An audio and video podcast of my trip hitchhiking around the world by sea.

The more you travel, the smaller the world gets. Flashback to Portland, Oregon the day before flying to Africa. I sat with a friend downtown passing the time until my flight that evening. Sitting outside, enjoying a cold drink on a warm, welcoming spring day, when an acquaintance of my friend strolls by and says hello. After a short greeting I go back to sipping and soaking as they converse.

“Blah, blah, blah… Africa…blah, blah”  (“Blah” by the way is refers to the level of my attention, not the importance in things being said. That is until “Africa” perked my ears.) “Africa? Were you in Africa?? I’m leaving for Africa today!” I interjected. As it turns out my friend’s acquaintance had traveled through some of the places I was going. I explained to her my interest in humanitarian causes and she told me about a guy in Malawi who was working with prisoners. We exchanged info, and that was that.

Fast forward to David and the preschool. Somehow in conversation I brought up this acquaintance of a friend, who had met a man that worked with prisoners somewhere in Malawi. “Oh Nick?” Answered David, “ Nick’s a good friend of mine.”  And just like that a couple of phone calls later we had scheduled an appointment with “prison-guy” Nick, who agreed to meet and show us around the prison.

But before we can get to the prison, we must get through the police. After a asking a few people for directions we found the smelly little van headed to the “market”. We paid our fair and climbed in. There sat mazungus Derek and Mandi, and a van full of Africans chatting in local tongues, when suddenly the van slows to a near stop. We look around and see a police car had pulled next to the van. The van hesitates then proceeds.

Moments later the van stops completely. This time the police car comes quicker and closer. The officer gets out and through a stern brow says no more than a few words to the driver. The driver says even less. Gets out of his van and into the back of the police car, which drives off into the distance. Keys still swinging in the van’s ignition, I dart my head around to the guy next to me. He shrugs. I shrug. We all look around at each other and then he says to me, “Come. We go now.”

Everyone gets out and extend hands to the man who had taken our fare (different than the driver, of course). Each hand was issued a refund, when another van pulls up. Not quite as savvy as the locals, we were the last to reach the new van, which consequently had reached its capacity. Doors shut. Van drives off into the distance. Fortunately, there was another man standing nearby who noticed our situation and pointed us in the right direction. Eventually, we made it to the small coffee shop where we met Nick.

Nick is soft-spoken British man, a little rough around the edges, between his cigarettes and slightly shifty eyes. He’s also a gentle man, and though not quite understanding why, obliged to my video taping him.  He explained his start. One man, wanting to do something to better this world, he sort of happened upon this prison. The prison was built shortly before the British left, to accommodate (too flattering a term) less than half the number of inmates it now did.

Though drastically overcrowded, the inmates were highly forgotten. Malnourished. Uneducated. Many serving severely for modest crimes. There was a small percentage of women, several with babies, who were reportedly treated worse than the men. Nick sparked with pride as he described his helping one child get admitted to an orphanage for care while the mother served her time. It was his goal to do the same with the remaining children.

There are many needs, most of which Nick had a goal to address. It began with education and providing study books and supplies. Then with health and providing seeds for growing crops. Unfortunately, there are deeper problems, less obvious problems. We talked shortly of corrupt governments, injustice, and the many inconsistencies within the “justice” system. “I trust the prisoners, more than most of the guards…” he said reflectively and we left for the prison.

We walked around to the back of the market/coffee shop and within five minutes we were in another world. Nick spoke with the guards and escorted us back. Suspicious guards watched as we walked toward the women’s ward. In a small room, one older woman taught younger women basic English from a small notebook. All were there voluntarily working from supplies Nick had provided. Close by a young girl, no more than two years frowned crossly, threatening to strike any of us who approached besides her mother. After slipping one lady a couple cigarettes we continued.

Next we entered the men’s ward. Ducking through the steel doorway, there was a certain air. A crowd of inmates sat and stood closely in the room we entered. I shook the cold calloused hands of a couple men. Some appeared nervous, others hard, still others joked. We had come on the wrong day. A guard pulled Nick aside to explain it was the day of a prison transfer and might not be the best day for us to be there. Nick honored the request. With a slight nod, I bid farewell to the desperate eyes that watched us leave. Eyes mine would never meet again.

