farm, anytime we butchered something we hung the carcass up in the barn for several days with bag over it to keep the flys out to ‘season’ . If I buy a steak, I feel fine waiting twenty four hours to cook it with no refrigeration.

Cheese has a long life. Wrap hard cheeses in vinegar soaked cheesecloth or rags to keep them from molding. Soft cheese should be thrown out once it begins to mold.

Dairy products like butter are fine left out of refrigeration. Milk has a shorter shelf life. I’m not sure why this is. On the farm we would put milk in those big canisters and let it sit for a day or two and it would be just fine. I’m told that it’s the fat that keeps milk good longer. That’s why half and half or whole cream lasts longer than skim milk. Sometimes I’ll buy a quart of half and half and it’s good for a couple of days. I thin it with water when I use it on my cereal.

I’m not recommending that anyone test the limits of how far you can let something go before it spoils. For goodness sake, don’t poison yourself. What I do is buy perishables as I need them. I visit the grocery store every day or two. I enjoy it.

If you want to have refrigeration or an icebox, there are options even if you are house-less. There are 12-volt DC ice chest/reefers available for fairly cheap. You can also get a standard ice chest and put block ice in the bottom, with perishables on top. In the Sahara, they put a small clay pot inside a large clay pot and pack sand between the two. Pour water on the sand and put a wet cloth over the top and it creates a natural refrigerator in the smaller pot. Pretty cool, huh?

Stoves. There are a lot of options available if you want to use a stove. You can find Coleman two-burner camp-stoves that run on propane or white gas at any outdoor stores, most box stores, some thrift stores, and garage sales. You can get them for anywhere from $5 to $100 and they work every bit as good as a kitchen stove. They are legal in most parks and easy to use.

I prefer the single burner propane stove. One canister of propane is usually about $3 and the burner itself usually runs anywhere from $5 to $20.The canister lasts me a month or more cooking twice a day.

A simple home-made stove can be made by putting corrugated cardboard in a roll inside a tuna can and melting wax over it. This is the same as Sterno which will cost you about $1 a can. Not a very efficient way to cook, but it works.

For backpackers there are a variety of lightweight stoves that burn anything. They burn kerosene, propane, gasoline, or white gas. They cost from $60 and up and they aren’t very practical for car or boat living. I have one, but only use it for backpack camping and hiking.

Convenience Foods. As far as rough living goes, convenience foods aren’t’ very convenient. Microwavable foods are a pain in the ass and usually don’t’ taste very good. Of course, things like chips, crackers, and easy cheese can make a nice treat.

Thermos Cooking. There are a number of people out there that cook most of their meals in a thermos. What they do is bring water to a boil and pour it in a thermos with their noodles, rice, cereal, or what have you. Seal it up and let the boiling water cook whatever you have. Put a piece of fish in a plastic bag, put it in the thermos, pour hot water around it, seal up the bag with no air in it, seal up the thermos, wait a fifteen minutes and presto. Experiment with this or find some Youtube videos.

Foil cooking. This is one of my favorite ways to cook. It’s easy, it’s fast, and the cleanup is minimal. Basicly, you wrap what you want to cook in foil, toss it on the grill or coals, and wait for it to be done. You can make a frying pan by twisting a loop into a wire coat hanger and then filling the loop with foil and wrapping it around the edges.

Car Cooking- using the manifold. I had a step-father who used to use this method. Mom would cook up a mess of fried chicken and he would put it in a metal bucket, cover it with foil, and wire it to the manifold of his Bronco. Then we would go drive out in the woods to some remote lake, and have hot fried chicken waiting for us under the hood.

You can actually cook steak, potatoes, or just about anything else by wrapping it up in foil, putting it in a metal container, and wiring it to the manifold. You can put a can of Campbell’s soup on the engine and drive to the next rest area to have hot soup.

Because engine heat will vary, cooking time will vary. A shitty car can make a very hot stove.

Baking with a Tin Can. Some hobo friends taught me a simple way to bake using tin cans.

First take a large coffee can and cut a hole in one side. Placing it with the opening down on the coals, they continued to feed twigs and brush through the hole.

Next they took a cleaned out tuna can and filled it about half way with cake batter and placed it on top of three rocks on the tin can stove (this keeps the bottom from burning by allowing air to circulate under the can.) Then they covered the ‘cake’ with another can and fifteen minutes later they had a little cake.

I’ve used the same coffee can trick to fry up bacon and eggs.

Cooking with Fire.

The oldest method of cooking is using the fire. You use fire just like you would a stove. There are a few things to remember if you don’t want to burn your food though.

1) Coals cook more evenly than flames. If you are going to cook directly over the fire (no pot cooking) then cook over coals.

2) Hardwood coals are the best for no-pot cooking as some soft woods contain foul tasting smoke.

3) Never build your fire over tree roots. The fire can follow the roots and burn down a forest.

4) Build your fire at least 15 feet from any brush or trees

A Quick Guide to Building a Fire

1) Start by gathering all the materials you will need before you light the fire.

2) The base is something small and dry (known as tinder) such as shredded tree bark, shredded cardboard, paper, or steel wool. Have a good supply of twigs. A good place to get dry ones is right off of trees or bushes. If they make a distinct snap when you break them and they break clean they will probably work.

3) Place a few twigs on your tinder and light it. As the flame grows feed it more twigs and gradually work your way up to sticks, branches, and logs. The true key is to hold yourself back from piling everything on. Use patience. That’s it.

The Basics of Hawaiian Pit Cooking

Pit cooking can be a lot of work and is really only worth it if you are cooking an entire pig, deer, or other large amount of food. Hawaiians, Native Americans, and other tribal peoples use pit cooking for village celebrations.

1) Dig your pit about 2 feet deep by four feet around

2) Line the pit with rocks (Don’t use river rocks or other rocks that hold moisture as they might explode.)

3) Lay out your fire leaving an easy way to light it. This needs ot be a big fire with lots of wood. Pile lots of rocks in and on the fire pile.

4) Light it up and allow it to burn to coals. At this point you should have a pit filled with red hot rocks and coals.

5) Lay a pulpy type of leaves or grass over the top. Something that contains a lot of water so that it will not burn. (Bananna leaves are what they use in Hawaii)

6) Place your meat and vegetables over the pulpy material.

7) Cover the meat and vegetables with more pulpy material.

8) Place more rocks on the pulp.

9) Build another huge fire over the rocks and allow it to burn down.

10) Enjoy your day

11) Carefully excavate the pit and remove your delicious meal steamed by the water in the grass.

There are many ways to do this. This is one way I have learned.

Other Ways to Cook

Here are a few more interesting ways to cook without a kitchen.

1) You can cook eggs and bacon in paper bag by layering the bottom of the paper bag with bacon and then putting the eggs on top. Fold the bag over, poke a stick through it, and hold it over your heat source.

2) You can put hot rocks from your fire inside a chicken and then wrap it in foil. Put more hot rocks on the wrapped chicken. You can also cook eggs and other foods on flat rocks around your fire.

3) You can poke a green stick or a clean wire hanger through your food and cook it over flames or coals.

4) Cook eggs or meat inside an onion or orange then wrap in foil. You can also cook a cake inside an orange and you end up getting a nice ‘hint of orange’ taste.

5) Toast bread on white coals. Just lay the bread on the coals and allow it to toast. Then blow the ash off. This takes practice to get it perfect.

6) Fish with the skin on can be laid directly on white coals too.

7) A camp oven can be made with a smallish shoe box lined with tinfoil. Find another box that is a little bigger and place the smaller box inside (a box with a lid works well. Line it with foil too.) Line the empty space inside with newspaper or sawdust. When you are ready to cook something, simply put it in the small box, place the lid on the larger box and put it in the coals.

8) Use tin cans for cooking by layering your food in the following order in the can. Meat, vegetables, and seasoning. Cover it with foil and put it in the fire for 30 to 45 minutes.

Utensils. I keep it pretty simple on the utensils. I have a can opener, fork, knife, spoon, set of chopsticks, and a simple mess kit with a pot, pan, and plate. I use a lot of foil.

That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a good set of cooking gear though. One of my favorite things to cook with is a big cast iron frying pan. Lot’s of folks swear by Dutch ovens which are big cast iron pots with lids. Back when I used to carry a lot of stuff I used a hand mixer, spatula, and cheese grater a lot.

It all depends on what you want to make a priority. I can cook pretty much anything with what I have if I use my creativity to fill in the gaps.

Cleaning up. Not having a sink can be a bit of a pain but you can still keep your gear clean. I use a couple of simple methods to wash up.

1) I usually have a container of liquid soap with me.

2) If water isn’t available, you can wipe the dishes clean with a rag

3) Sand and gravel work as natural abrasives

4) Vinegar in a burned or stained pan will usually work it loose

Keep it simple. The less you dirty, the less you have to clean.

MONEY

Money is great. Having a job usually sucks. There it is.

I’ve had lots of jobs, too many jobs. When I was in 4th grade I had a paper route, when I was 14 I got my first job at a restaurant as a dishwasher. Since then I’ve washed dishes, bussed tables, waitered, tended bar, cooked, and hosted in dozens of restaurants. I’ve dug ditches, built houses, painted houses, and cleaned all the stuff money can buy out of people’s garages. I’ve filed papers, ran meetings, cold called, door knocked, and answered phones. I’ve been a DJ and done craft services on a movie set. I’ve been a stand in, a radio producer, a band manager, and an air traffic controller. I’ve managed buildings, served as a Marine, and shoveled shit. I’ve tried to find “my calling” in so many different career paths that I’ve nearly run out of choices.

The problem with all of them is that I like my time. I was born with all of it, and I’ve never seen why I should give it to someone else unless it’s what I want to be doing with it. I’ve found jobs based around things I like doing. Things like skiing, kayaking, and hanging out in bars. The problem is, if somebody is paying me, my time quits being mine and becomes his or hers. Employment is a form of slavery. As soon as someone starts paying me for my time, I realize how much it’s worth to me. And the problem is, my time is worth a lot more than $20,000 dollars a year let alone $6.50 an hour.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve had “good” jobs. Job’s where I was treated right, the pay was decent, and the “benefits” were comprehensive. I knew my time belonged to someone else and eventually I had to leave. Since I don’t know when I will die, it was unacceptable to give my time away. I’ve never had a wage-slave mentality. I refuse to get a minimum wage job at Wal-Mart. I’d rather eat cat food from dumpsters.

The guys at the top aren’t working. They encourage us to fill our houses, our garages, and our stomachs with things we never would have thought of were it not for their non-stop television, radio, and print campaigns. The advertising companies work for the factories that churn out more and more useless ‘necessities’ every day. They encourage us to consume, consume, consume and spend, spend, spend.

The bottom line is you gotta do what you gotta do to get the money to survive, but it’s foolish to do more than that. I’ve broken up concrete driveways for Irish Gypsies in England, moved tons of rocks in Hawaii, and taught conversational English to schoolchildren in Indonesia. Working while you are on the road is generally more fun than having a real job because you know you are going to be leaving. If having a career works for you, more power to you, but so far it hasn’t worked for me.

Getting a Phone, Physical Address, and E-Mail Address

If you want to get employment it is always helpful to have a phone number and address. Not only do they give potential employers a way to contact you, they also give your family and friends a way to contact you. Same goes for e-mail. If you don’t have e-mail yet (note: when I wrote this in 2001, email was still sort of optional. If you don’t have it today, you’re obviously making a technophobe statement — Good for you!), you’re missing out on a great way to keep in contact with the people you know and the people you meet. Most libraries offer free internet access, internet café’s are plentiful and cheap, and there are plenty of free e-mail options available.

These things are now essential if you are applying for any type of government benefits. Sometimes you can use a friend or relative’s street address, but there are other ways to get a physical address. When I moved from North Carolina to Washington State, I used some of my limited resources to get a post office box at a shipping supply store. The advantage of this over the Post Office is that you can use the physical address of the place on resumes and job applications. For a phone, I paid $30 to get a number at a message service.

Prepaid cell phones have made things even more cheap and convenient, so you cannot only get messages but also have a phone. My cell phone and 200 minutes of prepaid anytime use cost $138 at K-Mart. This includes voice mail. If I want to buy additional minutes I can buy 150 for about $40. (Note: I wrote this in 2002, today you can get a prepaid phone and minutes for as little as $10)

WiFi and Laptops

With my laptop I can find internet access pretty much anywhere. It’s called WiFi. Lot’s of business’s provide free wireless laptop access if you buy a cup of coffee. If you don’t want to buy a cup of coffee you can do what we old geeks used to call ‘war dialing’. You go to a neighborhood where someone might have a wireless network. There are commercial products you can use to find these ‘hotspots’ but what I do is put in my wireless card and drive around the rich neighborhoods slowly until I get a good signal. Then I pull over and surf the net in my van. (Note: Today you can find iPhone and Android apps for your phone that will find open WiFi signals.)

Who would of guessed the homeless would get internet from the rich for free?

Daily Labor

Daily labor is one way to get money in your pocket. The problem is that you need to get there early, the pay isn’t usually good, and the work usually sucks because often it is back breaking labor or monotonous factory work. I’ve used services like Labor Ready twice in my life because I can usually find a better way to spend my time and get what I need.

Under the Table (Risks and Benefits)

Working for anyone under the table is always a risky venture. You are putting trust in someone that you probably don’t know very well. The truth is, if they choose not to pay you or to short your pay there isn’t much you can do about it.

On the positive side, if you are getting paid under the table you aren’t paying taxes and your boss isn’t paying taxes so you are both making more than if you were legitimate. Personally, I like that none of the money goes to supporting wars, mono-cropping subsidies, auto bailouts, bank bailouts, or other programs I don’t agree with. (We can always anonymously donate to causes we do agree with.)

Farms

If you arrive at the right part of the year, you can almost always find farm work in exchange for food, shelter, or even cold, hard cash. Farm work isn’t easy. The hours are long, the work is usually dirty and labor intensive, and the pay is usually minimum wage or less. However, I have known people that had wonderful times picking apples in Washington State or Australia, pulling potatoes in Idaho, or working on organic farms in the Cascades and Kauai.

Gambling

Gambling is a good way to lose money. There’s a reason the casinos are so fancy. The reason is most people lose. I decide how much I can afford to lose, I stick to that, and every time I win anything in excess of my original amount I put it in my pocket. Once I lose the amount I planned on, I leave…usually. When I have continued in the hopes of ‘recouping’, I’ve almost always lost.

I don’t’ recommend gambling to anyone, but the combination of unemployment checks and casino winnings took me on a four month journey through China, Laos, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Taiwan. Sometimes it works out…but only if you’re lucky.

Legitimate Work aka Wage Slavery

I hate legitimate work. It’s a strong statement and a true one. I hate it. At this moment, as I write this I am struggling over whether to re-enter the work force. I’m broke and it sucks. I’d like to be traveling or drinking with some fancy woman. Unfortunately, I hate working for some jackass that makes more money off the work I do than I do. So I probably won’t do it.

It’s a periodic struggle and I’ve fallen prey to it before and certainly will again. I did the stockbroker thing, the restaurant thing, the construction thing. It all sucks. The last legitimate job I had (when writing this in 2003) was trying to book people into timeshare presentations in Waikiki. It was so gross. I had to walk up on people trying to enjoy their vacations and sucker them into going to a timeshare presentation. I sometimes wanted to murder these nice people because they would put up their hand in the “”talk to the hand” gesture. I wanted to scream at them that I was a nice guy only trying to make a living but knew that wouldn’t earn me any commission. So I did the right thing. I quit.

After that, I began to take periodic work as a production assistant on films on Oahu. I don’t consider that real work. The pay was roughly $100 a day. The work was easy. The people were generally cool to work with. It was a good gig. The problem was I averaged four days of work a month.

Enough of my work problems though…you want to know how to get some cash…

Creating a Resume. Despite my lack of money, I know how to get a job. The first step is to have a dynamic resume. Put your name in bold letters across the top. Put the address where you can get your mail. Put your cell number and email address. Then make up whatever they want to hear.

Read the ad, look at what they are asking for, and then figure out how to change your experience so you are exactly what they want.

Here’s an example for you… I saw this ad in the Honolulu Advertiser when I got back from the Philippines with almost no money and was couch surfing at a friend’s house.

Assistant manager wanted at upscale Waikiki Restaurant. At least two years of restaurant Management experience required. Strong references.

I needed a job, so I made a resume that said I had worked at four restaurants on the mainland during the past ten years. Even though I hadn’t.

Here are a few things employers don’t want to see:

1) A long list of short term jobs. Instead list one or two jobs that lasted a couple of years. Pick places that you know went out of business. If you get asked for a reference use a friend and prep them ahead of time. Dot coms are great for this.

2) Think of reasons employers can feel good about why you left your last jobs. Not ‘personality conflict’ or ‘personal reason’ but instead ‘Promoted!’

3) A work history that has you scattered all over the globe. It’s interesting but they want an employee who will be their wage slave for years to come.

So there was my made up resume. I turned it in and then, very importantly, I followed up with a personal visit two days later. I was dressed nice. I knew the managers name because I had asked for it when I handed my resume to the hostess. I asked for him and when they asked me why I wanted to see him I told them that he wanted to see me about the assistant manager position. The bartender looked at me. The manager then came out and greeted me with a confused handshake. I told him that I had dropped off my resume a couple of days before and wanted to make sure that he had seen it. He told me it was on his desk and I asked if he could please check as there had been a lot going on when I gave it to the hostess.

He went and checked and that forced him to look at my made up credentials. He was impressed and asked me to sit for an immediate interview where he asked me questions about the work I had done at my phony restaurants. I had done my homework and answered his questions with the right answers.

Two days later he called for a second interview. He had checked my phony references and apparently I passed. A week later he offered me the job. I turned it down. I’m not real sure why. I think it was because I hate working for some company that makes more money off of my work than I do.

If you want a job, tell them what they want to hear.

(This is another great camp that cost a grand total of nothing and survived at least a year without being discovered)

FRIENDS AND LEISURE

Code of Conduct

There is a code of conduct among people who are living rough. It is simple and clear. Treat people with respect and dignity but don’t take anyone’s shit. If you let someone walk all over you, they will do it again and again. Either look them in the eye and tell them what your beef is or put enough distance between you and them that you don’t have to deal with it.

If you have a fire and someone calls from outside saying they are tired hungry and cold ( or T, H, and C in hobo code) invite them to sit down and eat if you have food to share. If it’s your fire you can always tell them to move along if you don’t like them. If it’s you coming on a fire, calling from outside the fire’s light is a way to keep from getting shot or attacked. It also gives you a chance to see if these are people you want to interact with.

The rest of the code is pretty simple. If you have extra and somebody else needs it; share it.

People you May Meet

(This is a silly list I put together just for fun, but there is some truth to it.) There are millions of people out there that are worth meeting and talking to, if only to hear their perspectives. There are also people it is worth going out of your way to avoid or avoid spending any significant time with.

Armchair Adventurers are people who live vicariously through the writing or stories of others; i.e anyone who enjoys a good book while leading a “normal” life

Astro-Fascists are usually hippies, these people refuse to believe that anything can be determined without the proper astrological reading i.e. “Of course you don’t get along, I’m sure he’s a Leo”

A bum is someone who doesn’t go anywhere without visible means of support

Crazies are the people who live on the streets with mental difficulties, usually they are there because of the discontinuation of a government program or funding

Drifters are either the one who wanders with no tangible home or someone who wanders into town and everyone says “uh-oh”

Energy Vampires are not physically violent or dangerous but will feed on your energy. See the special note below.

Gang Bangers are usually young men obsessed with the idea of earning ‘respect’ but who haven’t yet really learned what the term means.

A hippie is a person who tuned in, turned on, and dropped out in the late 1960’s or early 1970’s or a person who is attempting to live like the original hippies did. Too often today, the self proclaimed hippie can be identified by astro-fascist ideas, militant veganism, or too many opinions on the bumper of their welfare wagon. Often energy vampires.

A hobo is someone who travels about from place to place, usually by train, without visible means of income

A homeless person is someone who has no home usually street people, addicts, and beggars.

A house-less person is someone without a house, usually meaning someone who carries their home in their heart i.e. home is where you hang your heart. Usually resourceful and positive.

A rambler is either someone who wanders around in a leisurely manner or who talks or tells stories in a random unsystematic fashion.

A redneck is a person who hates you because you are different than they are. Some will try to tell you this is a positive term, but it usually means a racist or person who is proud of being ignorant.

A slacker is a person who does the minimum amount necessary to get by.

A tourist is someone who has paid for their tickets, accommodation, and attractions. Good tourists are people who travel to learn and enjoy life. Bad tourists often feel as if everyone they come into contact with is somehow responsible for their having a good time before they return to their home and career. The bad tourist is to be pitied for their useless attempts to see all of Europe in two weeks or see Alaska, the Caribbean, or the South Pacific from a luxury cruise ship. ‘Been there, done that’ is the slogan of a bad tourist.

A tramp is a person who travels about, usually on foot without visible means of income

A traveler is a tourist who thinks they are better than other tourists. Often travelers are on a long term journey from one place to a series of other places on a tight budget that has to last a significant length of time.

A trustafarian is usually a rich white kid advocating all sorts of protest while living on the income of their parents.

A vagabond is someone who moves around freely from place to place sometimes having visible means of income, sometimes existing without income, and sometimes bending the law to provide what they need. A vagobond is me or my friends.

A wannabe is a dangerous person with low self esteem that has the potential to kill with little or no provocation, usually seeking approval from whoever they ‘wannabe’

More About The Dangerous Ones

There are a lot of definitions to the term redneck. There are a lot of jokes about rednecks. There is really nothing funny about them though. I consider rednecks to be the most dangerous hazard out there.

Rednecks are clannish. My definition of a redneck doesn’t have anything to do with race, country music, or where they come from. The bottom line is that a redneck is someone who hates you because you are different than they are. If you don’t share their beliefs and values, your life is worth less than a dogs.

Really. Rednecks generally love their dogs. They don’t love you.

Let’s say a redneck picks you up to give you a ride after you’ve been standing in the freezing rain somewhere for five hours. You really want the ride. A typical redneck will start right off by saying outrageous things to see how you react. Things like “ I only picked you up cause you don’t look like one of them faggot environmentalists.” Maybe you are one of those faggot environmentalists, but don’t fall into the redneck’s trap. You don’t have to lie, just say something like “I’m glad I don’t look like those guys.”

If you let the redneck draw a distinction between their belief system and yours there is no telling what will happen. Rednecks make themselves obvious by pointing out who they hate and who they think deserves to die. Hitler was a redneck, so is George W. Bush.

When you recognize a redneck, it is best to put as much distance between them and yourselves as possible. Even if they seem to think you are okay, they might change their tune when they get drunk.

Redneck tramps are similar to the traditional rednecks except they seem at first to be travelers or hobos and so might earn a measure of compassion or respect from you. Redneck tramps usually hang out in groups and are very closed to new people. If you come upon a fire built by redneck tramps there is a good chance that they will beat and rob you because you are not a part of their group. Redneck tramps usually give away their true nature a little more slowly than the traditional rednecks but the hate always reveals itself.

Gang bangers are similar to rednecks in their clannishness but usually aren’t as overtly hateful towards entire groups of people. What makes gang bangers dangerous is that they are usually are trying to earn ‘respect’ from the people around them.

‘Respect’ to them only means that no one messes with them. Fear would be a better word. I believe that most gang bangers become part of a gang because they are essentially powerless by themselves. Gang bangers can be any race and anywhere. They can flip at a moments notice when an outsider violates their ambiguous code of ‘respect.’

Wannabees are even more dangerous than gang bangers because they are usually loose cannons looking for a way to prove they deserve ‘respect’. None of them do because of the base worthlessness of their character. As a result, their actions become more and more outrageous and violent as they attempt to prove they deserve to be a gang banger or redneck. I’ve known friendly bums who have been beaten and killed by stupid kids with low self esteem. Fucking wannabees.

Crazies are usually harmless, but they are unpredictable. They can be entertaining but unless someone I know can vouch for them I usually prefer to watch them interact with someone else.

I was once driving to Seattle and stopped to pick up a hitchhiker. I usually stop for hitchhikers if they look somewhat normal and like they don’t smell too bad. Hee looked like a kid with a guitar.

When he got in the car, I caught the stale smell of sweat and urine. He looked psychotic. He wasn’t a kid at all, but a very small 45-50 year old man. I gave him a ride anyway. I introduced myself and offered a handshake. He put his glove on before shaking my hand and introduced himself as Robert. His voice had a peculiar nasal quality and the words were carefully enunciated in a somewhat aristocratic manner.

“I am go-ing to move to Alaska because I graduated from college… with hon-ors. “ He said it like that with a glottal stop. The same way other people say uh-oh, which is what I was saying at that point.

“Oh yeah, what did you study?”

“Music theory with hon-ors, astronomy with hon-ors, and you know I plan on working at the University in Fairbanks as a librarian since I have so much hon-ors. I plan on, you know performing and studying and working with the Alaskan artists and natives and since I took so many classes, with hon-ors, I would like to perform some of my concertos, for you know I am a composer. Very much like a skilled beginner with honors just doing a tremendous job…with hon-ors…” and on and on.

There was something about the guy that freaked me out. I made sure my knife was handy and kept my eyes on his hands while I drove. It really felt like he was one second from flipping. I kept talking to him. Listening to the same babble about hon-ors and Fairbanks and going to Nashville because “with hon-ors” meant you could do ‘tremendous’ and ‘exquisite’ building and if you worked in a library you could perform with the natives with hon-ors. I finally dropped him off at the 405 onramp just north of Seattle glad to be alive.

A Special Note on Energy Vampires

Energy vampires are everywhere. The best way to spot them is when they first approach you (they always approach you) and for some reasons you can’t understand, they act as if they want you to be their new best friend forever. If someone wants to be your friend for no apparent reason, they are probably an energy vampire.

Energy vampires like to be the center of conversation. They can draw the life out of any conversation with constant interruptions and meaningless stories that no one wants to hear. If an energy vampire is in your midst, you might notice that the people you want to talk with no longer hang out when you show up with your new BFF who follows you wherever you go.

A lot of energy vampires pose as hippies because real hippies are probably the most likely to let an energy vampire suck off them for an extended period of time. What an energy vampire does is feed off the vibes and energy you create in order to get attention that they don’t deserve.

Along with that they usually hit anyone and everyone up for smokes, food, cash, a place to crash, and whatever else they can get. Learn to recognize them and tell them bluntly that you don’t want to be their friend because there is no cure I’ve seen for an energy vampire except to make them find another victim.

Drugs, Alcohol, and Trippers

I’ve had great experiences abusing substances. Not everyone can hang with it though. The best advice I can give is to be moderate in all things including a little excess. When you do decide to indulge, three things will help you come through it.

1) Know what you are taking and where it came from.

2) Have someone with you that you trust.

3) Program a voice in your head to remind you that whatever you are experiencing is only temporary.

Free Leisure Time

You’ve got all the time in the world. What do you want to do with it? Even if you don’t have any money….here are a few suggestions….

Parks. Every city I’ve been to has parks. Parks are wonderful. Sit in a park. Play sports in the park. Read in the park. The park is a place where you are allowed to be without having to pay anything. Except in China, where you have to pay to go in the parks. Respect the parks. If you can’t think of anything else to do, pick garbage up from around the park.

Sports. I wish I would have discovered sports when I was younger. All you need to run is a pair of shoes. You don’t need $100 Nikes. You can use $5 garage sale shoes. Tennis is free in most US parks. A racket will run you a couple of bucks at the thrift store and you can bounce the ball on the wall all day long. There are Frisbee golf courses all over the Northwest; swimming is free if you have a river, lake, or ocean.

Not only that, but sports make you feel good. They make your body strong. They make your life longer. I’m still not a big fan of watching sports. I can take it or leave it. I prefer movies, but I love playing sports.

Classes. Most American cities offer free or cheap classes in all kinds of things. You can get a class in first aid, in CPR, in researching your genealogy. Go to the library and ask about classes.

Libraries. If Ben Franklin were alive I would write him a heartfelt thank you letter for creating the world’s first public lending library. The public library is the gateway to your future. You can study a new career, take classes, watch videos, attend meetings, use the internet, or find out about anything. Ask the research librarian about anything you want to find out and she will love helping you. Be sure to say thanks.

Free Concerts. There are free concerts in malls, parks, and shopping centers. Pick up a local paper and read the events section or ask the librarian where to look.

Malls. I never liked malls before going to the Philippines. Think about it though. They are free. They have neat stuff you can play with. Sometimes they have concerts. You can people watch to your hearts content in the mall. You can even escape the heat or cold in the mall. Malls are fun.

Cheap Movies. Most cities have cheap theaters. In Honolulu it costs you about a buck to watch a movie. In Portland you can watch art films for a couple of bucks and drink beer while you’re doing it. There are even fifty cent theaters where you can watch second run films.

Window Shopping. Take a walk through downtown and see what the rich folks are buying. Try not to laugh when you see how useless and expensive some of the items are. I still laugh every time I pass a doggie bakery or doggy boutique. Never mind what I do when I go by Prada or Louis whats-his-name.

Visiting. Visit some folks you haven’t seen in a while. Make some new friends. Sit in the park and chat with a stranger.

Reading. Reading can give you ideas. It can whisk you away to another time and place. It can allow you to discover yourself or live the life of someone else. There are too many people who don’t take the time to read a book because they are working too much, watching too much TV, and wasting their lives on worthless trash.

Learning on your own. Just because you can’t afford to go to college doesn’t mean you can’t get an education. Watch Good Will Hunting if you want to be inspired. Use the library. Learn a language, learn about astronomy, biology, medicine, law, or math. Another great resource are the now numerous online universities that provide classes in every subject you can imagine for free. Check out Coursera.org for some examples.

Scientists say that when people stop learning the dendrites in their brains begin to shrivel up. Autopsies have revealed that Alzheimer’s patients have the most shriveled dendrites. Learn or die.

Staying Positive and Clean

I don’t ever need to see another stinky, negative, unclean beggar. There is no need for it. You’re not a piece of trash. Don’t treat yourself like one. There are plenty of places you can wash up. This is so important I’m going to talk about it again.

If you let yourself look and smell like garbage, you are going to start thinking like garbage. It’s a waste. Keep your pride and keep yourself clean.

Showering. All you need to shower is water and a rag. It doesn’t hurt to have soap. At the least, do this. Go to a restaurant or public bathroom, lock the door, and use a sponge or washcloth to give yourself a good bath at least every other day.

I shower two or three times a day. Mostly at the park.

There are showers available at the YMCA. Churches and missions will let you shower. There are showers at ports. There are showers in colleges and in many parks. Keep yourself clean. Wash your crotch, your pits, your face, your ass, your arms, legs, hands, and feet. (Not necessarily in that order, I like to start with my face.)

The importance of Hygiene to Leisure and Life

Hygiene not only keeps you feeling good about yourself, it keeps you healthy. On top of that, it gives you greater access. Rememberthe three A’s? A clean and healthy looking person can go just about anywhere but a foul smelling bum will get stopped going in the mall, wandering around the campus, and walking in the store.

Laundry. Washing your clothes should cost you about $3 to wash and dry a load at the laundromat. You will feel better and smell better. It’s also a nice place to stay warm when it’s cold out or dry when it’s raining.

Clothing. You can buy good clothes at thrift stores. Pay attention to what is currently fashionable for someone your age. Try to blend in and you will have more access to a better life. I know it’s hard to get rid of your Iron Maiden concert shirt, but for goodness sake man, you’re forty five!

Brushing and Shaving. I brush my teeth twice a day. When I wake up and when I go to sleep. I don’t care where I am. I usually have a water bottle and I will spit the toothpaste in the bushes or on the street if I have to. If someone doesn’t like it I will ask them to please smell my breath.

I use an old fashioned shaving brush to lather up my face. I put some soap in it, put some water in it, lather it up, and then use a cheap razor to shave off my stubble.

Being a bum vs. Being a regular person

Just because you live this way doesn’t mean you have to be a wretched bum. If you want to be that, go ahead. You can live in a car, live in the bushes, or live on the street without looking like you are “homeless”. People are always surprised when they find out I don’t live indoors.

I am a regular person. I just don’t have a house or a real job.

You can have a party in a van, in a camp or in a park!

TRAVEL AND TRANSPORT

There are plenty of ways to get where you need to go. If you have a car, there’s probably no need to explain how to drive somewhere. The important thing is that you need to get somewhere. What are your options?

Hitchhiking

Hitchhiking is risky. You should know that before you even consider it. Personally, I think it is a lot less risky than most people think, but there are plenty of horror stories about what happens to hitchhikers, particularly women by themselves. I don’t recommend hitchhiking to anyone, but I’ve had some great experiences thumbing it in twenty states and a dozen or more countries. There are a few things that can minimize your risk if you choose to stick out your thumb.

Trust your instincts… ask where someone is going when they stop, before you get in their car. If anything (like crushed beer cans on the floor, a smell, the way they talk, or just a feeling) makes you nervous about the person then come up with a reason to tell them why you don’t want the ride. Don’t get in the car if anything tells you not to. Run away screaming down the road if you have to.

If at all possible keep your bag where you are riding until you trust the person.

Tell the person that you are expected someplace up the road and that you have recently talked to someone from where they picked you up (even if you haven’t.)

If during the course of the ride you begin to feel nervous, ask to be let off. Insist on being let off.

(I rarely accept invitations to stay at someone’s house, shower, or have a meal unless I feel positive that the person has no ulterior motive. Why put yourself in a wolf’s den unnecessarily? All I want is a ride.

I don’t know how much good it would do in any circumstance, as I’ve never had to use it, but I like to have my knife accessible and close by.

Get to know the person, ask questions, and talk to them about them rather than about you. Even psychos feel more kindly about someone who takes an interest in them and doesn’t tell them that they are wrong. A ride is not the time to get on your soapbox, so even if you disagree with a person, don’t tell them they are wrong about anything. If you disagree so much about something that you can’t contain yourself, ask them to pull over and get out of the car.

I like hitchhiking, but it’s not for everyone. There are a few things that can increase your chances of getting a ride.

1) Dress nice and look clean. Nobody wants to pick up someone who smells bad or looks like they don’t take care of themselves.

2) Pick the spot you hitch from with care. Make sure there is an area that drivers can pull safely off the road past you.

3) If you have a choice, hitch where there are more poor people on the road. People from all walks of life have picked me up, but by and large poor people understand what it means to need a ride better than the rich do. Poor people are also much less suspicious that you are going to try to rob them or take their car. After all, who would want to steal a 1977 Pinto?

