Below is the complete series of travel reports from 2004 through 2009 in chronological order with the oldest first. To view more recent reports click here. My personal favorite is “E=mc2”, but that was only the third most popular based on reader feedback. “In Our Darkest Hour” and “Sex, Love, Life, and the Tsunami” were one and two respectively. I find it curious that neither had much to do with the trip; apparently tragedy is even more gripping than adventure.
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Hi! I’m Tom. Welcome to Redbuggy.com! This is the first in a long series of regular (and irregular) reports which will follow the making of this new adventure film. We are in Sweden now preparing for departure towards Africa in the beginning of December.
There is a lot of testing going on during this phase of production. We are refining our camera, sound, and lighting equipment to optimise it for the rigors and requirements of the trip. We research clothing, test camping gear, purify dirty water, and review vehicle recovery systems. Everything must be top quality yet small and light. The Buggy (capitalized to denote our partner’s proper name as well as description) is to undergo a major rebuild including a new motor, custom roll cage, even bigger tires, brush-bar with winch, and lots of less visible special equipment.
Before this overhaul begins we took a last torturous test thrashing of the old girl (well, old by car standards, she is 35). Her backyard is Gotland, a Swedish island in the middle of the Baltic Sea. It has great sand dunes, rocky beaches, windswept forest areas, and some utterly disgusting, slimy, and stinky, mud bogs. In all an excellent test track!
It is common for men to think that they are great drivers, but I really am. This is not idle bragging, but a claim based upon vast and hard-won experience. An irony of skilled off-roaders is that when they do get stuck they are likely in a hell of a mess (if it wasn’t a hell of a mess a skilled driver wouldn’t get stuck, right?).
But we had great fun! Jumping over sand dunes, manoeuvring through woods a jeep could not negotiate, and splashing through waves on beautiful desolate beaches. The sun was shinning and we were unstoppable!
Well… until I got stuck.
There was a well disguised bog filled with a sort of fibrous mud made entirely of decomposing seaweed. It was not unlike being stuck in the middle of a sewage treatment facility (I suppose). Yoshiko clicked a few pictures while blatantly refusing to set foot in the mess. I removed my shoes, socks, and pants – and two disgusting hours later the Buggy and I drove free. It took an hour of scrubbing my body to get rid of the stink. It took four hours with a high pressure sprayer before anyone would go near the buggy. I sure hope the mud in Africa does not smell that bad!
Pictures:
1. Medieval town of Visby in Sweden
2. A stone beach on the island of Gotland
3. Buggy through the surf!
4. Balancing on a sand dune
5. Covered in disgusting ‘mud’
We apologize for the delay with this first report. In our defense, we have weathered the elements from Sweden to the edge of the Sahara dessert during the weeks since our departure from Stockholm. Survival took precedence over writing and finding Internet connections. We expected the open Buggy ride through Sweden, Germany, and the Alps in the peak of winter to be brutal. We were not disappointed.
I wonder if the weight loss effects of shivering have ever been studied?In one week, while doing nothing except driving a beach buggy through Northern Europe in mid-winter, I lost all excess fat around my waistline. This same feat would have required months of hard discipline at home. I began to question why Weight Watchers or the Surgeon General were not recommending this practice to combat obesity in America, or why I should not get rich offering this proven treatment as a guaranteed weight loss program? Then I realized that to normal people it was probably about as appealing as spending six months in a Libyan jail cell, which would almost certainly have a similar effect on excess body fat.
It was so cold in Sweden that our engine caught on fire. Ironic isn’t it, fire from freezing? The buggy is designed only for warm weather and has no heat risers for the intake manifold. At 15° below zero, the atomized gasoline was freezing before hitting the combustion chamber causing the spark plugs to foul, then running unburned down the sides of the cylinders to mix with the oil. At three in the morning, in the middle of nowhere, after only one day on the road, our brand-new engine caught on fire and almost self-destructed. It looked like the adventure might be over before we got out of Sweden.
I got the fire out and Yoshiko and I survived unharmed. We were rescued by friendly natives, and the Buggy was towed 15 kilometers to the nearest village. The next day a helpful mechanic at the local Mercedes dealership came in on a holiday to help me change the oil and plugs. He refused to accept any payment, and we were back on the road again. Adventures tend to bring out the best in people, even the ones you just meet on the way.
With a few sets of fresh spark plugs, and slightly higher temperatures in Germany, we nursed the Buggy (at 130 kph) down the German Autobahn. My memory is foggy there but I recall shivering, drinking RedBull by the liter, and automated toilet seats (what will the Germans think of next?) mixed with visions of us passing huge columns of tractor-trailers on our right while cars roared by on our left at speeds well over 200 kph (that’s over 125 mph to you Americans). Finally the sun appeared as we crossed the snowy Austrian Alps into Italy where some local sponsors awaited our arrival.
The difference between Northern and Southern Europe was clarified by our new friend Enrico. Apparently there is international time, and then there is Italian time (I would probably rename the latter ‘Latin’ time). And in stark contrast to their Northern neighbors, using blinkers to signal lane changes is purely optional in Italy. For that matter, choosing a lane is optional as well. If no other vehicle is within ten feet of yours, then why stress yourself with details like choosing a lane when you can drive in the middle? This would have been a mortal sin in Germany and probably a jailable offence.
So what is the payoff for less order and efficiency besides great Cappuccino?
Life, my friends. The Italians are simply better at living it than their Northern counterparts. It is not just red wine with lunch, Ferraris, or Sofia Loren in her prime, but also a love of family and a prioritizing of a little free time every day to keep stress at bay and to nurture good feelings. We were fed endless amounts of great food and provided the warmest hospitality imaginable. The staff at our two new sponsors, Cantone Ricambe in Livorno and Dei Kafer Service in Sienna, have become cherished friends whom we will never forget and will almost certainly visit again. They also proved that even on Italian time it is possible to do top notch work as they did a terrific job of helping us get the Buggy in absolute top shape for the grueling months to come in Africa.
And as if that were not enough to make our stay wonderful, my little sister just happened to be in Italy at the same time! So we shot from the Leaning Tower of Pisa across the country to the canals of Venice for a day and a night and a wonderful visit with Janey before she took off to the Alps for a skiing vacation (yes, the same Alps we had just crossed in a beach-buggy!).
So that is it. Well, actually it is just the start. We are already on the edge of the Sahara with new adventures to relate. But they will come in the Next Report. We are on the African continent now so we will slow down a bit. Besides, we may be stuck in Tunisia for a while waiting for visas to Libya. Tomorrow we make our first excursion into the dessert, just fifty miles or so to get a feel.
So stay tuned! And why not tell your friends to check us out as well? Until the Next Report…
Ciao!
Pictures:
1. Pisa and pizza are both good in Italy
2. Don Giovanni and Son preparing lunch at the shop
3. Driving this close to the Coliseum attracted police
4. My sister Jane visited us in Venice
5. The cleanest buggy shot on record
The Sahara is not considered the greatest desert on Earth without reason. It sure kicked our asses.
After leaving our wonderful friends in Northern Italy, our last day in Europe proved miserable. We did a marathon drive south through that country in pouring rain with temperatures just above freezing in the open buggy. After departing Italy by ferry to Tunisia we spent one day in the capitol, Tunis, applying for Visas at the Libyan Consulate. We had made the African continent, but were still on the Mediterranean shores, which were too cold and wet in January for our tastes. We made a dash for the desert where despite cold nights we knew we could count on sunny days.
Douz is a small village in southern Tunisia that is touted as the gateway to the Sahara. This became our base for almost two weeks. We checked into a friendly backpackers hotel where we could park the Buggy on the sidewalk right in front of the door. We quickly became famous as the pilots of the most incredible vehicle the Tunisians have ever seen. They are convinced that the Buggy is a brand new, high-end, super sports-utility vehicle worth more than a new Range Rover. Many simply refuse to believe me when I try to explain in horrendous French that it is an old VW. They beep their horns, scream out their windows, and give us thumbs-up in approval everywhere we go. Children chase us, adults stop us to pose with the car, and the police often flag us down to stare in admiration for a minute before waving us on with big smiles. The response is even more overwhelming than we expected. When we shoot off the road into the sand dunes they howl with joy and we have been chased several times (at surprisingly high speeds) by young men on camels desperate for a closer look.
It is easy to see why I became cocky- which can be a dangerous thing when traveling.
Returning from our first hard day in the Sahara we pulled up in front of our hotel and I noticed that the parking-brake did not work. Upon inspection I saw that the bracket that the brake handle hinges in was broken and had split open. Closer inspection revealed, WHAT!!! The car was split open!
The car was literally breaking in half, cracking right across the middle of the chassis. After a day with a local welder we took a test run in the desert. The car cracked again, ripping right through new sheet metal. Two more days at the welding shop following a design I drew up adding LOTS of new and heavier metal in very strategic places as well as cutting away all old welds and redoing them and we went back into the Sahara again. This time the chassis held. I thought I beat the desert, and got cocky again.
We packed up the Buggy and blasted out into uncharted territory. This was the hardest driving so far in the Buggy’s life. Actually, the soft Saharan sand was easy compared to the horrid excuses of tracks leading out towards the open desert. Carved by big 4‑wheel drive trucks they were simply two endless, parallel ruts in very rocky sandy dirt. The poor Buggy is just too small and was bashed senseless, as were its occupants. We bottomed out so hard and so constantly that our teeth must surly have been loosening in our heads! The new winch we had installed so proudly was nothing more than a sand plow now, smashing the occasional small boulder out of our way as well. The best way to not get stuck was to keep up speed. In a flurry of dust and flying stones we crashed along as if running the Paris-Dakar race. This was abuse beyond anything we had anticipated.
But when night came, we ate by our campfire perhaps 40 miles from the nearest human beings, who were literally camel jockeys. We were perhaps a hundred miles from the nearest house. We tented under one of the clearest skies in the world. And for a while it all seemed worth the effort.
But eventually we had to return to town. More hours of bone-jarring abuse managed to weaken the old torsion bar springs to a point of near collapse. This resulted in a lower Buggy and even harder crashing which eventually knocked our air filter off, without my noticing. This allowed the hard-pressed engine to suck masses of sand directly into the combustion chambers grinding the metal away with amazing efficiency and destroying our new motor in a few hours.
We made it out of the desert- just barely. Limping badly, the Buggy is now almost un-drivable. We are trying to crawl, burning more oil than gasoline and with tires rubbing against the lowered body, to a city to find parts and a reasonable place to work. Last night we came to Gabes, back out on the coast. But they have no parts here. I don’t speak Arabic or French, which complicates things. Maybe the Italians can send us parts? But it is major work requiring at least a week in a real garage to rebuild the motor and the suspension system. We are a bit desperate.
Last night we checked into a very cheap hotel in Gabes. At least the people are friendly. Everybody wants to help, but there is nothing they can do. Yoshiko and I are arguing a lot. the stress is getting to us. It feels like one disaster after another. There are no Italian sponsors waiting around the next bend to rescue us now, and South Africa seems very far away.
This morning we came out to the Buggy to find a large puddle under it. We are leaking gas from a hole in the tank. This is not fiction or filmic drama, it is our reality. We cannot afford these setbacks, neither our pocketbooks nor our spirits. We are both healthy and that must count for something, but this Internet connection I am using right now to send this report was difficult to find and the line goes dead every few minutes. I wonder if the report will get through? It feels a bit representative of our trip. And all I really want is a hot bath, a cold beer, and a fresh Buggy. None of those things is in sight. I am a fighter, but I am carrying Yoshiko now as well. And she calls me a liar. She says I told her the Buggy was strong, but the desert broke it. I cannot explain the mechanics and physics involved. We are not communicating. She thinks I should have an answer for this problem as I usually do, but I don’t.
I’m not sure where to go or what to do, and I am tired. Wish me luck.
Pictures:
1) Basking in the Sahara sun at our hotel in Douz.
2) Camels don’t bathe often, but I think it is unfair to call them gross!
3) Gross camels crossing.
4) The proprietor of a desert café, we were his only guests.
5) Stuck on a big dune, again.
Imed is marrying Hella on March 19th. There will be 1500 guests. The fact that a man we had never heard of a few weeks ago is marrying next month may seem irrelevant to this film on the surface. But looks can be deceiving.
Imed is the owner of the only licensed Volkswagen service center in Southern Tunisia. He is a big, happy man, generous by nature. His coming wedding – and the bliss he anticipates – has made him even happier than normal. He has rescued us and provided a place for me to rebuild the Buggy. In a few minutes he is taking us to The Baghdad Café, arguably the finest restaurant in Sfax, Tunisia’s second largest city. There, as usual, he will fill us with local delicacies followed by fabulous desserts, Yoshiko’s favorite part. He maintains that this is not for our benefit, he is only fattening us up to make a proper meal for the Lions which will surely devour us by Central Africa – should we survive that far.
Astute readers will wonder how we made the leap from desperate adventurers beaten into submission by the Sahara and on the verge of giving up – to comfortable travelers being wined and dined by generous locals? This is the wonder of travel, and one of the reasons that we are here. On an adventure the highs and lows of daily life are amplified ten-fold. Despite the best-laid plans, one never knows what tomorrow has in store.
The discovery last week that our car – which had a blown motor and sagging suspension – was also leaking gasoline from a hole in the tank(!) was almost the straw that broke the camel’s back. Yoshiko was ready to go home, and I was pretty near ready to give up. Sitting on a street corner in Gabes pondering the situation yielded absolutely no hope of a solution. There was no place to work, no parts to be had even if I found an appropriate garage, and our reserves of willpower were dwindling rapidly. Tunisia represents the most easterly of the former French territories in North Africa. That colonial power’s influence spread beyond language and cuisine. Peugeot, Renault, and the occasional Citroen are the automobiles here. No parts at all for an old German machine like ours. I heard that there might be a garage in Sfax with some parts. Billowing clouds of blue smoke marked our trail as we headed north through endless rows of olive trees. There was absolutely nothing else to do.
Football, what Americans call soccer, is the biggest sport in the world. Tunisia was hosting the Africa cup, and our arrival in Sfax coincided with the arrival of seventeen thousand violent Algerian hooligans for a match against Morocco. I was too despondent to feel threatened, as the Tunisians certainly did. Seven thousand extra police were called in and the tension was high. Cheap hotels were full of loud, drunken football fans as bad as any English hooligans I’ve seen on TV. I almost joined them because I was so desperate for a beer, a rare commodity in an Islamic state. But the local police, as infatuated by the Buggy as everybody else here is, warned us in no uncertain terms that it was not safe on the streets that night. In the end it was decided that we park directly in front of the police headquarters where they could guard the Buggy till daylight, when it would be marginally safer. With full police protection we even left our bags in the car, taking only camera and clothes, and marching exhausted to the nearest dive for a cheap bed.