I followed Nick back along the dusty path we had entered from, tracing his prints with mine. We were on different paths. For me, it was a short walk from another world. For Nick, a long road to a dark reality. One paved with countless challenges. However, at any moment you could look back and know that one man who had come a long way, and would go even further.

* With money donated by yourselves, I helped purchase supplies for the prisoners. Please see the “Charity” tab for details or information on how to help more.  Thanks for your giving. You are making a difference.

One of the hardest things in life is reaching the decision you want to change the world. To do something good. To make a positive difference. Then comes something harder, actually doing it. First is the realizing, “Yeah, I should do something!” Then comes, “Wait…what can I do???” Well if you ever want to jump right in, just get to the source and start right away, I’ve found the place for you… actually the continent for you.

Whether reality or something stirred from Hollywood hype or awareness concerts, no place seemed to have more need than Africa. An entire continent fighting things like HIV/AIDS, malaria, starvation, poverty. Turns out there’s some truth to that inkling. Different areas of course plagued with different problems. It may take a moment to get past the beautiful smiles, but it won’t take long before you find those smiles are covering a life of need. Malawi I learned was something like the third or fourth most impoverished country in the world. Right behind Haiti. Depressing, huh?

Until you get to a little village and hear for the first time a mob of children yell “Mazungu (Swahili for white person)!!!” and run full speed to greet you. To slap a high five. Or to just take hold and not let go. That’s the kind of “warm fuzzy” you can find only in the ink fairytales, or laced in the fibers of your special blankie. It doesn’t matter how dark or depressed your mood, you can’t help but smile as the warmth of your heart raises the corners of your mouth.

We began our morning on a small minivan used for public transit. This is where I met David Leflar. He’s easy to find. Not only is there the obvious ethnic difference, he’s also about 6’3”, wearing overalls and a red ball cap that reads “Ugly Bass Player” on the back. He’s somewhere in his late 20’s (I’m guessing) and after finishing college at a small university somewhere in Tennessee, David and a couple other friend decided they wanted to make a difference. So they did. They shared a vision on importance of early childhood development and started a group called boNGO Worldwide.

We were on our way to visit one of their projects. A preschool in a little village in which the teachers and workers almost entirely come from within the community. After getting off the strong smelling trasport, we walked the dirt road among maize (African corn) fields until we reached the preschool. And then it happened. We turned the corner and about 30 kids started screaming “Mazungu! Mazungu!” .The teachers held them at bay until they could stand still and then like a gunshot at a racetrack, the kids fired towards us. Mandi stayed to keep the kids company, David showed me around.

There were two classrooms painted colorfully with the alphabet and numbers, one kitchen, bathroom (or outhouse with a hole in the ground), living quarters turned storage and a few crops planted in the back of the property. David only recently moved out of the community. When he arrived he lived at the school as he helped build and organize everything. He didn’t speak the language but learned. And now this preschool is educating kids from 12 different neighboring villages.

boNGO Worldwide has since set up 14 schools and community based childcare centers, trained teachers, and is working hard to do more. It’s an inspirational story of one guy who had a vision to make a difference in the world. He joined some friends, moved to an area of need, and has helped communities educate their youth with their people. What’s interesting is maybe for the first real time I noticed there were less boundaries. Less divide. It wasn’t the white guy and the villagers, it was friends and people concerned for the children. It was as I said, inspiring.

I went back to hang out with the kids. All children I am learning are fascinated with cameras, these were especially. At first they would star emotionlessly at me as I took a picture. Then as I turned the camera and revealed portraits of them in the viewfinder, a wave of excitement would wash over them. I’d click, turn and show. They’d look, realize and scream. I mean kind of screams you’d hear somewhere on the shores of Never Neverland with Peter Pan and an army of Lost Boys. Pounding with joy and excitement.

Later that day we visited a much more organized and funded orphanage, known as Open Arms (www.openarmsmalawi.org). You may recognize the name as a place Madona recently visited when looking for a child to adopt. It was impressive. Clean. Well thought. They too were doing amazing things to help children. But I have to say there was something magical about the village. About the dirt and the maize fields. About 30 children yelling “Mazungu” and running barefoot to greet you. Something I think I’ll hold on to for some time.