4) Flying a piece of cardboard with a well known destination shows motorists that you are a legitimate traveler trying to get to a legitimate destination, even if you are not.

Swimming. I’m not a good enough swimmer to get anywhere but from the beach to about 100 yards out and back. I hear that some people can swim miles though. It’s not very practical unless you want to swim across the Rio Grande.

Biking. My good friend George Hush rode his bike from Los Angeles to Seattle. I have other friends that have rode to Alaska. If you want to bike long distance be sure you have a decent bike, that you know how to fix it, and that you can carry the gear you will need.

Walking and Running. Run Forest Run! Francis Tapon walked across America twice. Forest Gump ran for what seemed like years. This is a good way to get from one place to another. I try to walk at least a couple miles a day. It’s good for downtown, it’s good for the beach, and it’s good if you have a problem you need to think about and the time to think about it.

Bus. Traveling by bus is relatively cheap. The drawbacks are that you never know who you are going to be on the bus with, who’s going to sit next to you, it takes forever, and the ride is generally uncomfortable. Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t. Greyhound stations are always in the seedy part of town.

Trains. Traveling by train, on the other hand, is romantic. Someday I’d like to hop a freight train but I haven’t yet. For now, I’ll talk strictly about passenger trains. I’ve ridden trains on four continents. Trains are by far my favorite way to travel. You can move around. They are comfortable. You can consume alcohol. Trains can cost nearly as much as flying and take far longer, but the trip is always worth it.

Planes. I’d have loved to live in the days when people dressed up to fly. Unfortunately, flying is not too much different from riding on a Greyhound in the sky. The exception to that is when you fly on the airlines of second or third world countries, there is still a feeling of luxury and excitement as when the passengers applaud the flight attendants in Taipei or when you are served a truly gourmet meal aboard a flight in Laos. Flying takes you from one place to another quickly and sometimes that results in culture shock.

Boats. Traveling on the water is always fun. The worst time I’ve ever had on a boat was when my brother and I took a cruise from Fort Lauderdale to Grand Bahama on a cheap cruise ship. The ship was nice; it was the passengers that sucked. Fat, old, white tourists who were too cheap to pay for a decent cruise — just like us. Other than that I love to travel on boats. Sunset cruises in Hawaii, riding the ferry between Malaysia and Sumatra, riding the ferry to the San Juan Islands, catching a lift on a fishing boat in Juneau, Alaska. Boats are cool. The only problem with boats is the people you sometimes end up trapped with.

By Hook or By Crook. The bottom line to all of this is that there are ways to get and do what you want even if you are a person of limited means. Sure, you might have to bend the rules a little to make a situation more favorable. You might even do something illegal once in a while. But, by and large, I’ve found that if you don’t hurt anyone your life is generally better for it.

A Note on Cops. The police can’t stop someone from committing a crime against you. They can’t stop the mugger, rapist, murderer, robber, or vandal. Sometimes they can catch them after the fact. Sometimes they can punish them. The police have never kept me from getting beat up, robbed, or shot at.

In fact, all law enforcement has ever done for me is to make me paranoid and written me tickets. They’ve given local and state governments the ability to charge me large sums of money creating a class system based on the ability to pay for your crime. They’ve taken money I might have done something good with and put it toward more of the government I don’t want in the first place. I hate that.

People are usually able to commit the crime first. Graffiti in public places with spray paint is a perfect example of that. The police are useless to stop people from committing crimes. Sure, they might catch me, but the deed would be done. The police exist to intimidate us into behaving and to catch criminals after the fact. That is their main function as far as I can tell. Personally, I think they should all be given brooms and made to actually go out and clean the communities they are responsible for.

The police are constantly trying to catch you in the act of committing a crime. They are constantly trying to pin a crime on someone who may or may not have committed the crime. The police are an intimidation force. They exist to scare us into subservience. To scare us into following the rules. The truth is we are all criminals. We all break the law every day. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t speed, jaywalk, or commit some infraction of the law on a daily basis. Even Presidents like Lincoln (Honest Abe) lied under oath. Politicians commit crimes while they are in office. So does every prison warden, cop, politician, and businessperson. We are all criminals waiting to be caught. Some of us are just a little more realistic (and honest) about it than others.

With that being said — if you are going to break the law, please make sure that it doesn’t harm anyone else and by all means, don’t get caught. There are enough harmless people in prison already. (This was written back in 2001, I have to admit that since that time I’ve learned something very valuable that I would like to pass on –

If you aren’t breaking the law, you have nothing to worry about. If you are breaking the law, you are better off if the police are your friends. Why in the world would you ever antagonize someone with that much power to make your life miserable? Don’t do it. Cops are people. Some are good, some are bad. Make them your friends, either way.

STOP BEING A WAGE SLAVE

What Do You Love To Do?

I’ve sat and watched the world for too long without speaking up. Someone has to let you know that you are living your lives like insane people. What exactly is it that you are all working so hard for? Do you even know? Many people think they are looking for freedom, but the biggest joke is that they have it if only they choose to take it. Really. Even you. Even if you are reading this from a prison cell. It really is that easy.

The people of the world have allowed themselves to be told that life is about being the slave of societies, corporations, and other people. They’ve been told that their dreams are for too much, too quickly. They’ve been told that if they shut up and work hard they can then travel, change the world, and help others. I’m here to tell you that they’ve been lied to. We all have. The proof is in the suicide rates, mental illness, and sense of disillusionment that most of us feel or experience.

People of the world! It’s time to stop working for the masters and start living like free men and women. No matter what your beliefs, I can tell you that the only life you have right now is the one you hold. Sure, there is probably more and faith can help you to carry on in the darkest nights of this life, but in fact, this life has been given to you for a reason and that isn’t so you can earn profits for someone else or spend your life as a wage slave. If you can be certain of anything, you can be certain of that.

It might make you feel comfortable to know you aren’t the only one who has been living this way. In the year 2013 the world is filled with people who don’t like their jobs. When you look at the number of people who aren’t satisfied with their work who are fifty years old or less, what you find is that more than half wish they did something else. And yet, they don’t. Why is that?

When you stop for a moment to think about why the world is like it is, it is puzzling. How can it be that so many of us hate our jobs or at the very least do them without a bit of passion. Why is it that we spend so little time doing what we really love to do?

Are you one of those sad people that slaves away more than forty hours each week only to spend a few hours on the weekend doing what it is that you really love? Why is that? Why do you think you continue to do it? Why do you sit around on Sunday so completely bummed that you have to work the next day?

I say it’s not time to stop working. It’s time to start working on those things that bring you joy, happiness, and satisfaction. Don’t stop working, start living!

The Typical Wage-Slave Mentality

If you were to chart the mental maps of most people you would find they are filled with desire but constrained by hard-core industrial brain-washing. It doesn’t look so good, does it.

Our mentalities are reflective of the societies we live in. Things have become totally awful and one of the reasons why is because people have allowed themselves to become completely dependent on the wage they take home each week.

There is good news though. The dawn of the internet has made it possible for people to break the chains that bind them to the work they hate and to begin to become less dependent on bosses, wages, and jobs they loathe. People are discovering they can survive just as well or better by doing what they love. I’m one of them, you can be too. You can start to find what I call your ‘Passion Income’. Your passion income is what comes from doing what you love. All there is to it, is to do it.

A part of the reason this book is important is because it will give you the chance to become one of the pioneers of this revolution. By no means is this book intended as a comprehensive index of those who have changed their mentality and found their passion income. Every day more and more people are becoming independent of their employers, their geography, and their countries. In this chapter, I will introduce some of the better known people who have done this, and hopefully inspire you to become one of them.

Like you, most of them were once miserable too. They were chained to desks and filing TPX reports in triplicate or dealing with unhappy customers with a fake smile. Each of them decided they’d had enough. Just like I did. Just like I hope you will do too.

Passion Incomers are doing what they love and letting the money follow. It’s not just a feel good phrase. It’s true, the key is to be steady. You have to keep going. You can’t just give up at the first or the second or the third obstacles.

You can do it. I’m going to show you the ways that others have done it. You won’t be able to do it exactly the same way since you are not exactly the same person, but it is my true hope and desire that you can discover the path to your own freedom and happiness.

Don’t stop working, start living. Find your passion income. Start living the dream.

The Hardest Thing

Are you excited to start? Good! Now comes the really hard part.

How are you going to quit that job you hate so much? I can hear you saying “I can’t” “I need it” “I’ll keep it until I figure this out” but the truth is, you may have to quit. It’s sucking the life from you. It’s stealing your soul. You hate it and as long as you are focused on that hate, you can’t really do what you love.

I know. It’s crazy to even think about. What is the hardest part about it? Why are you saying it’s impossible?

Is it that you have financial responsibilities?

Is it that you are ‘loyal to the brand’? Why? Is it loyal to you?

Is it that your job makes you happy and energized? I doubt it or you wouldn’t have read this far or even picked up this book.

Is it that you want the income and status? Even though it makes you miserable?

Is it that you want people to respect and admire you? But can you really respect and admire yourself if you don’t quit?

In fact, it isn’t any of that. You want to quit so you can work on your own life. You want your life to be your greatest achievement.

I’m fairly certain of that just by the fact you are reading my words, then you need to stop what you are doing and focus on something that will fulfill your soul.

Your work should be fun, creative, valuable, fulfilling, and contributing something but it’s not. Is it?

And the real problem is that you don’t really believe that all you have to do to change things is quit. It can’t possibly be that easy. All the things you’ve learned about jobs can’t be totally and completely wrong. Can they? Isn’t your job the key to your success?

I used to think so and guess what? I was wrong and so are you.

You are going to be stuck being miserable and unhappy until you realize the truth of this. Once you start to be honest about what a bunch of balderdash the whole job myth is, you won’t be able to find real joy in this life. Paradise is here, but only if you choose to accept it.

In fact, all the things you want are waiting for you but you won’t find them until you figure this out. Let yourself. Just for a second give yourself permission to think that this is the truth. Only a second and see how it feels. Does it feel like you are lying? Now go back to thinking it’s a lie. Can you?

Everyone around you probably wants you to keep working in your job. Your kids, your wife, your parents, your friends, your boss (especially him or her) and you know why? Because they aren’t you. They don’t know what makes you happy. They don’t know what brings you fulfillment. They don’t know that what led you to this point is making some bad decisions based on bad information.

It’s a rough spot to be in. I’m aware of that. I was there once.

I’m going to let you know though that you have to accept it. You have to deal with it. You have to admit your mistake and move forward. Lying to yourself will get you to exactly where you are right now.

And guess what, once you accept it, you will find that the one thing you want to do more than any other is to quit that job. I suggest that you let yourself. Damn the consequences. Never mind the bullocks. Just do it. Let yourself do what you want and see how it makes you feel. It’s your one and only life on this planet. Do what you know you must and do it quickly. You can blame me for the consequences but don’t forget to credit me with the good that comes of it either.

Finding Your Starting Point

There is one part of the business your boss doesn’t own. The part inside of your noggin. It’s true, you might not be able to quit today. Maybe you have to stay with it for a few months.

Sure, the ideal situation is to stop working for someone else right now, but maybe you need some time to prepare yourself. Some time to get ready. It’s okay. Really.

The important thing is that you know you can start working for yourself at any time you want. Can you imagine what it will be like to be your own boss? To have total freedom?

That’s what this is really about. It’s about having total freedom and being able to let go of the burdens of others that you have been dragging around for your whole life.

It’s the most important thing you can give yourself. If you are like most people, you don’t know if you can handle it or not. It scares you. It might even make you lose some sleep when you start thinking about it seriously. That’s okay.

Listen to all those reasons that tell you that you have to continue to be a wage slave and then think of all the reasons that you can be free. Just walk around for a while imagining what it will be like to be your own boss. Keep doing your work for as long as you need to but don’t take away the permission that you’ve already given yourself to quit. You are a free being. You were born free and you still are. You have the freedom to leave the job you hate.

If you plan on keeping your job, I wouldn’t tell the boss what’s going through your head. In fact, the more you focus on it, the more real it will become. As humans we tend to get what we envision. We focus on something enough and it becomes real. The sad thing is that most of us spend more time focusing on misery than on victory. And guess what? That’s what we get.

Making Up Your Mind To Be Free

If you want more freedom all you have to do is picture it. Determine your own future just like those who have done it before. Buckminster Fuller was a failure in everything he did until he learned this secret. So was Henry Ford. So was Steve Jobs. If you want more freedom, you are the only one who can give it to yourself. What are you waiting for?

If Bill Gates had kept working for IBM there wouldn’t be any Microsoft. FDR was right when he said we have nothing to fear but fear itself. The Wright Brothers were right when they decided they could fly. You are right when you make up your mind that you can do what you dream of. All there is to it, is to do it.

In his book Don’t Ask Stupid Questions? There Are No Stupid Questions, author Tim Brownson. says “People make money doing all sorts of weird and wonderful things, things they genuinely love. People actually get paid to go shopping, eat food, tell jokes, play with toys, design things, play sports, pretend they are other people, write stuff, daydream, drive cars, care for animals, fly planes, talk, coach people and more or less anything else you can imagine.”

His book is filled with common sense inspiration that has led many to discover what they love and what they want to do with their lives. I recommend it. The sad thing is most people that read his book just say “Yeah, but that won’t work for me. I’m not good enough to do that.” But the truth is that you are, you really are!

Other’s say that they don’t want to make money from their passion. That’s fine too, but you should still keep reading because I’m going to show you other ways you can leave the job you hate and find the joy you are missing. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

Freelancing = Doing What You Love

For many people, passion and being good at something go hand in hand. If you are actually good at something, you usually become passionate about it. Even better, if you’re lucky, your passion is something you can actually sell.

Let’s have a look at some very sellable passions that are shared by a lot of people:

Writing, Web Design Skills, Blogging, Cooking, Computer Programming, Foreign Languages, Native Languages, Photography, Graphic Design, Teaching or Coaching, Sports.

Believe it or not, there are ready markets available where you can make money with these skills today! I’m not talking about waiting around. I’m talking about finding a way to make money today. Doing something you love and getting paid for it within the next 24 hours.

Don’t believe me? Have a look at craigslist.com and see if there isn’t at least one ad asking for writers. Ask your friends if they know anyone that is having a wedding, birthday, or party and would like a photographer, cook something delicious and see if you can sell it in front of a local business. These may sound absurd to you, but I’m telling you they are not. The only thing holding you back from making money right now is that voice in your head that is telling you that you can’t.

Or let’s say that you really like your work but you hate having to go to the office. In that case, you should look into freelancing in your field. Maybe you won’t find the same pay, maybe you will have to work harder, but you will make your life and your situation better.

Almost everyone I know who has a ‘real’ job hates it. And yet, these are the same people who tell me they are buying their freedom. At what cost? My friend Jeff had a heart attack and diet at the age of 39 years old. Luckily he had ditched his career a year earlier and started to live his passion, radio. Unfortunately the toll of heavy smoking, bad diet, and poor health from working in a job he hated for so long took his life before he could recover. Don’t let that happen to you!

Do you know who works for their freedom? Slaves do. Are you a slave or are you free? If the answer is that you are a slave you better get back to your master’s work, but if you are free, then what are you waiting for? In fact, none of us are slaves unless we choose to be. Do you really want to spend the next thirty years being a slave? Do you think people will respect you more if you continue as a slave or take the chance of a lifetime? Freedom is yours. I hope you are starting to understand the truth of that.

Ask yourself what it really is you want. What is it? Money? Fame? Time? Or would you prefer to have time and money? In truth, you really don’t want to be famous, you want the time and the money that fame can give you, right?

Look what you have been doing with your work. You’ve been working five days to give yourself two days off. You’ve been working 50 weeks to have 2 weeks off. Wouldn’t you rather have it the other way around? You can. All there is to it is to do it. Find your passion income.

Starting A Business Isn’t The Answer

A lot of people dream of starting their own business. I’m going to tell you something you may have never heard before. Starting a business is a lousy answer to freedom. When you start a business you chain yourself to the employees, the clients, and the idea. Most businesses fail and the reason why is because people have no idea just how much work they have to put into them.

My advice to you is not to start your own business. Maybe you don’t know what to do with all those hobbies you can’t figure out how to freelance with like watching soap operas, reading, or playing World of Warcraft, but the answer to having more time for your hobbies is NOT to start some other business so that you can have more time. If you can start a business around your passions, that just might work, but otherwise, avoid this bad idea like it is the bubonic plague.

You can find ways to make money doing what you love. Watch soap operas and then record a podcast about what happened for those who didn’t see it but want to stay caught up, learn how to gold farm in World of Warcraft and sell the gold for real cash (Check out the work of author Julian Dibbell to see how that can actually make you rich), or sign up for one of the many reading for dollars programs on the internet. Maybe you start slow, but you can do it.

Passive Income= Freedom From Worry

If you want something really great to dream of, think about how to set up passive income streams for yourself. There are ways that you can work hard now and profit from it forever. It’s actually not hard to do.

If you don’t believe me just look at how bloggers like Jeremy Shoemoney and Darren Rouse are doing it. These guys have done it and they will explain to you exactly how you can too. Not with their passions, but with yours. The techniques work. You might have to work your ass off at first, but the rewards are worth it and you aren’t working for someone else, you are working totally for yourself.

I don’t know about you, but I work harder when it’s for me than I do for anyone else.

Once you’ve figured out that you can make money consistently and for all time by using the skills you already have, you will find that quitting your job is one of the best things you can do for your family, your self, and your life.

In fact, you may not want to make your passion your income. You may be afraid you will taint it with money. That can happen. Indeed it has happened a lot, but it doesn’t have to. The key is to set up your passive income and incorporate these passions into it. You could even call it passion income.

I’m convinced that we all have our passions for a reason. It’s like digging a tunnel. As you start it seems like it doesn’t go anywhere. In fact, it doesn’t. You sweat, you toil, you get dirty. You wonder why you ever started in the first place. Of course, most tunnels are there so that you can go through the mountain instead of over it and in the process save yourself some sweat. But the tunnel doesn’t dig itself. Once you reach the other side though, you never have to dig it again. You never have to go over that mountain again. And you never know, you might strike gold when you are halfway through even though it wasn’t what you were looking for in the first place.

At this point it seems like maybe you are getting something for nothing as other people pay you to use your tunnel, but in fact, you worked your ass off to break through the other side. Your reward is that it continues to serve you. Just don’t give up!

The truth is by reading these words you have already picked up the pick and shovel. What are you going to make your passive income with? Where is your tunnel taking you? What mountain are you going under instead of over?

You’ve got to figure that out. I can’t tell you. Look at what you really love. Can you dig it? Can you dive into the work it will take. I know you can. Whatever it is you love the most is the key to making your passive income. I don’t care if you love teaspoons and bottle caps. There is a way. You have to find it. Dig man, dig!

What you don’t want to do is be dishonest about what it is that makes you happy. Maybe you are the fart king and nothing makes you happier. Don’t hide that from yourself. Just admit it and think about ways you can make those farts pay. Think they can’t? You’re being lazy. Want proof? Go to Google and look up ‘iFart’.

Nobody has to know what really makes you happy except you, but that thing is the key to your future prosperity. It may sound ridiculous, but it is totally true.

There are many buses that all lead to the same destination and in this case that destination is freedom from being a slave. I’m telling you, you’re passion is the key no matter how strange it may be. It’s you, accept it and go with it. It’s how to tunnel your way to happiness.

Here are three buses that can take you to the state of liberty you desire. There are more, but these are the ones that carry the most passengers to the state of grace. Read on oh mighty farter!

Unless you take the first swing of the pick right now, you will continue to be miserable. Now is the time for all good people to come to the aid of their own happiness. Do it while you still hate your job. The timing is perfect.

Let your hated employment shelter you while you dig the tunnel that leads to your enjoyment. Maybe your tunnel leads right to this hammock laid out under a lauhala tree in the Hawaiian Sunshine. Or maybe it leads someplace even better.

Bus #1 (Belle)

The first bus heading to destination freedom is freelancing. The term comes from back when men in shining armor fought each other to determine who would serve and who would eat. Those who were not affiliated with a specific house or Lord were known as free lances. Pretty cool, right?

Are you ready to get your freelance game on?

What does it mean to be a freelancer? Well in simple terms what it means is that you don’t work for anyone but yourself. The most common ways people break into freelance work is in the fields of writing, photography, graphic design, computers, web design, and illustration.

If you want to start out as a freelancer and you have these skills, you shouldn’t have a hard time finding work. Each of these fields have literally hundreds of websites dedicated to helping freelancers. You can find clients, learn about your trade, and even find out about the necessities of taxes, insurance, and the process of doing the work itself.

I can tell you from experience that you can do this. Some people say that freelancing is less secure than having a boss, but as a freelancer, I have many clients, none of them can take away my total income. Can you say the same of your boss? I couldn’t. I’m in complete control of my work. If I don’t like a client, I don’t have to work with them again. In fact, I have more than ten streams of income as a freelancer right now and none of them know each other. I’ve told two clients in two days that I can’t work with them any longer because their rates are too low. You can’t do that with a regular job. You know why? Because you are the expendable one.

So, what’s your passion? Do you really want to know?

It’s simple. If you could be doing anything at this moment, what would you be doing? That’s it. That’s your passion. Now comes the harder part…how do you turn Guitar Hero into a career? Hopefully very few of you actually chose this, but my friend Julian did. You know what he did with it? He started giving Guitar Hero lessons and people are paying him for them.

Don’t worry though, passions change frequently and as a freelancer, you aren’t trapped in just one passion. You can change with your passions. Once you figure out how to do it, it can never be taken away from you.

To start earning money this way you don’t need money, you don’t need employees, you don’t need a business plan, you don’t need anything but you and your passion plus a desire to find a way to make money with them. Get out of what is necessary and into what is fun.

Bus #2 (Turtle)

Although I still don’t recommend starting a small business, maybe it’s for you. I can’t know for sure and the fact of the matter is that there are a lot of successful small businesses out there. Personally, I think they succeed because of a combination of luck, resources, and tenacity. Maybe you have what it takes.

One thing is certain, you still need to make sure that the business is built around whatever your passion might be. While you don’t need a lot of capital to start up a small business, it helps. According to the Small Business Administration, most start ups don’t make a profit during the first 12-18 months they are in business. So having money to run the business with is important. It might be though, that you only have to invest in something as simple as business cards. Once you have the cards, you really do have a business. It’s like magic.

You don’t need any down payment, no office, no car, no secretary. Trent Ham has a blog called The Simple Dollar in which he explains dozens of zero start up cost businesses. Maybe yours is there.

A good book to start with is Chris Guillebaeau’s $100 Startup. You’ll find more resources listed in the appendix.

Bus #3 (Paradise)

Now let’s just say that you don’t want to freelance or run a business. What in the world are you going to do? Well, the answer is hop on Bus #3 to destination Freedom and start working towards earning a passive income.

The main idea of a passive income is to reduce your hours and increase your income over the course of your life. Easy, right? In fact, it is. The main thing you will face when creating a passive income is determining which route is the right one for you. If you focus on each stream in turn, optimize it, and do a little maintenance now and then, you will be surprised at just how successful you can become. I recently met a blogger who earns $20,000 every month from passive income.

Usually if it sounds too good to be true it probably is, but in this case, it’s not. People are really doing it. Normal people. People who started with nothing. Here is an example that comes from my own passive portfolio. I bought a domain name for $7 a few years ago and parked it on Google Adsense for Domains. Today it brings in upwards of $500 every month. I don’t do anything except collect the money and look at the stats. That means I’m making $6000 a year for doing absolutely nothing. How would you like to have that situation?

Passive income can be found through blogs, affiliate programs, joint ventures, e-books, social media applications, Twitter, Facebook, and plenty of other ways. I’m putting a number of resources in the Appendix if you want to check out some of the opportunities that exist.

Starting Your Life Anew

Maybe you don’t want to hear this, but you don’t have an excuse to continue being miserable anymore. You have the knowledge. You have the resources. You have what it takes. The possibilities are endless and all you have to do is discover them. There are more ways to make money from what you love than there are ways to rise in your current career. Get ready to change your life.

Will you take Bus #1 and freelance with your passion?

Will you take Bus #2 and start a small business against my advice?

Will you take Bus #3 and start creating your future passive income?

It’s up to you. I’ve given you the system map. Now all you need to do is figure out which bus will get you there. Or maybe, you’ll do all three or combine all three bus routes into one as I have done. As much as I hope you eventually will quit your job, you don’t have to do it right away. In fact, it might be better if you don’t quit for a while so that you can start to see the potentials without the worry. Choose your bus, step on board, and see where it takes you.

Maybe it will take you all over the world like it has me. Maybe it will lead you to the love of your life, just like it did for me. Maybe you will find exactly what you never knew you wanted just as I have. I hope so.

The thing is, it’s nice to wake up and do what I want. You can have this too. Don’t forget to give importance to the things that you love. Your passions are the reason you are here. I’m sure of it. When you give your energy to your passions you will feel more alive, more vibrant, and better able to deal with all the challenges that life is certain to throw at you.

How To Stop Working For Someone Else

The way to stop working for someone else is as simple as finding out that you really only need to work for you. If you get it, I won’t be surprised to hear that you quit very soon. Maybe you need to give notice, or maybe you don’t. Either way, I’m sure if you get it, you are going to quit it.

I met an Australian man in Hawaii who was working in construction. He asked me what he should do and I said he should quit. Later, I saw him looking happier than I’d ever seen him and he told me he had quit. That night his boss came and pounded on my door. I opened it and the guy punched me in the nose.

A bloody nose was a small price to pay for liberating someone who thought he was trapped. My friend told me how he was considering suicide and instead, I convinced him to suicide his career. He did and I can tell you that the results were good, despite my bloody nose.

Like him, you can quit. You can start your own business, take up freelancing, or start to set up your passive income streams. Just don’t tell your boss where I live when he asks why you quit. ;)

I think though, sometimes discretion is the better part of valor. Start saving up some money to support yourself with before you turn in your notice. Make a plan for how you will free yourself and start thinking of yourself as already liberated. You will immediately feel the difference.

Choosing The Day To Start

You aren’t really a prisoner to your job at all. You can leave any time you want. You don’t have to stay there. In fact, you can call up the boss and quit right this instant. Don’t ever forget that.

When I talk about choosing the day to start, what it really means is picking the day to quit. When you quit working for someone else, you are starting to work for yourself. Don’t make a big scene, the best thing to do is to explain to your employer that you are heading out on your own, tell them that you enjoyed your time with them, but you no longer have to have the job. Never burn your bridges because you never know, you might actually change your mind, but I hope not.

Do it sooner rather than later. I would suggest that you wait no longer than six months. That should be plenty of time to get your plan straight. In fact, if you do it in half the time you originally plan for, you will find that you actually get everything done in half the time too. Long deadlines make us all lazy.

How To Start Really Living

The hardest thing for most people to do is to start saving their money instead of spending it. In fact, money is a lazy way of keeping ourselves occupied. Start cooking at home, stop wasting your money on things that aren’t important. You’ll find that taking a run outside is far more satisfying than using the treadmill in the gym.

You’re saving to start your independent life. Isn’t that worth it? If you have a family, explain to them why it is important to start living a simpler life. If you have debts, find a way to put them off or pay them off. Saving money is easy, just spend less than you earn.

How To Earn More

If you want to earn more money, put more work in. Instead of writing five articles a day, write fifteen. Instead of waiting to start your logo business, have the cards made and start handing them out. You’ll be surprised how a little effort can yield big results.

Take at least a couple of hours a week to focus on your freedom. Make it happen now in however small a way. The longer you wait, the less likely it is to happen. Maybe it means spending less time at the gym or not reading that novel you were planning on, but we’re not talking about fun times alone, we’re talking about building your passion income! Isn’t it worth it to miss the big game on television so that you can have your freedom sooner rather than later?

How To Spend Less

Spending less is the hard part for lots of people. Americans in particular are very wasteful spenders. Don’t be offended. I’m American and it took me a long time to get my spending under control too.

The way I did it was to create a book in which I wrote down every cent I spent for three months. At the end of each week I would add up what I spent my money on. I was amazed to find that rent was not my biggest expense. Instead it was totally non-essential items that cost between $1 and $15 but in a month added up to nearly twice my rent. Coffee from Starbucks, a Sunday Matinee, a bag of chips, candy, and tons of other little things. I was really amazed. I was also ashamed. I started to watch where I spent my money so I wouldn’t have to write it down in the book. I was tempted to even lie to myself about it and not write things down.

Don’t do that. Be honest about your extra meals, gadgets, and extravagances. Don’t buy on whims. Do you really need that new coffee mug? Write everything down. You will probably be as surprised and ashamed as I was. It adds up to way more money than you think.

So once you are doing that, you can decide what not to spend money on and what to spend money on. It gives you the chance to choose, if you have never done this, you aren’t choosing with knowledge, you are like Gollum groping for his precious ring in the dark.

Do you want to liberate yourself? Or would you rather have a latte?

Making It Happen

I was lucky. I found my first freelancing gigs within hours of deciding to do this. My passive income streams took months to yield any results. As to small business, I guess you know how I feel about that but eventually, I set one up.

The point is that you shouldn’t expect things to happen for you right away. Maybe you will get lucky like I did, but from what I have seen on the internet and heard other folks say, it often takes people months to find their first clients.

Be patient. If you still have your full time gig, just work steadily and don’t give up. I know you can do it. Take the time to make it happen. Tell your family and friends what you are doing. If they don’t support you, consider getting rid of them. Really. If the people you love don’t support you following your passion then they don’t really love you. Uh-oh, first I told you to get rid of your job, now it’s your friends and family!

Wake up early, go to bed late, skip the golf course on weekends, and work during your lunch hour. You are doing this for yourself and if you aren’t worth it to you, then chances are you won’t succeed. One of the greatest things you can do in this life is work hard to achieve your dreams.

It will be hard. I’m certain. There will be times you just want to quit and take that horrid old job back again, but don’t do it. Focus Danial-San! Wax On, Wax Off. That ultimate goal of walking out of the office forever is waiting for you. All you need to do is keep going.

If that won’t do it then you need to pull out the big guns. Start reading blogs, books, or websites about people who have succeeded. People like Dave Navarro, Seth Godin, Steve Pavlina, Leo Babauta, Tim Ferris, Darren Rouse, John Chow, and Naomi Dunford. Or you can just go visit my website at Vagobond.com and see what a great time I’m having. Seriously, when you look into the things I’ve gone through to get here, you’ll understand that you aren’t alone in dealing with things.

Living The Dream

You can live the dream. There are tens of thousands of people who have given up being miserable and started doing what makes them happy. The only reason there aren’t billions yet is because the governments of the world don’t want people to realize they can do it. Governments get money from big corporations and big corporations survive from wage slaves. They need you, you don’t need them.

You have earned the right to make your dreams come true. .

Pick a bus, get on it, and head to the destination of your choice. You won’t regret it. Finding your passion income means finding the ways to make your dreams come true. Don’t just dream the dream. Live the dream. You want it, now you know how to get it too.

Stop spending, start saving, quit your job, follow your passion, and do what you love. As they say, the rest will surely follow. All there is to it, is to do it.

This is a picture of me and the Ole Reptile on our way to the North American Anarchist Conference in 2000. He’s the one who told me that I shouldn’t just learn not to be a wage slave, but should write a book about it. Thanks Ole’ Reptile!

ROUGH LIVING TO SMOOTH LIVING

The following is the introduction to Smooth Living: Beyond the Life of a Vagabond. I published the original Rough Living back in 2003. Now, in 2013, I’ve written a followup because I’ve completely changed my life. I want to share a little bit from the beginning of Smooth Living. Once you’ve learned the lessons of Rough Living, you’ll be ready for the Smooth Life. In fact, you’ll deserve it.

There are two types of people in the world. Feelers and doers. Feelers do what they feel like doing (and don’t do what they don’t feel like doing). Doers do what needs to be done. In giving in to the road, I was a classic feeler. It wasn’t that I felt like being on the road so much as I didn’t feel like doing the work I would have needed to do if I had resisted that call to the road.

I don’t regret my choices. I regret my submissive attitude of powerlessness. I made a negative choice (based on what I didn’t want to do) rather than a positive choice (based on what I did want or need to do.) I chose rough living. Finding a way to live that didn’t require me to do anything because I didn’t need anything. You have to work hard to live that way. That’s the joke. You put a lot of energy in and you get enough out to survive. It’s inefficient.

I’m not saying working 40 hours a week, 50 weeks a year for 20 years is a better solution. I’m not sure that solution would have worked for me had I tried it. You need a direction to go in. Let’s face it, your odds of getting anywhere are zero if you can’t choose a direction to step off in.

Smooth living requires you to understand what it is you want out of life. The desire to remain alive isn’t enough, you must have something to head towards. Otherwise, you’re trusting your entire life to blind luck. It might work out beautifully for you, but it might end in disaster.

I look back at the list of essentials I wrote about in Rough Living — essentials like sturdy boots, a knife, and a lighter — and the only possession I still consider to be essential is proper ID. Everything else is optional (of course you can’t walk around nude, so it is good to have some clothing.)

There are two essentials you need for smooth living. First of all, a desire for something beyond mere existence. Second (and this is funny to me) you have to have proper identification. This is our world. The rest is optional.

I’ll say this again later, but it’s fair to tell you now. I can’t teach you how to do exactly what I do because I can’t teach you to be me. I’m a writer, I created an online magazine about travel. I’ve used contacts I’ve made through writing and publishing to gain extraordinary experiences. There are other people who have done more with less and plenty of people who have done less with more.

Ultimately, you have to be willing to look at what you have and figure out how to make the most of it. Simple as that. You still think you want an adventure?

To find out more about Smooth Living, you’ll have to buy the book. For now, let’s move on to the tales of a Rough Living vagabond. You’ll find more tips and resources in the appendix at the back of this book or at my website at http://www.vagodamitio.com. Enjoy the tales!

VAGABOND TALES

No Baba, No Bobo

My mom was working as a waitress and my dad was painting houses, playing music. I was almost two and my brother was about seven. One evening Dad was watching us because Mom was working and he had no gig that evening. Mom and the baby sitter followed a similar routine in making me a bottle (ba-ba), ensuring that I had a pacifier (bo-bo), and then tucking me in my crib (night-night) before helping my brother with his homework. Dad threw all of that out the window and propped me on the couch watching TV while he helped my brother with his homework at the kitchen table.