It proved damn lucky that we followed the policemen’s advice, as the hooligans broke everything. They smashed signs, cars, banks, and stores. They murdered two people in some of the worst violence the town had seen. But the buggy was intact, under police surveillance the next morning, with chaos all around. I thanked the officers on the new watch, and asked them if they knew of a VW dealer in town. They gave us a police escort through the city and the hooligans, breaking every traffic law ever invented, and eventually finding a VW and Audi parts store. But the store only stocked newer parts, and had no ability to order older stuff from Germany. The situation was as bleak as ever. With the hooligans jeering everywhere and wreaking havoc it was almost comical, in a tragic sort of way.
In the store I became nervous at having left Yoshiko alone with the car on the street. It always attracts a crowd, and today’s crowds were particularly lively. I checked, and not only were several people leaning on the Buggy, but one guy was doing some serious picture taking. He turned out to be the computer technician for the Volkswagen dealership and wanted to document our amazing VW. He was very polite, spoke English, and insisted on showing me his digital pictures immediately. Leaving an uneasy Yoshiko to defend the Buggy, I decided it might be a good idea to ply him for information. In his office I fed him our hard-luck story and he said I should meet the boss, who had a 1942 Willy’s Jeep in his collection and would certainly appreciate our Buggy. My choice of cars was proving useful again, and we were off to their garage to meet the chief.
Imed greeted us with a huge smile at the Buggy, better English than we had encountered in weeks, and a sympathetic ear for our dilemma. After proudly showing us around the 40-man strong repair shop, it was decided we should fix the car there. He would provide space and assistance, free of charge. As for a cheap hotel while we waited for our Italian connection to send us a hundred pounds of new parts. we would stay at his house. Unrealistic dreams of a hot bath, a cold beer, and a fresh Buggy had been sustaining me through days of despair, and in minutes, the bath and the Buggy seemed attainable. The beer could wait; two out of three was not bad!
We staked out a corner of the garage for the long job I had to do on the Buggy. Then we moved all our gear into our own heated room in Imed’s house up the street with its 800 channels of satellite TV.
I peeled off my smelly clothes and was running a steamy bath when a booming voice called out, “Hey Tom!”
“Hey what?” I yelled back popping around the corner clad in only a towel.
“We have very hot baths in this house, you may need this”.
And there stood Imed, hand outstretched, with an ice-cold bottle of beer.
Date: Friday, March 5th, 2004 Time: 8 pm Place: A tent in the Sahara, Libya Weather: Crystal clear stars Temperature: 16° Celsius, 62°F Enviroment: Lunar Buggy Condition: Working Tom’s Condition: Good Yoshiko’s Condition: Good Equipment Condition: Very Good
Letter to Gadafi
To: Colonel Muammar Gadafi
C/o: Government of Libya
Dear Mr. Gadafi,
I am writing to you regarding a minor matter, though one of some urgency to me. My name is Thomas McAlevey and I am an American citizen. I am presently making a documentary film about Africa for international distribution in theaters and television next year. The film has no political agenda and will be directed towards general audiences for entertainment and educational purposes only. You can see all information regarding the film on our website at www.redbuggy.com. Unfortunately we have run into bureaucratic difficulties and are appealing directly to you for help.
I am traveling with a Japanese camerawoman, Yoshiko Kino. We are driving a very special car from Europe, through Africa, to Cape Town. On arrival to Tunisia from Italy we went directly to the Libyan consulate in Tunis where we applied for visas to Libya. We were told to call in four days. That was almost four weeks ago. We call every day, but receive no information; we are simply told to try again tomorrow.
We cannot afford such a long delay. We have six months to complete the entire journey through fifteen African countries and have wasted almost a month now waiting for a visa to Libya. For the sake of Yoshiko and I personally, and for the sake of the film, we ask you respectfully to please instruct your consulate to issue our visas without further delay. We greatly appreciate you help with this matter.
Since I am writing to you personally for assistance in this matter, I will take the opportunity to raise one other point for your consideration. I understand that you preside over a fund whose purpose is the advancement of Africa in the international arena? I am a man who is dedicating time and money toward just this cause, via the production of this movie. We would be honored if you would consider this project for a donation. Libya, or you personally, could effectively become a sponsor for the film. I would be pleased to discuss this matter further with you personally. And I would like to include our meeting in the film, with your permission of course.
I am most easily reached via this e‑mail address while traveling. If you give me a telephone number I can call you in Tripoli. I am waiting for your reply in Sfax, where I have also contacted the Libyan consulate without success. Any assistance you can provide will be greatly appreciated. Thank you in advance for your time.
Respectfully yours,
Thomas McAlevey, CEO
Right Arm Productions Inc.
I sent that letter two weeks ago (yes, really). Gadafi still has not called me. The Libyan Consulate in Tunis has finally made a decision; they will NOT issue us visas. And I have run out of patience.
It is impossible for an American to travel to Libya privately. The Libyans will not issue a visa. And it is off limits for US citizens by our own State Department as well, i.e. I risk fines and imprisonment in the US if I travel to Libya (I risk fines and imprisonment for speeding too, but I do that every day). And that is before we even begin to discuss the issue of temporary vehicle importation. Also, we had fresh reports from Italians and Germans who HAD valid visas but were refused entry because they had no “Letter of Invitation” with them. The Libyan Consulate said no, the US Embassy said no, and absolutely everybody we talked to said it was impossible. This was way too much trouble to get into a dangerous, desert country full of aggressive, American-hating terrorists, that don’t even have beer! But Libya is very much in our way. So before giving up and returning to Europe to drive around the Middle East and into Egypt that way – I decided to go to the border and try my persuasive magic. Twelve hours later we were in Libya.
I will spare you the details of that amazing night. Suffice to say that I am the first American to cross the Tunisian/Libyan land border with his own car in over twenty years. The Libyan police confirmed this. Coincidently, the US ban on travel to Libya was lifted the very morning I entered the country. It means that I am likely the first private American to enter the country by land legally in 20 years. The Libyan police, by the way, were polite without exception. As were all the soldiers. As indeed every Libyan we have encountered has been. More myths dispelled.
In fact, instead of shooting me on the spot, when informed that I am from New York – an “Amerikani” – they are always thrilled. You are from “paradise” they say, a “good and great country”. They tell me they know that Americans are good people. They say it is a shame that politicians on both sides can make such a mess of things. They tell me we are friends again now, as we should be. And they mean it. They buy us bottled water, and talk about relatives they have in the US. One man exclaimed, “New York, were you there on September 11th? Your family is OK? It was a terrible thing those people did to your home. We are ashamed of these persons. They are not real Muslims. America is full of good people. And Libya is full of good people.” And I can only agree with every word he says. I am a little ashamed myself at what I thought of Libyans before visiting their country. And they are not trying to hustle us for money like Egyptians and Moroccans are famous for doing. They ask for nothing and constantly offer to help if we should need anything.
Oh yeah, you were wondering what happened with the Buggy in Tunisia? We were well cared for throughout our stay by our Tunisian savior, Imed, while our Italian saviors Enrico and Giovanni shipped us new pistons and cylinders and high-flow heads and other goodies. I have been working as a full-time mechanic for a couple of weeks now and have rebuilt the motor and suspension. Yoshiko helps, but only does what she wants, the “fun” stuff, like building the engine. Of course she does not know the difference between a carburetor and a crankshaft, but it keeps her from getting bored. I also redesigned several components and carried out lots of other major work, all in an effort to “Sahara-proof” the Buggy. Fat chance of that! The Sahara is merciless. The Libyan people have treated us wonderfully, but their desert broke my car, again!
The starter is only working intermittently now, possibly because the very fine sand has worked it’s way into the solenoid. And reverse is almost gone. We got boxed in between big boulders in deep soft sand and I was sort of “rocking” the car out at almost full throttle when it started popping out of reverse. Each time it popped out the reverse gear ground savagely for a split-second before I got the clutch in and the revs down for another try. And each successive try it popped out a little easier. Now it pops out with the slightest resistance. We need a new transmission. I think I’ve had enough of the Sahara.
By the way, before you run off and book your dream vacation to Libya I ought to mention a few downsides about this interesting country. They throw garbage on the sides of the roads everywhere – in quantity. One young Libyan explained to me that it was almost a national sport. Apparently the idea is to toss the garbage out of your car while driving and see if you can hit the car behind you. Thankfully we have not been hit yet. Maybe they know foreigners have no experience at this sport?
And they are the worst drivers in the world, probably in the universe. I suspect that the only qualification for a Libyan driving license is that you can reach the pedals. Not only do they often drive on the wrong side of the road and completely disregard every basic traffic rule in existence (even the Tunisians do that), but they drive really fast too. They have more gas than water here, literally, so fuel economy plays no part in moderating driving speeds. They race around in crappy little Korean Daewoos with their foot on the floor and their hand on the horn on whichever side of the road is most convenient for them. We witnessed several accidents and countless dead animals on or in the road. In the desert the big trucks even plow down camels regularly. Their huge carcasses stink for miles. But I suppose when they smash into my Buggy they will be very polite about the whole mess – especially when they find out that I’m an American. And for all this surprising hospitality we are truly grateful.
Pictures:
1) Leaving our friends at the garage in Tunisia?
2) And making new friends in Libya. Note the temporary License plate.
3) The Sahara as seen through the tent window, no shoes allowed indoors.
4) All signs in Libya are exclusively Arabic. I wonder what this can says?
5) The desert can even be hard on camels.
Date: Monday, March 15th, 2004 Time: 2 pm Place: Cairo, Egypt Weather: Hot and Humid Temperature: 33°C, 90°F Enviroment: Urban Buggy Condition: No Reverse, Faulty Starter Tom’s Condition: Sweaty and Tired Yoshiko’s Condition: Too Hot Equipment Condition: Good
I lost Yoshiko in Egypt…
It is difficult to hold hands if you only have one arm. I’m a strong swimmer (not only in circles), a decent photographer, a good mechanic, and I have a Black Belt in Tae-Kwon-Do, so it is easy to forget about the little inconveniences of having lost an arm. You probably never thought about the fact that when you are strolling along the boardwalk hand in hand with someone, your free hand is busy doing everything from scratching your head and picking your nose, to retrieving money from your shorts to buy an ice cream. Whenever I want to do any of these things I must break my grip to free my only hand for action, making me a bad hand-holder. Little things like holding hands are important to women.
Yoshiko and I have been fighting so much that we have repacked the Buggy. We can fight about anything from the weather to my occasional desire to have a cigarette – which she vehemently refuses to allow. So now everything of hers is consolidated in one yellow North Face duffle bag. Ostensibly this is to facilitate her immediate departure should we decide to go our separate ways on the road. Actually, I would not abandon her in any unsafe situation, no matter how badly I felt she was behaving. Should she go home, I would prefer to drop her at the airport. And even if we argue a lot, there are practical benefits to not traveling alone besides regular sex (about the only time we do not argue). Like crossing borders for example. It is much easier for me to work my persuasive magic if I am not distracted by thoughts of baggage (or the whole Buggy) disappearing whenever I cannot see it. Yoshiko acts as a guard at these times and I rely on her completely.
Border towns can be rough places. The Libyan/Egyptian crossing near Soloum was no exception. At Al Burdi on the Libyan side of the border, the friendly screams at us and the Buggy that we had grown used to suddenly took on a menacing tone. The whole town seemed drunk and rowdy, like in the Wild West at the end of a big cattle run. There were fistfights in the street right in front of police who quickly ushered us through a gate into the official border zone. This was just as bizarre. In front of our eyes Egyptian heads popped over the Libyan border wall, checked right and left for soldiers and police, then tossed their bags and themselves over the well-beaten barbed wire to scurry off into the Libyan night. But the Libyan authorities were polite to us as always, and after an hour or so of bureaucratic hassles, I even got my fifty Dinar (about 30 dollars) deposit back for turning in the Buggy’s temporary registration plates. We said our good-byes to Libya and drove the hundred meters or so across no-man’s land – that little space at many political borders where you have officially left one country but not yet entered the next. Throughout my research for this trip one point came up repeatedly: entering Egypt with a vehicle is a costly and tedious task. The average crossing runs about 300 dollars and requires several hours. Though Egypt on principle welcomes both Japanese and Americans, we didn’t even have visas in advance, so I was preparing for a long night.
I put on my best border crossing face. It radiates politeness and respect for the authority of the officials, while emanating strength and confidence. It says “I will behave and do exactly as you direct, but don’t try to jerk me around as I am not your typical tourist”. It worked. I quickly had a respectful young Egyptian policeman escorting me to the head of line after line and making quick work of what would otherwise have been a bureaucratic nightmare. I almost felt sorry for all the people we passed, until it came time to pay the visa fee. Thirty US dollars stood between me and a visa stamp in both of the passports I held in my hand. But it had to be cash and I had no dollars, and my best persuasions fell on the deaf ears of the arrogant bank teller. He was uninterested in Libyan Dinars, Visa cards, and even cash Euros. He could not sell me dollars, only Egyptian pounds, which he refused to accept back as payment, only greenbacks would do. That is the law, he explained. And without thirty dollars in cash we must return to Libya now!
I flatly refused to leave. The friendly policeman began to get nervous. I was watching our smooth entry into Egypt crumble before my eyes and visions of border-town, third-world jail cells began dancing in my head. I reasoned with myself that if I could get us into Libya the Egyptians would not turn me back. But decisive action was required immediately. I felt that the banker was an ass, who nobody particularly liked, so I took a chance. I told him flagrantly that he lacked the authority to send me anywhere, that I had every intention of entering the lovely country of Egypt, and that he could continue to sit there and be useless for all I cared until I returned with his thirty lousy dollars – which I would manage to get on my own. This produced smirks on a few faces around me, including the cop, so I forged ahead. I took the policeman aside and confided that I needed his help, that I knew this was a sensitive issue, but that I was confident we could solve it together. There were illegal moneychangers lurking about, someone must have thirty dollars? He championed my cause and, despite initial apprehension at dealing directly under the nose of a cop, the sleazy black-marketers were forced to give me a fair rate and even accepted the last of my Libyan Dinars, which no Egyptian bank would have touched. Success! Visas in hand I profusely thanked our helpful policeman, who steered me towards… Egypt? Nope. That was just the people-part of the crossing. He pointed me towards the vehicular import building looming ominously across the road, apologized that this was out of his jurisdiction, and we were on our own again.