There’s something admirable about an animal that simply does not care what others think. It takes a certain confidence to sit in broad daylight, in the middle of the road while playing scratch and sniff with your neighbor’s back end as cars back up to watch-whether they want to or not. Or to dig deep into the pits of pals and as a gesture of gentleness, proceed to eat every creepy crawly burrowed in the hair of your buddy. Ah the magnificently bold baboon… well deserving of a dedicated entry. This one in two parts: Admirable… From a Distance and Please, Take What You Please.

Admirable…From a Distance

I’ve always had an affinity for monkeys and I think they would say the same of me. Needless to say, when I heard baboons walked the hills of Zomba I was ready to go. Zomba is one of the larger peaks in East Africa. Covered with cedar, it’s a beautiful drive. Young men walk their charcoal loaded bikes down the winding road as their piers stand stationary selling carvings, fresh picked raspberries, or meticulously arranged bouquets of dried flowers. Once you reach the top, a row of roadside retailers are ready to trade carving for t-shirt or, well just about anything.

“Me, I like your shoes.” One would say, initiating a proposal. “I like your hat,” another would say. Watch, shirt, shorts-all was fair trade. We did our bartering, made a couple exchanges, then crossed the street for tea. From our table you could see the world, views of the African countryside unparalleled. Yet no monkeys. Until…

We heard something scurry on the roof behind us. Before we had a chance to decipher the clamor, a baboon swooped overhead into a tree partially covering the patio. A few more followed. A game of chase commenced. Roof to tree to roof, the baboons entertained. Then the commotion died. The monkeys disappeared back onto the roof, save one subtle fellow. This one stayed behind admiring his admirers. At first he sat, watched, then branch by branch he moved closer eyeing our table of condiments.

A server walked by. “Tsssk! Tsssssssk!” He spat at the baboon, then looked to us. “This one is my enemy…” and walked away. Off the tree, onto the rail he curiously approached. First it was cool. Then it got uncomfortable. The baboon came within feet. Merin called inside for assistance from the workers… nothing. I decide I’d stand and intimidate the boon…nothing. Swung my arms in the air as though they were something to be feared…nothing. Closer, closer. Then I remembered something.

You know how when you want to take a picture of something, you rush to get your camera ready, then just as you get everything in order the something scurries away? I grabbed my camera from its bag…aimed… and shot. The flash fired. Baboon paused, blinked and rubbed its eyes. FIRE! I flashed again. The monkey looked around blinking, rubbing. At last it backed away. I sat back down to finish my coffee and we resumed our admiration for each other-comfortably, at distance.

Please, Take What You Please.

This story takes place just outside a National Park. We had just spent the day watching nature in its various shapes and sizes, animals of all sorts. As we exited the park, our driver stopped for a final bathroom break. I was the last of four to exit the Land Cruiser. Having no real need to “take care of business”, I stretched just out side the car.

Then I heard our drive yell, “Close the door!!!” He was pointing behind me. Baboons. Similar to the others but bigger, much bigger. I looked behind me as the baboon quickly advanced. Just in time, I slammed the door. But I had forgotten something-the sunroof.

The massive monkey swooped onto the hood and dropped into the car. Monkey in, man out. I watched as his furry fingers sorted through our bags. Without thinking I swung open the door. Except this time I was unarmed. No, I take that back. Actually arms were all I had. Like I said, I wasn’t really thinking. If I were I might have realized, there is really no next step. What, crawl into the car with the razor tooth beast and “talk it over”? “Look Lucy, I know you’re curious, but how bout you drop the bag and just walk back to your home? Then nobody gets hurt.” Nobody of course meaning me… Right.

Having no flash to defend myself, I reverted to my original plan and started waving my hands frantically over my head. Except this time I threw in a couple strong Southwestern-“HhhhYAW’s(!),” as though I was herding a stampede of cattle. John Wayne would have been proud. The monkey looked up, grabbed an orange and leaped back out of the sunroof.

Our driver came running up laughing. Me? I took a couple deep breaths and regained composure. You know, on second thought…I think I will use the restroom.

Beanie is a second or third generation Malawian. He manages a tobacco and coffee plantation and invited us for lunch. I’m not much for smoking, but coffee? Are you kidding? Coffee is one of the few remaining fruits that can be traced back to the Garden of Eden. So uhm yeah-I accepted.