It was at this point that I first heard the haunting melody of what might lie beyond. Obviously, I recognized that something lay outside better than what the talking heads on the magic box were babbling about. Dad’s first clue was a whoosh of cold winter air blowing my brothers papers from the table.

He looked up and realized that I was gone as the screen door slammed in the wind. He ran outside and was terrified to see that I was running down the road next to two busy lanes of nighttime traffic. He sprinted after me and though I ran as fast as my tiny legs would carry me he caught me as I attempted to dart between fast moving cars.

He picked me up and shook me asking, "Chris, what are you doing?"

It was only then that I spoke my first sentence as I tried to explain it to him. "No ba-ba, no bo-bo, no night-night, bye-bye." If I had been a bit more articulate I might have explained the call of the road like this "I’m pretty sure there’s a better life out there for me somewhere because sitting around watching TV sucks."

$100 Volkswagen Bus

The bus I live in as I write this, was broken down on the side of the road in Seattle with a ‘For Sale’ sign listing $400 as the price. As I was wistfully looking at her, her owner came running out of his house explaining that he would give her to me for $100 right that instant.

I was in my friend Kevin’s car and between the two of us we were able to come up with exactly $100 when we found some change under the back seat. We towed her to the house I was going to be moving out of a week later.

The bus wouldn’t start. A next door neighbor who was a VW enthusiast came over to have a look and within ten minutes had diagnosed and fixed the problem. All he did was tweak a few wires. I named her Turtle, since she would be my home and didn’t move too fast.

The next day, I paid $30 to get a temporary registration for the bus. That left me nearly broke. I was unemployed and a week from homeless, but I was starting to live smarter by far. I had a home.

I needed to drive to South Center (about a 60 mile round trip) to get her inspected by the State Patrol to make sure she wasn’t stolen before I could get her registered and licensed. She drove like a charm on the way there. I’d already fixed the stereo, so I was pretty happy about the trip down. I was nervous that the bus would be stolen because I’d only paid $100 for it and it had no title, but she passed the State Patrol’s inspection with flying colors.

I was driving on a three-day trip permit, which allows unlicensed cars to be driven for three consecutive days. I was jubilant on the way back and that’s when Turtle broke down. First she stopped in a busy intersection and finally restarted only to die alongside Highway 99, I coasted to the small shoulder wedged between the highway and the railroad tracks just South of Seattle.

A busy shipping yard was on the other side of the tracks. Shipping containers stacked four high. I tried to get her started for fifteen or twenty minutes and then knew that I would have to call a tow truck.

I hopped over the tracks. I ran through the yard and looked for an exit, a payphone, or an office.

Finally three rednecks in a company pickup pulled up next to me, I asked politely, but they said I couldn’t use their phone. A crane driver pulled up and yelled at me “This is private property, you’ve gotta leave.” He seemed to have a little more of an idea of what was going on than the boys in the pickup who had begun muttering things like ‘stupid fucking hippie.’

“My car broke down on Highway 99 and I need to find a phone to call a tow truck.”

“Take him to the office and let him use the phone” he bellowed at the pickup boys and then sped away in his crane.

The ladies in the office were nice if not comforting.

“Sure, use the phone, you’re not the first to break down out there. It happens all the time. Most of the time the cars get hit by other cars while they sit on that road.”

I used my mom’s AAA card to call a tow truck ( Thanks Mom! By the way, other people’s AAA cards are great because AAA never seems to check and never charges for limited distance towing.)

Now I had to get back to the car, they wouldn’t let me go through the yard again. I tried walking to an on ramp, but there wasn’t one. I walked north hoping for an off ramp…no luck. In an alley an old man was wiping bird shit off of his Honda Civic with a dirty handkerchief. I said hello as I ran past, then I stopped.

“Hey could you do a stranger a huge favor?” I asked German accent as he wiped at his windshield then ran to a puddle to dip his handkerchief in. “Vhat do you vant?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“My car broke down right over there on 99 and I need a ride to it.”

“Vhy don’t you valk?”

“They won’t let me through the yard.” I told him.

“You’ll have to ride in the backseat. I’ve got a bunch of stuff in the front.”

I was grateful. He drove me to my car while telling me about how he hitchhiked 30 years before when he first came from Germany. He still picked up hitchhikers, but there were fewer of them in recent years. He dropped me off and I waited for the truck to tow Turtle back to the house.

It took me a day and half to figure out that my ignition points had closed. It took 15 minutes to replace them. My future home was running strong again. I drove to register the bus at the Licensing Department. I told them it wouldn’t be driven so that I wouldn’t have to get a smog check. They didn’t ask what I’d driven to the licensing department.

Once I had the plates, it was time to do some maintenance. I replaced the plugs, rotor, air filter, and cleaned her up a little. I started her up. Perfect.

I took a trip to the junkyard. It was incredible. Dozens of VW buses lined up and ready to give up whatever I needed. I felt like a kid in Candyland taking things apart and digging through the waste. I love junkyards. Infinite possibilities within a budget. I bought a table, a latch for the engine, a glove box, and a few odds and ends that the bus needed like taillight covers and door handles.

Later that day I adjusted the valves, put in the table and christened my bus with some sage since, after all, I was a stupid fucking hippie.

Suddenly the bus felt like home. Visions of the nomadic life lit up my brain. I became aware of the possibilities. I could go to Mexico. I could go to the Southwest. I could go anywhere. By the end of the month I would be free. The New Year, 2001, would begin for me without chains. I started dreaming of the things I could do in the next year.

Inside she was warm with the rugs, pillows, and quilts. I made a pot of coffee and rustled up some pretty good grub then lay down for a nap and more dreaming about my coming adventures.

Tarps in the trees

I drove out dirt roads and hiked up a well-worn trail. It was raining, a mist drifting through the giant trees. Suddenly, like Mirkwood, the far off tinkling of laughter came from up high. I took a wrong turn down a trail, backtracked, and finally wondered into the encampment. High above three log and tarp forts hung in the mist. Connected by ropes and pulleys. Banners hung between them proclaiming, “This Land is Our Land” and “Save our Forest.” There was no one on the ground.

There were signs of people all around. Rain gear, buckets (used to haul shit and piss), tarps, and even a mysterious tent with a smoking fire still going nearby. The people vanished into the wood.

I gave a halloo up to the nearest tree fort. A male voice called down. “Who is it?”

“It’s Vago, you don’t know me, but I’ve got food for Lucky.” While I was eating breakfast in Eugene, my friend, The Ole’ Reptile, had asked if I would bring a bag of dog food out to the Fall River tree sit for a dog he knew. I, of course, agreed.

“I’ll just leave the bag down here.”

“Great. Thank you.”

I continued to look around and examine the curious tarpatecture of the feral folk who live in and among the ancient Douglas Fir that were threatened by imminent logging. Random stick, shit bucket, and rope creations blocked the roads to keep trucks and vehicles from approaching. A large compost bin and what would probably become a garden occupied parts of the road. The tinkling of laughter came from everywhere. Lightly. From nowhere. The tree sitters have their own culture. It was spooky how nobody came out to meet me. I was relieved to return to Eugene.

This is George Hush in one of his massive tree houses.

The Hot Insurance Adjustor

In the year 2000, I lived in Bellingham but was commuting with my little VW Fox to Seattle every day for a new job. It was a lot of driving, but I liked it. Then a 16 year old girl t-boned me at a crossroads and totaled my little car. Erma, the insurance adjuster who came to see the car was one of the hottest women I’d ever met.

I was pretty bummed when she told me the car was totaled. I said no big deal but I was disappointed. She asked if I had any further questions and I said just one figuring I"d already lost my great commuting car and would need to move to Seattle. I asked her if she wanted to have a drink with me.

She paused. “I’ m not supposed to,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

She said, “That’s just what they say.”

“We’ll talk about accidents,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. "Call me in a few days."

We got off the phone and I literally jumped up and down for joy that this beautiful woman was even willing to agree to have a drink with me.

“Hey, Erma, this is Vago the VW guy.”

“Oh, hey, I was just thinking about you.” Was it just me or did she sound like she was naked? It was nothing in her voice, I just pictured her naked..thinking about me!

“Really? What are you doing?” Here it came…I knew she was going to tell me she was in the bath or eating a banana.

“Trying to get my valves adjusted right. I can’t seem to get them to stop clanking. I’ve got oil all over me.” Okay, so this was okay, she was thinking of me as she lay on the ground covered in oil…that was sort of sexy…I mean, maybe it was her way of telling me something.

“Wow, you’ve got to make sure the feeler gauge is going all the way in the slot. Wiggle it around in there. You have to penetrate all the way and fill the gap completely. You want it tight, but not too tight!” I could play this game too, I was good at this.

“Hey, what are you wearing?” She asked me and guffawed loudly. “Do you come here often?” She completely ruined it.

I laughed " Hey, that was fun, why’d you ruin it? Do you want to get that drink?”

“Shit. My roommate is moving so me and my other roommate have to move too since she’s the one who rented the house. We’re packing up everything today. I should really be doing that now….”

Here was where she blew me off..I knew it was too good to be true.

“What do you think about tomorrow night? You can come out with me and my roommates. They’re hot, you just can’t touch em, okay?” It was better than rejection.

“Hmm, tomorrow, let me look at my calendar.” Like I had a calendar. I didn’t even know what the date was. “Yeah, it looks like I can shift this around a bit…yeah, that sounds great. What time?”

“Come to my house about six. We’ll start drinking there.” She gave me quick directions to her place. “See you then.”

“Right on Erma. Good luck with the lube job, I mean valves.” What a dork I am.

I was excited, she’d probably laugh when she found out I was living in my bus.

When I got there, she had modified plans a little. Her friend from Colorado was in town so we were going to go meet him at the Triangle Bar in Fremont.

I drove my new car, a Subaru wagon, to her house, where I met her two roommates. Both were hotties but the one who was moving out, Bertha, looked like a meth head chick. She had that high-strung, strung out, white trash way about her. Mathilda, the roommate who was getting a new place with Erma was a princess in a white angora sweater. Mathilda was coming with us too. I wasn’t too upset about that. Erma was absolutely stunning decked out in fashionable Seattle hippie girl attire. Sexy sexy sexy sexy…probably way to sexy for me. But maybe not…

We got to the Triangle and met up with Erma’s friend, John. As a result of his drunkenness, I got to spend all the time we were in the bar getting to know Mathilda instead of Erma while she nursed John. John and his friend needed a place to crash. John especially, and being a good friend, Erma suggested they crash at her pad. We piled into her car and went back to the girl’s place. On the trip I learned more about Erma than I’d ever thought possible because of John’s drunken commentary on her past loves, lovers, and exploits.

She was easily the hottest woman everywhere we went, with Mathilda coming in a close second. It occurred to me again that she might be out of my league what with her good looks, good job, and obviously full social life. It occurred to me over and over and over.

At her house, we drank beer and red wine.

“I remember when my dad used to molest me,” Erma started. “Can you believe that I loved it. I mean, I didn’t know not to. He was so gentle and loving, you know? I thought that was what all little girls and their Dad’s did. I cried and cried when they took him away.”

Erma had no problems talking about being molested or raped as a young girl. She was almost light about it.

“My fucking Grandpa on the other hand. That fucker used to love raping me. He wasn’t able to get off unless I was crying.”

Nobody else seemed shocked at her candor. I was totally creeped out. I just wanted to leave.

“What about you?” she asked. “Got any fucked up childhood stories?”

On the one hand, I did have and it would have been easy to talk about it. But on the other hand, I no longer wanted to be there. And, I was even more disturbed because I was turned on. I mean, here is this incredibly sexy chick talking about getting fucked. She’s talking about it in detail, like, “I used to love sucking Daddy’s dick. It was my favorite lollypop” and “I had to pretend I didn’t like it when Grandpa ass fucked me.” I mean these are disturbing fucking stories, but I felt my dick getting hard as she said it. I wanted to fuck this chick even though she was totally fucked up and at the same time, I wanted to get as far from her as possible.

So when she asked me to tell her a story, I just made an excuse about how normal my childhood had been. She pressed and I said that I had lost my father — we went to the park and I never saw him again. It was a lie, but I meant it to be funny and ended with "I always pictured him somewhere with amnesia.”

“I bet that’s his girlfriend’s name,” she laughed. I laughed too. Had she been lying about all that shit? I have no idea.

John passed out on Erma’s bed (of course) and his buddy left with some friends who arrived to take him back to the bar. Mathilda went to bed and Erma sat up talking with me. Finally, I kissed her and to my surprise she kissed me back. When I put my hand on her breast she pushed it off and pointed to the bedroom door while shaking her head. "John’s in there?"

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"No, but he’s in my bed." I didn’t know what the fuck that meant. She said I could crash on the couch but I felt sort of like I had been raped and molested. I left. "Give me a call," I said.

She never did. I didn’t call her either. I should have offered her a lollypop.

Unemployment

Filing for unemployment was one of the hardest decisions of my life. I’d always taken pride in not receiving any ‘handouts’ from the government. One of my roommates decided for me when he pointed out that it was me who had paid for the benefits I would collect. I decided to take back my ‘donations’ to this government.

I filed by phone, answering the questions the computer on the other end asked. It struck me as funny that the computer’s elimination could have provided at least one job to a person who was unemployed. The mechanical voice told me I had to apply for three jobs a week in order to collect my benefits and gave me an appointment so that I could attend ‘orientation.’ The state required that I attend “unemployment orientation” before the benefits of joblessness began.

I woke up late for unemployment. I got there 45 minutes late. It felt nice letting my body sleep as long as it wanted and the receptionist told me I could attend the next session.

The first thing I noticed in the classroom was a sign that said “ Please turn off your cell phones.” I suppose it is a problem keeping the unemployed off their cell phones in Seattle. The facility was called ‘Work Source.’ It was a typical institutionalized place with white and yellow walls. Classrooms.

It had lots of literature encouraging the poor to quit breeding. There were people with disabilities, older folks, and people of color. Nobody looked really down and out. Nobody seemed like they were going to die if they didn’t find employment soon.

People seemed to be pretending they wanted to find a job. That’s the difference between the homeless and the unemployed, the homeless don’t bother pretending they want a job; they just don’t have one. Both groups share a degree of dirtiness though. It’s just a little more obvious on those without houses and showers.

I was nervous but it was a cakewalk. Three people had been selected to turn in their search logs, showing where they had applied for work so far. The telephone computer voice had told us about this requirement. I was not one of them. The woman looked to be sure my logs reflected applying for at least three jobs this week. They did even though I hadn’t. I just wrote down some big corporation names and addresses.

The workshop group was made up of older housewives, dropouts, and freaks. One guy in his forties was wearing a leather jacket covered with rainbow colored beads. He had matching beads in his hair that hung down a little past his shoulders. He was distinctly birdlike and kept pecking the instructor with questions about job services on the internet and the waiting period to hear back from Boeing.

The instructor went to great pains to describe the ways we could avoid applying for work and still meet the required three job applications per week. Things like coming to ‘work source’ and working on our resumes, learning how to use the computers, or taking a typing course. Bedtime material. Pure Sominex. It was all about how to make your resume dynamic and answer interview questions the best way.

There were several interesting programs where the state would pay for a college education, I thought about doing that, but already had a useless Associates Degree and didn’t really want more. The whole ‘orientation’ lasted a few hours.

As I walked out of the Unemployment Department, I felt happy to know that the orientation counted for the three jobs I was supposed to apply for that week. My check arrived a few days later. All I had to do for the next eighteen weeks was to call in every Sunday to the phone computer and answer a serious of questions using ‘1’ for yes and ‘9’ for no. It took six minutes the first time but got quicker as I memorized the sequence of answers. 1, 1, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, #.

Recycling and Garage Sales

I helped Aquillo Mallot do his rounds at Western Washington University when it was time for the students to go home. We hit every dumpster on the campus twice a day for two weeks. You see, the students had bought things to make their dorms more comfortable. Things like microwaves, stereos, posters, books, artwork, clothes, and computers. Tons of stuff. They had to leave the dorms empty and most of them were driving home and didn’t want to rent a U-Haul to take along all their possessions. So, in the true American way, they just threw everything out.

In two weeks we filled a friends garage to capacity with just about everything you could think of. I was wondering what we were going to do with it all, but Aquillo had a plan. Every weekend throughout the summer we had garage sales in the yards of people we knew.

Aquillo and I were pulling $300-$400. Towards the end of summer it was between $10 and $100, but then a funny thing happened. The college kids returned and in two weekends bought back almost everything that was left (plus the things we had found during the summer) and gave us both close to $500. You see? Recycling can be profitable.

Another friend used to buy rejected textbooks from schools in Texas and sell them to other school districts that were still using them. That was giving him enough dough to support his family. But then, one day he was driving his pickup past an oil refinery and saw stacks of tools and equipment being carried out by the workers. Having an eye for value, he stopped and asked if they were throwing the stuff away. They said yes and when he asked if he could take it they said yes again. So, he loaded everything up in his truck and took it to a drilling supplier in Houston where he sold all of it for close to $90,000. True story.

You see, what was happening is that the big corporations work just like the government does. They operate on a concept called a fiscal year. All budgets run for one fiscal year (usually October to October.) At the end of the fiscal year, the Chief Financial Officer and his accountants figure out where they can slash budgets so they can put money elsewhere.

So, if individual departments have not maxed out their budgets, their budget gets smaller. To prevent this, departments will review their own budgets before the end of the fiscal year and figure out how to spend all the money they saved over the course of the year (and usually a little more.) A good for instance would be throwing away $90,000 worth of perfectly good tools.

Another ‘recycling’ tale worth the telling is the story of my friend Sam. Sam is a rug dealer from Chechnya who moved to America about forty years ago. He moved into a cheap tenement apartment in Los Angeles and got a labor job. The building he was living in was condemned not long after he moved in but because so many poor people were living there the city allowed that those there could stay for a period of five years but no new tenants would be accepted. This left a lot of apartments empty over time.

Sam had noticed that people in America threw out all kinds of useful things and began picking stuff up on the way home from work each morning. Soon his apartment was full and he asked the manager if he could store things in some of the empty ones. The manager didn’t seem to mind and so over the next few years Sam filled up most of the empty apartments with just about everything you can imagine.

At the end of the five years, the city took action to evict the last 15 residents, giving them one month to leave. Sam ran a publicity campaign saying that he and the rest of the evicted had lived there for years and had no place to put all of their ‘valuable antiques’ and ‘ancient family heirlooms.’ He complained about a city ordinance that forbid garage sales on the street in front of the building. He worked the angle of evicted senior citizens and immigrants.

After lots of pressure from the public who read of the problem in their newspapers and saw stories about it on their local news, the city granted a special permit allowing the citizens of the building to have a special garage sale to sell off their valuables.

Sam told me that for two days he and the other residents nearly continuously carried his accumulated trash downstairs and for ridiculously high prices sold it to the predators that were hoping to prey on the misfortune of these poor people.

It was a three-day permit and at the end of the second day Sam had nearly $200,000 in cash. He got spooked and left the rest of everything to the other residents.

He flew to the Caucus Mountains and bought a huge inventory of beautiful rugs and then returned to America where he sold the rugs and bought a small ranch and an RV with his legitimate profits. He still sells the rugs and he still picks through the garbage despite being a millionaire.

This kind of random junk can go for big bucks at Flea Markets.

Conversations with Unremarkable Men

George Hush and I got on his bikes (George always keeps a couple of extra bikes around for his guests) and rode down to the industrial beach where I had parked my bus. This is where Aquillo Mallot and the other bums we like hang out.

He was sitting in a tent with a couple of other bums. Aquillo introduced me to Jeff, the older guy whose little tent we sat around as we smoked more ganja. Jeff, it turns out, is the heir apparent to the throne of Wales. True or not, none of us knew, but on the sand or in the streets, you don’t question anyone’s story. For all we knew he could be the King of Sweden.

Aquillo put it another way when he, George, and I moved down the beach. “Everybody is entitled to their fantasy, and what the hell, he could be a fucking alien from the Dog Star.”

George started a fire. It was starting to rain and we set up Aquillo’s dingy as a wind/rain break. Then we just chilled out. Talking.

“The fundamentalist Christian’s told me that peace in Israel would mean the end of the world in 3 ½ years,” I told them.

“It’ll end sooner than that if they keep spraying this chemical shit from these high altitude jets,” Aquillo said, “They’re trying to immunize us, or poison us, or something, but I’ve seen the chem.-trails for three days running now.”

“I hear that Maitreya has been having secret meetings with the United Nations and letting the world leaders know what they need to do to fix the planet, but they won’t listen.” George told us in a conspiratorial whisper about the future Buddha and his hidden agenda. “Maitreya is gonna fuck up the leaders man. He’s the fighting Buddha.”

It’s funny how enjoyable the free things in life are. Sitting on a beach in the rain, having a fire, riding bikes, and talking about anything and everything.

George’s cell phone rang as I recovered in the silence. It was our friend Ursula. Sort of a surreal moment when she found out we were with Aquillo and asked to speak to him. George and me looked at each other with huge shit eating grins as Aquillo Mallot sat on the beach, next to a fire, dog leash in hand, talking to a pretty girl on a cell phone.

Aquillo had never used a cell phone before. George kept whispering and giggling, “Look, Aquillo’s on the cell phone.” She tried to talk him into coming over but Aquillo doesn’t like sitting indoors. We sat on the beach drinking whiskey instead until sleep called us away one by one. I woke up in the morning and was going to leave when I looked in my rear view mirror and saw Aquillo and his dogs coming down the hill. I shut off the bus and waited.

“It’s a good thing you waited,” he told me with a grin “We’re about to smoke a joint.”

Shannon and Hopalong weren’t far behind him. We smoked and fell into our usual patois.

“Here we are, “ I said. “2001. We all survived the bigY2K…no problems.”

They laughed. Shannon shook his head. “ The country is heading into a recession but why should that bother warriors of alternative means?” We all laughed louder.

“2001,” Aquillo roared, “ A homeless oddity.” We all roared with him.

We sat by the fire drinking whiskey, smoking pot, and listening to each other talk pure bullshit.

The Duck. I stopped and talked with the bum who was lying in the grass listening to country music on headphones and complaining about the rain as he smoked a cigarette. He told me a lot of the tramps had been getting their gear stolen. We talked about life on the road and he told me he was going to Phoenix. “Get where it was still warm and didn’t rain.”

I walked all the way through Vancouver to reach the on ramp and this tramp named Duck walked with me part of the way. He complained about the rain and bum’s gear getting ripped off. Curiously, he had a huge bag of stuff he complained about too.

He asked “You drunk?”

It was about 10 AM. “No,” I replied.

“I am. Been tramping a long time. You got any cardboard?” “Just my sign.” I showed him the sign I’d made which simply said "Bellingham."

“Well I gotta get me some so I can fly some cardboard and get me some spending money.” He was dressed all in camouflage.

“I gotta piss… I wouldn’t be a tramp if I couldn’t piss and walk at the same time."

I started walking a bit faster as he slowed down. Suddenly I heard the additional splash of urine on the sidewalk. The Duck didn’t seem to mind that it was daylight or think that the couple walking behind him would mind a little extra precipitation.

I walked about 20 feet ahead of him and tried not to burst out laughing. He kept cussing about the rain and pissing. I turned around once and saw him pissing all over himself. That was the last I saw of The Duck.

A Random Bender in Seattle

I was bored, not knowing what to do with my time, so I settled down in my bus and read Oscar Zeta Acosta’s Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo. Costa was the Chicano lawyer who gained fame through representing and carousing with Hunter S. Thompson. The overall effect of the book on me was to create an overwhelming urge to drink.

I decided to head to downtown Seattle and see what I could see. I thought bus fare was a buck and a quarter and asked a woman at a Pony Express Postal Service if she could give me change for a dollar. She refused She nearly spit at me as she belched out “ I don’t give change!” She said it like she was saying "I don’t suck strangers cocks." As if I were asking the old white cow to give me a blowjob. I just wanted change for a buck. The cab driver at the counter looked as shocked as I felt at her reaction. She must have thought I was going to go play some demented video games or visit the peepshows.

I got change at a Mexican restaurant. The Mexican lady was nice about it. The cabbie came out of Pony Express and asked me if I still needed change. Turns out I didn’t need the quarters until later when I visited the Peep Shows on First Avenue and played some demented video games at Wizards of the Coast because bus fare was just a $1. Why had I thought it was $1.25.

I caught a bus to the U-district and made sure to get a transfer. Bus transfers are such fantastic things. Useful for an all day trip around the city and all for a measly dollar! I was good and drunk when I got on the bus. A tall black man in a short white coat sat next to me. He broke bus etiquette by holding out his hand. "Hi. I’m Tim." I knew something was coming after that.

"I used to go to church to pick up pussy," he told me. “I used to come home with these nervous, prudish girls white girls and just fuck em. But then I got sucked into the religion."

This was where I thought the pitch would come. He was going to tell me about God. "I became a Christian and a cult in California. It was run by a Hollywood agent named Christopher who came to Seattle to scout talent. Man, that guy used to fuck us all with his big cock. I even let him fuck me!”

Maybe this was a gay pickup. I was too drunk to be bothered by his weird confession, but I liked the lesson. He had joined a church to get fucked and then gotten fucked. I made a mental note to my self to stay away from religious girls. Next up when Tim got off the bus (with no solicitation at all, by the way, just the odd confession) was a crack whore in torn fishnet stockings and a silver dress. She too, sat next to me and broke bus etiquette.

“This is a crazy fucking bus,” she whispered. “All the people that ride this bus are fucking nuts!”

She smiled, a big gnarly tooth crack-whore smile. “That’s why we’re both here, right?”

Maybe they smelled the booze on me. I laughed anyway. We both laughed. “I’m Mary Jane.”

Not a surprising name but I had thought she’d be Twinkie for some reason.

Behind us were two big black guys. They were laughing and joking with each other. Telling stories. In front of us was a short white guy, and a large fat Indian woman with a tiny red bindi on her giant fat face.

My new friend, Mary Jane the crack whore, got off the bus with me and grabbed my arm. "I’ll buy you a beer," she said. I hadn’t seen that coming. We wandered into Earl’s on the Avenue. Earl’s is a sports bar. Mary Jane bought me a beer. Next to us a very drunk red faced guy was arguing with a priest — both sitting at the bar. “God damn” and “Dammit to hell” were the only phrases I caught. Mary Jane and I were cracking up. No pun intended.

Mary Jane had a wine spritzer which is a perfect cheap whore drink and I had a Pabst Blue Ribbon which is a perfect drink for a cheap whore to buy you. We moved to a table when I bought the next round. I was hammered. I decided to piss on the floor, under the table. I thought I could do it without getting up. I unzipped and pissed.

"What the fuck?" Apparently, I got some on Mary Jane. The sound of my stream of piss hitting the brass table legs made a musical sound that caused the priest and his drunken friend to turn around. Mary Jane, much to her credit, started singing "Like a Virgin" to cover up the sound once she’d figured out what I was doing. We giggled together as a yellow stream wound its way across the uneven bar floor.

We moved to another table and the foul mouthed guy from the bar came and joined us. He was on the bottom end of a thirty-day bender and he kept popping Xanex and putting them back with full glasses of red wine. 46-years-old and proudly told us he had never worked a day in his life because he had a trust fund. A fucking trustafarian.

"I got a DUI last year," he told us. "I fucking worked the system though. I got off with two weeks of intense relapse prevention instead of two years of treatment. It was my third one." He seemed proud of it. "I laugh every time I drink a beer. I’m a fucking alcoholic, what the hell else am I supposed to do?”

"I’m a whore," Mary Jane said, which didn’t surprise anyone. "I used to have a pussy made of gold. These days, maybe it’s made of nickel though."

"You ain’t that bad," Nate said. He wasn’t a nice man, so he was obviously hammered.

"I can make any man come in less than ten minutes," Mary Jane said. "I still got that going for me."

The trustafarian bought the rounds after that. He was actually chatting her up. I was ready to go. I used my transfer to catch a bus to 1st Avenue. At Pike Place Market I heard two little English boys talking with their babysitter “Rose, it must be nice to not have to go to school and be able to sit around and do whatever you want all day” the smaller of the two said to her, to which the other replied “Not me, I want an education, I don’t want to have to sit on the street and beg people for money saying

“Please give me money because I need a prostitute.” I swear. That was what they said. I heard it.

I dropped a dollar into a bum’s guitar case as he played some old timey bluegrass. It made me feel good — so I gave him a buck. I spent 50 cents in a peep show, but couldn’t really focus on the girl behind the glass. Maybe I spent more than fifty cents…I don’t remember.

The next thing I knew, I was in a Bingo Hall.

I screamed out "Bingo!" as the numbers on my card danced in front of me. None of the oldsters were amused. My last number came up on the screen but the caller hadn’t called it yet. I screamed out “Bingo!!” again and the woman next to me yelled. Keep going, "He doesn’t have it!"

“But all my numbers are covered,” I said.

“He’s got to call the number before you can say Bingo. Those are the rules.” More dirty looks from the serious Bingo players. The paymaster grudgingly laid $40 in front of me after checking my card very carefully.

I still had the $40 when I got home. I passed out on the floor. I woke up in a puddle of wine and Chinese food. I’d forgotten about Chinese food. It came back to me suddenly. I started to wish I’d never read anything by Oscar Zeta Acosta.

Shroomin at the Hot Springs

Scenic Hot Springs is off of Highway 2 near Snoqualmie between Seattle and Everett.

We hiked two miles vertically and finally reached the hot springs where about a dozen people were nudely soaking and reveling despite the snow, the icy slick trail, and the difficult hike. By the time we got there, it was dark.

Someone there offered us some psychedelic mushrooms almost as soon as we arrived and so we settled into the natural hot spring tubs with an expectation of the unexpected. Just as the shrooms began to kick, which I think was faster than normal because we were soaking in the hot pools

A Puerto Rican man in his 40’s who reached fame through traveling to different hot springs and cooking incredible gourmet treats for those lucky enough to be there. He was, of course, naked, as were we. Everybody was — this, after all was a wilderness hot spring in the Pacific Northwest.

Before he cooked, Robert explained the hierarchy of the hot springs to everyone there.

“There is a class system here” he said, “It goes like this. This place and this energy is a result of Goddess. So first in the hierarchy are the goddesses who come here. Whatever they want, they get. Here they are not girls or women, they are Goddesses and I exist to serve. ” The beautiful girls in the tub with us murmured in delight.

“Next come those who serve Goddess and the Goddesses who visit. So this young man,” he indicated a dark youth with a secure energy about him who was happily massaging a Goddess’s shoulders. “He is next because he helped me carry my gear up the mountain and he is really pleasing this Goddess. After that come the rest of the guys.”

The shrooms started reshaping my reality and the snow-capped peak directly across from us began sort of bow and kow-tow to me while the trees began to giggle. Faces and words began to blend into each other and I thought of how the whirling dervish spins so reality blurs together and God can be seen in totality. My reality was blurring into the steam rising into the clouds and the stars that were not there dancing among those that were.

One of the boys brought out a pipe and propane lighter. We shared his weed. I was intensely reflecting inward while I sat in the corner. Sitting in a bucket looking at my bucket. The Goddesses were lovely and the water was divine at just the right heat. A light snow began to fall.

Robert pontificated pleasantly from the pool called The Lobster Pot and I settled into a comfortable corner of another called The Bear’s Den. The dark boy and his Goddess were next to me; they were very comforting and real. The Naked Gourmet served up a delicious treat with orange slices that I tasted with my ears and felt with my nose.

Goddesses first, then helpers, and then the guys. Strange things still blurred the corners of my vision.

Two very drunk teenage Goddesses came and got in the Bear’s Den with me. They both had huge bottles of beer. I struggled to hold on to the center as their much older boyfriends came and got in with them. Let the molesting begin…

I felt an urge to speak but each time I tried, I realized, I fit in better being quiet. The Goddess and her dark servant moved to the Lobster Pot and the drunk young Goddesses squealed in delight at the extra room. I felt like I was going to be soaking in their boyfriend’s sperm soon so I moved to the Lobster Pot.

Robert’s constant patter about the adventures of the Naked Gourmet allowed me to simply listen and exist in my own world. Each time someone got out of the pool, we all shifted to a more comfortable spot. Slowly faces became distinguishable and words took on meaning. The visual died away and I returned to the somewhat Valhallalike world of Scenic Hot Springs.

The Naked Gourmet cooked in the snow and then turned from his makeshift kitchen with quesadillas and more orange slices.

Shortly afterward he began packing his enormous load of gear into a sled and set off yelling “For those of you here tomorrow, I’ll be back for brunch!”

I stayed in the Lobster Pot for the next 6 hours or so, only getting out once to take an enormous pee in a downhill snowdrift.

About 3:00 AM, my friends and I dressed as needle like snowflakes flogged our mineral bathed skins. The hike down the mountain was a slick ride on one foot while crouched in the easy parts and treacherous ice in the flatter areas.

I thought my trip was still going on as a loud buzzing got near deafening and I looked up to see the purplish blue wires coursing up and down the mountain with an eerie ionic glow.

My friend saw me looking and said “Isn’t that a trip?”

“You mean it’s real?” I asked.

“Yeah, freaky huh?”

I thought about the strange effects all of that electromagnetic energy must be having on my brain, nervous system, and body as I lived among it every day…the same as standing under the same power lines in a city… the thought made me shudder.

Hunted in Acme: Real or Memorex?

Shortly after George Hush got busted for stealing parsley, a friend of mine gave me some LSD soaked sugar cubes.

I figured it would be good to get away from everything for the weekend and knowing the trauma George was enduring after his bust, I asked if he’d like to come along. Part of the reason George had been caught shoplifting was because he had blown his knee out jumping around on a pogo stick. So he hadn’t been able to run when that hand clamped down on his shoulder.

We loaded our gear into my bus and drove out to the boondocks. A small town called Acme, Washington. There was a free campground with a nice little creek running through it. As we pulled in we noticed that there was a large number of what looked like permanent residents.

Most of them giving us dirty looks as we drive up in a VW. From this, we surmised that we just might have wandered into a camp full ofrednecks. We ignored them and set up our camp a good distance from anyone else. We were up on a hill, having a good view of the rest of the camp with a thick-forested hill behind us.

We started a fire and consumed our sugar cubes as the sun disappeared. For about an hour or so, things went as they usually do with LSD. I had a conversation with a slug, George was tripping on his ex-girlfriend, and the fire held our interest. The trip was pretty intense and so I brought out some white sage to mellow things out. Many people believe white sage brings about a change and acts as a cleanser of negative energies.

The sage helped and as we both began to mellow out the first gunshot rang out.

I looked at George and asked, “What was that?”