And so the tedious process of temporarily importing a car into Egypt began. Yoshiko sat with the Buggy while I plied my skills on the men inside. Successful travel depends on the ability to read people and situations, to act appropriately, to command respect, and even to win allies in precarious and sometimes dangerous situations. The process of getting temporary plates was going well. I was at the second to last of about seven stages – purchasing Egyptian third-party liability insurance (they don’t accept foreign policies here). A big Arab who needed to shave a few times a day gruffly shook my hand, sizing me up, a critical moment. He could push me through the bureaucracy faster – or drag his feet and even close his shop if he did not like me. And he could pick any fee he wanted for the required insurance, everything is negotiable here. We are so under-financed that a hundred dollars here and there may decide whether we reach South Africa or not.
I shook his hand firmly and launched into our story in careful English, hoping he would be amused and supportive. He draped a big arm over my shoulder and led me into his private office, a dingy, windowless room with a dusty desk and a dirty cot. We sat in two chairs sizing each other up. A big Arab and a tough American; it could go either way. He offered me a cigarette, which I reluctantly waved away, gesturing towards Yoshiko. “She hates when I smoke”.
“Aha” a knowing grin, “You enjoy cigarettes, but your lady does not? It is difficult but important to keep women happy in this life. But she is out there, and won’t come in here” He stretched the packet out towards me again, offering, almost insisting. I accepted a cigarette and a light, and he smiled broadly and began filling in forms. This would go well. We were no longer an Arab and an American; we were two men sharing a smoke and the private joke that we were harmlessly pulling the wool over my girlfriend’s eyes. Hemingway would have been proud. We smiled at our complicity and I knew he would treat me fairly. Then we saw Yoshiko in the door.
Two strong men from different cultures who could have stood side by side against a small army in defense of the universal brotherhood of man were suddenly reduced to complete helplessness in the face of a woman’s wrath. Yoshiko become so upset that she scared all the men in the building before she stormed away, leaving me alone and the Buggy unguarded. I got advice from half a dozen frightened Arabs on how to appease an angry woman (thankfully none of them suggested that I beat her). After ten minutes of apologizing to an unforgiving Yoshiko I grew angry and accused her of behaving selfishly and risking our equipment as well as our entry into Egypt. This did not help matters.
We eventually got into the country, though we remained angry at one another for some time. Twenty-four hours later, and 241 kilometers northwest of Cairo, things came to a head. On the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, we got into a heated argument. This culminated in Yoshiko doing the one thing I cannot tolerate at all. She deliberately and forcefully jammed our expensive broadcast camera between the seats, in effect saying “Watch it pal, things can go very badly if you get me really mad”.
I grew dangerously calm. I suggested that if she was unhappy with the situation she should not break the camera, but take her bag and go – so she did.
She grabbed her yellow duffle demonstratively, and marched off into the warm Egyptian night. I waited about half an hour before I began to worry. Would she really leave? Then and there? How long should I wait? What should I do? I was mad and concerned at the same time. After an hour I began to realize she was not coming back. I beeped, revved the loud engine, and shouted into the darkness. I cruised slowly up and down the highway as far as I calculated she may have walked in the elapsed time, plus a few kilometers more, just in case. I questioned everyone I saw, pedestrians and police, even the guy at the gas station we had passed earlier. I found a village and asked around about a Japanese woman but my Arabic consists of only a few words. Finally the police from a roadblock we had passed earlier that evening communicated to me that she went to a hotel with a man in a car. It made some sense, because we had asked them to recommend a cheap hotel in the area when we had passed the first time. The hotel was a half an hour away. Going there meant leaving here, and probably never finding Yoshiko again if she had not actually gotten a ride to that hotel. I smoked a cigarette (provided by the police) and thought hard. She had obviously left the area, and I had no better lead. I climbed back in the buggy and headed towards Alexandria.
The police were mistaken. In their understandable disbelief that two Westerners were traveling alone through Africa in a Buggy, they had taken me now to be a second Buggy nut, looking for his two friends (me and Yoshiko), who had passed this way before and to whom they had recommended the hotel. I was the man that the Japanese woman got a ride to the hotel with! Of course I didn’t understand all this until later.
I was not prowling the streets in search of a wandering Yoshiko now. I was purposefully driving towards a hotel some distance away. At highway speed in the open Buggy, I barely heard the scream that sounded vaguely like “Tom” drifting in the darkness. I slowed, concentrated, and heard it again. I backed up with a failing reverse gear and out of the darkness popped a hysterical Yoshiko. Tears streamed down her face. She was terrified almost beyond words. She mumbled semi-coherently that I left her. I reassured her that she was wrong, that I never left her, that I searched and found her as I always would. I held her and she gripped me hard. She was convulsing with fear and relief. Despite the tropical heat it was a long time before she stopped shaking. It was about one in the morning now. She had been alone, in the middle of nowhere, for a couple of hours. We headed towards Cairo in the Buggy. We were so exhausted that we slept, fully dressed on the side of the highway, before continuing on to the Great Pyramids of Giza the next morning.
What had happened was that Yoshiko had marched off several hundred meters up the road, sat down to pout angrily at me, and then fallen asleep. When she awoke I had left. As far as she could know, forever.
I hoped maybe this would mark some crossroad in our relationship. Increase our trust and respect for one-another. Move our relationship to a more mature level. That night she behaved as a quiet angel.
But the next day we were fighting again.
It would be easy to blame our fighting on the heat, the stress of the adventure, the enormous practical problems we have had, or our lack of money. But when I think about it deeply, I’m pretty sure it is all because I am not very good at holding hands.
Pictures:
1) What the heck am I doing here?
2) This is where I lost Yoshiko.
3) Luxury accommodation on the side of the road.
4) A New Yorker at home in the big city of Cairo.
5) Still together?
Date: Tuesday, March 30th, 2004 Time: 7 pm Place: El Gouna, Red Sea, Egypt Weather: Warm and Dry Temperature: 29°C, 84°F Enviroment: Luxurious Buggy Condition: Faulty Generator Tom’s Condition: Comfortable Yoshiko’s Condition: Comfortable Equipment Condition: Good
I left my appendix in Cairo
We might as well be in Disneyland.
After everything we have been through, to be enjoying a complimentary week at a five star beach resort feels like being on another planet. Warm seas, cold beers, and beautiful scenery. The ten-dollar hotels we are used to always have beds that sag badly in the middle. El Gouna not only has firm mattresses, it has great food, good service, and a fresh beach towel every time we go for a swim. It has so much security we don’t even worry about the Buggy. It also has management with the savvy to recognize a potential marketing opportunity. That’s why they put us up for free. We are enjoying a vacation from our adventure. Yoshiko and I are lapping up the sun at this beautiful resort town on the Red Sea. But, you last heard from us in Cairo with no reverse in the Buggy…
Pyramid Road runs several miles from downtown Cairo out to the Great Pyramids of Giza. It is trafficked by countless taxis for the wealthy and mini-busses for the working classes. What is unique is that the mini-busses are all old VW vans from the 70s. These vans share many parts and principles with the Buggy. Maybe we could rebuild the transmission here?
I remember a Mexican-American comedian who claimed that he had six sisters all named Maria (Maria one through six). In Islamic countries every other male seems to be named Mohamed. Luckily all the Mohameds we meet turn out to be great guys. When the VW dealership in Cairo could not help us repair such an old car, I got one of my funny ideas. I went down to a busy gas station on Pyramid road and talked to every VW driver that came by for an hour until I found one that could speak English. Mohamed was a terrific guy who had spent 16 years working on American controlled oilrigs in Saudi Arabia. He was proud of his rusty English, and proud of his home country of Egypt. He was determined that we should get a fair deal with whatever repairs were needed. He quit working and spent the rest of the day driving us around to grungy little repair shops he knew in parts of Cairo that have never been put on a map.
We settled on the most unlikely transmission specialist imaginable. An oil-soaked 20-year-old named Abu – working out of a tiny grease covered hole in the side of a dilapidated apartment building. With a little assistance from me, he would remove my engine and transmission, dismantle them, determine the problem with reverse, acquire replacement gears etc., reassemble the gearbox, and then reinstall the gearbox and the motor in the Buggy. All in one day. All on the side of the street outside his grease-cave. And all for less than 50 dollars. I had my doubts. Transmission work requires cleanliness, precision, and a good deal of experience. But Mohamed assured us that Abu was the best. What was Mohamed’s cut? Nothing. Not only did he refuse any sort of payment, he treated us to tea at his family’s tiny coffee shop before driving us home.
Abu was true to his word, and turned out to be a competent professional. We arrived at his shop at 11:00 the next day and drove the Buggy back to our hotel nine hours later with a rebuilt transmission. This kind of efficiency is rare in the West, and all but unheard of here. He gave me a terrific price for the new parts, and then charged me 20 dollars for labor. He refused any tip and insisted that should if it failed he would repair it for free. The transmission is working fine.
All these surgical procedures on the Buggy were beginning to disturb our equilibrium. It seemed only fair that a human participant in this adventure should be operated on as well. Plus, it would make terrific film footage – an emergency operation on the road in Africa! I figured acute appendicitis would do the trick. It is life threatening and dramatic, but the fix is still simple enough to perform with a sharp knife and a bottle of whisky. Yoshiko wanted no part of being operated on, so as usual she handled the camera while I did the dirty work.
I woke up with wicked stomach cramps in the middle of the night. I was sure it was food poisoning and decided to tough it out. After a few hours, Yoshiko awoke from my moaning and looked concerned. Mr. Macho curled up in a fetus position in agony spelled trouble. When the pain had not subsided after 12 hours (sufficient for food-poisoning to pass) we finally took a cab to the hospital. Disappointingly, they had real doctors and nurses and tests to determine that I needed my appendix removed immediately. They even had real anesthesiologists instead of liquor, and I was quickly put to sleep and put under the knife. It could almost have been a Western procedure, except for the night nurse who locked the door mysteriously and then demanded a tip, “baksheesh”. Yoshiko paid her well (about two dollars) as this nurse literally had my life in her hands. I watched this surreal event though the dreamy eyes of the heavily sedated. It was bizarre. I wanted more drugs.
Two days later I was back on the streets. Seventy-two hours post-surgery I was driving the Buggy five hundred kilometers out to the beach to recover in the sun. That was a mistake. My insides were still all cut up and the bouncing caused my stomach to swell up like a beach ball. I couldn’t buckle my pants and felt pretty sick. Still, vanity dictated that I use my recovery period to work on my tan, and Hurghada (the town we had driven to) turned out to be a cheesy tourist resort without even a decent beach. So I crawled back in the Buggy to find someplace more suitable. Weak and sick as I was, we only stopped at El Gouna for a laugh, it was way out of our price league. But it was beautiful and it was on our way. And for the film’s sake we wanted to show the contrast between how a wealthy tourist might experience Egypt as opposed to what we had been through. Instead of calling security to run us off the property, the kind woman at their info booth was truly fascinated by our story. She put us in touch with the management, who offered to put us up for free, and here we are.
Now my recovery is going well. A few days ago after walking the fifty meters from the beach back to our luxury hotel room, we watched Tony Blair shake hands with Gadafi on CNN (after we paved the way of course). Then we saw that Jennifer Lopez has another hit on MTV and learned that Kylie Minogue will be hosting a show about artists from Australia. Armed with this vital knowledge, we feel better prepared to take on the new adventures that await us. Time to load up the Buggy and wave good-bye to Disneyland. Plus, I miss my kids, and I promised them that I’d be back by summer. We are very far behind schedule. It is time to hit the road again- and it feels good.
Unfortunately I just spoke to the Sudanese Embassy in Cairo (again) to check on our visa status and they said to call back next week, they had no word from Khartoum. Déjà vu. This is reminiscent of the Libyan consulate in Tunisia. The answer was promised in a week; after a month it came back as a “no”. So maybe we’ll try a bribe at the border? Or maybe just drive straight into the country illegally through the middle of the Sahara and hope to receive some of the famous Sudanese hospitality instead of a shoddy Sudanese jail cell when they pick us up. Or maybe we’ll have to go back up to the Suez canal and try to hitch a ride on a freighter straight past Sudan to the strange little country of Djibouti?
One way or another I’ll be in South Africa this summer. And Yoshiko is still with me.
Pictures:
1) Mohamed outlining our options.
2) The Buggy undergoes surgery, again.
3) Dr. Abu and Dr. McAlevey show the bad reverse gear.
4) Tom undergoes surgery.
5) Then he recovers at El Gouna, nice scenery.
Date: Friday, April 16th, 2004 Time: 2 pm Place: Blue Nile Sailing Club, Khartoum, Sudan Weather: Extremely Hot and Dry Temperature: 45°C, 113°F (in the shade). Enviroment: Dusty Buggy Condition: Tragic Tom’s Condition: Hot Yoshiko’s Condition: Boiling Equipment Condition: Good
E=mc2, The Big Bang, Religion and Sudan
It was a scorcher.
Not the kind of hot that you can get on a bad summer day in New York, which is pretty bad. This was the kind of hot that can only be achieved when the sun is directly above your head, diluted by the shortest possible stretch of atmosphere, like in the Sudan in April. We met a Swiss man in a 4WD van with a California-made solar panel on the roof that was rated at 90 watts maximum. Here it was producing 140 watts! If you didn’t move your feet once in a while the soles of your shoes would melt to the ground.
Mohammed spoke in clear, schooled English.
-Do you drink, Tom?
I weighed the possible responses. Does a bear shit in the woods? But irony, like humor, is too often lost on the non-native English speaker.
-Absolutely.
With an ice-cold (and illegal) Heineken in the blazing afternoon sun I am sitting on a bank where the White Nile joins the Blue Nile to form one of the world’s greatest rivers- and pondering our troubles. We are behind schedule, over budget, and we need to build another new engine. DHL wants 600 dollars to ship the parts from Europe. And we are illegal aliens in Khartoum hoping to obtain exit visas, like characters from the film “Casablanca”.
But we are in Sudan. We have just survived an extraordinary illegal desert border crossing from Egypt. And we are healthy.
OK, how many of you understand Einstein’s Theory of Relativity? Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared is arguably the most staggering single concept mankind has ever put forth. And it is almost certainly correct, unlike the Big Bang theory, which is nonsense and will be disregarded in my lifetime. Then, why do so many scientists subscribe to the Big Bang theory? Like religion, it provides an answer to some questions that have haunted us since the dawn of conscious thought. It is uncomfortable to accept that we have no idea why we are here, where the universe ends, or when time began. Faith (in God) makes these questions unimportant, science (like the Big Bang theory) attempts to provide answers. The grounds for both are pretty shaky. I am always amazed at people who believe with certainty that their religion is the only correct religion, while three quarters of the world believes with equal certainty that their totally different religion is correct. Something is wrong with this equation.