Visiting his plantation was a picture of Africa I wasn’t expecting, not the landscape, the lifestyle. One where time seemed to have stopped and was in no hurry to catch up. It hinted of colonial days. Long dirt roads channeling through a canopy of old trees. Living quarters for workers. Tobacco farmers sure to smile and nod to passing visitors. Beanie’s house was lovely. Simple but plentiful. Overlooking an orchard of the life-giving bean.

We entered. “Hello, massuh.”  Two words that would haunt me for days to come.  Words I was unaware even still existed. She was a worker, not a servant. Still the statement sat uncomfortably. I greeted the fragile, pregnant girl as I passed through the kitchen. Later she quietly sat before us a delicious meal, over which Beanie spoke of his youth. And the youth of his nephew wherein their closest friends were those of workers.

Beanie was pleasant and hospitable. It was hard to imagine him mistreating or discriminating anyone. However, my experience here was one I had started to see throughout Malawi. A colonial residue. There were hints the first night we arrived and went to dinner at a nice restaurant where every mouth eating was as pale as the porcelain it ate from.

Maids. Guards. Gardeners. Not only did it exist, it was expected for anyone of lighter hue. I noticed it at the theatre, the restaurants, the markets. And yet somehow it seemed “ok”. No one seemed bothered by it. There was no tension. It is what it is, if you were white it seemed you were smarter, richer, more respected. Even if the drastic minority.

Meanwhile, a few countries south there were daily reports of murder and violence in the shadow of apartheid. I was reminded of our own country’s past. Malcolm and King. Riots and protests. The struggle of a people to be recognized as such. A past I’m proud to have missed out on, growing up in the 80’s and 90’s in Northern Arizona.

But now it seemed real. Not as extreme perhaps but enough to understand. To see more clearly a people’s effort for equality. However, I am left wondering what is right, appropriate, necessary. In a world of war, I’m inclined toward peace. Non-violent protest. Yet there must be a will to fight. To stand, for those God given rights of humanity.

Where do you start? How far do you go? When do you draw the line? When does action speak louder than word? Must the pendulum err before finding its comfortable compromise? Frankly… I just don’t know. It’s possible I’ve over analyzed. Maybe there’s no way to pinpoint a society in three solid days. I hope so, because frankly I’m not sure I’ve any solutions. In any case, it’s got me thinking. So that’s a good thing…

I think.

I’ll admit I didn’t know much about Africa before arriving, but I did know a few things. For example, there are lions-bad ace cats that fear nothing and eat everything. In addition, you’ll find other animals with large teeth, tusks and razor sharp claws, such as rhinos, elephants, leopards, etc. At home we like to say things like, “Their more afraid of you than you are of them.” Well that doesn’t quite work in Africa. Here the animals are quite happy to see you. To see and eat you.

The plan was to visit a wildlife reserve and I was ready to see first hand some Discovery Channel action. The problem was we kind of got a late start. Not rare for Africa, but not exactly beneficial for visiting wildlife reserves. From the backseat, I watched as a different world went by. Baobab trees sat like overweight giants in the on the side of the road. Acacias stretched their flat thorny arms over flowing khaki grass. Mothers with baskets balanced on their heads. Men with machetes swinging at their sides.

The car slowed. Now one might think that three years in Africa would be enough to know your way around, and I probably shouldn’t judge, but the sun was slowly falling. Merin rolled down the window offered a Swahili greeting and asked one man on his bike if this direction were correct. Repeating a couple key words he nodded and pointed down the road. Pavement became dirt and the further we drove the more I saw the real Africa. Mud huts covered with thatch. Sugarcane walled the road. The clothes got dirtier. The staring got longer.

This was the Africa I wanted to know. The villages. The people. The goats and cattle migrating through the streets. I was happy to see it but there were more things to see. Things that could, say eat you. I don’t know if it was from the road getting less and less drivable or the more and more villagers that stared, but somehow I knew we were in the wrong place. Merin soon agreed and we retraced the mismanaged road as villagers got to observe the strange visitors one more time. The sun grew larger as it continued to fall. After two or three more u-turns we found a sign. Then as the sun shed its final light we arrived.