“An unnatural pause,” he replied.

Suddenly we heard a woman screaming and a baby crying. It sounded to me as if she were yelling at someone for shooting in the camp and waking her child. She was interrupted by seven or eight more gunshots. She and the child were completely silent. I looked to the right of our camp and saw a head in the bushes, watching us. I motioned to George who looked over and saw it to.

“What the hell? Who was that?” he asked. I didn’t know. The person disappeared.

A few moments later the guns began ringing out again. The sound was somehow different than before. I looked over the hill and saw four men, including the one who had been spying on us, firing their guns in our direction. George stood up and yelled at them.

“Hey, we’re up here, there are people up here!” The firing increased in intensity.

“We got to get out of here man,” I said to him. We zigzagged our way slowly with George’s bum knee. Not far into the hills we found a fallen log surrounded by thick ferns that we lay underneath.

We covered ourselves with ferns and waited as gunfire continued and voices called out “We’re gonna get you!” and humans bayed like hound dogs. The rednecks were searching through the woods for us.

We had left camp suddenly and had no weapons of any sort. Just a nail George was using as a button to hold up his pants. We decided if one of them came upon us, I would take them down and George would stab the nail into their throat. We would then have a gun. This madness continued for about an hour and then we heard more trucks arrive, bottles began to break, and drunken fights broke out.

Finally we heard the trucks all depart and we snuck down to our camp, five hours after leaving it. We quickly packed up and drove back to Bellingham.

I called the police to report the incident and they told me it was out of their jurisdiction referring me to the county sheriff, the county sheriff referred me to the State Parks Service, who in turn referred me to the Forest Service, who in turn told me they would look into it. The same night four campers were shot in a campground about 35 miles north of us in Canada.

To this day, George and I aren’t sure exactly what happened in Acme. We’ve been back there and found bullet holes in trees and both of us agree that everything we remember was real despite the acid trip we set out on.

Hitching with Junkies and Gay Fisherman

As I walked I picked up a stick, some wires, a piece of cardboard, and a bungee cord from the side of the road. I pulled out my black marker and scribbled Seattle onto it. I wired the cardboard to the stick, jammed the stick into a hole in my pack, and began to thumb my way north. I was hoping to find something through this. I wanted some sort of epiphany.

My first ride wasn’t far. A couple of miles, but it got me started. It was like Steve Martin’s first ride in the move ‘The Jerk’. That’s who I sort of felt like. “All I need is this wire, and this stick….”

In Oregon you can hitchhike on the Interstate. I walked to a good spot, set my pack down, held up my sign, and waited. I was surprised that so many VW buses passed me by. Fucking wanna be hippie hypocrite mother fuckers. Hippie must be short for hypocrite. It was about thirty minutes before someone stopped. The bearded man opened the pickup’s passenger door and Grateful Dead music streamed out. He was driving a Ford truck.

“Get in, I’m going to Beaverton but have to make a quick stop in Salem. My names Jerry.”

I got in. He had to clear garbage from the seat in order for me to fit in. Mostly McDonald’s bags and candy wrappers. I dropped my pack in the back of his truck.

“I’m going to Seattle.”

“Yeah, I barely saw your sign; I’m going at least to Portland. I can use the company .”

He looked at me and said “ What the hell, I’ll never see you again” and then started his tale. His wife was sleeping with one of his buddies. He didn’t mind too much because he hadn’t slept with her for five years because he wasn’t attracted to her. He hadn’t cheated on her, but she was a Jewish American Princess and she disgusted him. They had a 3-year-old daughter by artificial insemination pregnancy.

He had started shooting dope with the guy who was sleeping with her now two years before but then she got into it, and now she was sleeping with the other guy. He kept saying how he felt bad about it all but he was mad about it too .He asked me what a good business would be to get into. Internet Porn was what I suggested to him. I’m not sure why. He drove me into Portland where I took the bus to the Triple Nickel, a favorite dirty, down and out pub, and I wondered where I would end up sleeping.

I put back a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbons wondering what would happen next. A couple of guys came in and asked to move so they could get two stools together. Then one of them went straight to the gambling machines and the second looked at me and read my shirt. I’d found it in a dumpster. It said Paris and he said’ “What’s up with you Paris?”

I laughed in a non committal way. I didn’t like the guy. “Not much. Drinking a few brews.”

He started telling jokes and then he asked me to buy him a beer. PBRs were a dollar and I figured maybe he’d have a porch I could crash on. A dollar well spent — maybe. PBR for a buck. The bartender brought me a free one. I should have asked her if I could come home with her. She had been taking good care of me all nigh

I winked and thanked her. The guy next to me, Jimmy, was a meathead, out of work fisherman. He was about my height and fresh out of jail. He told me about all his girlfriends. Told me about his buddy’s gambling habits. The guy who was back gambling as we spoke. Then he said “Thanks for the beer, anything I can do for you?”

“Got a place to stay?” I asked.

“No, I’m crashing at someone’s place.”

“Does it have a porch?”

“Yeah, you could crash on the couch on the porch.” Portland, Oregon porches always have couches on them. I love that.

His friend, the gambler, ran out of money and we all cruised back to Jimmy’s other friend’s house. I really should have stayed with that bartender.

We got to the house and there was another guy there. He was staying there too. The owner of the house, Tony, wasn’t there. Tony, it seemed was very particular about his stuff but also allowed a lot of homeless young men stay at his house.

He might let me stay, they told me. I was drunk and exhausted and laid down pulling my fedora over my eyes. The younger guy got a little freaked out and I heard him saying “Tony’s gonna freak man, he’s gonna freak when he sees this guy laying here in his house.”

I opened my eyes and put my boots on and was going to head back to the bar, but Jimmy said, “ Bullshit, you can stay, it’s Tony’s house, but I call the shots. Come inside.”

I lay down on the living room floor watching professional wrestlers on Tony’s TV with my head on my pack and started to doze. The beer and the road can wear you out. I heard Tony come in. He was Filipino. He was suspicious as I was introduced to him. He was also so incredibly flaming gay that he could have been a cartoon character.

His suspicion soon turned to concern. He was like a mother hen and seemed to be adopting me into his brood. He asked me to go to the store to get beer with him. We got a twelve pack and he asked me in the car “Are you gay?”

“No.”

“Well that’s okay, you should know that I am though. Jimmy, he’s my boyfriend, he’s bisexual. Travis isn’t gay and neither is Dave. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” I think he might have been hoping to get lucky with me in the car or maybe he just wanted to make sure I wasn’t some homophobe.

Back at the house, Tony and Jimmy were flirting and slapping each other’s asses and massaging each other’s heads. They kissed and talked shit to each other. It was funny because Jimmy still had this bad boy fisherman jailbird thing going on even as he was playing bitch to Tony. They went to bed and the rest of us crashed out on the couches in the living room.

The next day, I was going to leave early but Tony was already up. He insisted on feeding me cereal for breakfast, insisted that I take some vitamins, and then bought me a pack of smokes before he dropped me off at the interstate.

He gave me his phone number and said to stop in the next time I was in Portland and we’d all go bowling. I still laugh when I think about that night. They were a really good bunch of guys.

Hitching with Jesus

I finally caught a ride from a tattoo artist who told me about his shop getting ripped off and how he worked from home now. He dropped me off at a rest area.

I sat with my sign at the ramp. No one stopped for a long time. People are scared of hitchhikers now. Finally, a neatly dressed man in a v-neck sweater walked over to me. I smelt Jesus all over him. Big smile.

“Hello, Friend. How are you today?”

I thought to myself, I don’t want to be preached to. “Praise the Lord, I’m fine.” I hoped he would leave me alone.

“I was hoping to talk to you about Christ the Redeemer.“

I lied, told him I was Christian, told him I went to Church, told him what I thought he wanted to hear, but he wouldn’t go away until I knelt down and prayed with him. Meanwhile cars were passing us by and ignoring my thumb.

“Dear Lord. Please help this man to find your salvation and forgiveness…” he began. I guess he hadn’t believed me.

“…and a ride to Bellingham,” I added. Then we went on until the Amen at which point he stood up.

“Can you give me a ride?”

“We’re packed full and we never pick up hitchhikers.” And then he walked away.

I felt like hitting him. I thought of doing a speaking in tongues and being possessed by God routine but didn’t have enough energy for anything.

To my surprise, that prayer worked, because a few minutes later he, his wife, and his five-year-old daughter made room for me to get in their car. All I can think is that his wife made him do it.

Hot damn and thank you Jesus!

He called himself a planter and had brought his family from some Baptist church in Texas. They apparently felt that we don’t get enough of a chance to know Jesus in the godless Northwest so they were sending missionaries to save our souls.

He said that if the Arabs and Jews find peace the world would end in 3 ½ years. That helped me understand why so many Christians stay on the side of Israel.

They dropped me off just North of Tacoma at another rest area. My next ride was a middle class white guy driving a nice Lincoln Towncar.

He pulled over and I ran up and got in.

You mind if I drink while I drive?” He asked me, holding up a can of Bud.

“As we don’t crash,” I said, though I was already worried and considering getting out.

“I’m a state senator,” he told me. “ I help make the laws, so I can break ‘em.” He laughed. He told me that he was pretty moderate about his drinking and driving.

“What’s your name?” I asked him. “Maybe I voted for you.”

“Gordon,” he told me. “Call me Gordy.” I was pretty sure I had voted for his opponent. Maybe he was a liar though.

Gordy dropped me off in downtown Seattle near Westlake Center.

I heard chanting and shouting down the street and walked to see what was up. Pro-Palestine protesters were demanding that the violence stop in the Middle East. Banners reading “Stop killing our Children” and “Stop Israeli Violence” flew high. There were about thirty police officers and maybe fifty protesters present. Lots of bystanders looked on. I briefly considered letting them know that the world would end in 3 ½ years if peace came, but figured they wouldn’t care if it did.

Morphine Train

A jar full of morphine tablets on an Amtrak train. That should be fun.

I popped a few in my mouth and as I waited for the train I ate a couple more. I put the rest in my pocket for the train trip. Now I was going to ride the train for 20 hours. I was a drugged out drunk wanna be hobo. This was fun. I crushed up a couple of the morphine in the station bathroom and snorted them through a dollar bill. I didn’t have a $100, or even a $20, or a $5 for that matter. Just $1.But I had the morphine.

Finally, the train arrived and I boarded in a haze of opiate induced fog. The train was late. We were delayed for hours even after the train left and before we entered Oregon the dawn was breaking. As the world became gray the details emerged. A 77 Ford truck buried in snow halfway up its orange and white stripes, a rickety shed, weather-beaten and leaning heavily to one side against a backdrop of the black waters of the Sacramento River and the pine trees springing up from the snow along its banks.

A wooden bridge stretching across the river with a three-inch blanket of white covering it evenly. I sat on the train spaced out of my gourd with no sleep and twenty hours of rail trip ahead of me. I thought how nice it would be to get a blowjob in one of the larger than usual handicapped bathrooms on the train.

The snow had that gritty gray color in the predawn light that stood in stark contrast to the rocks, boulders, and trees while the water added motion in black and white rapids and swirling eddies. The sky, a semitransparent gray wanting to be blue and maintaining a somber gleam for a time at least. At times the tracks curved ahead of us and I would see the engine and cars chasing each other like so many silver bullets from a giant machine gun. The light was refracted from everything to my retina and cornea and then translated into these beautiful gray pictures full of nothing but the absence of color. The red light on the front of the train would sometimes appear on a new outside curve or we would pass a snowed in green cabin with a ladder propped crookedly so that children could climb onto the single story roof and leap into the drifts around the sides.

A white horse in a whiter field and an endless stretching of split rail fences that only end for one-way bridges and then a myriad of tracks being switched. Freights lining up. I always searched for bums but figured it would be real cold for anyone in a box or tanker car.

I needed sleep, instead I took six more morphine tablets. The picture of snow surrounded boxcars dampened my determination to freight hop again, at least for now.

I abandoned my seat and claimed the corner chair in the sightseeing car, hoping a pretty girl would find her way to me. Maybe I would get laid on Amtrak! Nope. An old Russian lady spoke with me then bought me breakfast in the dining car. She told me what an amazing listener I was and I didn’t bother telling her I was floating on morphine clouds. She talked and talked like no one had ever listened to her before. She was much too old for me to think about fucking. Probably close to sixty, but I still considered the possibility. I looked at her pointy breasts. They were big and pointy. I could imagine what the nipples were like. Snow cone cups.

Pines emerged from the snow that littered the shores of the many lakes the train took us past. Catherine, my new Russian friend, was excited about the snow. Like a schoolgirl. I thought to myself that perhaps she would offer me money to fuck her. I would do it. I would probably do it if she just asked me without the money. When had I become such a pervert? Yesterday, I told myself. You became a pervert yesterday. With that, my confusion disappeared and I began to feel whole again.

The train stopped for several hours outside the town of Klamath. Catherine left. Klamath’s brick facade buildings looked as inviting as the tiny tavern with three snow covered pickups in its lonely parking lot. People on the train began to wake up as I wandered back to my seat and I couldn’t help seeing a beautiful girl lying across from me. She sat up and looked over at me. I needed sleep.

I decided to up my dosage taking three more of the tiny morphine tablets. I let them dissolve in my mouth and then took a swallow of coffee. Speedball.

I ate the last four morphine pills a few minutes later. I was enjoying the ethereal feeling from them. I bummed two smokes in Eugene, one for then and one for later. Feeling quite light I got back on the train. The pretty girl was there. She was certainly friendly enough when I got there.

Actually, not friendly enough at all. She was an 18-year-old virgin on her way to Albany to lose her virginity with her boyfriend who went to OSU. Why did she tell me that? I liked that her nose was a little too big and her smile a little too perfect. Inside of ten minutes my hand was on her thigh. She was resting her hand on my bicep in a friendly way. Then it was time for her to get off the train. We were in Albany and I watched in jealousy as she got off the train and jumped into her boyfriend’s arms. Fucker.

My stomach begin doing flip-flops. I curled up into the fetal position on my seat in the coach car and fell asleep as we made our way to Portland. A banging hot teen girl stopped me as I passed her seat and asked if I liked raves. She must have been fifteen. I loved her. She asked me to sit with her.

She loved to dance and she asked me if I wanted to explore the train with her. Her name was Brook and she was fabulous. She asked me to buy her a beer.

We went to the dining car where I bought a whiskey, and she quickly poured half into her Gatorade bottle. She did it without my permission. I swear! The attendant left for a minute and she was stealing things from the cupboards. “It’s not what you take, it’s how you do it.” We made out in the bathroom and then, luckily, we were in Seattle. Where we were both going. Where her parents were waiting for her.

She said “ You’re totally older than me, I mean I’m only sixteen, but we should get together and do something. I think you’re a lot of fun.”

“Here’s my number,” she told me as she handed me a piece of paper. “If my Dad answers tell him that you’re my English teacher. Oh look, there he is!” She waved at a rich looking couple standing outside King Street Station. Holy shit. I needed to get out of here. How many laws had I just broken?

I was happy to get on the bus and get out of there. I got on and a bitter old woman tore into me for the holes in the knees of my jeans.

“What possible excuse can you have for being such a loser at your age?” the baggy old gal carped at me.

“At least I don’t pay two dollars extra for a carton of milk I can get by walking a couple of blocks cause some dot com company will deliver it if I order it online!” I said, completely confusing her and the issue. It made sense to me.

She looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was as I continued to look out the window at the snow covered Seattle landscape.

It’s not so terrible being houseless.

The Dogcatcher Cometh

I never bothered paying the $50 to license my dog with the city of Seattle. I wasn’t the best dog owner. I would make sure she had food and take her for walks but she got left alone a lot. She had all of her shots. She was spayed. She minded well and didn’t run away. Besides, she had a tag with her name and my phone number on it in case. So why should I pay $50 to register her? I only had $30 anyway.

Shakra was a little blue heeler and I was in the habit of taking her to a little park near my house in Green Lake, a district of Seattle, in the mornings and evenings and playing Frisbee. She was a great Frisbee dog and it was fun for me to have people stand around and oooh and ahhh when she’d leap in the air. One morning, I woke up a little later than usual and we started down the street. I rarely used a leash as she was highly trained and would heel on command.

Something felt funny as we approached the park. It was too late by the time I noticed the dogcatcher. He called me over and I nonchalantly told Shakra to heel so that he would see it was no big deal I was breaking Seattle’s leash law.

“Where’s your leash?” he asked me in a belligerent tone.

I held up the Frisbee smiling. “She’s never more than a foot away from this,” I told him. I tossed it so he could see how good a dog she was.

“Is that dog licensed?” he asked, again belligerent.

“Of course she is,” I lied. “See, I have doggie bags too!” I’d brought a pocket full of plastic grocery bags to pick up her shit.

“I’m going to have to write you a ticket for not having her on the leash,” he told me with a smile on his face. “And if she’s not wearing a license, I’ll need to take her in until you can come with the proof of it.”

“Oh, give me a break…are you serious? You’re going to expose my dog to all those diseases and write me a ticket? Come on, have a heart.”

“Are you trying to interfere with a Seattle Law Enforcement Officer’s duties? Should I call the police?” He loved the fact that he was an officer of the Law.

“Yeah, you better call em you fat old fuck ‘cause there’s no way YOU are gonna catch either me or my dog. Get over yourself TJ Hooker.” I couldn’t believe it as the words came out of my mouth. This guy would probably kill my dog now. We had to run.

I bolted into the woods and through the park. I saw him driving his truck around and intentionally ran the opposite direction from the safety of my house. Shakra was beside me, loving this new game. We jumped over hedges, cut through alleyways, and still the dogcatcher’s truck was behind us. He knew these streets all right.

I saw two garbage trucks blocking both lanes of the road ahead. Here was my chance. The drivers were having a little joke. I ran between them and cut left once I was out of sight of the dogcatcher. A short run up a hill and through a rhododendron put me back in my yard in Greenlake. It was a fun morning and a fun run. Thank you Mr. Dog Catcher.

Farters and Axe Murderers on Greyhound

I’ve heard they’ve gotten better but here was what a bus ride on a Greyhound looked like in 1998.

The bus ride was fairly uneventful. The first person to sit next to me was a sweet looking old woman who got on the bus in Centralia, Washington. I made room for her and she pulled out a little crochet pillow and quickly fell asleep. It was about 10 PM. I was reading and watching the lights go by. Happy to be on the road to somewhere.

First she began to snore. I pulled out my walkman and put in a mix tape the girl I was madly in love with had made for me. That’s when I noticed the smell. It smelled like a dirty old turd on that bus. I took off the headphones right after ‘The Revolution will Not be Televised.”

She was farting. About every two seconds that old broad would let one rip. Pfthhhhwwwwrrrp! The smell was horrible. I looked around hoping that there was another seat open. No way. I was stuck. A guy across the aisle looked at me with sympathy and shared suffering.

It was a moral dilemma. Should I wake her up and ask her to please stop farting? Was that rude? Was it more rude than her farting? I looked at her sweet old snoring face and shook her awake.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” I shook her harder. Another fart came out. She opened her old blue eyes.

“Is everything alright? Oh, goodness, was I snoring honey? “ She asked…

I couldn’t do it. “No, I just need to get by you so that I can use the restroom.” She kept farting all the way to Roseburg. Everyone on the bus seemed relieved when she left.

My next seat companion told me he had just been released from prison. I asked what his crime was.

“I killed fourteen people with an axe,” he said and then laughed, “but the doctor says I’m getting better.“ Was he joking? “Hey have you seen my medication?” Yeah, he was joking. I hoped. Prison humor. Ha ha.

He pulled a bottle of rum and a coke out of his bag and asked me if I wanted some. I handed him my half empty coke and he filled it with rum. I gave him a few of the morphine tablets I had in my pocket figuring it wouldn’t hurt to have him mellow. Just in case.

It was a pretty typical Greyhound experience. Nobody slept on my shoulder though. One of my good buddies had once sat next to a pretty girl on a Greyhound and then fucked her in the bathroom of the bus. Things like that never happened to me.

We arrived in Sacramento at about three o’clock in the afternoon. My buddy the axe-murderer and I grabbed a beer in the dingy bar next to the bus station. He gave me his number and told me if I needed work to call him. I hadn’t told him I was catching a train at nine that evening back to where I had come from.

You gotta love travel just for travel’s sake. Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me.

Airport Crime

I had to pick George Hush up from the airport at 11:58.I took a shower and got dressed. I wore a black suit so I would look corporate but ruined the effect by wearing my old hat. I looked like a petty thief or a conman. I set out to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

When I got to the airport I checked out the baggage claim area then took a walk up to the lost and found. I wanted a black parka. I told the lady that I had left my coat in the Delta section a couple of days before and described the coat I wanted. She went back and looked. “All I found is this black fleece,” she said.

“That’s the one!” I lied and then joked about being forgetful while putting on my new coat.

George got off the plane. He was one of the few people who weren’t already talking on their cell phones. Most of them seemed to be attempting to find the perfect pose for a sophisticated television commercial. Trying to impress the crowd with their importance. George looked like a mobster in his shiny black leather coat. We shook hands.

“Hey, I met these kind folks on the plane and they’re going to Anchorage and have a long layover can we take em to a mall or something?”

“Yeah, no problem. You got bags?”

He introduced me to his new friends. They lived deep in the interior of Alaska. We all went to baggage claim where George got his bag and I got a suitably corporate bag of my own. The girl freaked out when she noticed.

“My god, you’re stealing someone’s bag. Put it back”

“What? We just met, what are you implying?” Yeah. I was stealing a bag. It was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to see if I could. I should have listened to her.

“Put it back.” She whispered.

“I can’t believe you’d even imply that” I said. “Are we ready?” I pulled out the handle and wheeled my bag behind me.

George walked next to me.

“That’s crazy.”

“Yeah, pretty crazy” I said.

“You,” he laughed, “You’re crazy.”

Once we got in the car, the girl was the first one to unzip the bag. Her boyfriend let out a yell.

“All right! You got a video camera.”

They inventoried everything out loud. Lots of tooth whitening products, skin products, a few porn mags, and the video camera. The girl started feeling guilty and started to make light like we could go back and get lots of stuff and take it to the pawnshop. She gave me a karmic warning with a story about how she stole and it came back to her. I laughed and told her that I fully expected to lose all of my possessions. I never planned to keep anything for very long anyway.

We dropped them off at a mall so they could see a movie and then George and I went to breakfast. We sat at a table where the sun was keeping us warm. The waiter kept asking us if we wanted him to close the blind, we kept saying no, and finally he closed it halfway and said “otherwise its in my face:” I wouldn’t mention it, but it’s a great example of how people often pretend they are concerned about you, but they are actually trying to accomplish their own ends and make you feel obligated at the same time. He could have just said “Do you mind if I close the blind?” Instead, it was that whole charade.

It was near Halloween and George needed to go to the fabric store to get material for his costume. He was going to be Mr. Hanky, the Christmas Poo, a giant turd that spreads Christmas cheer. George even had fart spray. Leave it to George to spray fart spray in his own bedroom. About 10:00 PM the whole gang showed up. Tom, the spaceman, Mike, the leprechaun, Evelyn the peacock, Andie as old topless Bo-Peep, George as Mr. Hanky, and me as a Zombie Detective.

I was out of money and wanted to avoid going to a bar, after all there were free drinks waiting at the party, but the girls were insistent on stopping by Le Chat Noir for a couple of drinks. My friends don’t live like millionaires, but they like to live it up by going to their favorite semi-fancy bar once in a while. It was always the same and always a little bit of a shame on my empty wallet and on George’s this time. George covered my three whiskeys. I loved that place. Random, the bartender, always treated us like we were important, even if we were just a bunch of bums.

“Hey, guess what?” Little Joe came up and put his arms around George and me. “ I finally told my family I’m gay…by e-mail. I sent it to my mom and she forwarded it to my dad and brother.” The girls had to keep telling him to leave us straight boys alone.

We all got in cars and set off for the party where we parked on the street and smoked cocaine. Suddenly things were kicking up.

We drank and smoked out in a hot tub at a house Little Joe had been watching. The owners of the house were away on vacation. A very drunken hot tub party that was hell on those of us wearing makeup. We made use of their gourmet kitchen, their hot tub, their wine cellar, and their liquor cabinet.

I tried to let the social lubricant work its magic. It just didn’t happen. I kept drinking the huge drinks. A little later I looked up from my stupor and a cop walked in. He was looking around with a flashlight. I was beyond remembering I was at a costume party. I saw a cop drinking and dancing with pretty girls and then suddenly pulling his gun out. The horror of a drunken cop waving his gun around freaked me out. I felt the cold steel of the 45 on my forehead, my temple, and under my jaw. I’d had lots of bad experiences with guns, this just sort of brought everything together. Then I threw up and walked back to George’s.

I asked Little Joe the next week if he got in any trouble over it.

“Nah, it turns out they came back two days late and the owners brother had a party after I vacated… he got the heat… how do you like that?” We both laughed.

China Luck

I called my brother about a week into 2001.He was disappointed that I was living in my car.

“It may seem cute at 29, “ he said, “But it won’t be so cute when you’re 50.” I thought about Aquillo… no he wasn’t cute, but he was definitely better than some lonely and jaded stockbroker living in a mansion. At least to me.

“I just don’t like the culture we have here.” I told him.

He thought for a minute and then said, “You should go to Asia. It would do you good to see how other people live.”

I agreed with him, it would be good for me to go to Asia. I’d always had a fantasy to climb Mt. Taishan, a holy Taoist mountain in China. Sure, Asia would be great. Neither of us bothered thinking about how a homeless, unemployed guy manages to travel halfway around the world.

He said it and I agreed with the result being a decision on my part to go to China. If I saved my unemployment checks, I figured I could be in Beijing in early March. I wasn’t doing a real good job of saving so far, but I figured once I had my traffic fines paid off, it would be easy.

As I drove to Bellingham the moon was rising over a mountain and being reflected onto a lake. It was a huge oblong yellow disk like a Chinese painting of Tao. I knew it was a good omen and knew I would stop at the casino and win enough to pay off all my fines and give me a head start on the travel money.

"Ah ha! That’s how I’ll get to China.” I inherited an addiction to slot machines from my grandfather. It’s easy to rationalize a reason to gamble. I thought about the foolishness of spending half my $38, but I figured I would only spend $18 on the dollar slots and then I would leave.

I was doing okay, up to $39 from my starting $18 and then I started losing. I stopped at $23 and figured I should walk out a winner. There was something about the slot machine that told me to get another $18 and go for it. I lost for three pulls in a row, then hit the double diamond gold and won $800! Grandpa spent a lot of time in Asia too and I figured he was helping me out.

The first thing I did was to pay off the remainder of my fines. Next I bought breakfast and a Lonely Planet guidebook to China, and started to visit travel agents. It looked like I would need about $1500 total to make the trip work.

I drove down to the beach and got a little fire going and one of Jesus’s reformed heroin addicts came and filled up all the quiet with so much Jesus mumbo jumbo. It seems like Jesus saves a lot of addicts by replacing heroin with himself.

I’d rather see a Jesus freak than a heroin addict any day of the week.

I could hardly believe all my fines were paid off and I still had money towards my ticket. I left the beach with the intention of going to the casino again, telling myself, “I’m gonna win a $1000 this time.” I prepared myself mentally on the ride down. I knew I would win. I played another $20 in the same dollar slot and about 15 minutes into it, I hit the $1000 jackpot. The luck of Jesus must have rubbed off that junkie and on to me. Really, I hit it. It felt so surreal…I knew it was because I’d decided to go to China. I got back to Seattle and called a discount travel agency. Crazy. I had enough to get my ticket the next day and put away $500 towards the trip. I bought a 6-month round trip open ended ticket to Beijing and a cassette and textbook to help me learn Mandarin Chinese.

I went to the library and used the internet to apply for jobs teaching English in China. I found four and applied to them all. Wednesday I had a response from the New Bridge Language School in Beijing. I was hired. I studied up on China and felt completely whacked on the side of the head. Was this really happening?

Books were beginning to pile in every corner of the bus. I knew that I was leaving for China in three weeks, but five or ten dollars for books seemed much cheaper than thirty or forty dollars in a bar or casino. I had woke up that morning with nearly a ¼” of ice on top of the blankets I’d put over my sleeping bag. The coldest morning of the 2001 so far. Jammed into my shoulder blades was a book I’d picked up the day before Yankee Hobo in the Orient.

Something intrigued me about John Patric, the author of the book. I thought he might even be the elusive J.R. Bob Dobbs who founded the farcical Church of the SubGenius. I needed to take my bus to my mothers house in Redding and figured I would drive through Florence, Oregon where Patric had made his home. The combination of the cold and the book prodded me into action.

I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to get my visa in time to go to China. Weird ideas of having brownish babies and starting my own race of bums, tramps, and hobos had been going through my head for days.

Why not? I had to think of the fact that I might fuck up in China and get executed…so what…?

In my mind, I was a super hero waiting for the right moment to spring upon the unsuspecting world. I was stressed out like a crackhead in a squad car and I had virtually no time to look for Bob Dobbs and Frying Pan Creek. I quested after a warm dry place to keep my books.

I wanted to be a Hobo Joe with a place to go when the road grew too weary. I wanted to be a Vagabond Errant with a space that wasn’t invading the space of someone else. I wanted to gain some control over my existence again rather than letting letters, visa’s, and money determine my course of action.

Hopalong Tom kept saying he was glad to know me cause when the Chinese cut my head off he’d have a great story to tell.

It was strange to suddenly look at my backpack and realize that that would be hold all of my possessions for the next who knew how long. I laughed when I realized I had timed my departure perfectly to coincide with the end of my unemployment compensation in Washington State.

I got a hold of the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco. The woman and I had big communication problems from the get go. Finally I found out my visa had been sent out to me the day before. All it took was her hanging up on me three times, spelling my name slowly fifteen times, giving her the same information over and over and persistence.

As my grandfather used to say so charmingly “Sweet oil and persistence will get you in a snakes ass.” I don’t know why you’d want to go there…but if you did…

The drive down the coast was great. I stopped at my Aunt and Uncle’s for a day. . My Uncle was proud of his latest achievement. He had been getting liver spots on his head but didn’t want to go to a dermatologist. Instead he used sandpaper to sand the spots right off his noggin. His wife told me he appeared at the top of the stairs near the kitchen asking her to help him with one more spot, meanwhile blood was pouring from his head. His eyes swelled in reaction to the cuts or the Neosporin he had smeared on his head. By the time I got there, he had the smooth bald skull I remembered as a child. He was talking about opening a clinic in Mexico.

Breakfast was a weird hodgepodge of dirty jokes, banter, and huevos rancheros. My aunt gave me a sweater before I realized it was my uncles and she hadn’t asked. I was putting it on when I saw the look on his face.

“Is this your sweater?” I asked.

“Is that your sweater?” He asked back.

Neither of us wanted to answer so we nodded sadly. We knew from experience there was no going back. She always did this. He told me about a picture my cousin once painted for him. He treasured it and a neighbor came by and admired it. As he got home from work, the neighbor was walking out with it and thanked him.

I spent one day in Florence looking for John Patric or his place on Frying Pan Creek, but no one had heard of either of them. A woman in a bar suggested I go to the museum, but it didn’t open until the day after the next. I didn’t have time to wait. I would have to find out more about Florence, Oregon when and if I returned.

After that it was onward to Redding and back to Seattle. As my plane took off from Seattle, a 7.3 magnitude quake struck the Puget Sound. It shut down the airport for days. I found out about it as I ran past a television to catch my connecting flight from Vancouver, B.C to Beijing, China. I had left just in time and had no idea what the future held.

Culture Shock Upon Arriving in Peking

Eight weeks before I’d had no money, been living in my car, and had no idea what the future held. Now here I was, Beijing or Peking, as the middle-aged travel agent had informed me it was called within China.

I stepped off the plane and nervously went through customs where I expected to be strip-searched, pulled aside, and cross examined as to my motives for coming here in the first place. It never happened, I was a bit disappointed but I couldn’t really explain why I was here anyway. It just sort of happened.

I walked through the airport noting that it wasn’t that different from the airport in Seattle and then stepped outside to light up a smoke. It hit me then. An overwhelming feeling that I was lost. A feeling that everything was different. The cars, the money, the people, the language. Everything was so incredibly different.

I remained outwardly calm as I powered through the internal hurricane that swelled within me. I nonchalantly took drags from my cigarette and then walked back inside to the exchange booth where I changed $200 US for about 2000 Yuan.

The taxi drivers were bee lining for me. They sensed my confusion and like hungry wolves circled the exit closest to wherever I stood. I could feel them watching me. Waiting to charge me too much to go someplace I didn’t want to go. Maybe that was the problem.

I’d won nearly $2000 in the casino eight weeks before. I’d been riding a cloud and the jackpot hit, triple double diamond on a two-dollar slot machine. I found a round trip, 6-month, open-ended ticket for $575. I bought it on the spot.

Over the time before my plane left I arranged a visa, located a job teaching English that I wasn’t sure I wanted, and wrapped up all my possessions and personal affairs. I’d never really bothered thinking about what to do once I arrived. I had a Lonely Planet guidebook I’d meant to look at on the plane, but the earthquake that rocked Seattle two minutes after my plane left had sort of shocked me as I ran to my connecting flight in Vancouver, BC. I’d only had long enough to see massive damage on the television screen as I ran to catch the plane.

I stepped back outside trying to look like I knew where I was going. I saw a number of white college students getting into a van and decided to see where they were going.

“Hey, you guys part of a tour?” I could feel how pale my face was and sense my own quivering voice.

“We’re studying at the University.” It was a skinny blond American kid who replied . The rest were loading their bags in the van. “What about you?”

“Well, I’m not real sure. I just sort of got on the plane and am not sure what to do now. How far is Beijing from here?”

“I don’t know, let me ask the teacher…hey, what do you mean you just got on the plane…didn’t you know what you’d be doing here?” The kid had a weird expression on his face. I swallowed and shifted my fedora to the back of my head.

“It was sort of a sudden decision and now I feel…well, I feel sort of lost. It’s a real weird feeling. I guess this is what they call culture shock.” I swallowed and tried to look carefree.

Several of the other students were gathered around now. They listened and one pretty hippie girl turned to a Chinese man who was helping them load their bags.

“This is our teacher,” she told me “Maybe he can help you.”

I began to feel very uncomfortable, too much attention. “All I really need to know is where to catch the bus that takes me to Beijing, I mean Peking.”

The girl laughed “Everybody calls it Beijing now. You catch the bus right over there. It should be about 15 yuan.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said. I started to walk away but the boy stopped me.