The Big Bang theory is not much better. Did you really expect me to believe that all matter in the known universe came to existence through the explosion some 15 odd billion years ago of an infinitely hot, infinitely dense, infinitely small speck? Please. And for half of the last millennium scientists were just as sure that the world was flat.
But Einstein was correct. Matter and energy really are convertible via the phenomenally huge yet beautifully simple E=mc2. Nuclear bombs and suntans are just two of the limitless examples of E=mc2 at work. The sun is busy converting its mass to energy, which it spits out constantly to tan my skin and to scorch the sands of The Sudan. And humans, though far less efficient than the sun, can also push matter (like Plutonium and Uranium) across the “=” sign in Einstein’s equation to create massive bursts of energy similar to the ones that the Americans dropped on the Japanese almost sixty years ago. Bringing us back to Yoshiko and myself- and to Sudan.
Nuke it.
I’m not kidding. Nuke Sudan. I mean who would notice? Maybe the Egyptians would complain that the Nile stopped flowing for a few years while it turned a crater the size of the eastern United States into a beautiful lake. But no one else would care. It is a fly bitten, dust ridden, miserable excuse of a country that doesn’t want visitors, still condones slavery, doesn’t allow women to wear bikinis, and doesn’t even have beer. It has the worst roads in the world, bar none. And it broke my car. Do you remember that film that all your friends told you was great? Then when you finally got to see it you were disappointed? That was Sudan for me. We had heard so much about the Sudanese hospitality that we had forgotten about all the bad stuff. We really just want to get through Sudan now and on our way South. But the car is broken and we need to rebuild the motor, again. And of course, we have no visas.
OK, I am kidding. Don’t nuke Sudan. Even if the pharmaceuticals factory wasn’t producing pharmaceuticals, as Richard Clarke indicated in his recent testimony regarding the so-called “intelligence” surrounding 911. And even if Al Queda does have active cells here. And even if women are second-class citizens, alcohol is illegal, and Sharia law still prevails. And even if the country has been embroiled in brutal civil wars throughout most of its independent existence since 1956. Because despite all this – or perhaps because of it – the legendary Sudanese hospitality is alive and well. You can go almost anywhere in this country and feel welcome.
The Sudanese give new meaning to the term “dirt-poor”. Most of them live and breathe the stuff. And it is God-awful dirt. A fine dry powder that blows all over and gets into everything. Nothing grows in it. And if you do add water it makes a horrid sludge that quickly dries to an abrasive cement until it is eventually pulverized back into the original awful dirt. Yet these people, most of whom have nothing but a tiny patch of this stuff, will invariably invite you into their homes for tea, expecting nothing in return.
This same dirt is the cause of our most recent motor failure. The fine Sahara sand and Sudanese dust that goes right through our air-filter to grind away the insides of the motor. This time after I rebuild the engine I will change the carburetor back to a stock type. And I’ll cut the body to allow the fitting of an original old VW air-filter that relies on oil to trap the dust instead of paper. Oil filtering is a far superior concept for the brutally dusty African conditions.
But only motor-heads like me want to hear more car details. I think most of you would prefer to hear about our unique entry into Sudan? About how we risked our lives to complete a film that should have been stopped by the Sudanese Embassy in Cairo or the Egyptian military in the desert? About days of driving without seeing so much as a fly and navigating by the sun? About huge stretches of untouched Sahara where the sand was perfectly flat to the horizon in every direction, and where we could drive as fast and comfortably as if we were on a modern highway? Or about how incredibly stupid I can be?
Right, I knew you wanted to hear about that last bit.
Given my grasp of things like Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, one could draw the conclusion that I am an intelligent human (though I’m beginning to suspect that “intelligent human” is an oxymoron). But the facts do not speak in my favor. For example, recent experience has repeatedly proven that every time we take extended trips into the desert, we break the car. So what do I do? Take an even bigger trip into the desert, of course! One has to wonder at times what goes on in my mind? If you figure it out please let me know.
In my own defense, this most recent and most dangerous trip into the desert was not really voluntary. It was a last resort attempt to continue with the film and the adventure. When it became obvious that the Sudanese Embassy in Cairo wasn’t going to issue us visas we decided to take matters into our own hands. We would drive down to the closed border crossing along the Red Sea and try to talk our way in. Similar tactics had worked in Libya. Anything was better than giving up.
But we never got the chance. Egyptian military firmly turned us back hundreds of kilometers from the border. They explained that this was for our own protection, which thoroughly pissed me off, as the only dangerous people around were the soldiers themselves. It got a little tense and we even have footage where we are arguing with soldiers and secret police when they tried to grab the camera from Yoshiko, who held on firmly.
We drove hundreds of miles back up that country and then down the middle of Egypt to try our luck south of Luxor, along the Nile River, which is the only other road that crosses the border to Sudan. Same thing. No foreigners were permitted anywhere near the border. We were already defying the rules as we were only supposed to travel in the interior with armed military convoys. We were under strict orders to desist with our activities and return to the north of the country. Instead we headed west, into the desert, skirting twenty-mile loops through the sand around each military outpost we saw on the horizon. We finally arrived at Baris, a tiny oasis-town in western Egypt and the last place to buy gas if you were heading south. Under the inquisitive eyes of the locals, and under constant police surveillance, we filled every container we had with gas and even acquired two empty plastic 20-liter oil jugs, which we filled with gas and added to our collection bringing our total fuel reserves up to 110 liters. We would need it. Then we went to sleep, baffling the poor policeman who had to sleep outside our door.
Comically, the policeman guarding us to prevent our driving south had no car! We were permitted to drive to the gas station and to a local restaurant to eat. The policeman had to run after, arriving whenever his feet allowed. The next morning we went to the same restaurant for breakfast, but left before the policeman caught up with us. Naturally, we headed south.
That morning was spent playing cat and mouse with the Egyptian military. We drove around four more outposts before leaving the road completely and heading straight across unmarked desert and, hopefully, into Sudan. With no GPS, a tiny compass on Yoshiko’s watch, a blazing sun to help navigate, and ten liters of water, we headed south by southwest into the most un-trodden desert imaginable. We hoped to avoid Egyptian military. We hoped to end up deep enough in Sudan before encountering officials that it would be impractical for them to turn us back. And we desperately hoped that eventually, heading in this direction would run us into the Nile and some sort of civilization. Quite simply, our lives depended on that last point.
After a few nervous but very exciting days alone in the desert, we have succeeded on all counts. I have accepted the toasted engine as the price of admission to Sudan. Some border crossings are more expensive than others. And now in Khartoum, rested, showered, well fed, with a cold beer in hand, and pampered by the overwhelming hospitality of the Sudanese people, maybe I’m beginning to reassess the situation- maybe Sudan is not that bad after all.
Of course, a swimming pool wouldn’t hurt. And air-conditioning. And a firm mattress. And a good massage. And… well, you get the idea.
So that’s it. We are alive and well. And part of the reason I undertook this project was to remind myself that sometimes, being alive and well is enough. That stereos, fast cars, and big-screen TVs are not required to pass satisfying time on this earth. That life is much bigger than the antiseptic existence most people try to carve out in the West.
In Baris, Egypt, on the night before we set off alone across the dessert, I read a local expression that went something like this:
-The stars exist to remind man of his insignificance through the ages. The Sahara exists to remind man of his insignificance right now.
Pictures:
1) Loading the Buggy in southern Egypt.
2) Illegal border crossing? Film it!
3) The very first Sudanese we met invited us to tea.
4) Another country, another toasted engine?
5) Staying cool in the Sudanese sun.
Leaving Khartoum and The Blue Nile Sailing Club
Date: Wednesday, May 5th, 2004 Time: 11 pm Place: A Cheap Hotel Room, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia Weather: Cool Hard Rain Temperature: 18°C, 65°F Enviroment: Mountainous, 2600 Meters Buggy Condition: Broken Motor Mounts, Etc. Tom’s Condition: Anxious to Move South Yoshiko’s Condition: Pleasantly Surprised Equipment Condition: Very Good
All the Pretty Faces
The elderly Austrian couple we met who were heading north in a Land Cruiser were stern in their warning:
-They throw stones in Ethiopia.
It was a fact. The kids swarmed you, begged for money, and stoned you if they did not get any. If you did not stop, they would stone your vehicle as you drove by. The Swiss couple had had the same experience, and even the crazy Australian confirmed it. Our Sudanese friends suggested that we wear helmets as it was common knowledge that Ethiopians were ignorant and stoned foreigners. In the Buggy we would be sitting ducks for every bored or frustrated kid with a stone around. And there are stones everywhere in Ethiopia.
-We’ll be OK, I said. The Buggy is magic.
And it was true. As we rolled through the tiny villages of northern Ethiopia we saw kids everywhere poised with stones. But when they began to realize exactly what they were looking at their mouths dropped in shock before forming smiles so huge that they forgot to throw the stones they held.
Ethiopia is best known to Westerners as a drought-plagued barren wasteland, totally dependent upon foreign aid to feed its people, and constantly embroiled in war with Eritrea. We have all seen the pictures of big-eyed children with bloated bellies, too weak from malnutrition to wave away the flies on their faces. Nothing could be further from our experience. After three months in the desert, Ethiopia stands in stark contrast with its green rolling hills, rich dark soil, forests, mountains, and rain. And although the per capita GNP is an absurdly low US$ 105, making it one of the poorer countries in the world, there are tilled fields and grazing livestock everywhere. The people are active and seem healthy. And they are pretty.
My shoulder is sore. Every time my gaze lingers too long on a beautiful young peasant girl with curves showing proudly through a thin bright dress, Yoshiko punches me in my arm. Since these girls are in every village, I get hit a lot. In another world, they might be gracing the cover of a fashion magazine. Here they are carrying huge bundles of firewood barefoot down the road.
And they run- the men, the women, and the children- fast and sure. The whole country seems to be moving constantly. They think nothing of walking several miles between towns or to school every day. And when they are working far out in the fields and see us approaching, they sprint to the side of the road for a better look. All this activity occurs a couple kilometers above sea level, so their lungs know how to extract oxygen from the thin air. It is no wonder that they dominate the marathon scene so completely.
But before we could enter Ethiopia we had to get out of Sudan. We rebuilt the blown motor in the Buggy at great expense in Khartoum. Then we replaced our high-performance Weber carburetor with a standard VW model including an original oil-based air-filter to better handle the destructive dust of Africa. And we finally got exit visas. After two weeks of bureaucratic hassles we were free to leave the country. This was no small feat. I was suspected of being a spy. We needed a local sponsor who would vouch for us and accept full responsibility should we do anything wrong. Luckily Mohamed came to our rescue. After days of arguing patiently with the authorities to convince them that we were not working for the CIA, he lost his temper.
-He is a one-armed guy traveling with a small Japanese woman in a tiny beach buggy for God’s sake! What do you think they are going to do?
So they finally stamped our passports and we were off. But not before we got a few going away presents. Like a tank of gasoline full of sand in Khartoum! From a brand name oil company by the way. It has wreaked havoc on us for days, and now I must remove the Buggy’s fuel tank and flush it completely.
When we finally reached the Ethiopian border at Gallabat in the middle of the night, the police would not let us leave Sudan. The visas we had worked so hard to acquire did not include the Buggy, which had no Sudanese paperwork at all. It seamed that we were back where we started. We were informed clearly that it was impossible to exit the country without a vehicle entry stamp from Dongala, the town where we had come out of the desert and into Sudan- on the other side of the country! Ethiopia and freedom were only fifty meters away. I lost my patience.
-We ARE leaving, I promise you, I stated emphatically. Unless you are planning to shoot us we are going to Ethiopia.
-OK then, come with me, said the policeman with a big stick.
I left Yoshiko guarding the Buggy. The police escorted me up the street to headquarters where we woke up the area general. He came out looking tired and irritated, with two more armed police, all carrying long sticks that they did not use for walking. I had an ominous feeling that I was going to get a serious beating. My adrenaline was flowing and my fear was only superceded by my macho-pride. People rarely fought back in these situations, as they were too scared. Fear of authority is the whole premise of the police state. They would not expect resistance, so I had the element of surprise on my side. I could block the first blow that came with an angled forearm easily, and then break the attackers nose with a well-placed elbow across his face. I would probably have a chance to get in at least one good side-thrust kick to somebody else’s abdomen or groin before I went down under the inevitable flurry of blows. At least they would think twice before the next time they beat me.
OK, so maybe I have seen too many Hollywood movies. But I’ve also seen the inside of a few jail cells. My tactics work well if you don’t want to become the prison tough guy’s new “boy”, or the guard’s new “toy”. But I was not beaten. After some tense arguing with the General, Yoshiko and I (and the Buggy) were politely “detained” in a vehicular lock-up area behind customs. We were made as comfortable as our guards, who were pretty miserable – but accustomed to it. The next day a higher-ranking general arrived and sorted things out in short order. The Gallabat customs simply stamped the Buggy in (illegally) then out again! Our captors (or were they our hosts?) even procured us a small can of tuna to eat, a fairly luxurious item in those parts. They apologized for the “delay”, and were very hospitable about the whole mess, as their tradition dictates. After breakfast we were free to go.
Now, we have made it to Addis Ababa, the capitol of Ethiopia, with many new stories to tell. The Buggy needs new motor mounts and a whole list of other repairs, so we will be here for several days. We have already befriended the owner of the local VW dealership, and are working in their shop. The Italians occupied Ethiopia briefly during Mussolini’s reign, so in addition to Injira – the local foam-rubber-bread based staple food – there are pizzerias, pasta, and cappuccino to help pass the time. And unlike Sudan or Libya, beer is legal here! And of course, there are all the pretty faces to look at…
I think my shoulder is going to be sore for a while.
Next stop: Kenya!
Pictures:
1) Mohamed finally got us our exit visas.
2) Lunch at the VW workshop.
3) The beautiful Ethiopian countryside.
4) But the blown-up tanks were a reminder of very real problems.
5) Hope the Buggy doesn’t end up like its cousin here!
Date: Sunday, June 6th, 2004 Time: 12 Noon Place: A Beach in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania Weather: Sunny Temperature: 37°C, 98°F Enviroment: Tropical Buggy Condition: Repaired Tom’s Condition: Hung-over Yoshiko’s Condition: Comfortable Equipment Condition: Good
White People in Jeeps
We made it!
No, we are not in Cape Town yet. But after five months on the road we have finally made it to East Africa. We had planned to be here in five weeks. Major car troubles and difficulties acquiring visas for some countries almost prevented us from getting here at all. The rest of our route is relatively developed from a tourist’s point of view. There are paved roads, frequent hotels in all categories, and no more countries that routinely deny some Westerners entry.
And there are lots of white people in Jeeps.