With a peanut butter and jelly bribe we convinced the guard to open the gates that closed at sundown. “You just missed the giraffes, they were here in the road 15 minutes ago.” Now that’s what I’m talking about! Goats in the road are cool. Giraffes are friggin’ awesome. I scanned the bush ready for the lion that was sure to be feasting at its fresh kill. I scanned, and scanned…and scanned. At last we saw a couple zebras, but I’m afraid that as close as we’d get to a giraffe or blood stained lion. Finally we dropped our guard and guide at the fence and turned home… or not.

Another thing I learned is how different Africa looks at night. “Isn’t that road we came down?” asked Mandi as we worked our way through a maze of sugarcane, each road looking terribly similar. “Uhm…I don’t think so,” answered Merin. “But I think there’s lots of roads out.” “I don’t think” and “I think” are not exactly terms of confidence. I can tell you what I thought—“Sure would be nice if someone their way out of this place.” Whether we saw them or not there had to be were lions out here. At the very least I saw an awful lot of sharp machetes swinging.

Out of the darkness, a man appeared. We slowed. Merin rolled down the window and offered the same Swahili greeting as before. Then asked which direction the main road was. Only this time, the man who at first looked confused, proceeded to tell us of his work. Clear we were miscommunicating, Merin thanked the man and left. At first I tried to remember which direction the sun had set, knowing that was the direction of the road. Then I began to scan the cane fields for a place to pull off and camouflage our car until the safety of the sun returned. Then finally hope. Taillights.

We all naively agreed they were probably headed toward the main road and followed. Eventually I recognized a familiar turn- probably the one we originally took. The at last we hit pavement. An hour later we reached home. Nothing terrible happened-no lions, no machetes. Just a couple of wrong turns. Some more promising than others.

My Malawi experience actually began with a play in some little theatre-which sounds like it should be an entry unto itself… and maybe it could have, but to be honest it would be hard to give a fair review of this Shakespeare gone Malawi production based on the short snippets I saw every time I woke from a dramatic head bob. (I blame it more on jet lag than the acting.) So I’m going to jump forward to the next day after a good full night’s rest.

The next day we had all planned out, and by we I mean Merin, the three year Malawi resident who we were staying with. It would begin with the market.

We arrived Malawi on a Friday, that’s good timing if you intend to visit the Saturday market. The market actually happens every day, but on Saturday it comes to life. I sat in the back seat with the wicker basket as we pulled into the dusty dirt parking lot lined with shacks. 

I was staring at the row of tin covered booths when-Smack, smack, smack! Off to the left a young boy started hitting the window. “See me fist! Mista, see me fist!” Within moments there were 10 more doing the same. The car stopped. I grabbed the basket and pried my door open to get out. Each small hand grabbed at the basket.

“Move Away!” Merin says firmly, then turns to me and ask which boy I saw first. The light went on-See me first, Mister. The boys were all anxious to earn a small wage by carrying our basket. Unsure, Merin selected one lucky boy and we walked towards the vendors.

I’ve been to my fair share of cultural markets, but I have to say there was something special about this one. As you would expect, the white guy with back pack and basket drew plenty of looks. Each vendor invited me to “just look”, as he or she described the produce that sat clearly in front of me. But the invitations were not overwhelming. The vendors respected one another, and each waited to describe their product until we had walked away from their neighbor.

It was organized and presentable. Booth by booth, vegetables were arranged in perfect pyramids. Bananas, potatoes, lettuce. Colorful arrangements of every spice imaginable laid out for the picking. I walked with the boy holding the basket as Merin did the negotiating.

We walked from produce to spices. Spices to bean. Bean to meat, where people picked the healthiest looking chicken from those on display. We moved on, probably fortunate before I got the cultural experience of actually seeing the fate of the chosen chick.

Then up a set of crumbling cement stairs, we stepped into another section. Interesting, I don’t even recall what was for sale in this section. I was distracted. No sooner had we entered when the colorfully adorned African women erupted into song. Loud. Confident. Beautiful.

I asked the boy what they were singing. He politely misunderstood and sang the song to me. When asked again what the meaning was, he didn’t know the English. All the better. There are some things you don’t need to know. In some ways it’s better not to.