“Hey, you can take this guidebook and map I brought with me, I don’t think I’ll need it as much as you.” He held out one of the fancy Berlitz City packs. I took it and said thanks and then attempted a halfheartedly brave “See you in the city sometime,” and walked back inside the airport to look at the map.

It looked like the airport was a good distance from the city. I waited hoping the strange tight feeling in my guts would disappear, but when it didn’t I grabbed my pack, walked outside, and got on the bus handing the 15 yuan to the Chinese girl who was taking fares.

I was still lost but it felt better to be heading somewhere, anywhere. I didn’t know where to stop and look for a hotel, I didn’t want to pull out the map and announce how lost I was to everyone, so I looked out the window at the ox pulled carts and giant fields of rice. It was like I’d stepped into some movie, except I was here.

I decided to get off at the third stop once the bus reached the city. Beijing has more than 15 million people and there was just as much chance I’d find a hotel at the third stop as the first or the thirtieth.

The third stop came and I stepped off. The light was bright to my eyes. The buildings were so tall. It was bright, but the February day was cold. I bought a pair of sunglasses for 10 yuan and looked at myself in giant windowpane reflections for nearly a quarter hour before I realized I’d bought bright purple glasses with huge rims.

I took them off and braved the light. Fancy hotels loomed several blocks ahead and I made my way towards them trying to figure out where Tienanmen Square was. I stopped in a small public space and pulled out a map.

Two of the millions of Chinese men in suits noticed me and came to assist. They spoke no English and my Chinese was limited to “Ni hao” so not much was accomplished except I had my first encounter with the typically messy haired, dark suited, cigarette smoking, Chinese worker and lost some of my fear of being mugged or kidnapped.

The two guys were great. They looked at the map, they pointed, they laughed, but finally I had to just pretend I got it and walk away towards the big hotels.

I checked the price on the first two and they were about $100 US per night. Way beyond my budget. I figured I would spend $50 the first night. I finally found a room at the Jinghua Gardens Hotel for 400 yuan (exchange at the time was about eight yuan for one US dollar), exactly my price. It was a plush place. I quickly locked myself in my room and dug out the Lonely Planet and the Berlitz City pack to determine where I was and what I would do next.

I looked out the window for landmarks but only saw tarp covered ruins right below my room. A moment’s looking showed that the ruins were fully inhabited. I took off my coat and then searched the desk drawers for stationary with the address on it. Having found that I used the Berlitz map to determine that I’d found a hotel just a half mile east of Tienanmen Square and the Forbidden City.

I had arrived, but what was I going to do now?

Climbing the Great Wall

The sun had yet to rise, but the pre dawn light was bright enough to show thousands of people doing Tai Chi exercises in an eerie slow motion. I wanted to join them, to practice the Tai Chi with them.

Instead I watched while a small fear inside me told me again and again that I needed a private space to concentrate. I recognized the fear for what it was. I just didn’t do anything about it. And so, more and more days went by without me doing my exercises because I couldn’t find a place where no one was watching me. After all, this was China, and I was a white foreigner. Everyone watched me.

The line of reasoning made me laugh as I looked out at people of all ages moving slowly. Some had swords, some had brooms, and some simply walked backwards with careful precision in an attempt to shed some of the negative karma they had gathered by walking forward in life each day. This was the last place that I should feel shy about doing Tai Chi, but I didn’t want to be a spectacle. The Chinese stared at me enough without giving them any special reason.

It was disconcerting those first few days. The way people had simply stared at me as if I were some sort of ghost. After the first score of encounters I recognized a word that seemed to indicate me “Lao-wai.” The Chinese would stare, one in the group would sing song “Lao-wai” and the rest would laugh, while continuing to stare at me. The word seemed to hold a certain contempt. Most of the actions of the Chinese towards me, in fact, seemed to hold that same contempt.

As the sky lightened, the benevolent face of Chairman Mao looked down upon the people from where it was painted on the outer wall of the Forbidden City. A soldier appeared next to me and indicated that I should move to an area a good distance away. I didn’t ask any questions, taking the order from the tall youth in a perfect uniform.

I had heard that the soldiers in Beijing had to be six foot or taller. I’d wondered where they found so many tall Chinese, but it seemed they grew em big in the north. The regulation seemed to accomplish its purpose, because as a visitor, I was impressed and intimidated by the physical size of the military. I’d thought I might be tall in China, or at least average height. Not in Beijing.

A flag platoon marched out with perfect timing and precision. Other soldiers pushed and prodded a select group of lucky civilians into a platoon position of their own. The civilians squirmed and wiggled in undisciplined contrast to the soldiers as the Chinese national anthem began and the flag was slowly raised. It was easy to believe that China was the master of the world as the ceremony unfolded in the city of giants.

A giant flag, on a giant pole, raised by giant soldiers in a square of nearly a mile, surrounded by giant gates, temples, buildings, and more than 15 million people. The thousands of people doing their exercises stood at attention while the flag was raised. A final burst of martial majesty ended the daily proclamation of Chinese greatness and the daily business of making money began.

As I walked through the square to the bus terminal, I was approached by dozens of vendors selling everything from postcards to the gaudy Chairman Mao lighters that lit up and played Chinese music. I turned them all down with a firm “Bu yao, xia xia.” No, thank you. The vendors and merchants almost never called me lao-wai until I had passed them. I wanted to find out what it meant. Lao-wai.

I walked through the pedestrian tunnel that led from the square to the other side of the gigantic streets that circled it. Circled the square. Everything was so god damn big here, even the geometry.

“Badaling, Badaling… Hey, you go Badaling?” The street hawkers were savvy to why a white person shows up at the bus station so early. The reason could only be to take a tour of the Great Wall. I didn’t really want to go to the Badaling section though, I had heard that Badaling had been completely rebuilt by the Chinese government. Simatai was the area that had been recommended to me. It was there that people got the experience of “walking the wild wall.”

“Bu yao, xia xia,” I told them “Simatai?” at which point they would generally walk away calling me lao-wai. Nobody at the bus station seemed to be going to Simatai. All the special tourist buses were going to Badaling. I might have guessed it would be like this. I’d asked one of the many English speaking art students where I should go to get a bus to the Great Wall. She brought me there and told me to come back in the early morning. I should of known she would point me to the section most tourists went to.

The buses left at 8 AM and I waited until 7:45 before resigning myself to seeing the “new” section of the wall. The important thing was to get to the wall and climb it. I had to do that if I wanted to be a hero. That was what the art student had told me. She explained that Chairman Mao had proclaimed that any person who wanted to be a hero, must climb the great wall. Every Chinese Emperor, Sun Yat Sen, and Chairman Mao himself had all climbed the wall.

And now, as soon as the tourist bus got me there, I would climb the wall too. I felt silly and serious thinking it. I would be a hero.

The bus finally filled up. Everyone on board was Chinese except for me and a European looking couple in stylish jackets with wolf fur lined hoods. I had on a beat up army coat…not very stylish at all.

I stared out the window as the bus took us from the city. It was an extremely quick transition from masses of humanity to rolling countryside hills and water filled fields. I was mesmerized looking to see how different everything was from the Pacific Northwest of the United States.

I heard the whispered exclamations of the Europeans several seats behind me. “Mon Dieu, C’est Fantastique…C’est tres belle!” The woman had a lovely voice made more so by the Parisian accent. I snuck a peek back at her. She was beautiful. I noticed the large diamond wedding ring on her hand wondering if I could have such a beautiful wife if I could afford such a giant gem.

An hour later, the bus made it’s first stop, Juyong Pass. One moment we were winding through green hills looking at farms and villages and the next we were pulling into a huge parking lot and seeing the serpentine architecture of the wall winding up and away in two directions. It was breathtaking. It seemed to go straight up and just kept going on and on as far as the eye could see.

The bus came to a stop and the woman who was conducting the Chinese tour showed me her watch. It was 9:15. Then she wrote on her hand 11:00 AM. “Ni dong?” You understand? She asked me. “Wo dong.” I felt like I had learned the right thirty or so words of Chinese…I just wanted to know the meaning of lao-wai.

I heard her going through the same routine with the French couple but decided to avoid the tourist formalities of introducing myself, finding out who they were, and exchanging the ‘where ya been, what ya dones?.’ It was a sort of expected thing that white people should meet each other in China because there weren’t too many of us. Overall it was an annoying custom to me, who hadn’t come to China to meet white people.

So I bounded out of the bus, bought the ticket that allowed me to climb the wall, and started up the huge stone steps. I had less than two hours to climb and come back down the wall and I didn’t want to waste any time. Ours had been the first bus of the day to get there so there was no one on the wall. I looked up and could see empty stairs all the way to the top. It was a long way.

Top was sort of a subjective term anyway because the wall went on for miles and depending upon which section you were on, the elevation varied quite a bit. I picked out the highest guard tower and made it my goal.

I would have to pass three other tower sections in order to reach it and I wondered if I would have the time. I figured an hour going up and that left forty-five minutes to get back down. Five minutes into the climb my leg muscles began to burn. The steps too were giant. Each one a minimum eighteen inches tall. Some of them were more than two feet tall and less than six inches wide. I developed a sidewise stepping action and began to zig-zag up the wall using a crablike motion.

Fifteen minutes after I began I reached the first guardhouse. It was only then I looked back down the immense number of stairs I had climbed. Others were climbing the wall now, they were far below me, but I could recognize the coats of the French couple steadily climbing. A fierce competitive streak burned in me and despite my already aching leg muscles I pushed on, focusing on the next landing, and then the next, and then the next…seeing the second tower getting closer with each series of steps completed. Refusing to look behind me for fear that someone was going to catch up with me and pass me.

Slightly more than thirty minutes had gone by when I reached the second tower. An armed guard boredly looked at me as I huffed and puffed past. I chanced a look down and saw that the Europeans and most of the Chinese had stopped at the first tower. They were sitting, taking pictures, and admiring the only man made artifact that can be seen with the naked eye from outer space, but from the ground.

A few figures trudged further up though; getting closer to me each moment I rested. I cut my break short and set off again.

The distance was shorter to the third tower, but the steps were steeper. My lungs gasped for air as my hands on my legs attempted to ease the frightful burning that occurred each time I lifted them for another huge step. I took frequent breaks during this section and noticed that some of the Chinese were catching up to me and the Europeans had started to climb again.

I pushed myself harder. For some reason I felt that I had to be the first to the top. It was as if I thought the wall would only allow the first person to climb it each day to achieve the hero status I so desired. I would be a hero. I would be the hero.

At the third tower I checked the time. Fifty minutes had gone by. I had fifty-five minutes to climb back down and make it to the bus. My tired body told me it was a good point to turn around. The view was stunning. The Great Wall of China stretching serpentine along hilltops for scores of miles. I snapped a photo of himself with the wall in the background.

I looked down the steps where two young Chinese men had nearly reached my resting point. They would keep going past me. They would pass me up. I had to keep going. The climb to the fourth tower seemed less steep than the last section had been but a little longer. The fourth tower was the highest I could see. If I reached that tower, I would be able to claim hero status. I had to go on. I looked down the steps again and saw the Frenchman nearing the third tower and his wife watching from the second.

I didn’t understand this competition I had placed myself in with the Frenchman, but I had to win. The other guy didn’t even know he was competing. Well, maybe he did. It felt like he was trying to get as far as me. I didn’t mind that, I just needed to be first.

So I set off again. My mind and body wanted to turn back each moment. I checked my watch over and over again realizing I had passed the one-hour mark and should turn back. It wasn’t much further though. An hour and five minutes. Almost there. An hour and ten minutes. Just a few more steps…and suddenly I was there.

I was at the top of the Great Wall looking down at the massiveness that is China. Wondering which side of the wall was meant to keep the Mongol hordes out and how many men had stood in this spot before me. From here I could see the dozen buses that now filled the parking lot and the hundreds of tourists who trudged up the mighty steps like ants far below me.

I was the first. I was the hero. And as such I felt magnanimous towards the Frenchman who had reached and passed the third tower and was midway to the fourth. I wanted to share this moment with someone who could understand. I wanted to keep it forever and I realized that by my being at the top when the Frenchman arrived, I would be keeping the feeling from the man who now carried his coat and had a scant thirty-five steps to go before reaching hero status. I decided to share and even though I would have liked to rest a moment more, I began to vault down the stairs two at a time so that the other man could enjoy the feeling I had just been reveling in.

“How was eet?” the Frenchman asked in English.

“C’est fantastique mon ami. C’est fantastique. Au revoir.” I leapt down the mountain hoping I would be in time to catch the bus. I passed the man’s wife who after a brief rest was continuing on. Not far behind her a Chinese man with a video camera nodded at me and said rather breathlessly “You very fast”

“Thanks…” I continued on. It only took me twenty minutes to reach the bottom. Fifteen minutes after that, the Europeans came down and wandered up to where I was smoking a cigarette.

They stood nearby drinking water and catching their breath as the man with the video camera reached the bottom of the steps. He came up to me and turned on the camera. “Why you climb so fast?” he asked in pretty good English.

I grinned. “Laowai fast. Laowai first.”

The man laughed and shut off the camera. “You know meaning of laowai? You speak Chinese?”

I shook my head no. “Just a little…what’s it mean? Laowai?”

“It mean like old white ghost. You say old white ghost first. Fast old ghost.” The man continued laughing as he walked to the placard describing how the Chinese government had invested such a large amount of money into rebuilding this section of the wall and filmed it so his friends could read it too.

As the rest of the Chinese from the bus reached the bottom, they would speak to each other and point at me. The words they were saying sounded complimentary. They pointed to me, smiled, and said serious sounding words. The way they looked at me, I felt a little like a hero.

The American

(This story had to be told from Genghis Kane’s perspective, he related the bulk of it to me over the several days I stayed in Xi’an)

Genghis Kane’s Café’ was small but clean. Kane himself was Mongolian and spoke English with a slight Chinese accent. He had put up pictures on the walls of all the places in the world he wanted to go. The walls were starting to run out of room. So many places, and Kane wanted to see them all.

He carried a couple of Singhas across the room to where the group of six travelers had pushed two of his small tables together. He put one beer in front of a blond girl and the other in front of a slightly fat man with sandy brown hair.

“Cheers,” the man said, giving himself away as an Englishman. “Cheers,” the girl was English too.

“You are all from England?” He asked, hoping that this wasn’t so boring a group as that.

“No,” this came from the short dark haired man at the end of the table. He was either American or Canadian.

“But most of us are from England,” from the second girl with the large breasts and straight black hair.

“So who is from where?” Kane asked with the engaging smile of the perfect host. He loved running a traveler café’. It was like going someplace new everyday, meeting the inhabitants of far off lands.

Becoming a bigger person as the world became more understandable.

“The four of us are from England,” the blond girl indicated herself, the girl with large breasts, the fat man, and a tall man who kept himself slightly separated from the rest of the group. “Chris is from America and Sasha is German.” Sasha had a slight frown on his effeminate face; he was distracted by his own thoughts and looked up at the mention of his name.

“And all of you are traveling together?” Kane knew it wasn’t true. It was rare that a group of more than one nationality went anyplace. “No, Kay and I are together. Chris is in the same dorm as us."

"Johnny,” she indicated the tall Englishman, “is traveling by himself and Keith and Sasha are also traveling together.”

It was about like he expected except for the fat man and the German being traveling companions. Maybe they were a homosexual couple. Kane looked at them with more interest, noting with disappointment that their chairs were further apart than intimacy would indicate.

“We met in Beijing and have been going the same direction. It’s convenient but I travel by myself,” Sasha explained.

“How long have you been on holiday?” He asked. He could almost guess. No more than two weeks except for Sasha who had a sort vacant look about him that those who are far from home for extended periods tend to share.

“Susan and I have been in China for a week and a half,” Kay said in a wonderfully deep voice.

“Just about 2 weeks,” from Chris, the American.

“The same,” from Johnny, the Englishman.

“Two months,” from the fat man, Keith.

“18 months,” Sasha said it in a burst, “18 fucking months. Hey can I get another beer?” He held up his empty bottle. “Wo xiang yao yi ge pieju.”

Kane was surprised. Sasha’s Mandarin was almost perfect. His accent betraying the fact that he had either spent a lot of time in the North or learned Chinese from a northerner.

“Sure. Be right back.” Kane always spoke English in his café regardless of the nationality or language of his patrons. Even if they spoke perfect Mandarin. He stepped through the swinging kitchen door and noticed he was out of Singha. No problem. He walked outside and across the narrow alley to a tiny store where he bought a dozen beers with the money he’d just collected for two.

A minute later when he brought Sasha’s beer from the kitchen, he was surprised to see another ten white people pulling tables together across the room from the first group. The new people were dressed very differently from the first. Their clothes were new, fashionable, and made with very bright colors whereas the first group wore sturdy, dull, utilitarian garments.

“Hey, you got a menu? You speak English? You got some menu’s for us?” He wore a dark blue fleece jacket, expensive looking eyeglasses, and a sneering expression.

“Sure, you want something to drink?” Kane hid his irritation.

“What we want is to look at your menu,” the other people with him seemed uncomfortable with his rudeness.

“Sure, I’ll be right back.” Kane wondered how the two groups would interact. He gathered up his menus and watched as everyone but the guy in the fleece sat down. The fleece man wanted to know the other people. “I’m American.” He said to them. “My name’s Carl. Where are you from?”

“What do you know Chris? It’s one of your countrymen,” Sasha’s tone was mocking.

“Hey you’re American?” Carl focused in on Chris who uncomfortably sipped his beer.

“Yeah, I’m American, but I’m not a big fan, that’s why I left.” It was getting more and more interesting all the time. Kane handed the menus to the group at the second table. Nodding as a few of them asked for beers. “Not a big fan? What do you mean, you don’t like America?” Carl sounded offended and accusing.

“What I mean is I don’t much care for American culture, government, or attitudes and before you tell me to leave it if I don’t like it, I want you to think about where we are,” Kane was as surprised as Carl looked.

“Yeah, well I think it’s the greatest country in the world. I’m an MBA on spring break and me and my classmates here are visiting China for the next two weeks. It’s great to be an American in China. What about you, where are you from?” Carl asked Sasha.

“I’m from Germany and the rest of these folks are from England.”

Sasha didn’t bother looking at the MBA and moved straight to a different conversation without any sort of segue. “Keith, how did you like Egypt?”

Carl either ignored or didn’t understand the snub. “Egypt. Wow. So how do you guys come here? Don’t you have jobs? Don’t you have responsibilities?” He looked at Chris and then quickly at the others.

“Susan and I both quit our jobs.” Kay said.

“I quit my job and sold my house,” from Keith.

“I quit my job, too” from Johnny.

“I was a homeless guy who hit the jackpot on a slot machine” from Chris.

Kane looked at him again. There was a stark contrast between Chris’s worn wool coat and the bright blue fleece. The attitudes of the two men were even more different. Kane was used to seeing Americans like Carl, Chris seemed less puffed up, less full of himself or his country.

“Come on…gimme a break,” Carl said. “You must have had a job. What did you do? How do you get the money to be here? What are you going to do when you get back?”

Carl apparently felt like he had been accepted into the new group. He didn’t seem to notice the subtle turning and sliding of chairs as he tried to squeeze in. All six were subtly blocking him out of conversation. He chose a spot directly between Sasha and Chris, who seemed surprised that their thinly veiled insults went unnoticed.

“So how much are you guys paying for a room? We’ve got these great 5-star rooms at the Hilton for only $45 a night. Can you believe that? I mean 5-star for $45! You can’t get that in New York.”

“Ohhh.” Sasha said it in a slightly mocking tone, “You’re from New York. Where are you from in the states Chris?”

“The Pacific Northwest,” Chris said, “It might as well be another country it’s so different from New York.”

“Yeah, America is huge,” again Carl seemed oblivious to the snub."So you guys are staying here? How much is it?”

“Well, Keith and I are staying in another place down by the train station. It’s 40 yuan a night. Chris and the girls are sharing the dorms here and that’s what 30 yuan?” Sasha looked at Chris who nodded.

“And Johnny has a room here by himself for…how much Johnny?” “80 yuan a night.” Johnny said it slowly and carefully.

“You three are sharing a room. Wow, kinky. Hey how much is that in dollars? I don’t know how much this monopoly money is worth.” Carl pulled a huge stack of Chinese currency out of the pocket of his fleece.

“It’s about $5.” Chris said it coldly. ”Excuse me.” He got up and left the table. Kane figured he was going to the toilet outside.

“Are the rooms nice? I mean you could get a room for just $45 at the Hilton. That’s where we’re staying…it’s so cheap.”

“How long are you here for?” Sasha asked him. “Two weeks?” The sneer was obvious in his words. “We’re all staying a little longer so we’re sort of…being careful about how much we spend”

“So here’s what I don’t understand…” Carl ignored his unanswered questions. “I mean, my visa is only good for a month. I don’t understand why the Chinese don’t let Americans and other westerners stay as long as they want. I mean it’s not like some Chinese peasant coming to America. I mean we’ve got money. The Chinese don’t have to figure out what to do with some stupid peasant. They should just let us stay as long as we want.”

“Maybe they don’t want you here.” Sasha indicated the rest of the group sitting around the table but Carl again ignored or didn’t catch the insult.

“Yeah, but why not? I mean, I’m spending a lot of money here. I’m making the economy better. I’ve spent about a thousand dollars and it’s only been a week. Everything is so cheap here. Not like New York where I have to pay $1800 a month for a studio apartment.”

Chris came back in and sat down, pulling his chair a bit further from Carl’s. Kane brought drinks for the second table and took their food orders. “Do you want anything?” he asked Carl.

“Yeah, do you have any Heineken?” Kane nodded yes and went back across the street to the tiny store.

“80 yuan.” He said when he got back. Carl gave him 100. “Keep the change.” The guy was an idiot, the beer only cost 20 across the street and the Singha were only 10 yuan in the café.

“Did you buy that North Face fleece here?” Kay asked him. “How much was it.”

“Oh no, this is the real deal. I got this at the outlet store in Berkeley. It was $250 but it’s the real deal, not a rip off like you find here.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty hard to tell the difference with the pirate stuff here,”Sasha said, “Seeing how they’re made in the same factory by the same workers. Good move getting the real thing.”

“Thanks, It’s worth it to pay more for the real deal. I took a special trip to Berkeley just to get this jacket. Why not? I’m going to be making $100,000 a year after I graduate. Hey what’s the story with all these books?” He got up, much to the obvious relief of Sasha and Chris. “Are they free?”

“No,” Kay explained. “Travelers trade the books they finish for the books here. It’s a straight trade. A book for a book. It’s good because sometimes it’s hard to find a good book when you’re on the road.”

“So all of these are available?” he was looking at a 2001 Let’s Go China guidebook.

“Everything but the guidebooks,” Kane said, “Those are for my uests to use while they’re here.”

“Great. Hey, I’m going to join my friends now.” Carl moved away from the pleased looking travelers and towards the frowning group of BAs who were now eating the food Kane had just put on the table.

No Cinese food. Hamburgers, french fries, burritos, and soup. Very different from the rice dishes the first group had eaten earlier. None of the MBA’s needed chopsticks for their food; they probably didn’t even know how to use them.

Kane listened to bits and pieces of the conversations going around the two tables. Sasha was telling a story about teaching English in Northern China, Keith talked about fishing in Russia, Johnny and Chris were discussing the mountains they’d climbed the week before, and the two English women were discussing their proposed itinerary for their trip around the world.

At the second table a girl was telling the others how much she missed her parents and her dog. A second was describing the horror of Kane’s bathrooms. “And it was just this horrible pit on the floor, there was no toilet paper, no way to flush it, I mean it was filled with poo. It was horrible. I turned right around and left. No way I‘m going to use a disgusting toilet like that.” Kane laughed.

Most of his guests complimented him on the cleanliness of his toilets as compared with others they had seen in China.

“Well, I’m not going to use a bathroom like that.” Carl said. “Why don’t we get a taxi back to the Hilton and have some more drinks there.”

The group seemed to agree and while they finished their drinks Carl pulled a thin book from his pack and walked up to the bookshelves. Kane couldn’t see what book he took but noted that the book he left was a free guide to tourist attractions in Xi’an that was available at most of the upscale hotels.

They paid the bill without question even though Kane had doubled the prices from those on the menu. He’d figured they wouldn’t notice.

They got up and left the room saying pointless goodbyes to the first group who brightened up as they left.

“What a fucking jerk.” Chris was the first to speak. “That’s why I hate my country. People like him. My country is full of people like him. Maybe the reason the Chinese limit visa’s to 30 days is because they don’t like assholes sticking around too long,” the whole group broke up in laughter.

Kane opened a beer and sat down in the seat Carl had left at their table. “I see a lot of people like them in here.”

“Too bad for you,” Johnny told him. “Did you guys catch that bit about America having to deal with Chinese peasants? What fucking arrogance. It’s American pricks like that who come to Europe thinking they can see the whole culture in two weeks. No offense mate,” he motioned to Chris,” but I hate bloody Americans.”

“Me, too,” Chris seemed gloomier than before. “Did you hear him? Asking questions just so he could tell us about his $100 grand a year job, his high rent, and his $45 5-star hotel room.”

Keith laughed. “Stupid ass. He could get an even better room for half that if he stayed in a Chinese hotel instead of the Hilton. Hey Kane, how much is a Heineken normally here?”

It was Kane’s turn to laugh. He hadn’t known they had noticed his price gouging. “25 yuan. I’d like to buy you guys a round of Singhas for not giving me away.” They all laughed in appreciation, accepted the beers, and then drifted out by themselves and in pairs.

It was only then that Kane looked to see what book Carl had taken. The Let’s Go was gone. That was a $20 book. The son of a bitch had left a free tourist guide and taken Kane’s only current customer reference book.

Kane was going to get it back. He put the free book in his pocket, locked up the café and hailed a cab, directing the driver to take him to the Hilton.

He looked in the lounge first. A couple of the MBA’s were sitting at the bar, but Carl had already left.

“Excuse me,” he asked the girl who missed her parents. “Do you know what room Carl is in? He left something in my restaurant.”

“Oh, you’re the guy from earlier… yeah, Carl is in room 425. It’s so nice of you to come down here to give him what he forgot. Chinese people are so sweet.” She was drunk, her eyes glazed over in that ‘I’m either going to pass out or throw up’ way.

Kane used the house phone to call Carl’s room. “Hello?” He sounded as if he was already sleeping.

“Hi, this is Kane from the café earlier. You left something at my place earlier and I’ve brought it back to you.”

“What are you talking about?” Carl’s voice sounded nervous. “I have everything. It must belong to someone else.”

“Yes, but you also took something of mine and I want it back.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t take anything from you.” Anger was starting to mix with the nervousness. “That sign said one book for another book. I only traded books.”

“You took a book that wasn’t there to be traded and left me a free tourist guide. I want my book back.” Kane didn’t have to be the polite host anymore. “If you don’t want to bring it to me, I will be up to your room with the police in a few minutes.”

“You can’t do that. I’m American, that sign said one book for one book. You made the deal. I know my rights.”

Kane laughed, “Your rights? Your American rights? You’re in China, you have no rights except the right to bring my book down to the lounge or the right to go to jail for being a thief. It’s a crime to steal here. I’m pretty sure it’s a crime to steal in your country too. Bring my book to me.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I’m going to call the American Embassy tomorrow and report this. Now go home before you get in trouble.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” Kane said, “America has no authority here. This is China. I am Chinese. You have my book and I want you to return it…now.”

Another pause. “I’ll bring it down in a minute…just hold on. It’s just a book.”

Kane hung up the phone. The girl next to him tapped his shoulder.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to steal it, I mean he’s a jerk, but he’s not a thief. He’s rich, why should he steal anything from you? I’m sure it was an accident. “She hiccuped and reached for a Marlboro from her pack on the bar. “You want a cigarette?”

“No, I don’t smoke.” He did, but he wasn’t in the mood to accept anything from these people.

It was only a few minutes before Carl came down. His North Face fleece over his bare white chest.

“Here’s your book…” he slammed it on the counter and turned to leave.

“Wait…” Kane picked up his book and held out the tourist guide.

“Maybe the reason us third world peasants limit you to a 30-day visa is because you rich Americans are a bunch of assholes.”

He didn’t wait for a reply but turned and walked outside where a taxi was waiting to take him back to his café.

This is the whole gang from our side at Genghis Kane’s Cafe. The next day we all bought souvenir tourist yellow hats and went to see the famous tombs of Xian and the Terra Cotta Warriors. From Top left to right — Sasha, Chris (Vago), Jane, Kay, Johnny, and Keith. No MBA’s were hurt in the shooting of this picture.

A Walk in the Park

“Chris… economically, the world has to work on separate monetary systems. If England becomes a part of the Euro, it will lead to an eventual one world currency which will definitely be worth less than either the pound or the dollar are today…”

“I agree Johnny, the one thing that will lock the world into disaster is to have all the economies tied so tightly together that when one has a problem, they all suffer decline…”

It’s no easy thing solving the problems of the world, but that’s what Johnny and I were doing…at least in our own minds.We were sitting at a table in a Chinese tea house tossing high-minded ideas back and forth.

Occasionally, the ear cleaning man would come close to us and strike his ear pick with a tiny hammer making a high pitched vibrating sound, then catching our attention he would indicate that he would like to clean our ears. Perhaps he was aware that we were not listening to each other, just waiting for a new pause to pontificate.

The ear cleaner had a proud manner that denied the scruffiness of his shoes and clothing. The blooming plum and cherry blossoms which carpeted the peoples park made his office an elegant place. The two of us were polite in our refusals to have our ears cleaned at first, but as the cleaner became more insistent, we became more and more rude.

Perhaps his command of English was strong enough to understand the boorishness of our conversation and he could not understand how two men with good hearing could engage in such snobbery- or maybe he simply saw us as rich potential clients. Either way his golden tools came more and more frequently and finally his dark hands grabbed Johnny’s shoulders and began to massage even as the Englishman was beginning a diatribe against the economics of Adam Smith and the fallacy of a free market economy.

By the time Johnny had chased him off, the conversation had shifted to a monologue from me on the value of pornography in a technological society, the need for less morality, and the ultimate good that came from a sexually open worldview.

The waitress brought a second pot of tea and sighed as she heard Johnny begin a long winded appraisal of the need for the Chinese people to be led and how the return of a monarchy or emperorship was the proper method of curing the countries humanitarian record, she moved away quickly.

I agreed and used my agreement to launch a completely new topic on the legalization of narcotic substances and several programs I had heard of which seemed to offer a more enlightened view of addiction….and so it went for two and a half hours. The Chinese people around us were thankful that they didn’t understand English if only to avoid the American discussing the need for more privacy and less morality and the Englishman lecturing on the superiority of the parliamentary system.

Dogma chased catma and even though language was the fundamental barrier, the Chinese looked on the two of us with distaste easily picturing a British officer in India and an American aristocrat in Africa despite our casual dress and unshaven faces.

Our assumed Lordly manner was offensive to the Chinese who preferred modesty, decorum, cunning, and ritual to puffed up airs. Finally, much to the relief of the ear picker, who was becoming frantic over our constant refusals to have him vibrate the wax from our ears, we got up and strolled through the park with our hands put behind our backs and our noses high in the air, satisfied that the world would laud us for the great solutions we had worked out for solving its problems.

We continued to talk as we passed the old men playing mah jong in their blue Chairman Mao suits. We paused for a moment as the middle aged women practiced their middle-aged dance moves in the public square. We laughed lightly as we saw Chinese teenagers riding in rusty Ferris wheel cars and having a great time doing it. We felt nervous and edgy when those same teens came down and began to practice their karate moves. But still the discussion carried the same weighty language and high-minded priggishness.

It carried us through the bonsai garden where neither Johnny nor I felt superior enough to take an educational tone and so we admired the ancient tiny trees in silence missing out on what information we might have shared. The light began to fade as we came to a fork in the path. One fork led upward and along a ridge-top while the other skirted the bottom edge, rimming the small lake shore. We chose the bottom path and had only walked a few meters when we heard a noise that made us stop.

“Oh, arrha, ohhh…” the moans sounded as if they were close by… I looked up and recognized the sound as coming form the top of the ridge, the bright sky behind obscuring the figure on the bench in shadow while my eyes readjusted to pick out the details. My mind conjured up images of saving a woman who had been stabbed, helping a sick child, or discouraging a crime. High-minded stuff indeed.

Instead, what I saw when my eyes adjusted was a 15 or 16-year-old Chinese boy lying on the bench doing something…what was he doing? It took a few moments more before I combined the hand motion with the moans and recognized the teenager for the masturbator he was.

“Oh my God….” I turned away but not before I had a moment of sympathy for the Chinese lad’s tiny cock….

Johnny’s eyes were slower to adjust…”What is he doing? Hey..mate…,” he called up to the boy and apparently at that moment saw the masturbation…the boy’s head turned and his eyes met Johnny’s for a moment, but he was too close to orgasm to see the big pale Englishman. He was locked inside the fantasy that had brought him this far. “Good God man! He’s wanking!” The moment of eye contact took away every bit of dignity from Johnny and I couldn’t help feeling low-minded at the filthy image that was imprinted on my brain. Never mind what I’d been saying before.

“Let’s go….,” I said and began walking away.

“Right….” Johnny looked back at the boy who was now sitting up from the bench, “Oh my God, Chris, he’s following us…he’s coming from the bench, “Oh my God, Chris, he’s following us… he’s coming after us!"

A teenage masturbator was coming after us. Neither of us took the time to consider that teenagers in China have nowhere to go to relieve the new sexual urges that grip them. Privacy to masturbate was a thing we overlooked in cultural blindness. With all our high minded ideals and talk, neither the American nor the Englishman considered that the youth was embarrassed at being caught and making a hasty exit which happened to lie in our general direction but further to the right.

No instead both of us were gripped by a terrible fear and we ran from the park certain that the terrible 15-year-old wanker was after us and by the time we reached the guesthouse we’d already forgotten all the solutions to the worlds problems. Instead we told everyone about what we’d seen in the park.

The Tiger Hunters

I looked through the candlelight and saw the hand reaching out from under mosquito netting. The half bottle of Jack Daniels it held was causing strange amber shadows to flicker in the room. Lightly, I lifted my own netting, captured the proffered bottle, and lifted it to my lips.

“Thanks Mate.” The whiskey was better than good. It was magnificent. The first decent drink we’d had in more than a month. It’s hard to find good whiskey in China and when we saw the dusty bottle in the duty free shop as we crossed into Laos, $12 American didn’t seem too much to pay for a fifth.