To be accurate, there are not many Jeeps at all, Jeep being a trademark for a popular American four-wheel-drive vehicle, which has not caught on well in Africa. But there are countless Toyota Land Cruisers and Land Rover Defenders. And it seems that almost half of them are driven by white people. This is novel to us. During the months we spent traveling from Tunis to Nairobi, we could count the Westerners we met on my one hand. Here there are white people left over from the colonial days, white people working, and white people on Safari. There are white people back-packing as well, and lots of overland trucks carrying Westerners who want a little more adventure than normal – but perhaps not quite what Yoshiko and I have been through.
In a way, we miss being on our own and living “on the edge”. To be sure, we have lions and elephants left to encounter. Knowing us that could get pretty exciting in an open car. And just last week we were locked up for a day because we accidentally (that’s the truth) drove the Buggy more than half way up Mt. Kilimanjaro! But it was worth it, what a mountain. Still, compared to driving alone through the Sahara in order to enter Sudan illegally, getting arrested for driving the Buggy up Kilimanjaro seems relatively normal.
And now we are on the beach in Tanzania laughing about it over a beer with a bunch of rowdy overland truck drivers, most of whom have some pretty interesting stories to tell themselves. Like Ben, a big, talkative Britt, who came down the same route as Yoshiko and I did through northern Kenya. The stretch of dirt track from Moyale, on the Ethiopian border, down to Marsabit, 300 miles into Kenya, is famous for two reasons:
1) It is one of the worst “roads” in the world. Two parallel ruts cut by heavy trucks through sharp, loose rocks, ranging in size from gravel to small boulders. It gave us two flat tires, the first on the trip, and damaged countless other items on the Buggy, both large and small.
2) It is packed with “Bandits”, i.e. men with AK-47s who don’t answer to any authority.
All the normally decent Masai people we saw herding sheep or cattle were armed with machine-guns in addition to their standard issue spears (I’m not sure which I would prefer to be attacked with?). This was to defend themselves against other people, equally well armed, performing no useful tasks, who routinely attack them, and anyone else that comes their way. No one seems to know what these Bandits want or where they got their weapons. We were left in peace, even changing tires in the night. Perhaps it was the magic of the Buggy? Ben, who was driving a big truck, was not so lucky.
Normally vehicles driving this stretch are assigned an armed police escort. We, in a buggy with no room to spare for luxuries like a police escort, were never offered this option. Ben had two police armed with automatic rifles riding on the back of his 20-ton flatbed truck. A bit north of Marsabit the Bandits opened fire. The police returned fire and a full out gun-battle was on. Ben did the only thing he could; he ducked low and put his foot to the floor. Bashing the 20-ton truck along one of the worst roads in the world at 120 kph, he swears he had all the tires in the air at the same time on several occasions. When the shooting stopped, the suspension on the truck was completely trashed, but everybody – at least on his side – was alive.
These are the kind of stories we sit around and swap over a few beers at a campground on a beautiful beach in Tanzania. We have carried out more major repairs on the Buggy, but it is ready now, and it is time for us to head south. The big game parks in Kenya and Tanzania have so far refused to let us in with an open vehicle. They are afraid that the lions will eat us. We of course want to film them (the lions) with the Buggy! Tomorrow we will head for Mikumi national park in southern Tanzania. The main road runs right through that park so they cannot refuse us entry. The truckers all agree that chances are good there to see lions and other big game. Maybe we’ll have some good wildlife pictures for the Next Report.
Then it is time to start making our way to the cape. Time and money are running out. More importantly, it is several months since I’ve seen my kids. We are going to try to find a ship from South Africa that can carry us and the Buggy back to Europe. But we still have Malawi to cross, and possibly Botswana and Mozambique as well. Yoshiko wants to do some diving, and we are really looking forward to seeing elephants and lions now. And, if history is any indication, we probably still have several adventures left on this trip. And we’ll probably meet a lot more white people in Jeeps to tell our stories to. So, until we chat again, “Hakuna Matata!”
Pictures:
1) Crossing the Equator.
2) Mt. Kilimanjaro!
3) Lunch while under arrest
4) And a “Kili” beer after we were released.
5) White people in jeeps.
Date: July 2nd, 2004 Time: 7 pm Place: Tofu Beach, Mozambique Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: 28°C, 83°F Enviroment: Aquatic Buggy Condition: Broken? What Else? Tom’s Condition: Strong Yoshiko’s Condition: Happy (Diving!) Equipment Condition: Signs of Wear
In Praise of Bungee Cords
He was huge. An African elephant standing four meters at the shoulder and weighing close to ten tons. Judging by his tusks I surmised that he was still fairly young. Maybe next year he would defeat the aging dominant male in the area and take over the herd. But now he was alone.
Well, not exactly alone? I was there. Only several meters of open space separated me from this giant. He stared at me and flapped out his ears menacingly; he was contemplating a charge. There was no place to hide.
I spoke calmly and clearly, addressing him directly, “Nobody wants to fight you big guy. Just take it easy. We’re here for a few pictures then we’ll be on our way, OK?”
He was unconvinced. He took a step towards me, lowering his head a bit. I stood my ground. What else could I do?
“Hey! I told you, nobody wants to fight here. I know when I’m outgunned. So just relax Gigantor”
He was reasoning things out in his head, trying to make sense of my words. Suddenly he seemed to believe me. He slowly and deliberately turned his back on me and headed towards the brush.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I was still alive. Then I realized that I had not taken his photo. Damn!
“Hey!” I yelled at him, “How about one good picture before you leave!”
On my words he stopped, turned, posed majestically while staring at me, and waited while I clicked a couple of stills. Then he walked calmly back into the central African bush, effectively ending our conversation. I stood in awe, amazed at what had just transpired.
You could pass this off as a “big fish” story, a wild exaggeration of the facts, save for one thing; Yoshiko filmed the whole episode. And she was dumbfounded.
“You can speak to elephants!” she exclaimed, with a mix of adrenaline-filled exhilaration at what had happened, and relief that we were alive. She had been just fifteen meters behind me rolling the camera all the time.
“Sure” I replied coolly, happy not to have peed my pants, “I never told you that?”
Close encounters of the African kind. This one took place in Malawi, where they were more relaxed about the Buggy entering the game parks than they were in Kenya and Tanzania. Malawi turned out to be a very friendly place. The people laugh loudly and frequently, especially at the Buggy. All through Africa people stare and shout their approval. In Malawi they burst out laughing, a joyous, deep, instinctual laughter. It is a comfort to know that our mere existence makes so many people so happy.
And Lake Malawi is renowned as one of the world’s top fresh water diving locations. Since Yoshiko is a dive instructor she desperately wanted to test the waters. I have always wanted to learn to dive, so we decided I would get certified in Malawi. Cape Maclear to be precise. We drove up to the only five star (PADI) rated dive center in town, Scuba Shack, and asked them if they wanted to give me the open water course.
Now I always thought that Glenn Campbell was an American Country singer. Wrong. He is the owner of Scuba Shack, a Canadian ex-pat, and one of the best divers in Africa. He teaches instructors in all the crazy aspects of diving, like caves and wrecks and extreme deep water diving. “Technical Diving” is the term, since it involves lots of science and high-tech goodies. He dove to 152 meters (almost 500 feet). It took one month of planning, 40 minutes to descend, two minutes at the bottom, then five and a half hours back up to avoid decompression illnesses (like The Bends). To avoid carrying the 17 tanks of compressed air that would have been required for such a dive, Glenn wore a “re-breather”, a device that detoxifies your exhaled air and adds pure oxygen so you can breathe it again. This guy is intense. And he wasn’t pulling any punches in training me.
During a lecture about out-of-air emergency maneuvers he said, “And when beginners feel what its like to run out of air, it’s my experience that a lot of them bolt for the surface, which can kill you”. He stared into my eyes to see if I was a “bolter”.
“I won’t bolt,” I said, staring right back.
He was unmoved. “As I was saying, it’s my experience that a lot of beginners bolt, so I’ll grab you if you start up, to control your ascent.”
“I won’t bolt,” I repeated.
Yoshiko didn’t know whether to laugh or run away. For the first time in six months there was someone else as cocky and intense as me in the room. Could two such egos dive together?
The next day, kneeling on the lake floor six meters under the surface, Glenn gave me the signal to do the out-of-air exercise. I concentrated on my training, took a deep breadth, spit out my own regulator, and reached for his auxiliary regulator. Time was ticking and my body was anxious for more air, but everything was under control. I got his auxiliary regulator off his BCD, raised it to my mouth, and inhaled deeply- and sucked in as much water as air! Choking twenty feet under the surface of the sea I panicked and almost bolted. But instinctively I sucked again, and I got more water. I was certain that I would die if I did not get to the surface immediately. Every cell in my body was suddenly in perfect harmony, and they all agreed, Bolt!
But two feet in front of my face was Glenn’s icy cold stare, boring a hole in my soul and daring me to stand my ground. I was actually convulsing, drowning; yet pride held me down and forced me to concentrate on Glenn for an instant. He was clearly indicating something, but what? He was rotating his hand in front of his regulator. Suddenly I understood, the auxiliary regulator in my mouth was upside down! Instantly I flipped it over and got some air into my lungs. I was still in bad shape, choking violently, but I had air as well. I choked into the regulator again and again, but with each convulsing breadth I was getting more air and less water into my lungs. Yoshiko claims that you can vomit into a regulator and just keep breathing through it. I hope I never have to test that. After one or two minutes I began to calm down and breathe more normally. Throughout this incident Glenn simply stared straight into my eyes, seemingly unmoved. When I finally regained my composer he raised his right hand and signed the question, “Are you OK?”
Raising my own hand I signed back, “Yes, I’m OK.”
And I was.
And I hadn’t bolted.
So we moved directly on to the next exercise.
It was an honor to be taught by Glenn, who is normally teaching people more experienced than Yoshiko. His no-nonsense military style may seem harsh to some, but it worked for me. Two days later I was maneuvering confidently in and out of caves at 25 meters (about 80 feet) deep. And no matter what happens, I know I’ll never try to breathe through an upside down regulator again. And Glenn and I have become friends. Who would have guessed that under that tough skin was a nice guy?
Which brings us to bungee cords. Actually, it does not even steer us in the general direction of bungee cords, but I like a good non-sequeter now and again. Whoever invented bungee cords is one of the unsung heroes of the 20th century. Everything on the Buggy is held down with the things. At times I’ve used them to hold parts of the car itself together until I could make permanent repairs. Essentially giant rubber bands with metal hooks on the ends, bungee cords are works of shear genius. There should be a hall of fame dedicated to their designer. Through eight African countries and thousands of kilometers of horrendous roads, they have never failed us once. Nothing has ever even fallen off the Buggy. They are amazing. I hold them in the highest esteem. Right up there with duct tape.
Now we are in Mozambique. Waiting for more car parts and doing some spectacular diving. But we have to be moving along soon, there may still be a few lions to tame between here and Cape Town, like in Kruger National Park. And who knows what else? We have begun to meet a lot of South Africans and look forward to visiting their country. They all seem as crazy as me. Wait a minute… a country full of people like me? Maybe we should turn around right here! Well, stay tuned.
Ciao!
Pictures:
1) Breakfast in the campground.
2) Good to know I’ll be energetic when I’m dead.
3) Sunset over Lake Malawi.
4) This chameleon was almost a road kill.
5) Scared by the microphone he turned to this!
Date: Sunday, July 18th, 2004 Time: 7:30 AMPlace: Johannesburg, South Africa Weather: Clear and Cold Temperature: 5°C, 41°F Enviroment: Hospitable Buggy Condition: Minor Electrical Problems Tom’s Condition: Healthy Yoshiko’s Condition: Influenza Equipment Condition: Sun-Bleached
Men Are From Mars
To contract a muscle in our body requires an electrical impulse. Electrical charges also jump across the gaps between the ends of our brain cells, completing circuits, resulting in our thoughts. When the same circuits are completed repeatedly, they form memories. The human body requires and produces electricity. But compared to the consumption of even a simple household appliance it is an absurdly low amount of current. Which is why one of the ideas in the film “Matrix” is flawed. Intelligent machines could come up with myriad better energy sources than farming human bodies as living batteries.
However, the basic premise – that machines will take over the world – is not only possible, it is inevitable. When processing power, memory, and especially operating systems begin to approach human levels, there is no reason to assume they will not begin to perform human tasks. Without the need to eat, sleep, or pursue the opposite sex in order to reproduce, they will be vastly more efficient than we are. The time required to evolve a new and improved generation of mechanized “beings” can be reduced to weeks, as opposed to decades for humans. It does not require a rocket scientist to see that our days are numbered.
Which is why I don’t worry too much about conservation. I think I should be allowed to drive my car on European beaches. A six hundred kilo Buggy rolling on four fat tires doesn’t exert more pressure on the sand or grass than a grown up walking barefoot. And who cares if it did? Machines are going to take over the earth soon anyway. Haven’t you been paying attention?
Justifying one’s actions can be very satisfying. A trip through Africa in a Buggy allows plenty of time to think. Hopefully it entails a bit of personal growth and maturing as well. I feel more grounded now than I have for some time. However, according to Yoshiko, my womanizing tendencies have not diminished in the least. It is not that I chase other women while we are traveling together, I don’t. To start a fight with Yoshiko, it is sufficient that I gaze too long (too longingly?) at any attractive woman. Why can’t I help looking at women? My justification is simple; it is in my computer programming.
The operating system that I had when I came out of the box was labeled “Male”. Therefore it is in my nature – in my basic programming – to mate with every fertile female I can in order to propagate my DNA as successfully as possible. It is my prime objective, surpassed only by my need for food and shelter. Things like education, religion, culture, and fear of AIDS may conspire to curb my natural inclination to ravish every healthy female of childbearing age, but they don’t subdue it completely. So I find myself looking at women more than I should, or at least…more than any woman I am together with appreciates.
Yoshiko was labeled “Female” and came out of the box with a very different basic computer operating system installed. Despite confusing details like society and birth control, her primary task is to find the most suitable mate to fertilize her, thereby insuring the best chance of a successful continuation of her offspring (to propagate her own DNA). “Suitable” used to be a much easier quality to quantify. Bigger and stronger was better. Today other attributes must be taken into account as well; things like intelligence and economy – anything that may increase the chances of success of the next generation. Not long ago Bill Gates might have had trouble getting a date. Today a significant portion of Playboy centerfolds would probably accept him as their mate.