Once we had our week’s supply, we paid our little friend before leaving the shade of the tin cover so as not to start any fights with his other friends. I smiled as on our way out we spotted a couple other assumed tourists on their way in, knowing the treat they were in for.

Merin then drove us to the other “market”, ShopRite. It was night and day. Black and white in more ways than one. This was the money market. With all the comforts of a Safeway, or any other standard grocery store in the States. It had a guard at the entrance to the parking lot and while not filled with pale skin, the percentage was noticeably high.

It was comfortable. There was air conditioning, and refrigeration. Prices were “as marked.” But one thing is for sure… there was no one erupting in song here. No, I’m afraid you’ll have to go somewhere else for that.

Welcome to Africa.

Ah so much to write about, such little Internet access… One of the great challenges of travel blogging is narrowing. To which you would sarcastically reply, “We know, we’ve seen the length of your blogs!” To which I would reply, “One, stop shouting. And two, I know… it’s a problem but we all have problems.” And now I’ve noticed in my attempts to be witty, I have added yet another unnecessary paragraph for you to read. I’ll move on.

The list of things to report about goes on and on. The lifestyle. The people. Cultural and human observations. Personal struggles. Humanitarian works. Etcetera. From the moment you step off the plane you notice things are different. Mostly you. I have never been such the minority. Perhaps in China, but even then, you put a hat on, sunglasses, and walk on your knees to account for that extra 12 inches of height and you might blend in.

Not in Africa. No you are different here and there’s no hiding it. But that’s ok. I think it’s good for a person to be completely removed from their comfort zone. To stick out on occasion. To be the minority. It will help a person recognize when they are not outstanding, those around who may be. Unfortunately, in Africa being “the white guy” carries with it certain stereotypes. Mostly, having money. Which when compared to a culture where a person often makes on average a dollar a day, is basically true. Still when stereotyped and standing out, it’s good to be prepared, to be approached, harassed and ready to barter for reasonable prices.

Mandi and I first arrived Nairobi in the evening. Our introduction to Africa was from the back of a minibus taxi. The streets were slightly less hectic the chaotic streets in India. Similar though minus cows and scooters. They are lined with people. Some walking with bikes loaded with supplies like scrap metal, wood, charcoal. Those not fortunate enough to have a bike use their heads, carefully balancing similar supplies. Meanwhile man, woman and child file between cars. Each offering similar products. Each hoping by some fate to be chosen over the others.

We only stayed one night in Nairobi. The sleep was restless. It was just warm enough to be uncomfortable and all night the mosquitoes serenaded with subtle songs that hinted of malaria. Early the next morning we rose and caught the same overpriced taxi to the airport, where we stood by the ticket counter of Air Malawi until 30 minutes before the only flight to Blantyre waiting for someone to figure out how to sell us a ticket. We were escorted with bags to the door of the plane. Then we were off to Malawi.

I am often asked, “In all of your travels, who is the friendliest people?” That’s tough as you’d imagine, in every culture there are some really wonderful people. However, there are a few groups that stand out.

Two weeks ago, I would have answered the Thai. Known as “the smiling people”, I found them extremely pleasant. But after some time in Malawi, Africa… I might have to change my answer. Brilliant smiles offer broken greetings everywhere you go. Even walking down the street, a simple “Muli Bwangi (Malawi greeting-spelt phonetically)” will draw out a beautiful white smile and an almost bubbling response. They are lovely.

After several days of traveling, I was tired, but anxious. Anxious to meet these friendly people. Anxious for culture. Anxious for Africa.

With a pocket full of Malarone (anti-malaria pills), I boarded the red eye flight from Newark to Zurich. Remember how I mentioned the life lesson concerning knowing a flight attendant, well it was proving all too true. It seems there was an opening in business class and as a standby passenger I just happened to be eligible. In case you need clarification, “business class” is the area where the seats more closely resemble thrones. It’s the leather armchair section of a plane where traffic always slows as passengers pause to dream like Charlie in a chocolate factory before being shooed back to their rightful seats in “coach.”