Lao whiskey was about a tenth of the cost, but it tasted like rubbing alcohol with a couple of cigarette butts.

“Chris, do you think there are tigers in Laos?” Johnny asked me in a low whisper.

The room was stiflingly hot. We hid under our mosquito netting, passing the bottle back and forth as the single candle lit the tiny room. The village of Maung Singh was deep in slumber five hours after the mandatory blackout that occurred each evening at 6 PM. The swampy rice paddies surrounding the guesthouse were alive with splashings and croakings however, and sometimes the startlingly loud voice of a gecko lizard would come from within the room itself in a sort of birdsong “gehhhhh-kooooo”.

“Tigers? Sure, I bet there are some tigers here still. They probably come out at night and eat anything foolish enough to go outside the city limits. They probably are out there waiting right now.” I couldn’t tell whether the Englishman across the room was making a joke or whether he were actually as concerned about tigers as he sounded. I really had no idea if there were tigers in Laos, but I doubted it.

“Yeah, seems like I read about some villager getting eaten around here not too long ago… maybe we should shut the window.”

“Can tigers climb to the second floor?” It sounded like a joke, but English blokes are so damn weird to Americans with their high sounding accents and strange cultural traditions, it wouldn’t surprise me if Johnny were actually concerned about a tiger coming through the window.

“Shhhh, mate did you hear that? I think I heard a tiger outside?”

“Here,” I handed the bottle under the netting, ”You better drink this… it’ll help keep em away.”

“Right! Good Show!” Johnny gulped from the bottle “Hey…did you hear it that time?”

I actually had heard the noise that time…it sounded near and it sounded like…a bullfrog. Maybe it was a tiger though…

“Come on. Let’s go see if we can spot the tiger.” I stepped out of the netting in my boxer shorts and slipped my feet into my boots.” If there’s no tiger we can always catch us a frog.” Funny how a bit of the Southern accent came out when I was pretending to be doing something stupid. Or when I was doing something stupid.

“Frogs? What are you talking about frogs? Those noises are from a tiger…or maybe a few of them…Right! Let’s go check it out.” Johnny donned his tiger hunting uniform of boxers and boots and we unlocked the door with the tiny skeleton key.

Johnny carried the protective bottle of JD and I carried the thin candle.

An uncontrollable giggle escaped from Johnny and we were trying to keep from waking the other people sleeping in the guesthouse. We tiptoed down the corridor and struggled to keep from laughing as the wooden staircase made noises like some exaggerated Alfred Hitchcock movie set.

Stepping outside we looked to the left and the right. Both directions showed dark fields covered with water and loud tigers huffing and puffing into the humid night.

“Which way?” I decided to leave it to Johnny.

“This way. Follow me.” Johnny stepped into the six-inch mud to the left, then stopped to remove his boots and put them on the guesthouse doorstep. “These boots are too loud, they’ll scare off all the tigers.” I pulled my boots off too. “

Hey, I just remembered something… wait here” Barefoot the stairs made less noise. I stepped back into the room and grabbed one of the half dozen joints I’d rolled earlier after buying about an ounce of Lao weed from a 90-year-old Yao tribeswoman who was selling hand made bracelets, opium, and giant bags of weed. It cost an amazing 70 cents and had us both stoned enough to be drunkenly hunting tigers in our underwear.

Back down the steps and bringing the light to the doorway I found that Johnny had stepped off into the muck a good twenty feet and was creeping further despite the immense dark. “ Come on mate…blow out that candle and the stars soon light the way.” I lit the joint and blew out the candle.

“Here…trade me that bottle for this” I handed the joint to my partner and received the quarter full bottle in return. Hitting and swigging we continued further into the ooze with the stars gradually lighting the way.

The noise nearly always stopped as we neared it.

“Tigers are smart,” I said, “ They want to lure us away from civilization.”

“Crap…that’s the end of the whiskey,” Johnny hurled the empty bottle out into the dark. It made the expected splash in the expected direction and seconds later a second splash, much closer accompanied by a deep grunt in the opposite direction.

We turned, seeing the large four-legged shape approaching us. It’s large body moving with grace through the mud. We stepped towards the guesthouse and broke into a run, side by side, feeling the pulse pound in our heads, hoping that the beast would allow us to make it back to the safety of our room. Leaving our boots at the front door and tracking mud up the stairs and through the corridor until, finally, we were behind the closed door, locking it, and breathing heavily.

Lighting another joint, Johnny also lit a candle. We were covered in filthy mud with our boxers simply another gray brown patch on our bodies. We looked at each other and began to laugh. We shared stories about the terrible tiger until the false dawn when looking out the window; we realized the horrible truth of our situation.

“It seems that it wasn’t a tiger”, Johnny said blandly.

“Nor a bullfrog,” I replied.

Neither of us felt a need to say more as we looked at the footprints leading into the pigpen outside the window.

(Star and her sister outside of Maung Singh)

Homecoming

(This story was both told to and witnessed by me as I stayed at a guesthouse near the hilltribe villages)

Star looked at the tiny girls around her.They were doing their best to look fashionable and appealing. It made her smile at first, before she realized why they went to so much trouble. The tiny ripped t-shirts held with colorful handmade ropes wrapped around the body creating a sort of Paris in the village look. A little girl with a sweet face in a purple t-shirt carrying her baby brother who was nearly the same size as her stopped to readjust him on her side.

“Sabadee” she said when she saw Star standing at the edge of the village. ”Sabadee Mai.” You Good. You good, right?

“Sabadee” Star said, hearing the difference between the 6-year-old Lao villager and the 26 year old Bangkok bar girl. “Sabadee Mai.” “Sab-ah-deee.” The girl replied. Her inflection was so high and birdlike. So beautiful. Her tiny brother slept through the whole exchange even as he was shifted on her side.

“Do you know I used to live around here?” Star asked in English.

“You and me are probably related but I look like some exotic foreigner to you. I probably represent everything you dream of… or at least you think I do…” she shuddered again, remembering the day she left her village 17 years before.

The Thai man had driven to the village in a large black Mercedes. It was rare to see any sort of motorized vehicle besides the occasional Chinese tractor. Most of the people in the village came to stand behind the protective gate of the village as the stranger got out of his car, surrounded by three large men in dark suits. Star’s mother had called her inside the hut and done a quick combing of her hair. She took a glass necklace on twisted rope from her own neck and put it around her little girls.

“La korn, kong koi.” Star remembered her confusion as her mother said goodbye. “Where am I going?” she thought. Maybe her mother was going to take a trip. She’d run outside to where the villagers were now surrounding the four Thai men. The important man noticed her immediately as she pushed through the crowd.

“Well, hello little Star. Where did you come from?” She had recognized some of the Thai words but they had been so much harsher than she was used to hearing, even though the tone was gentle. She stopped and looked at the ground. “Sabadee!” She had said softly.

“Five hundred baht for her.” He told the crowd. “Who is selling this child?” She remembered the low murmur that swept through the crowd as he named such an extravagant price for just one child. The other girls he had already bought looked jealously on the new one, their friend, who commanded such a high price. Her value exceeded theirs combined.

She remembered the secret feeling of pride when they told her that on the way to their new home in Bangkok. Her mother had stepped forward and collected the money. Suddenly, the rich woman in the village. And now, here was Star, the rich foreigner visiting the village.

She looked at the girl and tried to remember her mother’s name. She tried to remember her own name, her family name, anything besides the name Star which had stuck with her since she left, but all she could pull up was the memory of that last day in her village. Somewhere around here. Somewhere in the Golden Triangle.

A crowd of children was now standing around her. Mostly girls with pretty sarongs wrapped around their wastes. The boys stood a bit in the distance…shy of this exotic stranger in jeans and a lace tank top. She smiled and joked with them aware of the harshness of her Thai accent as compared with the low bird sounds they answered in.

“Are you a Thai?” a young boy asked “Are you looking for girls to take to Bangkok? Hey, I’ll go get my sisters..wait…” he ran off even as she began to explain.

“I’m Lao. I used to live around here and now I am here to visit and to see if I can find my mom. I don’t want to buy anyone. Okay?” When had her voice changed so much? Why did they look at her like she was so strange?

An old woman in a tiny hut looked out over trays of homemade sticky sweets wrapped in pastel colored plastic. Star walked over and bought two handfuls and began to hand them out to grubby little hands frantically reaching for them.

An elder of the village walked up to her. He did not smile. “What do you want?” he asked. ”If you are not here to take the children…why are you here?” They were rejecting her. She’d been foolish to think she could walk into a village and be accepted. The past seventeen years had changed her too much to enter this idyllic paradise.

She had changed enough to recognize the squalid conditions that soiled her imaginary Garden of Eden. She saw the untreated cuts on feet and legs and bodies. The ripped clothing was far from traditional, more likely cast offs from backpackers who considered it garbage. There was little beautiful beyond the children who stood around her looking up with wistful eyes. “Will you take me to your city?” a little girl asked her. “My father will let me go cheap. I want to go to the city.”

Star closed her eyes. She too had wanted to go, she’d been excited to go, but she had not known the life that awaited her. A brutal life of sex, drugs, and leering old men staring at her through plexiglass and then leading her to dimly lit hotel rooms.

The money she received from the Thai’s had been barely enough to feed herself. Locked up like an animal most of the day and only allowed to leave once she was so hooked on heroin that they knew she would return. Finally being moved from the brothel to the bar when her “young” appeal had dried up at age 15.

It was the bar that had given her the opportunity to free herself. Two years of selling herself for next to nothing. Two years of loveless love before she saw her opportunity, and took it. She allowed the Dutch man to fall in love with her. He was old and ugly, but he took her to Holland with him.

They spent two weeks in courtship before he proposed marriage to her. She accepted and after they were married, he flew her to Amsterdam. His house was huge. He was only there on the weekends. He spent most of his time in Rotterdam, managing his many business affairs while Star occupied herself bringing hundreds of Johns to his mansion, making more money than she had ever thought existed. The Dutch gilders multiplied in her small bag until she had to arrange a suitcase for the money and finally to get the cleaning lady to help her open a bank account.

When her husband died she inherited the Amsterdam house. Seven girls had moved in. She ran a respectable house. Madame Star’s House.

She walked to the village gate and reached out to touch an ornament, knowing that the touch of a woman on the sacred objects was forbidden. Knowing that it was expensive to coax the spirits into forgiving the touch of a woman. The Lao people behind her got excited and she could hear them asking her to step back. Her fingers wrapped around the palm ornament.

“I am very sorry,” she apologized, “It is just so beautiful.” She knew what had to happen now. She walked back to the elder’s hut and opened her bag. The small gold coins felt heavy in the knit bag. She pulled out a handful.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she began to drop the coins in hands reaching towards her. ”You must accept this gift to ward off the spirits I have angered.” She continued handing the coins to the hands that reached towards her again and again until only a small number were left.

She knew that even with this new found wealth, the villagers would continue to sell their daughters to the men from Bangkok, but she hoped that it might save just one of them from the life she had been forced to lead. She walked to the headman.

“Use these to buy a pig for a sacrifice,” he looked in her eyes with a confused expression. “And give me a bottle of Lao-Lao.”

He turned and went to his hut bringing back a bottle of clear whiskey and handing it to her without a word.

Star put the bottle in her now empty bag and walked from the village careful to detour around the gate that would keep evil spirits from bothering the inhabitants.

Eric the Exploiter

“You go lay down in the hammock and I will come over to fuck you,” Eric, the fat Belgian told the Thai woman. She looked at him for a moment, then at the ten other white people at the table.

“You go fuck yourself,” she replied. Her response caused ripples of laughter, but several of the other guests were looking anything but amused. She grabbed the bottle of lao-lao and took a quick swig.

“Give me some lao-lao, or I will come take it.” Eric started to get up.

I stood up too, shoving Eric back down in his seat. “That’s not your whiskey, she’s not your woman, and you can’t talk to these ladies any way you want. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Eric looked down at the table, “I’m sorry.”

I’d been expecting a fight. His meekness surprised me.

“You should be apologizing to Star, not to me. You’re acting like an asshole.” I pointed to the ladies in our group. There was Star, a mysterious Thai beauty,Debbie, the mousy Australian woman,Laila, the big Dutch girl who looked like Cindy Crawfor, and Evie, another Belgian. She was twenty years younger and not connected to Eric.

Eric began to mumble as he stared at the tabletop. It was as if he had become a fat child who was trying to explain why he’d eaten too much chocolate to his German nanny.

“I don’t know what happened, I went from one village to another, and drank so much lao-lao. Each village would have me sit down. They would pour me two, three, or four drinks and I would drink them.”

His voice lifted with a hint of pride and his eyes were off the table top. “I am a real man, I drank 10 or 15 shots of lao-lao.” He was roaring now. “I smoke opium in every village. I have many women take me in their huts. I am a real man.”

He pushed his fat black rimmed eyeglasses up his nose and looked as if he were going to stand up again. “Which woman here will I fuck tonight? Debbie, you go to my hut and I will come to fuck you. Go, you go now. Give me the lao-lao you Thai bitch.”

“Oh my goodness, he’s horrible. He’s so horrible,” Debbie ran from the restaurant to her hut and slammed the door The other guests either moved from the table we all shared with Eric and soon, it was only Star, Eric, and me.

“You are messed up man. Completely fucked up. What are you here for anyway? You’re a real fucking prick.” I still stood near Eric’s chair hoping the Belgian would stand up.

“Yeah, big fucking asshole. Fuck you Eric. Fuck you. Cocksucker.”

Star had a real way with words

“I’m sorry.” He looked at Star, then at me. “Can I have lao-lao now?”

“Fuck you cocksucker. Lao-lao is mine.” Star got up and left the table going towards her bungalow.

Bitch, I will take it,” he went to stand up again and I shoved him down on the ground. It felt like I was abusing a small child. Still, I wanted to kick this Belgian’s fat face into a bloody pulp.

“It’s time for you to go to bed. If I hear you giving any of these girls a hard time, I’m going beat you bloody. Good-night.”

I went to the bungalow I was sharing with Johnny. Johnny was busily rolling a huge three paper spliff using half a Marlboro light and about an eighth of an ounce of Lao weed. The room was lit by two candles and the shadows danced on the mosquito netting that hung over the two beds.

“What do you say we pay Laila and Evie a visit and smoke this spliff?” Johnny asked me as I came in the door.

“Sounds good to me, I need to relax a little.”

Johnny suddenly blew out the two candles. “Shhhh! It’s that fat, drunk Belgian. If he sees us we’ll have to get rid of him.”

We watched Eric stagger past in the moonlight. He turned where he should of gone straight to reach his bungalow. Instead heading for Evie and Laila’s room.

“Great, let’s wait a minute and they’ll send him packing.” Pound, pound, pound. We heard him beating on the door. “Johnny is that you?” Johnny gave me a quick wink.

“No, it’s Eric. Evie, you are Belgian and I am Belgian and you must let me fuck you tonight. Open the door.”

“Let’s go get him,” Johnny and I bolted out the door and around the corner in time to see Eric stagger off the porch and along the edge of the cliff that the girl’s bungalow overlooked.

“Go to bed, Jerk.” Evie called after him.

He was twenty-five or thirty feet from us when he disappeared. One moment we could see him lurching along the ledge. The next he was gone. His shadow replaced with a loud thud and a splash seconds later as his body landed on the hard clay at the bottom and rolled into the stream.

“Holy shit,“ Johnny ran towards the spot Eric had disappeared from. “Evie, do you have a flashlight.”

Evie screamed. “Oh my god. Do you think he’s dead? He fell off the cliff. Oh my God. I hope he’s not dead.”

“I hope he is.” Laila came outside. “Serves him right. He’s been treating every woman here like we’re whores. I hope he’s dead.”

“We’ve got to go get him.” Evie handed Johnny the flashlight she’d retrieved from inside.

“Yes we must go get him.” Johnny shined the light down the bottom of the cliff. We could see the Belgian lying face down in the tiny stream. He’d apparently landed on the barbed wire fence before hitting the ground and one arm and a leg were twisted into unnatural positions and held upright by the sagging strands.

“Leave him, let him die. Rude prick.” Laila was serious.

Johnny was already starting over the ledge, using the flashlight to find hand and footholds. “Someone go get a rope. I saw one under the restaurant earlier. We’ll need it to pull him up. Chris would you hold the torch for me?”

I reached down and grabbed the proffered flashlight. Someone else went to get the rope.

The whole process took about an hour. Five people were needed to drag the fat, unconscious man up the cliff. Each tug dragging him against the face of the cliff, and adding to the bruises on his face and arms.

“Tie it around his neck,” Laila had called down to Johnny as he cinched the rope around the man’s waist and up over his shoulders in an improvised harness. When we got him to the top, Debbie, gave him a quick examination. She worked as a nurse in Brisbane. She popped an ammonia capsule under his nose. He woke with a start.

“Oh my god. Where am I?” he began to cry like a fat 10 year old. “What has happened to me?”

“You got what you deserved,” I couldn’t help myself.

“I want you to move your fingers for me, can you do that? Good. Now what about your feet? Can you lift your legs? Good. What about your neck, does it feel alright? Can you sit up? Good, I think you’re okay. Some cuts and bruises, but you’re really lucky. You should go get yourself some bandages, go to bed, and think about how lucky you are to be here with good people who save your life even though you’ve been a complete jerk. I want you to remember that. You’re really very lucky.”

Debbie got up and left the Belgian sitting on the ground.

“Has anyone seen my glasses? Do you know where my glasses are? I can’t see anything without them. I have no extras.”

“Guess you’ll have to find them yourself, pal.” I fought the urge to kick him. I wanted to throw the blubbering old man back down the hill.

I walked to Evie’s porch where Johnny lit the big doobie. Evie, Laila, Johnny, and I watched as Eric lumbered down the trail back to his room.

“We should of left him down there,” this time it was me who said it.

“No, it’s good that we brought him up. Maybe he had to learn a lesson. I feel sort of bad for him now,” Laila had softened after his crying.

“I wonder what he will say to us tomorrow?”

When morning came the Belgian was gone. Eric had not paid his bill and had stolen several bottles of Mekong whiskey from the restaurant. The owner wanted to know when the last time anyone had seen him, but no one could remember anything past seeing him drinking in the restaurant. It was just too hard to explain the whole thing.

Johnny, Kok, Me and Laila before I left Chaing Mai and hitched to Bangkok.

I walked to the cliff. Daylight revealed it to be nearly forty feet with a slight slope towards the bottom. I could see where the Belgian had landed and finally come to rest in the creek. The large glasses lay just under the water, the sun reflecting underneath the ripples of the creek.

Tourist Trap

The hill tribes were howling in the villages as the lightning crashed and the thunder boomed over the humid subtropical night in Northern Laos.I stood on the bamboo porch of my tiny bungalow listening as the rain began to fall and the musky smell of the newly wet earth permeated some ancient memory locked in the recesses of my brain.

The monkey mind is a funny thing, especially trapped within a human being that denies its monkeyness a thought. Hidden away beneath the veneer of a civilized human being the beast still lingers and it’s not entirely inconceivable that sometimes the beast escapes and takes over the host completely abolishing all thoughts of work, clothing, and human society.

I felt the beast rising within me. I felt that curious feeling of fear mixed with anticipation, an unknown longing for something simpler, more savage, and less safe.

Not so strange really. I’d come to Laos in search of the same thing, though I hadn’t realized it until a few days before when I found myself crawling up into an 80-year old Akha tribesman’s hut to smoke opium.

The man had beckoned to me with betel stained teeth from the trapdoor in the floor of his jungle den. The house itself stood on six foot stilts and was about twenty by thirty feet. It was made of an unidentifiable hardwood that was so weathered it matched the gray brown color of the dirt along the village paths. It was covered in disturbingly twisted brambles woven into magical symbols to ward off hexes from angry demons or jealous neighbors.

My host was as weathered as the house he presided over. His hair had that bowl cut look of the Yanomami when they pose for pictures in National Geographic. His eyes were small and black. He looked more like a Mexican than an Asian Tribesman. He wore a roughly woven sarong in bright reds and greens that contrasted oddly to his withered and dusky skin. Besides this festive garment his only ornamentation was the necklaces and bracelets made of jagged shells, teeth, and sinister red and black beads.

I had felt pensive climbing the ladder through the small door, wondering if the swift strike of a machete would separate my body from my head. I continued climbing, seeing, and smelling the sour and fecal smell that got stronger as I pulled myself into the opium den. There were no windows, a half dozen candles were lit throughout the room and I could see shadowy figures lying on straw mats with triangular pillows under their arms as other shadowy figures held pipes to their heads and brief flares of fire turned the tarry substance to an orange ember.

I was led thorough a maze of bodies resting while their mental occupants visited various levels of Euphoria. They were all Lao; I was the only foreigner that I could see.

Reaching an empty mat, I assumed the position of the forms around me, lying on my left side with the pillow under my arm and body propping me into an upright position. The old man muttered in the strange Acka opium speak. His words a hissing and guttural whisper. He lifted the water pipe to my mouth and lit a phosphorous match.

I inhaled and felt as if I were lifting just slightly from the cushion I rested on. My body didn’t seem so heavy as I rolled my eyes back in my head and imagined a smoke dragon filling up my lungs and spreading throughout the rest of my cellular fiber.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed while I drifted in and out of incredible worlds of color, but when I emerged it was to a very different landscape than the one I had been mentally criticizing since I arrived in Asia from Seattle two months before.

I stopped noticing the lack of sanitary facilities, I quit being embarrassed when I came upon old women washing themselves in the river, and I lost all interest in sitting in the guesthouse restaurant with fellow travelers and playing cards while the Lao people served beers and banana pancakes. I had gone bamboo.

And now I stood on my porch wanting to escape the giggling French couple in the next bungalow, wanting to howl with the tribes as lightning flashed age old fears across the visor of my humanity.

Fear of a different sort held me in stasis. My civilized mind told me of the impossibility of becoming anything other than a civilized American from Seattle. It told me everything I couldn’t do, but offered no positive alternatives.

I was in a dilemma, the monkey brain tying the human consciousness up in knots so that I didn’t even notice as the beast removed my clothing, wrapped the sarong around my waste and walked me into the chaos of my senses where the people howled with fearful joy.

Johnny handing over money to a much friendlier river pirate.

The Dread Pirate Saechao

A half million kip to take us from Xiangkok to Huey Xai on the Mekong River.

“Song hoi hasib phanh kip,” the one eyed man said pointing at me and then at Johnny as he said it again. Two hundred and fifty thousand kip…each.

“No,” Johnny said in his perfect Oxford English, “ I refuse to give this…pirate…so much. He won’t even bargain with us.” He tried one last time, however. “Si Hoi Pan Kip.” He consulted his phrasebook and then said it again pointing at us both.

It was only a savings of one hundred thousand kip, or $10 US, but it was the principle. We couldn’t maintain face if we paid the full fare the speedboat man had asked for to begin with. By refusing to bargain with us he was sneering in our faces, showing his contempt for our skin, our race, and our attempts at bargaining.

Saechao smiled broadly and shook his head. “Ha hoi pan kip.” Half million, firm. He reached under his eye patch and turned away from the Englishman and me to go back to the table where he had been eating his lunch.

“Hey, it’s no problem,” I said in my bright American way. “We’ll find another boatman, somebody who will haggle with us, hell, maybe we could even take a slow boat all the way to Luang Prabang. Let’s go get something to eat and then we’ll find another boat.”

“I don’t see many other boatmen around here,” Johnny surveyed the dusty streets of the village.

The Mekong River flowed brownly through the deep gorge below. Twisted rock formations lay like shipwrecks scattered through the water. The village was made up of a half dozen open sided restaurants built on bamboo platforms leaning over the cliffs. The restaurants were little more than a wood barrel stove, bamboo mats, low tables, and a roof. We picked up our backpacks and trudged up the dusty street in search of a cool resting spot from the blistering Lao sun.

We’d arrived an hour earlier after a bumpy ride from Muang Singh by a combination of truck and bus on the semi developed dirt roads which connect one tiny Northern Lao town with another one. Just holding on to the truck itself had been an incredible physical feat that left us both exhausted and dirty.

The feeling of elation at finally seeing the Mekong was quickly replaced with exasperation when Saechao was the only one who would talk with us about transport to Huey Xai. Negotiations had led nowhere despite our attempts at bargaining, pleading, and finally humorous exasperation. Which left us in our present circumstances.

Walking across a swaying bamboo floor it felt like the weight of our packs would bring us tumbling down the cliffs and into the filthy Mekong.

We’d read that morning about the “speedboat mafia” in Xiangkok. The corrupt river men who extorted money from travelers and intimidated all competition into sending foreign business to them. We’d taken the warnings in Lonely Planet lightly, figuring that two seasoned travelers such as ourselves would be able to skirt any potential price gouging.

The restaurant too was overpriced and the villagers had none of the friendly looks other Lao people had seemed defined by.

“Chicken fried rice, please” Johnny pointed at the menu.

“No chicken,” the woman told him.

“Pork fried rice then,” he feeling slightly offended that the menu was inaccurate.

“No pork,” she told him.

“What do you have then?” he asked.

“Chicken and vegetables,” she said.

“I thought you had no chicken, I’ll have the chicken fried rice, please.” Johnny was beginning to feel slightly persecuted.

“No chicken,” she said again, “Chicken and vegetables.”

He started to argue, realized the futility and nodded his head. “Okay, chicken and vegetables.” She stepped three feet away to prepare the food.

“What do we do now mate?”

I held back the laugh I felt inside me. “Well, I figure we eat, then we go back and offer him 200,000 kip each. Give him time to think he lost us. Hey, all I’ve got is travelers checks, do you have enough to loan me 200,000.” It felt ridiculous to ask for such a huge amount of money.

Johnny pulled a paper sack out of his side bag and dumped it on the table. Three two inch thick piles of 5000 kip notes. “Here’s 250,000. Pull fifty thousand from the pile and put it in your other pocket. If he won’t take 400,000, we can offer him 450.” The food arrived. The portions were small and the taste was bland. “It might be worth getting ripped off just to get out of here.” I looked at the small table on the other side of the restaurant where three old men were glaring at us. “This doesn’t feel like a very friendly place.”

We finished up our food and walked back down the street. We put our packs down and when Saechao looked like he was going to get up we motioned to him and he sat back down with a grin.

“Now, you stay here with the packs, and I’m going to go down to the water and see if those other boatmen will give us a ride,” I said, “It’ll be good to let him know we’ve got other options.”

I scrambled down the rocky cliff to the waterline where three slow boats and a half dozen cigar shaped yellow speedboats were tied up. I stopped when I got to the waters edge and watched as a man stripped down to his underpants, waded into the river, and began moving the speedboats so that his slow boat could push out to the water.

“Hey, um, excuse me…” the swimmer looked up at me “You go Huey Xai? Huey Xai? Rakkha thao dai?” How much? The man frowned and looked at the water.

“No. No Huey Xai. Saechao. You..Saechao Huey Xai.” He refused to say anything more, just gesturing up the hill where I could see the pirate eating his noodles and looking down at me. I could see Johnny talking to two other river men in the street. Maybe he was having more luck. I tried to talk to three more boatmen with the same result. Each time they frowned and pointed up to the now laughing Saechao. Nobody would deal with us. Nobody but the pirate.

Finally, disappointed and frustrated, I climbed the hill to find Johnny attempting to negotiate a price with the two men. They refused to budge from the initial price.

“I checked on a bus, mate, and it seems there is only one each day. We’re stuck here until tomorrow unless we pay these scoundrels. They won’t budge. I refuse to pay that much.”

“Oh, come on Johnny, let’s see if he’ll negotiate now.” I started towards Saechao.

“Hey, what did you find out? What did the other boats say?” Johnny didn’t sound very hopeful, probably because I was already walking towards the restaurant.

“They pretty much refused to talk to me. They all told me to talk with him. He seems to be the godfather of the local speedboat mafia. We don’t have much choice here.”

I walked up to Saechao who now had a huge grin across his face.

“Song hoi hasib pahn kip,” he held out his hand with the air of one who knows he will get what he wants. He pointed at each of us and said slowly in turn “Song hoi hasib pahn kip.” His grin threatened to spread beyond his narrow face.

I pulled the wad of cash out of his pocket. “Song hoi pahn kip” I said as I handed it over. Saechao was all business as he counted the stack of notes.

“Okay,” he said and motioned to Johnny that he should pay next. Johnny handed him another stack of notes.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I said pulling my camera from my bag “I gotta get a picture of this.” The pirate kept his big grin for the camera and held my notes while Johnny aped a pleading posture and held out the second stack.

Snap, the picture alone was worth the $40 he was asking.

Saechao counted Johnny’s wad. He motioned, irritated, “Hasib pahn kip.” He held out his hand for more money.

“No,” Johnny said, “Same, same.” He motioned to the two piles. I started to get an uneasy feeling. I’d only counted off fifty thousand from the top, not bothering to count the big pile.

“Wait a minute,” I reached for the first stack of bills, “Let me count that.” In a minutes time I no longer felt like smiling. “I apparently gave him 250,000. Fuck, I only counted fifty from the top…fuck it man, lets just pay him. We lose. It’s only $5 each.”

“Right,” Johnny said taking his 200,000 back, "But it’s the principle, I refuse to give this scoundrel my money. I’ll find someone else and pay them instead.” He walked out back to the street and stood by the packs with an offended look on his face.

“I’m gonna pay him Johnny. Fuck it. He’s the only game in town. C’mon it’s not worth it to get pissed off.” I handed the pile of cash back to Saechao who was still grinning. He motioned a dismissive gesture at Johnny and took the money, walking up the street to a rickety cantina where he changed the whole stack for a relatively small amount of Thai baht with an old Lao woman who drank whiskey from a dirty mason jar. He motioned to me and two old women inside the canteen and started down towards the boats.

“C’mon Johnny, just pay him,” I grabbed my pack and followed Saechao and the other passengers. Johnny’s face was set in an expression of English resolve. I was torn between staying with my stubborn friend or taking what I now realized was the only way out of this tourist hell. I figured Johnny might change his mind as he saw me get on the boat.

Saechao stowed the pack and the women’s colorful tarp bags in the front and indicated where we should sit. I stood on top of the sand dune and gestured to the irresolute Johnny who still stood on the hilltop like a statue, his body language indicating that he was thoroughly pissed off.

“C’mon Johnny… Fuck it… just c’mon!” I yelled it up the hill and saw my friend’s resolve crumble as he grabbed his pack and trotted down the hill to where Saechao was getting ready to cast off. Johnny held the money towards him but now the pirate simply shook his head. He wouldn’t let Johnny on the boat now.

“Oh, c’mon, give me a break!” I stepped out of the boat, grabbed Johnny’s pack and put it in the front with the other baggage. At this point, Saechao started to protest but then decided to take the Englishman’s money and made room for him in the narrow vessel.

It was about 15 feet long, painted bright yellow, and just wide enough to allow one person to sit in it. We four passengers sat in a line with our legs pulled tightly in front of us. Me first, then a middle aged woman, then the older woman, then Johnny, and in the back, the pirate, directly in front of the huge motor which extended the prop another 15 feet beyond the end of the craft on a metal pole. The engine made a high pitched, ultra loud mosquito sound as he started it.

The boat pulled back from the Lao shore and edged to the center of the Mekong, midway between Laos on one side and Burma on the other. I looked closely to see if there was any difference in the noticeable landscape or architecture but saw two sides of the same river. Both equally victim to massive slash and burn agriculture, both nestling equally impoverished villages, both victims of the poverty that gripped the entirety of the Golden Triangle, the area of the world where the majority of heroin is produced.

The only visible difference was the Burmese flag that flew on one side and the lack of any flag at all on the Lao side. The invisible difference was that Burmese rebels were extremely thick along this part of the river and atrocities, gunmen, and rebellion might be happening anywhere in the dense jungle that lay along the banks. Suddenly I realized a bullet could easily find it’s way into my head. I kept the thought to myself but hoped Saechao would drive quickly.

My hopes were quickly realized as Saechao brought the boat up to what seemed an extremely unsafe speed. The shallow keel of the boat kept us seemingly hovering on top of the water and the slightest wave or rapid threatened to send us careening out of control into one of the gigantic rock forms that Saechao jetted us through. The spray soaked me and the baggage riding in the front of the boat. It occurred to me that perhaps I should be scared, but the ride was too thrilling. To be zipping between river carved formations in a pirate speedboat down the Mekong. It sounded too fantastic to be real, but it was, and that made it thrilling.

The boat stopped first at a small Burmese village. Saechao pulled the boat close to the shore where some rocks blocked out the illegal landing from any authorities who might be watching. I reached out and touched the ground, excited to be momentarily making contact with a foreign country without any sort of official permission. No visa, no customs, just my hand grabbing Burmese rock. The middle aged woman grabbed her rainbow colored tarp bag and stepped onto the rocks. Saechao pushed the boat back out to the center of the river and resumed the high-speed journey.

The next woman was dropped off a short distance further at a Lao village where naked children dove from rotting dugout canoes and the villagers lined up on the ridge top to see who was coming. The woman’s family came down and waited for her and her many bags and boxes. I stepped out of the boat and helped the woman ashore while Johnny started to haul her bags to her waiting friends and family.

“Kop jai lai lai,” she sang to us as the boat pulled out, “”La kwarn.” Thank you, goodbye.

Local passengers gone, the pirate began to pilot his boat like a daredevil. Zipping past slow freighters, zig zagging in and out of hulking boulders, and splashing through massive rapids that filled the compartment housing Johnny and my bags with river water. We were soaked too. The pirate laughed as each new wave of water crashed into us over the bow.

He zoomed by a freighter heading up river and I lifted my hand in a wave to the man sitting on the boats bow. The man started to wave, saw whose boat it was, and lifted his fist in the air, shaking it and spitting what sounded like curses after me. He seemed to know the dread pirate Saechao, he seemed to know him and to hate him.

For the first time, I began to seriously worry. This guy was bad news. His laughter as the packs were slung around the front of the boat was menacing. In my worried state I scarcely noted when the Burmese riverbank disappeared and the Thai riverbank began. There were no markers for the invisible political boundary. One moment it was a landscape of desolation and smoking hillsides and the next it was giant golden temples, double decker tourist buses, and newly paved roads. The change was immediate and strangely surreal.

The sun glinted from the golden towers on the Thai side of the river as it made its way to the horizon. Sunset was not far off. Saechao maneuvered the boat to a large dock.

“Is this it?” Johnny asked “Huey Xai?”