Despite all our fighting however, and despite our radically different programming, Yoshiko and I have made it to the final country on our African safari. The Republic of South Africa is a place where DNA and politics have clashed and congealed to form one of the most interesting countries on earth. After being boycotted by politically conscious travelers like myself for many decades, in the early 90s, under F. W. De Clerk’s leadership, the white controlling Afrikaans minority finally succeeded suffrage (the right to vote) to the black majority, effectively ending apartheid. Nelson Mandela was elected president, and the rest is history. “Great” I said to myself, “Someday I’ll have to check it out.” And that was all the thought I ever gave the matter.
Until I got here.
Wow! After years of traveling throughout the world I never expected that a country with widely spoken English and a highly developed infrastructure could surprise me so much. Given time I would like to explore the Xhosa and Zulu cultures as well as the Bushmen of the Kalahari and the dozens of other tribes that make up South Africa. There are eleven official languages! But our time is limited, and the white Afrikaans culture has proven most easily accessible to us.
The Afrikaans are largely descended from the Dutch. The key word being largely… they are big! Dutch are big people to begin with. Then there is the inevitable filtering process associated with any emigration. The small and the weak are less likely to make the trek to a far away and challenging place. Many Afrikaans are farmers, who generally work hard and eat well. Throw into the mix a sense of being isolated in a fairly dangerous part of the world, and you begin to see why so many Afrikaans are big and healthy and confident, and just a bit wild. Although I am not a large man physically, I feel very at home here. Not unlike America, South Africa is a land of extremes, and I find that extremes make life interesting.
Although apartheid is over, the economic discrepancy between black and white South Africans is still dramatic. Around Johannesburg for example, most whites enjoy a Western standard of living with cars, houses, home entertainment systems, computers, mobile phones and the rest. While much of the black majority still lives in the townships – large shantytowns like Soweto – in conditions ranging from modest to abysmal.
So obviously, all extremes are not good, like extreme poverty or extreme violence. When you stop at a red light and read an official road sign stating “Warning! Car-Jacking Zone” you have to wonder how South Africa is going to handle rampant crime, assimilation of the massive poor population into a Western society, racism (from both sides), tribal conflicts, and a host of other great challenges that still exist. We must hope that South Africa retains the positive spirit of people like Mandela, and does not go the way of neighboring Zimbabwe, where Mugabe has obviously contracted untreatable syphilis, fogging his reason. No matter what atrocities may have occurred historically, allowing a band of aggressive blacks to humiliate and even kill white farmers and redistribute (steal?) their land is obviously not the most intelligent way to address inequities.
Most of the white South Africans we meet remain positive about the future. They are fairly comfortable talking politics with me, even if I delve into sensitive areas. They are very proud of the country, and, to our great benefit, they are some of the most hospitable people you could ever encounter. They spoil us with good food and cold beer, they love barbequing, and we have not stayed in a hotel once since we arrived in the country! Though the Buggy is not as novel here as it was in the rest of Africa, they marvel at the fact that we drove it down from Europe. They have written newspaper articles about us and already featured us on the national TV station, SABC. A local pub near our friend André’s house in Johannesburg even made a party in our honor as if we were celebrities!
After half a year of roughing it through the back of beyond in undeveloped Africa, it feels oddly wonderful to be here. The hardship is behind us, but the adventure continues. For example, the day before yesterday I had another visit to the hospital to treat… A Lion Bite! I was playing with a young lioness that did not know her own strength and crunched down a bit hard on my right ankle. She was the size of a big dog, but about ten times as strong. I will survive, with another great story to tell, and another interesting sequence for the film. Yes, Yoshiko had the camera rolling, even when I got a bunch of injections that left my bum almost as sore as my ankle.
We are looking forward to the 1000 miles left to Cape Town now, and we are ready to return to Europe after that. But we expect to have even more stories to tell before we leave here. The Wild Buggers – a Cape Town based beach-buggy organization – are threatening to meet us on the highway when we arrive at our final destination, and escort us to their clubhouse for a big party. There should be more media waiting as well. For the film and for us, South Africa seems to be turning into a good finishing line for our 25,000 kilometer African adventure. We’ll keep you informed.
So stay tuned!
Pictures:
1) Yoshiko in a good mood at a restaurant in Mozambique.
2) The King! One of this guy’s daughters bit my leg?
3) Looking for rhinos we got stuck in an irrigation ditch.
4) But then we found them, great white rhinos? wow!
5) Almost famous? Interviewed by SABC (national TV)
Date: Saturday, August 7th, 2004 Time: 16:00 (4PM) Place: 38,000 Feet Over Africa (in a 747) Weather: Clear and Very Cold (Up Here) Temperature: ‑46°C, ‑52°F Enviroment: Atmospheric Buggy Condition: Comfortably Parked Tom’s Condition: Scarred by a Young Lioness Yoshiko’s Condition: En Route to Japan Equipment Condition: Hanging In There
We Made It
Cape Town – the final frontier. These are the voyages of the RedBuggy. Her mission: To seek out and explore new worlds and civilizations, to carry us across the great expanses of Africa, to film and to entertain, to boldly go where no Buggy has gone before!
Captain’s Log; Star Date 2004, one hour north of Cape Town, South Africa.
We drove down out of the mountains through a spectacular pass with sheer cliffs, waterfalls, and fantastic cloud formations. A bit of cold rain reminded us that it is winter in South Africa, but it did not dampen our spirits. True to their word, the Wild Buggers were waiting on the highway a half an hour outside of town with a bottle of champagne and a 20 buggy strong escort to their clubhouse. There ensued a great barbeque in our honor, and the beer and the conversation flowed all night.
We have been received as conquering heroes in South Africa. Perhaps they have all the more appreciation of our journey since they live on this enormously challenging continent. In good time for the end of this seven-month adventure my foot is damaged by my “playful” encounter with a young lioness. I wonder how many people in Sweden will believe that a lion bit me when they ask me why I am limping? And we just went cage diving with great white sharks! And though these sorts of things hopefully never become routine, they do feel like perfectly natural occurrences in our day-to-day existence on this trip.
But for all it’s wildness South Africa is also a good place to re-acclimatize to a Western lifestyle. I drink beer, speak English, plan our trip home, and think about the huge process of editing sixty hours of footage down to a one and a half hour film. And in between, I try to figure out this amazing country. I have more questions than answers. But at least I have figured out how to describe it; South Africa is a microcosm of the earth. Listen.
Our planet is divided politically between the West – including Japan, Australia, and New Zealand – and the Third World, often referred to as the developing world. Then of course there are the NICs, or “Newly Industrialized Countries” – for example South Korea – just to confuse matters. But basically we have divided our planet between the “haves” and the “have-nots”. Most of you reading this belong to the minority of wealthy people living in relative comfort in democracies with highly developed infrastructures. But the majority of the people in the world live in harsh conditions where food and shelter are not taken for granted and where they have little or nothing to say about their situation. This huge cleft between East and West – or more accurately between North and South – is the focus of much attention in political science discussions these days. We control the wealth, but they account for the skyrocketing population. And we live pretty isolated lives, separated by political borders that few of us bother to cross. How can we ever hope to achieve any peace or balance? An expert panel that looked at issues from natural resources and food, to pollution and waste, concluded that the Earth could sustain one and a quarter billion people living a Western life style. That was the population in the year 1901. We are now over 6 billion. Will the rich voluntarily stop consuming? That is about as likely as the poor voluntarily ceasing to reproduce. But something has to give. Oh I almost forgot, machines are going to take over and eliminate us inefficient walking chemical reactions so we don’t have to worry about the future, remember?
But when I do contemplate this planet that my children are soon inheriting, I realize that there is one place where the Western minority and the undeveloped majority are sorting out these challenges as we speak. No, not Miami! I mean South Africa of course. This is the only country where the haves and the have-nots share the same political borders in reasonably representative numbers – and the issues are many. It will be fascinating to see how things develop here over the next decades. Now, I’ll stop talking politics.
Yoshiko has gone shopping. The stores here are filled with all the familiar styles and brands – at half the price of the same products in Japan. When she put on her new outfit – a cute red top with tight black jeans – I was almost jealous. She never looked like that on the road! But she did make it to the end of the line. And if you had been through what we have been through you would appreciate what an incredible achievement that really was for a woman. Did I ever mention that Yoshiko was attacked in Ethiopia?
We were arguing, nothing new there. She had irritated me more than usual. Or maybe I was under extra stress and therefore more irritable? In any case, shortly after we entered a cheap restaurant I stood up and told her she could go home – back to the hotel or back to Japan, I didn’t care at the time. I decided that I needed a beer alone so I walked down a main road in search of a cheap bar.
Yoshiko was angry and left too, without dinner, and with no particular sense of direction. After a time, she decided she would try to find me. She followed the road in the direction I had gone, but she was not alone. Two guys followed her. They began to bother her and ask her intellectual things like how much she charged for sex. It should be pointed out that Yoshiko reacts badly to low blood sugar levels, i.e. when she hasn’t eaten. These two losers had no way to know what they were getting themselves into. She was angry AND hungry, a bad combination in a Japanese Judo expert.
She tried to ignore them, but they pressed on. Eventually they got her annoyed and she told them where they could go in no uncertain terms. But they were real tough guys (do you detect a hint of sarcasm here?) and after she insulted them one punched her in the face! She took it and kept walking, but cursed him out. So he hit her again. What a man. When he punched her a third time in the side of her head he caught her square on the temple leaving a nice bruise, and Yoshiko saw stars.
And then she got mad.
She grabbed the guy who had punched her and flipped him to the ground. Though she cut her knee in the action she held him down while his brave buddy screamed at her to let him go. She says herself that she was never too scared because there were cars passing by all the time so someone would hopefully stop. Sure enough a UN jeep with English speaking people pulled over about the same time that two local police arrived on the scene. These Ethiopian police proceeded to beat the hell out of her two attackers with big sticks. Yoshiko was badly shaken, cut, and bruised, but basically OK. She got a ride back to the hotel with the people in the jeep. I was thankful that the police saved me the trouble of tracking down the two guys myself. I can’t help smiling when I think what an appropriate response these jerks got for their efforts.
As much as we have enjoyed the trip on the whole, seven months of intense incidents of varying types have left us quite tired. After 25,000 kilometers, countless car repairs, and even more adventures, we reached our final destination, the Cape of Good Hope. Standing on the southern tip of the African continent I did a long slow zoom-in on Yoshiko and the Buggy. She posed patiently while I got a good film sequence. When she saw that I was satisfied, she said simply, “Let’s go home”.
One never knows what the future holds, but I am sure that I’ll see Yoshiko again. After a well deserved break. A month on the road is like a year together at home. We have shared things that no one else can ever know. Through seven years… err, I mean, seven months, we have experienced the extremes of the African continent in the most intimate way.
Now it is possible that when Yoshiko said, “Let’s go home”, she simply meant, “Let’s go back to our hotel”. But I interpreted this comment to have a deeper meaning.
I understood it to mean that it was time for us to return to reality.
I understood it to mean that it was time for us to leave Africa.
And I knew that it was time for me to be with my daughters.
Charlotte – a female Wild Bugger – has loaned us an empty garage in which to store the Buggy for a while, and I’ve decided to try and bring my kids down here for a few weeks around Christmas time. I’ll show them around South Africa, and maybe even Namibia and Botswana in the Buggy. How cool will that be! Then, I’ll ship the Buggy home. I’ll never sell it. Pernilla or Marika will inherit it when I pass on.
Right now I’m sitting on a Lufthansa Boeing 747, with plastic wrapped food and Teutonic punctuality. The contrast is complete. I stare out the window, down at the great sands of the Sahara that we drove over just a few months ago, and it seems like years. I’ll let you know how things are back in Sweden in a couple of weeks. I’m curious myself. Until then remember the old saying:
An adventure a day keeps the doctor away.
Pictures:
1) Not all the Wild Bugger’s cars were blue.
2) We felt very welcome in South Africa.
3) Cape Town is one of the most spectacular cities in the world.
4) That’s four meters of great white shark circling our boat.
5) Anton cooks up a fiery meal at the second party held in our honor.
Date: Saturday, October 2nd, 2004 Time: 11:00 AMPlace: A Comfortable Apartment in Stockholm Weather: Cool and Partly Cloudy Temperature: 12°C, 54°F Enviroment: Boringly Safe Buggy Condition: Parked (still) Tom’s Condition: Scarred by a Young Lioness (still) Yoshiko’s Condition: Comfortable (bored) in Kobe Equipment Condition: Semi-Retired
Kerry vs. Bush
Even the worst Hollywood film has at least one good line. In “Bad Girls” four former harlots trying to leave the wild-west behind wander into a bandit’s hideout in Mexico. The dumb blonde (Drew Barrymore) speaks to the hardened outlaw (Robert Loggia):
- Barrymore, “We’re going to Oregon! We’re going to be farmers!”
- Loggia, “Oregon huh? I’ve been there. They got too much rain, and too many laws. And I don’t like either one.”
Which pretty much sums up Sweden for me.
Our memories are very selective.
My mother died just after I turned eleven and my father was ill equipped to handle seven kids on his own. Psychologists labelled me a troubled youth. I took drugs, stole motorcycles, got into fights, and rarely attended school. But growing up was a wondrous time; I had the world by the tail. Lacking money for extreme sports, I created my own excitement. We, as a family, had real pain and hardship, but I loved my childhood. I am genetically predisposed to enjoying life — a natural born hedonist with a need for speed — which is why I loved doing this movie. I had a cool car, a hot babe, and an exotic destination…
Talk about being in one’s element!
No, I haven’t forgotten about AK-47 wielding soldiers, close calls with elephants, the lion bite, the death-defying entry into Sudan, or the loss of my appendix. Or that the only thing more challenging than keeping the car together turned out to be keeping its occupants together. Yoshiko and I fought about everything including the weather, though it was sunny nearly every day. But memories of pain and difficulty recede. Soon only the wonder and the romance will remain. I feel ready to do it all again.
But first I will edit the film. I’m broke and I have no money to live on, so I have to sell my Porsche to finish making this movie, and that hurts. But what the hell, after I sweep the Academy Awards, I’ll replace it with a yacht. Meanwhile, I’m making up for lost time with my daughters, who remind me by their mere existence that I am blessed.
A few years ago British researchers isolated a substance in the human body that makes people crave excitement. E‑types have more of this stuff than normal folks do and thrive on adrenaline. They need to challenge themselves. They tend to live on the edge.
In Stockholm, we have a washing machine, a dryer, and a dishwasher in our apartment. We have four computers on-line. When I’m alone I surf porno sites. Only the free ones. I fear that the world – through some cyber-magic I cannot comprehend – may find out what I’m doing if I give out my credit card info on the Net. When I’m not jerking off I engage in mental masturbation and dream myself away to the South Pacific aboard a sailing boat. I wander naked into the kitchen for some food, then flop onto the couch to eat in front of a 32 inch Trinitron and watch intellectually stimulating programs like Ricky Lake. No wonder they invented gyms.