Well today instead of just passing through I actually stopped, sat and sank in to the pillowy body chair. I did as every true “business” passenger would do, opened my NY Times, educated myself, and tried not to notice the envy of those passing by. When I bored of the news I opened the menu and studied my gourmet options over a glass of sparkling wine. Then just as I was narrowing my dinner choices I noticed a man in a devil red coat standing over me,  “Excuse me sire…I’m afraid you’re not dressed appropriately for this class. You’ll have to take a seat in the back…”

So from prince to pauper, I tucked my tail and walked to 24-A looking only at the floor or seat numbers so as not to catch the judgmental eyes of those who moments ago seemed SO inferior. I was at least lucky enough to spend the next 7 hours with the seat next to me empty. Also fortunate is the fact that I’ve never had any problem sleeping on a plane so at least I could dream about those seats up front until I arrived to Switzerland.

24 hours is not much of a layover but it’s plenty of time to meet some characters. After dropping the bags off at a hotel, flight attendant friend-Mandi and I decided we would catch a bus down to the lake in search of a nice European park. As the say, great minds think alike. We hadn’t been in Europe more than 4 hours before I found my next blog entry, or should I say before he found me.

Olive skin, beard, beret , and a barely used walker. He approached Mandi and I. I couldn’t help but make eye contact and smile. “We are such beautiful people…So beautiful…” He said directly to me (Mandi staring forward). I couldn’t agree more, so I smile and nod. “We ought to live on Mars, we are much too beautiful for this world. This world is so ugly, we don’t belong here.” No, no we don’t-I agreed, speechless.

The bus approached and we all piled on. “Where should we sit?” he asked. “Over here,” I lead to three open seats. He continued. “The bus is having babies,” he said under his breath as a mere observation. This was getting good. I glance back, “Yes it is.” I smile. “We should go to an island, me, my wife, you, your friend…I will be the guru. We will live beautifully.” That’s where I had to object. “You will be guru? Why can’t I be the guru, I’m a smart guy?” “No, no. I must be guru. You will be my apprentice until I pass and then you will become the guru.”

We continued all the way to the lake, much to the amusement of Swiss surrounding us. Unfortunately, I had to graciously decline his offer to visit his house, considering our time schedule. Instead we bid him farewell and continued to that grassy bank on a Swiss lake where I slept to the sounds of birds and German accents. Not much to report on really, in a 24-hour layover. A slight stroll, few hours rest, and back to the airport where my Kenya bound coach awaited.

No worries, this time I knew right where I belonged. Once my ticket was scanned I headed right for the back of the plane. Although it was only a matter of minutes at the start of my previous flight, it was enough to know the mind. To connect. So I started a conversation with a man and woman in colorful headdress on my through. Barack had just defeated Hilary. Assuming they were from Kenya I mentioned the fact that Barack won and sought verification that Barack’s father was from Kenya.

Long story short, not only had I made a couple of friends by the time I reached my “coach” seat, I also had the business card “His Worship the Mayor-Sam Okello”. A card and I had an appointment, with my new friend the Mayor of Kisumu-a town I will be visiting later in my trip. Africa…here I come.

I want to tell you everything but as of right now it’s 9:30 am, I leave this evening for Zurich and I still have to get my malaria prescription filled and buy a new Nikon (that is of course unless my friends at Nikon decide the sponsorship is a go). I’m sitting in a cafe in New York surrounded by two backpacks well over packed. I know that raises a lot of questions when I am “sailing around the world.” So here’s a quick update:

Dan and I were working with US Virgin Island Echo Tours, and while rewarding it’s not exactly lucrative. Ultima Noche (the boat) was in a good position to cross the Atlantic and the window (May-August) was approaching. Meanwhile, Dan kept getting emails from the boys in Alaska asking him if he wanted to work. After weighing his options of making money and still being able to sail, it seemed working in Alaska for a bit made the most sense. So that takes care of the boat and Dan–the boat still in St. Thomas and Dan headed for Alsaka, but where does Africa come in.

As for me, I had a different opportunity knock. Africa has always been a dream. After my last round the world adventure, it jumped right to the top of the list of “must sees”. However, in case you haven’t looked at a map recently, Africa is pretty far away and not quite as easy to get to as some places. Which brings me to Life Lesson #4.

I mentioned Lessons 1-3 in my last entry, but 4 is also very valuable. It is as follows: When choosing friends in life make sure one of those friends is or has the potential of working for an airline. It also helps if that friend shares an interest in Africa, and has contacts in the continent.