“No,” Saechao gestured down the river. “Huey Xai…one more hour.” He smiled hugely. “We stop for night. Sleep. Tomorrow Huey Xai.” He pulled the boat to the dock and began to secure it. “You find guesthouse now.” He stepped from the boat and walked to a table on the dock where three Lao men sat playing cards. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Wait a minute,” I said from the front of the boat where I still sat. “Is this guy ripping us off just taking us halfway and then stopping?” It was unbelievable. I got out of the boat and walked up to the four men. “No. You take us now. We pay you to take us. Go now.”

“Tomorrow” the pirate laughed in my face. “You wait til tomorrow.” He pulled his cap down over his eyes.

Johnny stood up from the boat now. “Listen…Mate,” he laid his big hands on Saechao’s shoulder, “You’re going to take us now… understand?”

I figured a fight was coming…soon.

“How much you pay him?” a man in a blue baseball cap asked.

“Five hundred thousand,” Johnny said. “He said he would get us to Huey Xai…today. This is going to be a problem.”

“Wait..” the man said, “Just wait a moment.”

He started to speak Lao rapidly to the pirate and his two companions. The pirate answered and laughed loudly looking at us. His three companions looked unhappy. They kept gesturing back and forth between the boats. It seemed the other three were not too pleased with the pirate’s methods. A problem was coming soon. I decided to lighten the mood a little.

I stepped back into the cigar boat and sat in Saechao’s seat. I made as if I would start the engine. “Hey,” I yelled at the men on the dock “No problem, I’ll drive.” I took a look at how I could start the engine hoping they wouldn’t kill me.

The guy in the cap laughed and motioned me out of the seat. “No, you load bags in this boat. I take you to Huey Xai. Him,” he motioned to Saechao, “No good. I take you. No cost.”

Saechao laughed and pulled his cap over his eyes sitting back on two legs of his chair. Johnny navigated himself back to the boat and began transferring our soaked bags to the new guys boat.

“What’s your name?” Johnny asked him.

“Sok,” he said. ”Let’s go.”

The rest of the journey was tame compared with the earlier speed and frequency of obstacles. The sun got lower and lower until finally he brought the boat into a small dock in a village where a young boy tied us off and Sok told us to wait for him.

“Here we go again,” I said.

“No, I think Sok is a good guy,” Johnny said. “Let’s wait.”

A few minutes later Sok came back and motioned for us to get our bags. ”Too dark for river. I pay for taxi to Huey Xai for you. You take.”

He led us to the large transport truck with the tarps rolled up the sides. He put our bags inside, paid the driver, and turned to walk away.

“Hey…Sok…” I called out to him. “ Kop jai lai lai.” Thank you.

“No problem, “ Sok called back over his shoulder. “Lao people good people, not like Pirate Saechao. Him no good.” He walked back to the river and sat down with the boy sitting on the dock. The sun glinted on the Mekong as the truck pulled away down the bumpy dirt road.

These old Yao women sold me an ounce of shitty weed for about $1. I’m not very tall but in Laos, I sometimes felt like a giant.

Bar Girls in Ko Samui

The three girls got up from their bar stools as I stumbled past the Macho Lounge.

“Hey, you… come have drink.”

“Handsome man, come inside, say hello.”

“Hello, handsome man, have drink inside.”

They were three variations on the same theme. The young plump bar girl The slightly older and skinnier bar girl And the worn down, missing a tooth, speaks better English but doesn’t look any good at all anymore bar girl.

The three muses turned to Thai prostitutes. Sirens beckoning the old and the drunk into a bar that must have been named in the 80’s but probably was only a year or two old.

Thailand was the sex change capital of the world and had more transvestites and transsexuals than anywhere. It was also the capitol of AIDS in Asia.Anybody foolish enough to sleep with a prostitute in Thailand deserved what he got…and there was no telling what he was going to get…boy, girl, lady boy, or a cornucopia of venereal diseases which could debilitate or kill you.

Star, a Thai woman I’d met in Laos had explained to me how parents sold their daughters to pimps in Bangkok and the young innocent girls from the villages were thrown into a life of sordid sex and exploitation. She knew the story from experience.

Since then I’d met dozens of young men who either wanted to or already had invested in the sex stock exchange. I’d heard the stories about the beautiful girl who pulled a big dick out of her pants, broken condoms in a Bangkok brothel, and of course all the stories about the sex bars in Puttaya.

All the backpackers went to Puttaya whether they were men or women…just to see it, was the way they put it. To see the snakes, coins, bananas, and who knew what else emerging from the vaginae of Thai women. To see hundreds of prostitutes strutting their stuff in the sex capitol of the sex capitol of the world. I’d turned down at least 10 offers to join different groups who were going to Puttaya…just to check it out. I had no desire to see exploitation and degrading use of the female body first hand. The second and third hand accounts were enough. I’d passed a wide circle around Puttaya.

It was why I was here, in Ko Samui. I’d heard so many people complain about the ‘tameness’ and the ‘family atmosphere’ that had taken over on Samui in the past few years. It sounded like a cleaner, safer, less tempting version of Thailand to me. But now that I was here, I couldn’t really understand how anyone had found it tame or suitable for a family.

Walking down the main street I passed dozens of small bars where three, four, or five girls sat calling out to men as they walked by. The bars all had huge speakers and no walls resulting in a contest of decibels as each place attempted to prove it was the best spot. Thai people apparently measure fun with volume so unless you had a guesthouse a decent distance from the beach, you got to listen to throbbing techno beat all night long.

It was like a carnival here with bungee jumping, tailoring, food stalls, and prostitutes side by side and huge white people walking down the center of the streets ignoring the cars which honked at them while trying to drive from point A to point B.

It was overwhelming. I’d looked for nearly an hour before I found a bar I could sip a whiskey in without being propositioned. I didn’t want to stay there either but ended up meeting an Englishman who bought me a few rounds while explaining how the Chinese owned the whole island and simply rented it to the Thais who actually lived and worked here.

Four whiskeys on an empty stomach and here I was. Stumbling past the Macho Bar.

“Hello, handsome man, you come in, please.”

Why not? I could get to know the girls, find out why they were here, what made them tick. I stepped into the bar and only then noticed it was empty except for the three bar girls and the bartender.

The girls clustered around me and I felt like some sort of sinning pervert for even being in such close proximity to them. “I wonder if any of these three are men?” I thought to myself as I searched for Adams apples, man hands, and hairy upper lips. None of them exhibited the characteristics of a transvestite I’d learned from a young Irishman the day before. They seemed to be the real deal.

Were they prostitutes?

“What will you have?” the girl behind the bar spoke pretty good English. I noticed how pretty she was and found myself wishing she were a prostitute… just for a moment though until I caught myself and attributed it to the whiskey.

“Mekong whisky on ice,” I had gotten to where I liked Thai whiskey. It was sweet and didn’t have the same bite as Canadian or American blends. Actually, it was crap, but it was so cheap it was almost free.

She smiled and poured it. “You play darts?” She pointed to where the plump young bar girl had begun throwing darts at an ancient dartboard and mostly missing. “You should play her.”

It sounded like a good idea. I got up and moved over to where she was playing. ”Hey, can I play?” It felt foolish asking her.

“She doesn’t speak English. She love you play.” The bartender spoke rapidly in Thai and the girl smiled at me and handed the darts my way. The two older girls were standing nearby watching the whole exchange. I shot my darts, hitting a bulls eye and two twenties. All three women clapped and cheered for me. It felt good. I retrieved the darts and handed them to the bar girl She shot and stuck one in the board and the other two in the bamboo paneling.

“That last one was a good shot,” I told her. Each time I shot the whole bar got excited and cheered making me feel incredibly…well…macho. Even though the whole bar consisted of me, the bartender, and the three bar girls I was having an incredible time. I played darts, rolled dice against the bartender for drinks, bought rounds of sodas for the girls, danced, and had nonsense conversations with the girl who spoke no English. I liked the way she looked at me. I lost track of how many whiskeys I drank. I lost track of everything.

“Hey, Joe, you take her home now, okay?” The bartender, my good friend, gave me a conspiratorial wink. “She like you, so you take her back to guesthouse…okay?”

“Okay,” it came out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying.

“Good, now you pay me 500 baht. Bar fee.” I was too ashamed to back out now, it was only $30 or $40. I didn’t want to back out.I put the money on the bar. Maybe I would walk the girl home and then send her back. I was kidding myself and I knew it. This was what I’d wanted all along, my secret wish. The girl looked like a younger version of Star. My feelings against the sex trade were all designed to keep me away from this, what I really wanted. Guilt free, responsibility free, sex.

We got back to my room and she indicated I should take a shower. I didn’t know if we should shower together so I went in the bathroom by myself and dumped dippers full of water over myself, lathered up, and rinsed with more dippers. When I left, she entered and I heard the same process repeated.

She was strangely shy. Staying wrapped in a towel until the lights were off. I was still nervous she might be a man and lifted the towel from her vagina. It was a real one.

I put on one of the condoms I carried in my medical kit. The sex act itself was simple and a one time deal. I’d drank too much Mekong whiskey to be a stallion. She didn’t seem to mind just cuddling and holding each other. I started to fall asleep and she got up….”I come back…okay?” Apparently she did speak a little English.

“Okay,” I said and fell back asleep.

In the morning she was there. Lying next to me. She watched me as I woke up, ran her hands over my chest, my body, and looked deeply into my eyes.

“500 baht,” she said, “You pay now, okay?”

My head was aching. I reached for my wallet, wondering if she had already cleaned it out. I opened it and everything was still there. She could have taken everything if she wanted, instead she came back and spent the night cuddling with me.

I pulled out a five hundred note, paused and pulled out a second 500 note. I handed them both to her, realizing I didn’t even know her name. She smiled, a sleepy, affectionate smile. Then looking extremely self conscious she leaned down over me and kissed my chest. “I see you tonight. Bye bye.”

I wondered if I should tell her I was leaving today, decided not to, and rolled over feeling anything but guilty at realizing I was a hypocrite.

The Guitar Player

If you were white and someone could see you… then you were a target to the Thai people. They knew you had money, even if you didn’t.

I had to wait for the bus to Bangkok.I’d walked all over the tiny city of Krabi on the western coast of Thailand for the past 7 hours. It was a nice city, but there was only so much to see. What I really wanted was to find a quiet and secluded place to play my guitar…. a near impossibility given the aggressiveness of the taxi drivers, boatmen, guesthouse hawkers, and food vendors.

But, I had my blue guitar. A guitar is a great way to meet friends. It goes beyond language. It didn’t matter where I went, if I had my guitar, other musicians found me, found a way to speak to me, and found a way to share the gift of the muse.

I carried my pack and guitar to the bus station beside the docks. An empty bench was looking out on the islands that littered the Indian Ocean. I was stopped seven or eight times by men of all ages who noticed my skin or the guitar or both.

“Hey, guitar….take boat tour? See Islands? Come on…” a young Thai man with a sparse mustache.

“Mei kapkun krap,” no thanks “I leave in one hour to Bangkok.”

“Mai pen rai, no problem, take short tour with me, okay?” Thai people believed in the ultra hard sell and then got upset when you became rude.

“No, I just want to play my guitar while I wait for the bus, okay? Kapkun krap.” The guy decided I was a hopeless cause and bee lined towards a white couple that had rounded the corner.

“Hey,” strumming air guitar “Me play..me play…okay?” the guy was a bit older than the last, usually I would have handed him the guitar but now I could see an empty park bench that offered me a place to turn the anger gurgling within me to harmless notes on the wind.

“No, I’m going to play now…I want to play my guitar…okay? I play” The man continued talking and air strumming but I ignored him and walked to the bench shucking off my pack and sitting down.

If I could start playing, I hoped it would build a sort of invisible wall around me so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else before my bus arrived. I started playing a new progression of chords and a couple of guys in their mid-twenties stood near by looking at me.

Finally they decided to breach my musical armor with the standard question among Asians that violates most western rules of privacy etiquette.

“Hey, where you go now? Where you go?” the thin kid in the yellow T-shirt sort of hurled the question at me. I tried to continue playing and ignore it, but knew my own sense of politeness would necessitate an answer. “Huh, hey where you go?”

I saw the way their eyes shifted from me to the guitar and knew the question was only an attempt to wrestle the guitar from my hands and into the most likely talented fingers of one of the young men. I was careful to keep playing as I answered “Bangkok in one hour, so I’m just passing the time playing guitar for a while.”

I put on a smile I didn’t feel and began to sing a song I’d been practicing thus building up my musical fortifications. It did little to repel the yellow shirted invader. He sat on the bench next to me and then much to my surprise reached out and attempted to pull the guitar from my hands.

“Here, you let me play..” he said as he grabbed the neck and tugged gently.

I pulled the guitar back towards me and tried to remain calm as a rage started to burn in my chest.

“Hey man, what the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m playing a song and you try to grab MY guitar from me in the middle. That’s just rude man. It’s really fucking rude, do you have any idea? Huh?”

The Thai guy was nonplussed. “Here let me play, I play now, give.” His thin hands reached again for the guitar.

“No way, if you want to play, you wait until I’m done and then you ask, not just grabbing and demanding,” I looked in the man’s eyes, “Otherwise you’re a rude fucking man, just a rude man, you understand?” My temper was starting to slip out of control.

The Thai man’s eyes narrowed and he said again “Give me, I play.”

I felt a confrontation coming on, a scared voice in me told me to just give the guy the guitar, I ignored it and stayed on the dangerous ground my self righteous anger demanded.

“No, you’re a rude fucking man. Why should I give you my guitar? It’s mine and I’m playing a song, or I was until you tried to grab it. That’s just fucking rude man.” My voice was starting to show a little of the anger I felt.

The Thai man saw it and recognized the word fuck. He may not of understood the whole content of my sentence, but he understood the meaning. His own sense of’face’ in danger now, he stood up.

“You..me…Thai box now.” He made a kick towards my head pulling it back before it was in a real threatening position. There are three facets of Thai life that define it. First is a sense of fun, second is maintaining face, and third is respecting the position of those above you. This situation had quickly escalated to a contest to see who would lose face.

“You, kickbox with me, now, come on.”

I started to play my guitar again. “No, I don’t want to kickbox. I want to play my guitar. Don’t you get that?” I felt a little fear in my gut but refused to acknowledge it. I’d heard plenty of stories about foreigners who were stupid enough to get in fights with Thai people. As soon as a single blow was exchanged every Thai within seeing distance jumped into the fray, usually killing the stupid tourist. You don’t fight with the Thai’s, not if you have any kind of a brain.

I was in a bit of a tough spot. I refused to lose face myself. I saw the attention of the fifteen or twenty Thai’s around the bus station shifting towards the bench I sat on.

“I’m not going to fight you. I’m going to play my guitar.” It was the only way I could see out, I didn’t know how to resolve anything without one of us losing face which could inspire an attack on me. The Thai’s look down on public displays of anger and I hoped the guitar and the music my plucking fingers were again producing would keep the attack from happening.

“Yeah, okay,” yellow shirt said, ”We see what happen, hey, you watch out.”

He walked away and joined a group of seven or eight of his friends and stood in a circle with them. Speaking and gesturing towards the bench, the group walked away. Every once in a while one of the guys would turn their heads to look at me. I tried to give them a carefree sort of grin unless it was yellow shirt, in which case we would glare at each other for a moment.

‘These guys are gonna jump me and take the guitar’ I thought,’ I’ll either get beat up or killed in the next 45 minutes.’ I considered whether to get up and leave or to let the tourist police around the corner know about the guy. Both alternatives involved losing face myself and I’d already been stupid enough to allow myself to get angry and show it.

Instead I sat on the bench playing the guitar and waiting for the attack I felt was imminent. It was a nervous game. My guitar playing went on automatic and my concentration went to tracking the movements of the gang of young men using my peripheral vision. After 20 minutes or so, yellow shirt, moved within range of the bench, the two of us continued to exchange hostile glances. He moved closer. I set the guitar down, adrenaline pumping through me. Here it comes.

Yellow shirt stepped within a foot of me. Both of us had our faces set in resolve and our eyes locked on one another’s.

“Can I play guitar now?” The intensity was still there, my first reaction was to say “fuck no!” but I remembered my own words. “… if you want to play, you wait until I’m done and then you ask.”

Feeling trepidation I said, “Sure, here you go. You okay?” Surprise was quickly replaced with mistrust on yellow shirts face.

“Yeah, me okay…okay you?” He took the guitar and sat down next to me on the bench.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Yellow shirt sat down and began to play. His hands were much more nimble than my own. He played a sort of classic rock meets flamenco and started to sing a song. His voice wasn’t terrific, but he carried a tune better than most Americans. The song he was singing was a Thai song, which coincidentally I had been taught the week before when I was camping on the island of Ko Lipe. I actually knew the words, it was a song about a traveler who finds himself far from home and misses the people who love him. It was a song about hope and never giving up. It was a sad and beautiful song.

I began to sing counterpoint to Yellowshirt on the chorus. “O hi no hi, chang tom te hi, nam the lo de lai…long lim”

Yellow shirts eyes flickered with surprise. He smiled as he played the rest of the song, our voices finally complementing each other as we found the correct range to sing in. A small crowd had gathered around and listened as we finished the song together.

“…Yang mei liang lao, e mach mai, hai… kun ha.”

A smattering of applause filled the open-air bus station. Yellow shirt turned to me.

“How you know Thai song?” the hostility was gone.

“I like Thai people and Thai music,” I told him, “My name is Chris.” I held out my hand.

Yellow shirt took my hand firmly.” My name is Pi… very nice meet you… Creeese.”

For the next half hour Pi and I serenaded the two girls working inside the ticket window. The other men around laughed as Pi made suggestive comments to the girls and the entire atmosphere of the place was light. Suddenly though, Pi, got serious “Creese, when you leave?” “Four” I suddenly realized what time it must be.

“Come….” Pi took off running with the guitar, I followed after grabbing my pack. On the backside of the station a double decker bus was pulling out. I hadn’t even known there was a secondary station; you couldn’t see it from the bench. I looked at the clock, ten minutes to four. The bus was leaving early.

Pi jumped in front of the bus, waving the guitar. The bus stopped and the driver came down, checked my ticket and loaded my pack in the lower compartments. Pi handed me the guitar and walked me to the door.

I climbed up the steps and looked back to see a half dozen Thai people waving at me. I waved and called goodbye out the still open door.

“Goodbye Creese,” Pi called out to me “Nice meet you.”

Dagooze and The Bataks

The ship landed about 30 miles from Medan.I was a bit worried about coming to Indonesia in the midst of economic and political turmoil. Malaysians, Europeans, and even the American Embassy in Chengdu, China had warned me against coming here. I’d read up on the problems in Aceh to the North and Java, Sulawesi, and Ambon in the South. I had heard about the graft, greed, and corruption that were rampant throughout the country. I expected to run into problems with customs just like the Canadian I met in Thailand told me he had.

It was a breeze. I was through customs in seconds and every officer along the way had asked to play my guitar. The Steward from the ship instructed each passenger to go through customs and get on the blue bus that would take us straight to Medan. It was part of the fare we’d paid coming from Penang, Malaysia.

Dozens of poorly clad men offered rides to Penang, Bukat Luwang, and other destinations on motorbikes, minibuses and tuk-tuks, the three-wheeled motorbikes. I listened to the Steward and got on the bus despite my hesitations as to whether he was the guy on our ship or not.

As the bus drove the poor roads from the port to Medan I saw dozens of rough looking young men walking down the streets. Most of them had guitars. The bus finally arrived at the Medan bus station. Getting off the bus all of the passengers were accosted by scores of men on bicycles, motorcycles, and tuk tuks. Being white, I was an immediate object of attention.

“Where you go now? Where you go now? Hey where you from? What you do?” No time to answer between the barrages of the inquiries. I tried to get a little distance between myself and the bus station, knowing that the other passengers would cause more distraction. It didn’t work, there were just too many of the taxi men as compared with passengers. The Indonesian problems had destroyed the tourist economy and left the Indonesians with little or no work. They saw me as an opportunity to make some money. I saw them as a threat to the little bit of money I had left in the world.

I had less than $300 dollars and no way to get back to the United States. It was foolish of me to have come to Indonesia in the first place with so little, but there was no way I was going to miss an opportunity to visit Sumatra when I was so close. It wasn’t like I had a great job at home, I had no job, I had no home. I had about $275 dollars. That was all. It translated to roughly three million rupiah…a huge sum in Indonesia…but I was terrified of what might happen to me if I lost it.

I had picked out a guest house from the newspaper a Malaysian friend had given me. It advertised dorm rooms for 6000 rupiah a night. About fifty cents. The taxi men followed me and continued demanding to take me somewhere. I stopped.

“No” I said firmly” I will walk to the Lucy guesthouse.” “Oh,” they all said at once,” Lucy, very far from here…very far..too far to walk..take taxi..motorbike..”etc etc.

Suddenly a young Indonesian in Sunglasses stepped from the crowd. “Come with me. I will take you there on my motorcycle.” There was something about him I trusted immediately and I followed him through the crowd as he spoke rapidly to them and they dispersed. Some of them laughed and taunted him good-naturedly.

I became suspicious “How much? Barapa hagris?”

“I don’t care” he said “You pay me and if its good for you, its good for me. You play guitar?” He motioned to my blue Thai guitar.

“Yeah, a little” I said. “You?”

“Of course, I’m Batak. Batak man and guitar are one.”

I got on his small motorbike wearing my big traveling rucksack and holding my guitar in one hand while I held onto the seat post with the other. He rode down either side of the street, on the sidewalk, and dodged traffic like a daredevil. It wasn’t too far to Lucy, maybe a couple of kilometers, but it was terrifying and exhilarating as I tried to keep my guitar from scraping the ground or the large trucks we whizzed between.

When we got there, I checked in. At first they refused to give me one of the cheap rooms, but Dagooze, my guide, communicated with the house girl and soon they were okay with the fact that I would sleep in the cheap dorms. The price remained at 6000 rupiah even though another guest I met later had paid the “new” rate of 15,000 rupiah.

I asked Dagooze if he wanted a coke and paid him 5000 rupiah for the ride. He told me it was twice what the ride was worth but I insisted he take it for pulling me out of the confusing situation and getting me to the guesthouse.

“Can I play your guitar?” He asked, picking it up. I nodded yes and sat down. He began to play and i n moments six or seven men came from outside, inside, and who knows where and suddenly I was introduced to Batak culture.

The melodies were strangely classical and the voices of the men rose in the most hauntingly beautiful harmonies I had ever heard. The guitar was passed from man to man and each played as well as the one before. I was astounded by the way their voices blended together.

Someone lit up a joint. Someone else passed a number of beers around the room. An old man I recognized from the bus station said to me “You buy beers…one round..and we provide mary jane…okay?” I agreed quickly.

We sat and played and sang until the early hours of the morning. “We are Batak” someone would occasionally explain to me. “Batak man and guitar they are one. Batak and music they are one.”

The Batak men played guitars until the sun was rising and my head was feeling like a million butterflies were fluttering somewhere behind my eyelids. The house girls Flora and Hotma had joined us and sang the traditional songs from Lake Toba, the homeland of the Batak people. Flora’s voice was raspy but her English was good. She carried an English/ Indonesian dictionary.

The men seemed uncomfortable with the women singing, but welcomed them. This after all was the city and not Lake Toba where the men would go to beach side bars and sing while drinking the coconut whiskey, tuak, until dawn or their wives came to lead them away.

Hotma and Flora expressed their undying love to me despite our new friendship and lack of actually knowing each other at all. It was the end of the first day I’d spent in Indonesia. It had been a wild day and though I was in a sort of musical heaven. I had to go to sleep. I stood up and everyone groaned their disappointment at my heading into the cot reserved for me in the dormitory.

Hotma called out “But Chris, I love you. Wait for me, I love you.” I was a bit drunk and naive and called back I love you too, at which point she gave the universal symbol of fellatio with her hand motioning toward her mouth and tongue pushing on her cheek. I hadn’t expected that and chose to take it naively. “I love you too…but am very tired.”

She was a beautiful girl and I rushed into the dorms to hide the erection that popped up instantly upon understanding her less than subtle insinuation. I went to bed elated and regretful. The paper-thin walls allowed me to go to sleep hearing the same wonderful songs I’d been so lucky to participate in.

In the morning I made preparations to go to Lake Toba, the home of the Bataks. Flora, a pretty girl with extremely large teeth flirted with me and kept Hotma at bay as the younger girl made more and more offers of sexual union to me.

At one point she said “Chris, I love you very good… very good” as she washed some of the other guests laundry in a large tub in the open courtyard behind the guesthouse. Flora quickly pushed her out of the way and said “She’s young, I’ll love you much better.” I laughed and Hotma quickly got up and left. I sat and talked with Flora for a minute asking her about her dictionary.

We spoke for a few minutes before I left for Toba.

“Chris,” she called, “Remember me and bring back mangoes.”

From Aceh to Medan

(A woman told me this tale minutes after she got off a bus in Medan, she walked up and sat next to me in a noodle shop and began to talk. Introductions came after she had found a small bit of relief telling her tale to another Westerner.)

Jan got on the bus, pleased to be leaving Aceh. It wasn’t that she’d had any bad experiences there; it was the sense that something bad could happen at any moment. The strife torn province of Indonesia was virtually paralyzed as rebel forces clashed with government troops on a daily basis. Casualties on both sides were mounting as gunfights occurred with more and more frequency.

People had questioned her sanity in wanting to come here in the first place, but it was a dream. A dream like the one I’d had since I was a little boy as my grandfather toldstories of clearing paths through the jungle, examining rocks and soil for telltale signs, and finally marking a particular spot with ‘x’. His ‘x’ had turned into a gushing oil well and one of the biggest wildcat fields of the 1950’s. It was the same field that Exxon was still pulling thousands of barrels a day out of.

But it wasn’t the oil that had brought Jan to Sumatra. It was the way her Dutch grandfather, like my American grandfather, had described the people, the orangutans, and the jungle itself. It was a vision of a wild Eden imprinted on her that she had needed to see for herself.

The people on the bus with her were mostly Indonesian. Ethnic Indonesian. Acehnese Muslims with boxes of fruit, chickens, or bundles of clothing stuffed into the utility bags made from tarps too worn to be useful as anything larger. Some Christian Batak people on their way to the city of Medan. The Christians looked nervous. They had every reason to. Aceh was a mostly Muslim province. Throughout Indonesia battles between ethnic Christians and Muslims turned into deadly scenes rarely seen on Western TV.

The bus passed half dozen Mosques under construction in the first ten minutes. At each one women in full veils stood holding baskets on long handles and severe looking men with long beards and black headgear sat in covered shelters watching as passing motorists paid tribute to Allah and contributed much needed funds toward the construction of the Mosques.

The road was split up by makeshift roadblocks and orange highway cones. The bus had to stop and occasionally men with guns would come on the bus asking for additional contributions. The driver refused each time. Each time Jan expected a confrontation.

The bus hit the countryside and began picking up speed on the rough road. Jan began dozing She bounced in her seat and wok with a start. She looked out the window and saw the orange cones. It didn’t occur to her sleepy brain that there was no Mosque in sight. Then she was too distracted by the men in camouflage carrying automatic weapons. She saw the military vehicles as the bus came to a stop.

The soldier motioned for the driver to open the door. This time he could not say no. The door opened and three men came on the bus. They were small and looked hungry. They wore regimental patches identifying them as Indonesian Regular Army. A Javanese unit.

The oldest of the three, who looked no older than 17, spoke rapidly in Indonesian. She understood the part about rebel activity in the area and this being a routine check. She got her passport ready. Each of the soldiers spoke with the people on the bus. Sometimes they took their packages or bundles and passed them out the windows to other soldiers waiting outside. She presumed it was to search them for weapons.

The oldest one got to her. “Oh, Hello Miss…you Dutch, okay?” His smile didn’t comfort her. “Very nice bag…here…let me see.” Suddenly she was very glad she had put the bulk of her cash in the money belt she wore. The little bit of cash she carried was pulled from the bag and put in the boys pockets. “ You very good to help Indonesian Soldiers fight hoodlums and rebels, you have more bags here?” “No,” she swallowed and tried to look brave. ”This is all I have.”

“Maybe you like to stay with soldiers for a while…” he laughed and said something to the other two soldiers who also laughed. The three finished their examination of the bus and its passengers without having looked at anyone’s paperwork. Jan saw them take a few pieces of Jewelry from other passengers. They didn’t return the parcels they had unloaded. They left the bus and motioned the driver to drive on. The soldiers on the side of the road laughed and tossed things back and forth to each other as the bus rolled away.

The bus had gone perhaps five miles when it again slowed down. This time the men holding guns were dirtier. There were fewer of them than there had been soldiers. They didn’t look nearly as happy as the soldiers of a few minutes before. In fact they looked miserable and bedraggled. Some of them wore dirty bandages on their arms, faces, heads, or legs.

They didn’t speak Indonesian. They didn’t bother with asking the driver to open the door. They screamed out commands in Acehnese and fired their weapons in the air. The driver opened the door and everyone hurriedly got off the bus.

“What’s happening?” Jan asked the man who was next to her, ”What did they say?”

“They say we get off the bus quickly or they kill us all. Quickly, get off the bus.”

Jan stood up with the others and got off the bus. Several of the rebels outside were separating the men from the women and children. Men on the left, everyone else on the right. The rest of the men, boys really, were rifling through all of the contents of the bus. Tossing the remainder of the bags and packages out the door and windows into a pile that was pitifully small.

A man a little older than the rest of his comrades approached Jan. “Where you put your things? You tell me now? Where is money and things?” Trying to control her fear, Jan looked at the man “The soldiers took nearly everything just five miles back…they took it all..we have nothing left.”

“Foreign slut, you lie…no soldiers this close,” he was panicking. He screamed out orders to the rest of the rebels who threw their haul into a battered taxi truck then pointed their guns at the men and motioned them into the jungle on the other side of the road.

Jan couldn’t understand what it was they were saying, but she understood the tragic cries of the women and children around her. She understood the menacing motions of the gunmen as the men moved into the dense jungle. She understood the sound of sustained automatic weapons that came from the jungle.

“Why? Why?” She tried to get one of the women around her to explain.

“They say we helped the soldiers and so have hurt them. We must pay with the lives of our men.” It was a stoic young woman who explained. Jan suddenly wished she had given the rebels her money belt, maybe they would have let them go then. This was so unthinkable, so unbelievable. So unreal.

After about a minute of silence there came a rustling from the jungle. The men, all of the men, both rebels and those from the bus emerged from the brush. The passengers looked grim, scared, and humiliated, but alive.

The older rebel began to laugh when he saw the confusion on her face. “You tell people that Aceh must be free, you tell them we show mercy on you people, even though you help the soldiers. Next time, maybe we be not so nice.”

He spoke to the rest of the people, most likely translating what he had just said to Jan. The rebels around him began to laugh. They motioned with their guns that everyone should get back on the bus and then they melted into the jungle.

Everyone loaded back on the bus. It was silent for the rest of the trip. They passed several mosques when they approached the outskirts of Medan, but no one had anything left to give.

The Polynesian Hostel Beach Club Waikiki, Hawaii

(After four months in Asia I returned to the Pacific Northwest and lived in my Volkswagen until shortly after September 11th, 2001 when I bought a ticket to Hawaii and somehow became the manager of the coolest hostel in Hawaii.)

”Hey girls, wanna drink some beer, don’t worry, I’ve got condoms.”

It made everyone laugh except the Japanese girls walking by, who walked a little faster in their high platform sneakers and frayed denim skirts, fanny packs accentuating their perfectly shaped asses as they moved in that shuffling pigeon toe walk they all seemed to share. They didn’t really understand what had been said but correctly assumed by the raunchy laughter that followed it that it was inappropriate.

”Keep trying Nick, it’s bound to work someday…” Andrew, the bald Englishman slapped Nick on the back. The fog of cigarette and marijuana smoke in the air brought a stale cloying scent that somehow conveyed the feeling of a party in the works.

Nick sat down, slightly embarrassed by his own sudden outburst. After a moment of examining the half empty bud light bottle in his hand he lifted his shaggy head and laughed with everyone else. Sipping his beer with his right hand and pushing his bangs back with his left, he revealed his slightly acne scarred face. Early twenties, not too tall, he wasn’t a bad looking kid. He just had bad lines.

An assortment of odd characters sat around him on the ramshackle furniture in the parking garage. They weren’t any odder than him, but then he wasn’t any odder than them either and who would ever believe that this group would even exist. There was Andrew, a 28-year-old real estate broker from London. His girlfriend, Kirsten, a Georgia peach who still looked good but must of been pushing 40. Locky, an Australian mining engineer seeking a better life in America. Ludwig, the German importer. Tokyo Joe, a retired Japanese schoolteacher from Osaka. And the cast kept going in a never ending stream of new faces, names, careers and countries.

It wasn’t just an ordinary parking garage they were in. It held a coke machine, picnic tables, payphones, and laundry facilities. Above it were the fifteen split units that made up the studios, dorms, and semi private rooms of the Polynesian Hostel Beach Club in Waikiki, Hawaii. A constant maelstrom in perpetual flux housing a hundred people that were almost certainly going to be a different group the next night. A place where strangers become friends, friends become lovers, and exotic destinations got exchanged like laundry gossip.

Hostels are usually interesting places, but the Polynesian was something different. It brought the people it wanted, forced them to interact, and brought significant change into the lives of nearly everyone fortunate enough to be touched by it.

It was born when the manager of another hostel, Tina, was accused of stealing. She was a Vietnamese refugee who had landed there after several years of voyaging with the poverty jet set. She landed there with nothing, saved, and planned on staying forever…then she was accused out of the blue. She quit and started the Polynesian Hostel Beach Club. She got the ball rolling and tried handing it off unsuccessfully to a series of managers who maintained the status quo until the right person was ready.

When I was ready, whatever spirit was in charge brought me to Hawai’i. Right on time. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing until I was handed the keys to the Polynesian. What were the odds of a homeless anarchist being given an opportunity like this..miniscule unless something else were at play. Something else was definitely at play.

”You must say Kunbanwa…” this came from one of the tiny Japanese girls sitting with everyone else. "It mean good evening." Everyone laughed again.

A young Japanese-American with a Texas drawl came around the corner laughing to himself. ” Oh maaan, y’all ain’t gonna believe what just happened in the staff room.” His laughter was uncontrollable. "Grant just took a sleepwalk and pissed all over Jason and Allison while they were laying in bed. Fuck man, I can’t believe I just saw that shit."Again, laughter filled the garage and echoed down the block to Waikiki beach.