I am home.
It feels strange.
The seven-month adrenaline rush is over and I am experiencing withdrawal symptoms.
The presidential elections do nothing to cheer me up either. On the one side we have an indecisive and uninspiring wimp who looks better suited to being an accountant than the most powerful man in the world. On the other side is a dangerous evangelical preacher who looks good in still pictures but is downright embarrassing when he opens his mouth. Is this really the best America has to offer? Did you know that George bush literally believes that everyone in the world who has not accepted Jesus Christ as his or her saviour is destined to eternal damnation? That scares me.
I don’t have a big issue with the war in Iraq. Many people didn’t when it started. It is the sort of thing that is extremely easy to criticize now that it is not going well. And while not honouring the Kyoto Agreement appears incredibly stupid today, it is actually irrelevant since Artificial Intelligence will take over the planet and the environment will become the robots’ problem. My biggest gripe with Bush is simple; I believe that a prerequisite to holding the office of President of the United States of America should be literacy. After the first Kerry/Bush debate the other night it became obvious to me that George Bush cannot speak English. I worry that this fact may send a “mexed missage” (Bush’s words exactly) to the world about America’s ability to lead. So I’m voting for Kerry.
I get more depressed by the politicians and so-called film experts I encounter here than I did by the boring bureaucrats that we had to deal with on the road. Before we left Sweden for Africa we produced a demo-film. You can see it by clicking on the clapboard on this page. I used it to try to raise money for the movie. I approached the township of Gotland (where I had a night-club and a radio station) hoping for some positive cooperation. After a meeting during which representatives diligently watched the DVD – that had been produced on their island – they said there was nothing they could do with the film. I left them a copy hoping they would change their minds. They did.
After all we have been through on the road, after our wonderful reception in South Africa by the media and the people there, and after succeeding in everything we set out to accomplish, I returned home to find a summons from the police. Gotland – the township – is bringing me up on charges of driving the Buggy off-road. That is against the law in Sweden. And they are using the demo-film I left them as evidence against me.
Welcome home.
Pictures:
1) The reason I’m in Sweden.
2) The infamous lion bite.
3) Good-bye sweet Porsche, you served me well!
4) My bed at home is a bit too comfortable.
5) What I’ll buy after I take home an Oscar?
I mean literally. When I sleep I have frequent and extremely vivid dreams, which I often remember in detail.
At the end of the eighties I lost my left arm in a motorcycle accident. I was a grown man with a strong self-image. In my dreams I continued to have two arms. I wondered how long it would take for my subconscious to get wise to reality? It never did. I still ride motorcycles in my dreams. I perform strenuous, even heroic deeds in my dreams. And I always have two arms. I still see myself as a strong and decent two-armed man. Though that “decent” aspect could be brought into question as well.
Years ago I got involved with an unusually beautiful woman. Picture Uma Thurman’s character in Pulp Fiction – but with considerably better curves – and you begin to get a picture of Sari. Wherever she went heads turned, and not just on guys. I believe we were destined to bring calm to each other’s restless souls. But she had been born with a face that gave her little peace. And fate had bestowed me with an abnormal lust for life, and for women. Our relationship was very sexual. We made “Nine and a Half Weeks” look like a Disney cartoon. We were doomed from the start.
Sari was a fighter. She loved to argue. She sometimes got violent. I could deflect her blows, but I was glad that she never had a knife at those times. I felt bad after these arguments, shocked, hurt, and depressed. Sari would march out the door. Three hours later she would be back as if nothing had happened. Was this an ingenious way to blow off steam, or complete insanity? The only thing that could compete with our fighting was our sex.
My father said, “Tom, if you want the high-voltage, you’ve got to expect a few sparks”.
Sari had a huge heart to match her temper. She could be warm and sensual. At those times I felt I was the luckiest man on earth – with the most incredible woman. But our emotional roller coaster ride was making us both ill. As our sex got wilder, our fights got meaner. She screamed and yelled and walked away. And I learned the things to say to really hurt her. She worked on me and I worked right back. It was awful. I began to reduce her self-image. Instead of getting her help, I made her feel stupid. Revenge is not always sweet.
Meantime in a parallel dimension, our sex-life was out of control. We progressed from exhausting the Kama-Sutra a few hours every day, to employing whips and chains and all manner of toys in our daily activities. Sex became our main pastime, and we were very good at it.
Back on planet Earth we had another brutal argument. This time, instead of her walking out, I threw her out. It was not a big deal… I knew she would come back.
I was wrong.
Each day I waited for her call, or her knock. I was too proud to contact her. The amazing thing was not that it had finally ended, but that it had lasted two years. Humans are weak. Loneliness and fear of the unknown conspire to keep us in relationships long after we should move on. Sari and I should have broken up as soon as the bad feelings we gave each other outweighed the good ones.
I still had a lot of her stuff in my house. She maintained her own apartment, but had lived with me for two years. Her possessions were bothering me. I needed closure. I packed her stuff in a few big bags. I had her key and decided to dump the bags at her house while she was at school. I’d lock her door behind me, and then throw the key in through the mail slot. Brilliant. Life post-Sari could go on.
Of course, I hadn’t counted on finding her with an ex-lover. A Swedish news anchor I had heard about from her – including his mediocre bedroom performances. She was just using him to get over me, but at the moment I could not think of anything except the blow someone had just dealt to my abdomen. I could not breathe. Sari yelled at me for arriving unannounced. The guy disappeared before I knew what happened. I simply left the bags in her hall and walked out. I was tough. I’d be fine.
Five blocks down the road I had to pull the Porsche over. I was sick.
Bottles of liquor could not knock me out. I was in bad shape and getting worse. My secretary threw me out of my own office. I met a jerk at a party at four in the morning who said I looked like shit (I did) so I broke his nose. More bottles of liquor – and more insomnia. I began to hallucinate. I lay on my bed and saw my chest ripped open and my insides pouring out onto the floor like a Dali painting. I lost touch with reality. Temporary insanity…
In my warped mind I summoned my best writing skills and described in detail the extreme sexual exploits of Sari and myself. For good measure I quoted Sari’s own description of the guy’s comical machismo. I did my best to see to it that she would feel as bad as I did and that he would never be able to perform in bed with her again. Then I packed our considerable collection of sexual implements into a package along with the letter and couriered it to the guy’s job at primetime.
I sent a copy to Sari.
I was feeling pretty smug. That would teach her not to mess with me.
I was rather surprised two days later when four police barged into my house and arrested me. I was thrown into solitary confinement without explanation.
Apparently Sari had no sense of humor at all.
She should have graciously accepted defeat at the hands of a heavyweight champion like me; instead she took off the gloves and exacted her revenge. She walked into the Stockholm police and told them that for the last two years I had been beating her – abusing her physically.
I don’t beat women. After enjoying the hospitality of the Swedish state for a week the DA assigned to my case realized her mistake and sent me home without an apology. But I knew in my heart that I was not completely innocent. I had been abusing Sari mentally, reducing her self-image. I was guilty of making Sari feel bad about herself. She had been wrong to lie to the police about me. But she had been right to leave me. Life is hard enough. We should not spend it with people who make us feel worse about ourselves.
We live and we learn. Sometimes too late.
Armed with this hard-won knowledge, one might think I could have been more magnanimous with Yoshiko when we fought in Africa. Her behavior is similar to Sari’s. Yoshiko regularly gets so mad – often for no apparent reason – that I suspect I may never see her again. Hours later she is dancing around as if nothing happened.
Dejá-vu.
And Yoshiko fell in love. And I remained aloof.
After Africa I knew I needed a break. Yoshiko did not want to part ways, but I did not offer an alternative. So she went back to Japan. She is a dive instructor and began looking for work. We spoke on the phone and e‑mailed and chatted. We even got web-cams and tried cyber-sex. But it is not the same thing as being together. She was desperate for my company. So I went to visit her, but the damage had already been done.
Japan is nothing like I expected. I thought it would be as clean and orderly as Sweden. It was more like the States, with huge industrial wastelands, and cockroaches on dirty street-cafe walls. And Tokyo is the only other city in the world with a pulse like New York. Yoshiko and I managed to argue even in Japan. So I hitchhiked alone to Mt. Fuji to get some peace… and it broke her heart. You see to her – like to Sari – the fighting means nothing, but the separation means everything.
After I returned to Kobe we spent another week together, but the magic was gone. Soon it was time for her to leave Japan and start a new job at a resort in the Maldives, and for me to return to Stockholm and cut this film.
We stayed in touch by e‑mail. Yoshiko told me of her problems adjusting to her new life. The foreign workers hated their contract periods on the resort, unless they were lucky enough to find a lover to help pass the time. The writing was on the wall. In just a few weeks she hooked up with a 23-year-old Australian. That chapter in my life was over. But it still hurt.
Then came the Tsunami.
The Maldives are a group of islands south of India. Most are not more than a meter or two high. The wave washed right over the island Yoshiko was working on, destroying most of the lighter structures. No one was killed but the resort will be closed for months to come. She and I started talking again. Brad Pitt went back to Oz and Yoshiko returned to Japan, shocked, bored, and lonely. I took the opportunity to invite her to visit me. Soon after she arrived we ran off to share the African sun again. But it is not the same.
Yoshiko is confused – her heart is torn. We fight as much as ever, but the sex is not as good or as frequent as it used to be. She is in control now, and sometimes abuses her newfound independence over me. I want to be happy for her. But mostly I am sad. Mostly she makes me feel bad. And my self-image is diminishing.
Last night I had a dream. I was walking down a street in Manhattan. The US was suffering under foreign occupation. There were demonstrators in the street. The occupying forces controlled the city’s parking and a curly-haired foreign meter-maid wearing glasses was walking ahead of me after having just issued a ticket. A big, good-looking, and very athletic American woman lost her temper and started harassing the meter-maid. I smiled. I did not like meter-maids or the occupying forces. But the situation got ugly. The harassment turned violent. Other people began to join in. An oriental man came to the aid of the meter-maid only to be attacked as well. The crowd began to throw things, fruits and garbage, even stones. Suddenly it was like a scene with a Jewess running for her life in Nazi Germany.
The meter-maid was scared, crying, hurt, and desperately trying to escape. The handsome athletic woman caught her and knocked her down in a deep puddle. She put her foot firmly on the other woman’s head holding her underwater, effectively drowning her, and posing triumphantly. The mob cheered. I was frightened, but I had seen enough. I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd.
I decided to wrestle the big woman’s foot off the other one’s face. If she fell, too bad. If she hit me, I could take it. If any guy in the crowd hit me, I would hit him back as hard and as quickly as I could. My primary concern was to buy time for the meter-maid to escape – I knew I would survive. I dropped down on one knee in the puddle beside them. I would place one hand firmly around the big woman’s ankle and jerk it up. I would grab the drowning girls head with my other hand freeing her from the water and hope she had the sense and strength to run while I held the angry crowd at bay. I had to act fast…
NOW!
Then suddenly it dawned on me… I only had one arm.
Pictures:
1) Hitchhiking in Japan.
2) Yoshiko’s sister Yuko invites us to lunch.
3) Hand-fed by a Japanese Princess.
4) Sushi on a conveyor belt… and beer!
5) Did I mention that I would miss Yoshiko?
Date: Friday, September 17th, 2005 Time: 01:30 am Place: Barcelona, Spain Weather: Sunny and Comfortable Temperature: 24° Celsius, 76° F Enviroment: Transitional (a lot of boxes) Buggy Condition: Bored… Still Tom’s Condition: Reflective Yoshiko’s Condition: Happy Equipment Condition: Irrelevant (for now)
My Work Here is Done
Sample Our Film Now!
After some technological setbacks we have produced a representative six-minute trailer. We will use it as a teaser to drum up commercial interest in the project. We hope you enjoy our work so far; just click here to watch. It is a big file so you should have a fast connection. Make sure your speakers are on, set your player to full screen, and enjoy!
However, there is considerable work left before the film is done and the title of this update refers to something else completely…
The year is 1995. I am on my way to work via the daycare center where I will drop off my two daughters; Pernilla aged 4, and Marika who is 2. Nothing will stand in the way of my success with Bandit, a radio station I recently founded. Ignoring the chatter of my kids in the back seat I am listening to our morning program, talking to my secretary on the car phone, and contemplating my strategy for a 9 AM meeting with Bonniers – the powerful Swedish media conglomerate that is attempting a hostile take-over of the station. I have been working 15-hour days for more than a year. My marriage is already on the rocks. My social life consists of the occasional VIP party where I drink too much, sleep too little, and then go right back to work.
“Dad… ” It is Pernilla from the back seat.
“What?” It is a conditioned response and does not indicate real interest on my part.
“DAD…” she is calm but determined. Her persistence indicates that she requires actual attention from me before she will deliver her question.
I hang up the phone and turn down the radio. With irritated resignation I glance in the rear-view mirror at Pernilla’s inquisitive eyes.
“What IS it Pella?”
She delivers her line matter-of-factly and without a trace of accusation.
“Dad, right now you are really busy with work at Bandit and stuff – but when we get older you are going to have more time for us, right?”
Marika, at two, cannot fully comprehend the significance of her big sister’s statement – but she stares quietly at me as well. With moist eyes I stop the car, compose myself, and turn to face my kids.
“No Pernilla, I’m going to have more time for you starting right now”
Since that day I have struggled to keep my word. Despite travels and some time consuming projects I have cultivated deep relationships with both of my children. Recently an old friend witnessed me laughing and talking with my daughters and commented that my investment in them would pay off forever. I think I glowed.
Sweden has remained my base for the last several years despite being too cold for me. Recently my children gave me their permission to push on, and we have settled upon Barcelona as a destination – at least for a while. There are direct flights for the kids who are planning to be there often. With an afternoon’s travel time and no jetlag, weekend visits are no problem. A Swedish friend and business associate there has already arranged an office and a three-bedroom apartment. We have an interactive radio station to launch (www.tomsradio.com) and I will finish this film.
AND… I will not be alone; Yoshiko will be joining me.
The old joke about women – can’t live with them and can’t live without them – comes to mind. After the last update Yoshiko returned to Japan and I resigned myself to a future without her. When mutual separation anxiety got the better of us we got together in Barcelona for a month and had a lot more fun than we had in February. But we were still not sure we wanted to live together. I returned to Sweden to consult my kids about moving – and Yoshiko went to Bali to teach diving. Just when I suspected that the amorous aspect may have run its course in our relationship, the tropical sun softened her brain and she fell madly in love with me… again.
And I was glad.