My schedule is still fairly up in the air but as of right now it looks like I’ll be spending the next 3-4 weeks in Kenya, Tanzania and Malawi. But here’s the best part, that whole “see the world, change the world” idea is still alive and kicking. I will definitely be visiting at least one orphanage, probably more. I also just met someone last night who has a contact doing a prison educational program and another friend of mine will be visiting schools in the villages. Lots of exciting options.

For those of you who are interested in or have been donating, thank you. I wish I had specific plan and goal we could shoot for, but a lot of this has happened quickly and I haven’t had time to formulate much. Once I get to Africa, I’ll take a look at what we have and what the need is and I’ll keep you posted. Otherwise stay tuned and if there is another way to help I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, I have some anti-skeeto pills. Talk to you soon.

It’s hard to save the world when you can feel your family falling apart. I wrote recently of the “burden of love”. Of helping carry the burdens of those closest to you. Sometimes in love there is no burden at all. Sometimes love carries your burdens. Those are the times poets dream about. The glow of love. When life is full and beautiful. When you wake up smiling for no specific reason. But there is another side to love. The side that says no matter how dark it gets, “I’m here.” The side that says, “Yeah, this is ugly… but we’re gonna get through it.”

I don’t have a wife. I have no kids. Not even a girlfriend. So the most I know of love is my family. But I have one heck of a family. A sister, brother in law, niece on the way. Some of the finest grandparents to walk the face. A mother, I would give the world for. So for me, there is a moment when a personal adventure needs to be placed on hold, and family difficulties given proper attention. That’s where I’ve been (off and on) for the past couple weeks-with family. Which is why I haven’t been writing much. Frankly my creative well has been running low. But it’s good. It’s hard, but it’s right. And already things are little better.

I’m not the kind of guy that can sit back at a distance and watch things happen. I have to do something. And in the end, even if that something did very little, I can at least rest in the fact I tried. That I did in fact try to make a difference. Now without sharing details, I can say I breath a little easier. Things are not right but better. Even if I had to take a break from the “adventure”, when it comes to my family… it’s worth it.

The good news is life can offer as many lessons in the walls of your home as it can in the middle of the ocean on the other side of the world. What’s interesting is they are similar lessons. Here’s a few I’ve been reminded of:

Lesson #1: Communicate. It is the key to life. If you ask someone for salt and they give you pepper, it can mean one of two things. Either A. The person is an abhorrent jerk without a soul. (Which is what we often assume.) Or B. The person simply misunderstood, either what you asked for or what salt is. (Which is often the case.) Our assumption will determine our reaction. Our reaction will spur on their reaction. And the cycle begins. In short, assume nothing. Step back and try to understand just what it is the other person is thinking. This is a lesson I think will go a long way whether we are asking for a roll at the dinner table or a baguette in Parisian bakery.

Lesson #2 (or #1 in importance): Live without regret. There’s a lot involved in this one. Priorities. Dreams. Action. Passion. It applies to every part of our lives. What is important in your life? Is it love? Is it adventure? Is it achievement? Is it family? …Is it obvious? Your dreams will never go away. They may subside, but they will return whispering “what if” for the rest of your life. And when they do you will forever question yourself and your decisions in life.

Lesson #3 (which is really more of a footnote to 2): Do the right thing. I know that’s a loaded statement, and there are many who would counter there is no “right” or “wrong”. So if it’s the term that holds you up, maybe we can at least agree on “appropriate”. Sometimes it’s not easy to know. Sometimes it can mean two opposite things depending on the context of the situation. But it is an important lesson and closely connected to living without regret.

You see there is chance when in life you do follow that “dream” and it’s not quite the dream you thought it was. The reality is not quite as colorful as the postcard. The stage is not big. The lights not as bright. The guy not as charming, the girl as sweet. The fairytale becomes human… but here’s the catch, you’ll never know unless try. But when you try,  when you set off down that road, don’t burn you bridges as go, because there’s a chance you’ll want to go home when it’s all said and done.

And that is life as I see it. It’s been an emotional couple of weeks, but not without lesson or reward. When I look back at the end, I’ll be happy I came home. But I also think I’ll be happy I went to Africa… which is where I will be in 3 days! Oh yes, life is changing. The adventure must go on! I have got some explaining to do, but I’ll save that for my next entry…