”He peesed on theeem?” Daniel, the 20-year-old Polish guy stood up.

"Hey man, those are my shorts you’re wearing!" Nick stood up too pointing at the blue surf shorts Daniel wore. ”Why are you wearing my clothes?”

”I think it’s okay because all my clothes dirty and I have no money. ..okay?” ”What?” Nick’s voice got higher in pitch. ”You can’t just wear my clothes man…those are my clothes. Aw fuck it, just make sure you give em back.”

THE END — OF ROUGH LIVING ANYWAY…

MAYBE NOW YOU ARE READY FOR

SMOOTH LIVING: BEYOND THE LIFE OF A VAGABOND

LIMINAL TRAVEL

OR IF YOU WANT TO LAUGH

DOUCHEBAGS, FAGS, AND HAGS

ASK FOR THEM AT DISREPUTABLE BOOK DEALERS OR COME BUY THEM AT VAGODAMITIO.COM

APPENDIX 1: SMART QUESTIONS

The following are some questions you can ask yourself to figure out where you are going or what you want to do. I like to use these questions periodically to check up on myself or to inspire myself to write or learn something…..

1) What is my provocation? Why am I doing what I do?

2) What do I need?

3) What are my abilities?

4) What are my accumulations?

5) What kind of access do I have?

6) Who are my major influences?

7) How do I get cash?

8) What do I want?

9) What do I always have?

10) Where do I want to be in a week, month, and year?

11) Is this the best use of my time?

12) What seems like it might work?

13) What isn’t working?

14) What is working?

15) What makes me happy?

16) Why?

17) What do I love to do?

18) How do I define success?

19) Who am I doing what I do for?

20) What is my standard for success?

21) What are my three Mojo daily dos?

22) What are my three daily don’t’s? (Mojo killers)

23) What are three ambitions I feel good about?

24) What do I do?

25) What am I doing here?

26) What is my mission?

27) What is my biggest life failure?

28) What can I learn from that?

29) What three tools make my life easier?

30) Is my vision moving me?

31) What do other people think I do?

32) What do I think I do?

33) What do I really do?

34) What can I do to take the next leap?

35) What do I want to accomplish next?

36) What are my top three short term goals?

37) What are my top three long term goals?

38) What can I do instead of worry or complain?

39) What is the most important to me?

40) How can I focus on that (#39)?

APPENDIX 2: ROUGH RECIPES

Here are some of my favorite recipes using a variety of cooking methods. Most of them can be prepared anywhere. They are simple and easy to make. I’m not a Top Chef, but I’ve eaten a meal made by a couple of runner’s up.

Vago Scramble

This is my favorite breakfast recipe. Like all of the recipes in this section, most of the ingredients can be whatever you find or have handy. Use your imagination or your host’s pantry to fill in the blanks.

Ingredients

4 eggs

2 large potatoes

3 tbsp cooking oil

garlic

small onion

various vegetables and herbs (whatever you can find)

shredded cheese

spices

Directions

Cut the potatoes into small cubes (1/4 inch) while you allow the oil (or butter) to melt in a skillet. Drop the potatoes in and cook on high heat for 5-10 minutes allowing them to brown and or burn slightly. Mince garlic, onion, vegetables, and herbs. Pour off the excess oil. Drop in your minced goods and cook 3-5 minutes adding spices (like a pinch of cinnamon, salt, pepper, and cayenne). Beat the eggs in a small dish. Pour eggs over the top and cook 1-2 minutes before flipping the entire thing. If you fail to flip it in one piece,just scramble the whole thing until all the egg is cooked. Put shredded cheese on top, cover for 1 minute, and serve it up.

Two-Dog Tom Sandwiches

This is a fun meal to make. I like to use Hot Spicy Spam but any meat will work.

Ingredients

1/2 lb. cooked meat, cubed

1/2 lb. cheese, cubed

2 hard boiled eggs, chopped

1/2 c. olives, chopped

1/2 c. mayo

3 Tbsp. chili or bbq sauce

1/3 c. onion, chopped

12 hotdog buns or folded pieces of bread

Directions

Mix all together and fill hotdog buns with mixture, wrap in foil, and heat 10-15 minutes.

Uncle Larry’s Hobo Supper

The Hobo Supper or Hobo Packet can be made about 5000 different ways. This is the first version I learned. The following is my current favorite.

Ingredients

3 pounds ground beef

4 medium potatoes, quartered

3 carrots, sliced

1 medium onion, sliced

Salt and pepper to taste

1 can cream of mushroom soup

Directions

Form ground beef into patties and place each on a square of aluminum foil. Divide potatoes, carrots, and onions equally and arrange on top of patties. Add salt and pepper to taste. Place a spoonful of mushroom soup on top of vegetables. Seal foil tightly and place on grill or directly on coals for about 45 minutes to an hour. Can also be cooked in the oven at 350 degrees F. for 45 minutes. Delicious and easy

Uncle Morris’ Hobo Packet

Ingredients

1 lb of sliced pork

4 medium potatoes, quartered

2 sweet potatos

1 large onion, sliced

Salt and pepper to taste

Chopped red chili peppers

Juice of half a lemon

Clove of garlic, chopped

Directions

Same as above, lay out your foil. Chop up your pork. Put equal parts in the packets. Divide potatoes, sweet potato, garlic, pepper, and onions equally and arrange on top of meat. Add salt and pepper to taste. Seal foil tightly and place on grill or directly on coals for about 45 minutes to an hour. Can also be cooked in the oven at 350 degrees F. for 45 minutes. Delicious and easy

Uncle Murray’s Onion

Ingredients

Large onion

1/4 C. (1/2 stick) butter

Salt

Pepper

Directions

Score onion across the top several times and place in aluminum foil. Put butter, salt and pepper on top of onion and close the foil securely. Set directly in the fire and cook approximately 30 to 45 minutes. Unwrap and enjoy!

Boudreaux Potatoes

Ingredients

2 cups potatoes, peeled & cubed

1 cup chopped onions

1/2 cup thinly sliced carrots

1/2 cup diagonally sliced celery

2 T. water

1/2 tsp. salt

1/8 tsp. pepper

8 slices bacon, crisply cooked and cut into 2" pieces

1 T. butter or margarine

Directions

Combine potatoes, onions, carrots, celery and water. Boil until vegetables are hot and just beginning to cook, stirring once or twice during cooking time. Drain, then stir in salt and pepper. Place potato mixture on a large sheet of heavy duty aluminum foil. Top with crumbled bacon and dot with butter or margarine. Bring up ends of foil to wrap securely and fold top of foil to seal. Place on grill, 4" to 6" above medium coals. Cook for 25 to 30 minutes or until vegetables are tender.

Izak’s Cattail Salad

Cattails grow along the road in ditches and standing water throughout the United States. They are those tall weeds with the bulbous brown tops that grow in thick patches.

Ingredients

As many Cattail stalks as possible (peeled down to the soft white centers)

Bacon (minced)

Fine Mustard

Vinegar

Directions

Boil the hearts of cattail for 30 seconds. Heat the bacon in a skillet. Add the mustard and vinegar. Add the cattail hearts

Hopalong’s Favorite Cheese Steak

Ingredients

Cheap sandwich meat

Onions

Cheese

Rolls

Pickled Peppers

Directions

Mince onion. Cut baloney into long strips. Sauté onions till slightly browned add meat. Cook till the meat is slightly brown. Stuff the rolls with your "steak". Top with peppers cheese. Wrap in newspaper and enjoy.

Pork Pie

Ingredients

Shredded pork

Blue sweet potatos

2 baking potatos

3 small red onions

½ clove of garlic

Salt and pepper

Snap beans

Cilantro

Small hot peppers

Butter

Milk

Directions

Cook the pork onions garlic cilantro in a frying pan. In a kettle boil the baking potatoes and blue potatoes(thinly sliced or minced) and snap beans until soft. Drain the water. Add butter and milk. Whip. Add the pork mixture. Serve with salad.

Sunshine Pasta Pesto

Ingredients

1 package of pasta

1 bunch of cilantro chopped fine

Half a clove of garlic, peeled and minces

3 small red onions peeled and minced

Ginger, shredded and minced

Calimansi (Philippine Limes)

Olive oil

Vinegar

Salt and pepper

Directions

Cook your pasta. Meanwhile heat olive oil in a cast iron pan. Add all the other ingredients to the oil. Turn off the heat. Mix thoroughly. Drain water from pasta. Add cilantro pesto to the pasta and mix until mixture is evenly distributed over the pesto.

Kev-Can Pork Adobo

Ingredients

Garlic

Vinegar

Soy sauce

Onion

Salt

Pepper

Pork 1 lb

Kalimansi (small lime)

Directions

Cut the pork into bite size pieces and marinate it in a mixture of 2/3 vinegar, 1/3 soy, and finely minced garlic and onion. Allow to sit for several hours. Cook in a frying pan or skillet on medium heat in olive oil. Create a dipping sauce from 2/3 vinegar, 1/3 soy, juice and seeds of 2 Kalimansi, and small hot peppers minced. Red onion and garlic in sauce is optional. Serve with rice.

Tim’s Fish Taco’s

Ingredients

Fish fillets

Eggs

Flour

Corn tortillas

One head of cabbage

A lemon

Ranch Dressing

Pico de Gallo Hot Sauce

Salsa

Guacamole

Directions

Beat the eggs in a bowl. Lay the four on a flat surface. Dip the fillets in the egg and then into the flour. Cover both sides. Fry the fillets in oil for approximately one minute per side.

Heat the tortillas. Slice the cabbage into slivers approx. 1/8 inch wide. Mix the ranch dressing and a healthy amount of tapetio.Fill tortilla with fish, cabbage, salsa, and guacamole. Top with special sauce and lemon juice.

Quickie Recipes

Fried Ramen with Egg.

Boil a package of ramen. Drain. Fry in oil for a minute or so. Add season package. Drop an egg or two into the water with the noodles. Cook for another minute.

Other Special Ramen Meals

Add vegetables, meat, or peanuts to ramen to make it special. Anything livens up ramen.

Spam Eggs and Rice

This is a favorite in Hawaii. Slice your spam thin and cook it like bacon. Serve scrambled eggs with rice and spam.

Smoked Salmon Chowder

Cook a can of cream of potato soup and add in a piece of smoked salmon shredded into bits. Cook for five minutes more. Use plenty of black pepper.

Smoked Salmon Hash

Fry potatoes and onions in small pieces. Add smoked salmon.

Stick bread

Mix flour, salt, baking soda, butter , and water to make a thick dough. Flatten it with a can. Wrap it around the end of a clean stick and hold it over coals. Pull the bread off after a few minutes and fill the hole with jam or peanut butter.

Huevos Rancheros Especial

Heat an opened can of black beans on the fire. Fry a couple of eggs. Heat a few corn tortillas. Toss the beans on the tortillas, the eggs on the beans, and salsa and sour cream on top of that. Chopped onions, garlic, and cilantro make this one ten times better.

Perfect Rice Every Time

The secret to making perfect rice is simple. Rinse your rice. Put it in the pan. Add enough water to go from the top of the rice leveled to the first joint of your first finger. Boil until water is gone. Leave covered for five minutes before eating.

Tuna Melts

Mix the tuna with onion, garlic, and whatever else you think will taste good. Put tuna and cheese on bread. Put mayo on the outsides of both slices of bread. Fry until brown on a dry pan. The mayo has enough oil.

APPENDIX 3: MAKING GEAR

Tin can stoves.

Tin can alcohol stoves are great. They are smokeless and boil water in about 7 minutes.

Cut the bottoms off two soda cans about one inch high. Use a nail to poke holes in the bottom of one. Use a small nail and poke a bunch of holes. Fill the holeless can with cotton balls, strips of t-shirt or whatever cotton material you have. Nest one can inside the other so you’ve got a sort of hockey puck. Set it with the hole can facing up. Pour in a little kerosene, or alcohol and light it up. Not recommended with gasoline or other highly combustible fuels.

Here are a couple of sites that show how to make tin can stoves

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SekjzXDa52w

www.instructables.com/id/Alcohol-Stove-4

Camp and Food Storage.

Scrounge around some restaurants and see if you can get some of the big gallon cans or glass jars with lids. Clean them out and then fill em up with flour, rice, dried beans, and other staples. If you don’t know how to cook with these get yourself an old cookbook and start practicing.

Sleeping Bag

If you have a decent sleeping bag use it, if not old curtains and blankets etc can be made into a nice bag with a little bit of sewing. A sleeping bag is just two bags, one inside the other, with the space in between them stuffed with insulation. So, really, any insulation will work. One good thing if you’re caught out in the weather and you don’t have enough insulation is to simply use the junk you find under trees like pine needles or something. Don’t laugh but newspapers are very warm. Cardboard is too. And who would steal a camp full of cardboard? No one. You can supplement a lighter sleeping bag that you take with you with cardboard and crumpled newspapers. Just be sure to keep the stuff dry. Plastic will do that.

Groundcloth

Plastic or burlap makes a decent groundcloth, pad, or tarp. the ground will get cold and uncomfortable without it. Heavy-duty 33-gallon garbage bags can be used to make a ground cloth, a poncho, or a small tent.

Get a Rope.

Spend the money to get a nice 50-foot nylon rope. I like the parachute cord, you’ll find a million uses for it. If you don’t want to spend do some dumpster diving and tie together a bunch of shoelaces and reel em on a stick. It will come in handy, I promise.

Finding Gear

Apartments usually have people that throw tons of stuff away, also keep an eye out for garage sales and scour the free boxes after the sale ends. Books can usually be sold at used bookstores, a lot of vintage clothing can be sold, and other stuff can be sold at garage sales, on Ebay, or on craigslist.

There is no limit to what you can make from the garbage of other people except your own ability to figure it out.Here are a few suggestions to get you started:

Old curtains or material can easily be made into a blanket. The ideal size is at least 60” wide by 2 yards.

There is no shortage of old shoes in the trash and shoestrings can be used to make all kinds of rope and cordage simply by tying them together and spooling them on a stick.

Beat up sandals usually have useful leather straps attached to them.

Old mesh orange sacks work well as a carryall bag or a pot scrubber.

Empty soda bottles work great as canteens. Wash them out with a little bleach first.

Filling egg carton cups with sawdust or lint and pouring old wax over the top can make fire starters.

The list goes on and on. Use your imagination and you will find that you rarely need to buy anything. Especially expensive gear.

Finding Fresh Veggies and Fruits

Abandoned houses often have old gardens that still have edibles growing in them, feel free to harvest, but I always like to leave things better than I found ’em so think about throwing some beans or corn seed in the ground…it’ll help you or someone else. If there’s a hose, water the garden, if not, piss on it. Cultivating a community garden is another good idea…

If there are farmers markets in your area go there early and late and offer to help load or unload boxes and grateful farmers will usually hook you up with what they don’t sell at the market or sometimes with grade a produce.

Get a book from the library or read it in a bookstore or online to familiarize yourself with the edible wild plants in your area.

Volounteer at the foodbank and you usually get prime stuff… they appreciate your help and you get to help other folks out which feels good by itself.

Leaving a Camp. I always like outfitting my camps with stuff I find in dumpsters or the woods (abandoned camps) that way if it gets ruined or lost it’s no big deal. At one point I had five camps all stocked and left in tact.

APPENDIX 4: MORE RESOURCES

The truth is I can only show you so much. Happiness is in your hands. Find you passion. Find your freedom and find a passion income. All there is to it, is to do it. Here are a few places you can find freelance work and more resources.

Freelance Switch — A community of freelance professionals from around the world, spanning all manner of fields. www.freelanceswitch.com

Freelance Folder — Freelance Tools, Advice and Resources

www.freelancefolder.com

Elance — Freelance listings where you can bid to get jobs against other workers www.elance.com

The forums at Digital Point — More than just how to blog. Search ‘WTB’ to find what jobs people need done. Forums.digitalpoint.com

Problogger.net Jobboards — Freelance jobs for blogger and writers

Small Business and Education Resources:

IttyBiz — small business blog (focusing on marketing)

www.ittybiz.com

Entrepreneur’s Journey — online business blog by Yaro Stark

www.entrepreneursjourney.com

Coursera — Free courses in everything you can imagine

www.coursera.org

Motivational Resources:

Steve Pavlina — Personal development resources

www.stevepavlina.com

Lifehacker — How to make things and change your life

www.lifehacker.com

Seth Godin — Pure genius motivational stuff

www.sethgodin.com

Zen Habits — Ways to make yourself better, faster, stronger, richer

www.zenhabits.com

Blogger Resources:

ProBlogger — the must‐read blog for anyone wanting to make money blogging. Darren’s enthusiasm and gentle spirit shines through his writing, and there’s a huge amount of in‐depth free content.

www.problogger.net

Daily Blog Tips — more focus on the technology of blogging. High‐quality information from Daniel Scocco, who runs a number of online businesses. www.dailyblogtips.com

JohnChow.com — John Chow is one of the most successful bloggers in the world and he doesn’t mind sharing what he does or trying to sell you his products www.johnchow.com

Book Resources:

4 Hour Workweek — Timothy Ferriss

How to work for just four hours a week and live your life the rest of the time.

Career Renegade — Jonathan Fields

How to find your passion and make a living from it.

No More Mondays — Dan Miller

If you want to find your true calling, this book will help you. Inspiring and encouraging with great cartoons too.

How to Make Your Dreams Come True — Mark Forster

To-do lists and how to pull instead of push

The Success Principles — Jack Canfield 25 principles to make you succeed. Very motivational. Canfield became a millionaire with Chicken Soup for the ___ Soul.

Personal Development for Smart People — Steve Pavlina

Sometimes profound, sometimes maddening. Well worth the time it takes to read it

Get Everything Done (And Still Have Time to Play) — Mark Forster

How to cut commitments, stay focused, and get everything done.

APPENDIX 5: MY 2000 ANARCHIST MANIFESTO

I wrote this anarchist manifesto August 6, 2000. It was shortly before I bought the bus and moved into it. Shortly before my world changed by embracing Rough Living. I thought it might be interesting for you to read.

The following is an approximate summation of my beliefs as an anarchist and a human being. My system of beliefs is constantly evolving and so it is impossible for me to put down on paper anything more than the basic premises that define my overall worldview. I do not write this to have anyone agree with me. Chances are that at some future point, I will not agree with everything contained herein.

This is not a picture of a future anarchist society. There are no examples of ways individuals or collectives can solve problems. There are no guidelines for bringing the revolution to a head. This document simply defines the way that I have chosen to structure my life as an anarchist. I encourage you to read what I have to say, adapt the parts you like to your own worldview and to e-mail me with comments and ideas so that I can continue to evolve as a human being.

I heartily discourage you from adopting my (or anyone else’s) ideas in whole without spending sufficient time thinking, researching, questioning, discussing, and changing them to fit with the definition of what you believe.

I. Background

There are plenty of historical, scholarly, and scientific definitions of anarchism. Enough so that I feel comfortable jumping straight to my personal definition:

Anarchism — a political system composed of non-system wherein the adherents are enabled to be complete human beings and exercise free will to the extent that other human beings are not restricted in their own exercise of free will, a non-system where individuals are allowed to work out their own destiny (karma) and organize individual and community ideals of living both alone and together.

There are of contradictions in this definition i.e. a system which is a non system. The truth is that contradictions are normal. Look for them and they exist everywhere.

II. My Personal System

I believe that each person is responsible for creating his or her own set of rules to live by (10 commandments, code of conduct, etc.) As stated above, I also believe that each individual is responsible to personalize their rules…i.e. take the 10 commandments and make them your own. (Thanks to Robert Heinlein for introducing this concept in Time Enough for Love )

The following are my 10 commandments, they form the basis of who I am (right now.)

1. You’re not the boss of me, I’m not the boss of you. — this rule goes back to childhood when we were all equal. Remember when one kid would start acting like the boss, we’d always say “You’re not the boss of me,” kids are born anarchists and it takes years of conditioning to create whatever it is our society turns them into. I’ve added the second part to remind me that I too am conditioned to “take charge” and I am not the boss of anyone else either. The truth is no one is the boss of anyone. Leadership is derived from either consent or coercion. Consensual leadership is a giving process that utilizes compassion. Coercive leadership is a taking process that utilizes fear.

2. NO-thing is SOME-thing. This rule is to remind me that a lack of anything is still something. If you create a vacuum in a bottle there is nothing in the bottle except a vacuum -that is something. If you eliminate all hierarchical systems in day to day activities there will be a vacuum of order. The vacuum of order (anarchy) is not non-existant simply because NO thing defines it.

3. Over esteem leaders and the people lose their power. Over value possessions and people begin to steal. This one is straight from the Tao Te Ching. It says to me people are people and stuff is stuff but there is something else more important so don’t put too much value on what any person (including yourself) says or has.

4. What isn’t worth saying or doing isn’t worth thinking about. If you are thinking about saying or doing something either do it and accept the consequences (good or bad) or quit thinking about it. Take a stand or shut up.

5. Autonomy builds community. If you are able to take care of yourself, you are more valuable to your community. Not only are you not a problem, you become a part of the solution. By asking the community (the state) to take care of us, we give up the joy of knowing we can take care of ourselves and (later) of each other. Focus on being the provider of your own needs and you will have better relationships with spouse, children, co-workers, and friends.

6. Don’t preach, live your life and let others ask the secret of your happiness (success). This seems like another contradiction if you take this treatise as a sermon. However, I am not forcing anyone to listen to me. I am simply defining my own existence in the hope that it will encourage others to define their own existence. The essence of this one is twofold 1) don’t try to force your ideas on others 2) be prepared to share your ideas with others when asked to. I assume that your reading this is consent.

7. No one is right, no one is wrong. We are free to form our own ideas. We are free to agree or disagree with anyone. We are not free to make determinations of “right” and “wrong” this way lies totalitarian government. An idea may be appropriate or inappropriate but it may not be right or wrong in my reality. Galileo was “wrong” and the church was “right” etc etc etc. Right and wrong are subjective impressions based on worldview.

8. Walk a mile in the others moccasins before passing judgment. Before condemning someone for their actions try to figure out why they acted that way. A business person may be trying to be less of a burden, a cop may not know how else to improve society than enforcing society’s rules, and a thief may not know another way to live.

9. Respect others as you would be respected. This one is just about being cool. Don’t rip people’s personal shit off unless you want yours to be ripped off. Think how you would feel if you were treated the way you might be considering treating someone else. Don’t stomp on their beliefs or ideas…listen, acknowledge, question, and respect others.

10. What is a good man but a bad man’s teacher, what is a bad man but a good mans job. Another one straight from my Anarchist’s Bible (the Tao Te Ching). Think about it. A “bad” person gives you a chance to teach about true “goodness” by your reaction, your words, or your being.

III. The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Grease (the role of violence in the revolution)

We are entitled to defend ourselves. We have voices to speak up against the injustices of the world. Sometimes, it takes a little something extra to make the world listen to what we have to say. Violence against private property is an excellent way to make a point. If a company is abusing our right to exist, we ask them to stop, we use our voice, and then we begin to make it expensive for them to operate. This is the worst nightmare of a capitalist. Human life is cheap compared with the cost of operating a business to the capitalist. He (she) would rather you killed employees than destroyed his shop. Violence against property makes the capitalist angry and he (she) will try to provoke you to violence against himself or his employees so that he can feel justified in condemning you and your cause. This is why it is good to smash and run. This leaves the capitalist unable to conduct business and yet uninjured. It also leaves you uninjured if he (she) should have a gun handy. Leave the looting for those who don’t know any better, stuff is a burden we do not need for fulfillment.

IV. How we will do things after and during the revolution (now)

That is up to us and our comrades. Each group (family, collective, cell, affinity group, etc etc.) must come up with their own way to solve problems and to provide necessities for the members of their community. In order to bring about the future, we must act now. Collectivize your business. Buy out your bosses (by grouping with your fellow workers and pooling your resources.) Seek out other anarchists with new ideas and ways of doing things. It is my thought, that if we all act as anarchists how we can, where we are, right now…we will suddenly find ourselves living in an anarchist world based on liberty, equality, and solidarity. Remain open to change, but most of all speak your mind.

ABOUT VAGO DAMITIO

Please feel free to find me at VagoDamitio.com. You can email me at vago@vagodamitio.com — I look forward to hearing from you! ~Vago

The Early Years

Vago Damitio was born on a crunchy snow white morning in Tacoma, Washington to a waitress and a musician on December 27, 1971.

He is the fifth generation of Damitio’s born in the Puget Sound Region and descended from the Walkers, Boones, and Mcleods on his mother’s side. There is some talk of royals and Cherokees in his family but one thing is certain, he was born of a family of pioneers. His ancestors were some of the first Americans in the Pacific Northwest, the first Europeans in the Americas, and the first oil men in the Gulf States. Both of his grandfathers worked in the Middle East during the 30′s, 40′s, and 50′s. Their far ranging tales and his grandmother’s collection of National Geographic Magazines led him to a thirst for travel and adventures.

His given name was Christopher and he was variously known as Chris, Christ (rhymes with Twist), and finally Vago. His childhood was spent exploring old ghost towns of the West, hiking in the mountains, and camping in the great National Parks of America. Significant time was spent digging underground forts and building treehouses in the mountains and forests of California and Oregon. An early love of books led to all of these forts being well stocked with books about travel and adventures.

From about the age of ten, Vago set about discovering how to survive in the wilds and create everything he needed. From solar stills to trapping, tanning skins to building bows and arrows from raw materials, to knapping stone tools surviving in the wilds with minimal tools or equipment. He would set out on solo camping trips in which he tested himself in the wilds from about the age of twelve onward. He became an expert with firearms and upon graduating high school opted to join the US Marines because it seemed like the most challenging thing he could put before himself.

Sergeant of Marines

His decision to join the Marines was also based on a sense of patriotism since the US was about to engage in the first significant war since Vietnam. Stories of the mighty Iraqi army and how difficult it would be to defeat the terrible Republican Guard laid his duty before him clearly. The war was over before he’d completed the three months of boot camp in San Diego. Over the next four years, he served honorably, became an expert with rifle, pistol, and knife, and achieved the rank of Sergeant before completing his obligation and earning an Honorable Discharge. He was never required to kill anyone in the service of his country, which was a huge blessing.

Radical and Dropout

In 1995 he returned to the Pacific Northwest where he worked in radio, film, and print journalism while achieving a minor degree in journalism. His explorations of Alaska, the UK, the USA, and Canada brought him into contact with new ideas and new people and in 1996 he decided that firearms were too dangerous to be in the hands of individuals and responsibly sold all of his guns. In hindsight, he wishes he would have simply melted them down so there would be that many fewer guns in the world. From 1998 to 2000 he published and edited Conchsense, a magazine dedicated to finding the meeting point between creativity and community.

By the end of 1999, Conchsense had become too radical for it’s advertising base after a year spent organizing for the World Trade Organization Protests in November of 1999. The protests were a success in that they shut down the WTO meeting in Seattle, but a failure in that they didn’t change the general idea and caused the global governing body to rethink how it would deal with protest and dissent. In 2000, Vago laid Conchsense to rest and joined a Silicon Valley dotcom startup called TechPlanet as a partner in Seattle.

Techplanet was typical of greedy venture capital startups and operated more on hype than substance. Seeing the writing on the wall, Damitio retired from corporate life with no money or stock options. His final act at TechPlanet was to send out an email to all the employees that they should leave before the company told them it wouldn’t be able to pay them. Two months later, the company sent a notice asking employees to work without pay while they secured financing. Two weeks after that, the headquarters in Silicon Valley closed without notifying the other 52 offices around the US and that was the end of that. No one got any stock options.

Vago’s next gig (late 2000) was working as a community organizer for ACORN (the Association of Communities Organizing for Reform Now) where he helped organize tenants to fight for better conditions from slumlords and worked on bringing about awareness of predatory lending. When he suggested to his union members that they go throw bricks through the Countrywide Mortgage windows, his superiors decided it was time for him to move on. Too radical for ACORN.

At this point, Vago decided to lead by example. He would move out of his house, live in his VW van (which he’d bought for $100), and demonstrate how those who would soon be evicted from their homes could not only survive, but thrive. Over the next twenty weeks he lived the life of a road warrior while discovering how to live in America with no home, no job, no money, and plenty of ingenuity.

The universe told him to quit in 2001 when he won more than $2000 on a slot machine at an Indian casino. With that money he bought a ticket to China, secured a visa and left everything he’d known behind for the next four months while he climbed sacred peaks in China, met with the hill tribes in Laos, explored deserted islands in Thailand, and finally took a job teaching English in the tiny town of Parapat in Sumatra, Indonesia.

He left Parapat when the parents of his students told him that it was no longer safe to stay. Muslim vs. Christian violence was becoming terrible in Aceh, Medan, and other regions. While he would have loved to stay, it seemed wise to leave when the locals said it was no longer safe.

Returning to the USA was a shock after living among people who were quite happy with very little. The USA by contrast seemed to be a country where people were unhappy no matter how much they super-sized their lives. After the tragic events of September 11, 2001 — Vago was a vocal opponent of revenge killing and making war to feel better but watched as flag waving American zealots ripped up his signs which read “Drop bread, not bombs. Enough have died already.”

Seeing that flag waving had replaced intelligent thought, Vago wanted to get away from the USA again. By selling everything he owned he was able to buy a one way ticket to Hawaii. He arrived with $100 was relieved to see that in Hawaii at least, people weren’t screaming for blood. From then until 2008, Vago lived in Hawaii and traveled in the Pacific exploring the Hawaiian Islands, French Polynesia, Guam, and the Philippines. In 2003 he published his first book Rough Living: Tips and Tales of a Vagabond. It was from this book that he earned the name Vago. A friendly bartender named Random at the bar where he would think, drink, and peddle his books (Le Chat Noir in Fairhaven, Washington) began to call him ‘the Vagabond’, then ‘Vagobond’, then ‘Vago’. (RIP Random!)

During his time in Hawaii he worked in Tourism. He worked as a kayak guide on the island of Kauai, a rain forest hiking guide on the island of Oahu, and developed luxury tours on the islands of Oahu, Kauai, and Maui for a high end limousine company. By the end of 2008, he had also earned a degree in Cultural Anthropology from the University of Hawaii at Manoa. During his time at UHM, Vago was the President of the Honor Student Society, Managing Editor of the student newspaper Ka Leo, and president of the UH chapter of the Sierra Club.

He graduated with highest honors (just like the crazy he met on the road between Bellingham and Seattle!) in the top .1% of his class. Along the way, he worked towards a minor in film making at UH’s Academy of Creative Media. His anthropological focus was on the anthropology of tourism, and the anthropology of the internet with his thesis looking at the formation of real world friendships through online interaction. It specifically used the fan boards for the TV show LOST which was filmed entirely in Hawaii. His ground breaking work was presented at the annual gathering of the American Anthropological Association.

Leaving Hawaii and Finding the World

At the end of 2008 he left Hawaii to see if he could find his place in the world. At this time, he changed the focus of his blog from writing and cultural oddities to travel. vagobond.com was born. He met his future wife in Morocco in February of 2009. In April of 201o they were married. In August of 2011 they welcomed their daughter Sophia into the world. During the four years since he’s left Hawaii, he’s been to more than 40 countries but still not found anywhere quite as wonderful as the land of Aloha.

Currently, Vago and his family live in Sefrou, Morocco where they are waiting to hear back from the US Visa and Immigration Service so that they can all return to the USA and perhaps eventually to Hawaii.

Vago is the author numerous articles, pamphlets, and stories.

Books by Vago Damitio available at http://www.vagodamitio.com

Rough Living: Tips and Tales of a Vagabond (2003)

Slackville Road (2004)

The Princess and the Vagabond (2005)

The Hu Factor (2006)

Lost in Transmediality: Exploring LOST and It’s Fans (2008)

Liminal Travel (2009)

Spiritual Fasting: Faith, Love, and Jihad (2010)

Finding your Passion Income: Becoming Free (2010)

Douchebags, Fags, and Hags (2011)

Meliptimous Taggle and Other Stories (2012)

Not My Morocco (2012)

Smooth Living: Beyond the Life of a Vagabond (2013)

The Keys to the Riad (2013)

Right now is the perfect time to go to Amazon.com or GoodReads.com (or your own website) and Write a Review of this book. In fact, if you write one and send me the link, I’ll send you an e-copy of Meliptimous Taggle as a way of saying thanks.

Send me the link to your review at vago@vagodamitio.com

Mahalo!

Copyright

Copyright © 2013 Vagobond Travel Media, LLC

4th Print Edition

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-939827-02-9

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-939827-03-6

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

http://www.vagobondtravelmedia.com

Content

Vago Damitio
ROUGH LIVING
Tips and Tales of a Vagabond
2013 Master Edition

What Folks Have Said About Rough Living Over the Past Decade

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND NOTES

Authors Note from 2005 Rough Living An Urban Survival Manual

Authors Note for 2012 Kindle Edition

Authors Note for 2013 Master Edition

MEET THE GRASSHOPPER

PROVOCATION

HITTING THE ROAD

HOME WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE ONE

FILLING YOUR BELLY

MONEY

FRIENDS AND LEISURE

TRAVEL AND TRANSPORT

STOP BEING A WAGE SLAVE

ROUGH LIVING TO SMOOTH LIVING

VAGABOND TALES

No Baba, No Bobo

$100 Volkswagen Bus

Tarps in the trees

The Hot Insurance Adjustor

Unemployment

Recycling and Garage Sales

Conversations with Unremarkable Men

A Random Bender in Seattle

Shroomin at the Hot Springs

Hunted in Acme: Real or Memorex?

Hitching with Junkies and Gay Fisherman

Hitching with Jesus

Morphine Train

The Dogcatcher Cometh

Farters and Axe Murderers on Greyhound

Airport Crime

China Luck

Culture Shock Upon Arriving in Peking

Climbing the Great Wall

The American

A Walk in the Park

The Tiger Hunters

Homecoming

Eric the Exploiter

Tourist Trap

The Dread Pirate Saechao

Bar Girls in Ko Samui

The Guitar Player

Dagooze and The Bataks

From Aceh to Medan

The Polynesian Hostel Beach Club Waikiki, Hawaii

APPENDIX 1: SMART QUESTIONS

APPENDIX 2: ROUGH RECIPES

APPENDIX 3: MAKING GEAR

APPENDIX 4: MORE RESOURCES

APPENDIX 5: MY 2000 ANARCHIST MANIFESTO

ABOUT VAGO DAMITIO

Books by Vago Damitio available at

Copyright