Yoshiko and I are from two different worlds; and we are both passionate, temperamental, and impatient. As with any worthwhile venture there are risks involved – and a broken heart is no laughing matter. We have a hard road ahead with potholes as big as Sudan’s no doubt. But without taking risks life would probably not be worth living. And experience has taught me not to be afraid of love. We survived Africa – so I guess we have a chance to survive anything.
We have discussed briefly the idea of piloting the Buggy back from Cape Town to Europe along Africa’s west coast, and Yoshiko is already demanding that she be allowed to drive a lot more than on the trip down. Smells like dissention brewing…
But my kids are fantastic, Yoshiko and I are in love, I’m moving to the sunny south of Europe, and there is new work to be done there.
Did I mention that beer only costs a dollar in Spain?
To quote Desiderata – With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
And enjoy the trailer!
Pictures:
1) Marika and Pernilla in the 90s.
2) Yoshiko above Sitges, Spain.
3) Tom on a Barcelona beach.
4) The market in Barceloneta…
5) And a cold beer we bought there!
Cartoon my father sent to Bolivia in the 80s when I was considering smuggling cocaine…
Date: Saturday, February 11th, 2006 Time: 2 pm Place: A Campground near Cape Town, South Africa Weather: Sunny and Warm Temperature: 34° Celsius, 93° F Enviroment: Oddly Familiar Buggy Condition: Excited! Tom’s Condition: Ready! Yoshiko’s Condition: Bemused… Equipment Condition: Intact
A Simple Choice
As a small boy I had a boundless curiosity about how things worked. I took apart and rebuilt everything from motorcycles to old washing machines and became an adept, self-taught mechanic. As an older boy I philosophized extensively about when time began, where the universe ends, and whether or not there is a God. I developed a fair grasp of the modern theories of time and space as well as some understanding of world religions. Then I reached puberty and discovered girls.
I began to do research in earnest; but decades later I had made little progress. Though I could find the G‑spot on almost any female, answers to the really big questions like why women go to the lavatory in pairs always eluded me…
Until now.
Over the holidays I read Marina Muratore’s “Bluffer’s Guide to Women”.
So confident am I in my newfound knowledge of females that I have decided to undertake yet another great adventure with Yoshiko. And why not; now that I understand how women work we won’t ever have to fight again, right?
Our friend Charlotte from South Africa has been graciously storing the Buggy in Cape Town since we left there. She was between cars and the rent on her garage had been paid in advance. Now her contract has expired and the owner will not renew it, so the sleeping Buggy has to be dealt with.
For about fifteen hundred dollars it could be safely and conveniently shipped back to Europe.
Or – for about fifteen THOUSAND dollars, months of lost work, endless bureaucratic hassles, guaranteed mechanical breakdowns, extensive physical discomfort, a daily diet of scraped knuckles, cuts, bruises, blood, sweat, and tears, and with the odd life-threatening situation thrown in now and again for good measure – it could be driven back!
Looking at it that way, the choice seems obvious.
Yoshiko has already made me promise to have music in the Buggy for the return trip, so how hard can the adventure be? Next thing you know she will be asking for cold drinks, a pillow, and a roof over her head and well, jeez, then we might as well take a Land Rover!
Paris-Dakar is considered by many to be the most grueling off-road race in the world. We will voluntarily travel that entire course backwards, plus twice that distance again in some even less chartered territory.
All in the tiny open Buggy.
All without any backup whatsoever.
And all without a fridge, a phone, or a GPS.
But hey, this time we will have music. Besides, the Buggy is in good shape, we don’t need to acquire visas for Libya or Sudan, AND – now I know why women go to the bathroom in pairs.
So the return trip will be a breeze!
Pictures:
1) Updated lettering coutesy of Display & Sign.
2) NYC from the Empire State Building.
3) Interesting road sign.
4) On the road again!
5) Hope the weather holds.
BTW, women go to the lavatory in pairs because:
A Women seek safety in numbers
B They want to get together to exchange confidences
C They don’t trust the other woman enough to leave her alone with the men, so they encourage her to come too
D They don’t want to use the lavatory at all, just the mirror to check their make-up
We have traversed Africa from the Sahara to the Kalahari…
Date: Thursday, March 2nd, 2006 Time: 21:00 (9 pm) Place: Solitaire in the Namibian Desert Weather: Very Hot and Dry Temperature: 38° Celsius, 100° F Enviroment: Barren Buggy Condition: Good Tom’s Condition: Sunburned – Again Yoshiko’s Condition: Fat (Relatively Speaking) Equipment Condition: Satisfactory
On the Road Again
It is dusty and very hot. We are crossing the Namibian Desert more than one hundred miles (160 kilometers) from the nearest paved road. We have about ten miles of visible dirt track between us and the horizon, and we haven’t passed another vehicle in hours. Suddenly I can see three trucks, two a couple miles ahead – perhaps traveling together, perhaps talking – and one much farther away. I turn to Yoshko and her eyes are focused forward, concerned… she has noticed this flurry of activity as well. I shout above the drone of the engine and the roar of the incessant desert crosswind.
- What Time Is It?
- Four thirty.
- I knew it, rush hour in Namibia!
She smiles broadly; she got the joke. Despite her complaints to the contrary, Yoshko’s English is improving steadily.
We pull into an oasis gas stop, the only one on a three hundred mile stretch of track. Moose – the proprietor – is a large man befitting his name. In addition to gas he has cold beer and even ice cream. In this part of the world you can have a few beers any time of day without people looking at you funny – usually they are happy to join you. Except Yoshko – she thinks that if I drink before sunset I have a problem. I explain to her clearly and patiently that it is, in fact, Namibian law; all persons operating a motor vehicle along this road are required to drink two cold beers at this rest station to insure against dehydration and sunstroke. It’s a matter of public health and safety. I keep a perfectly straight face. She is not buying it. I tell her there was a large sign stating these facts just a few miles back, I have no idea how she missed it? She powers up her evil eye and starts boring in on me. I look to Moose for support and he concurs, nodding his head emphatically.
- Absolutely Ma’am – Namibian law!
Yoshko has recently eaten so we are not in any immediate physical danger; still, I’m no closer to being allowed a beer. I need a change of tactic.
- You MUST have noticed the sign requiring co-drivers to eat ice cream?
- And a piece of Moose’s world famous (in Namibia) apple pie! Adds my new ally with a big grin.
Yoshko knows when she is out-gunned and looks almost happy munching a huge slice of homemade pie while I down a couple cold beers and relate our adventures to Moose.
It feels good to be on the road again. We spent a few weeks in Cape Town with the Wildbuggers getting the Buggy back in shape, having huge “brais” (barbeques), and being generally well looked after by the incredibly hospitable South Africans. But wonderful as that was, it was hardly the adventure that is this film, and the time had come for Yoshko and me to say good-bye to our great friends there.
But as usual, all is not cold beer and warm apple pie for us in Africa. We are now in the very north of Namibia and we have been refused entry into Angola in a most rude fashion by shockingly unprofessional Angolan officials. This almost resulted in a physical altercation between myself and a Special Forces soldier who kept tapping me irritatingly and inviting me to fight him. Whether I won or lost I figured there was a good chance of ending up in an Angolan prison cell. I swallowed my pride and satisfied myself with a comment to the effect that he might not want to make the same invitation on Namibian soil. The senior police officer on site – who Yoshko hoped might diffuse the situation – was falling down drunk and began making racial slurs toward us and shouting “Get Out of Angola” – which we did.
We made a fifty-yard retreat back across the border where the Namibian officials – who had witnessed the events – apologized profusely for the atrocious behavior of their Angolan counterparts. They shook their heads regretfully, mumbled that Angolans were sometimes that way, and then stamped us back into Namibia waiving the normal entry fee for the car. But the Namibian politeness did little to offset our terrible first impression of Angola. We are questioning whether or not we WANT to go there – assuming that we could manage to get visas somehow. And we have heard that Congo-Zaire, the next country after Angola, is just as bad, maybe worse.
And finally — surprise of surprises — Yoshko and I are arguing again. Namibia is far too expensive to hang around doing nothing, which adds to our stress. We have stayed in cheaper hotels in Florida. Maybe we will go and speak to the Angolan embassy, maybe we will push east towards Zambia; you have to be pretty flexible if you want to travel through Africa in a beach buggy. We try to view everything – the fighting, the frustration, and the danger – as part of the experience. And whether we are getting great material for the film, or getting thrown in jail, it should be entertaining to our public, so stay tuned.
Pictures:
1) Flirting Buggies.
2) Saying goodbye to Cape Town.
3) Moose’s Oasis Petrol and Beer Stop.
4) Peeing amid the World’s largest sand dunes.
5) Ruacana border crossing to Angola.
Britts and South Africans in trucks were a welcome sight indeed!
Date: Friday, March 10th, 2006 Time: 15:00 (3 pm) Place: South Luangwa National Park, Zambia Weather: Extremely Wet Temperature: 34° Celsius, 93° F Enviroment: Wild and Lushly Vegetated Buggy Condition: Disabled Tom’s Condition: Trapped Yoshiko’s Condition: Stuck with Tom Equipment Condition: Damaged by Water
Special Report from Africa (Zambia)
Meryl Streep played a Jewish musician in a concentration camp that performed for her captors. So delighted were the German guards that she was granted one special request; she asked for a toothbrush.
Oral hygiene becomes extra significant in uncontrollable situations. It provides a sense of well-being and routine and is at times the only hygiene over which we have control. Along with a folding knife, a flashlight, and a Leatherman, I always carry a toothbrush and paste in my pocket on the road in Africa. No matter how miserable we are, no matter how dirty our cloths get or how covered in mud we may be or how smelly our bodies become – there is almost always enough water around to brush our teeth.
We are borrowing a satellite connection to get this report out so we can only send text, pictures will have to wait until we get out of here.
“Here” is South Luangwa National Park in central Zambia – one of Africa’s best-kept secrets. South Luangwa has wildlife to rival the best parks in Kenya and Tanzania, but with a fraction of the tourists. Now is the low season and we have the huge reserve virtually to ourselves. Not coincidentally it is also the rainy season and the park is a hundred miles from any paved road. When heavy rains hit, the road becomes impassable even for heavy four-wheel-drive trucks – the tiny Buggy would be under water.
Yet here we are. Not only did we get caught in heavy rains, which seriously challenged and damaged the Buggy and much of our equipment, we got caught in record rains, which have caused massive flooding and washed away the bridge on the only access road to the park. The peninsula we were camping on in a curve in the Luangwa River is now an island. The Zambian government declared the park and surrounding valley a disaster area and the military has been mobilized to try and repair the road. Meanwhile we are trapped, along with the elephants, lions, and mosquitoes; and the water is still rising.
On the way into the reserve Yoshko and I spent a sleepless night in the bush when several critical wires in the car suddenly overloaded and caught fire from so much water shorting everything out. The Buggy died completely just in time for nightfall. We were befriended by a heavily armed Zambian anti-poaching team who offered us protection and a roughly cleared patch on which to pitch our tent. Cold, tired, and despondent about our situation, our spirits did not improve when we opened our sleeping bags only to find them soaking wet. Then the rain started… again. The next morning I disconnected all electrics on the Buggy and ‘hot-wired’ a lead directly from the battery to the coil. Using a screwdriver to short contacts on the starter motor allowed us to fire the engine. But there was no turning back; the bad road, which had damaged our Buggy the evening before, was now just a river. We forged ahead in search of a camp we had heard about, but before arriving we were blocked by more flooding. Helpful locals offered to CARRY the Buggy over the floodwater, but they were overoptimistic – I did not want the car lost forever in the swamps of Zambia. Trapped on a patch of dirt road we sat for two hours watching the water rise and not speaking.
Things were looking pretty bleak when two overland vehicles drove up out of the blue. A British couple driving a Defender and a South African couple in a Land Cruiser were a welcome sight indeed. They had already been to the park and were trying to leave the area, but were now trapped by the washed-out road, as were we. Fortunately they knew a small alternate track to get us all back to the campground, and the campground had hot-showers and beer!
Now the Buggy is in pieces again as I try to repair motor and electrical problems caused by plowing through deep water and mud. We three couples are alone here until the rains subside and the bridge is repaired. At first it was wonderful with dry bedding, running water, good-company, and wildlife. But the sound of lions at night scares Yoshko in our tiny tent, and the baboons in the day have no respect for women and raid our camp impudently if men are not present. Yoshko now arms herself with rocks whenever I leave the vicinity but everyone is getting cabin fever and the stress is tangible.
I am hoping that a man from a nearby village can get through to our camp tomorrow with a torque-wrench that I need for my engine repairs; today even this short stretch of road was blocked by flooding. We have consumed most of the beer stock now and no new supplies can arrive to the area until the road is fixed or the military does an airdrop. But we have simple foods and water; and except for a nasty burn on the bottom of my foot from a hot coal we are all well. Unfortunately equipment has also been damaged and we are fighting with moisture in all our cameras.
But one day soon the sun will shine, things will begin to dry up, and we will be able to drive out of here. This ’emergency’ report is not intended to alarm our readers, but simply to inform you. We will resume normal reports with pictures (including older ones, which we have not been able to send out) as soon as possible. In the meantime we will wait here patiently for a change of situation, as Africans have done for ever – and I will brush my teeth.
Pictures:
1) This elephant sign wasn’t kidding.
2) Fasten your seatbelts – Yoshko is driving!
3) Not a bad place to be stuck for a while.
4) We still attract a crowd wherever we go.
5) Tom checks a flooded area before driving through.
Date: Saturday, April 8th, 2006 Time: 12:00 noon Place: Tofo Beach, Mozambique Weather: Erratic Temperature: 36° Celsius, 97° F Enviroment: Soft & Sandy Buggy Condition: In Her Element Tom’s Condition: Tanned and Recovering Yoshiko’s Condition: Gorgeous in a Bikini Equipment Condition: Ageing
Paradise Lost…
We are camping on a beautiful beach in Mozambique. We usually eat local food – but this is a touristy area with some Western restaurants and yesterday I decided to treat myself to an overpriced burger. Big mistake. Last night I got intense stomach cramps followed by diarrhea and then developed a high temperature. At 3am while returning from another bathroom visit I had to steady myself against a tree. It was drizzling in the tropical night and I was delirious from fever and exhaustion. Only another fifty feet back to the tent but I wasn’t sure if I could make it – the ground was looking pretty inviting. It felt like being very drunk and not even the mosquitoes mattered any more. If I could just sleep… maybe everything would be better in the morning.
And it was better. Today I am tired but fine, physically. And though there is nothing sexy or adventurous about being sick, it is part of traveling, and I accept it. But there are other more serious problems brewing in paradise – and I’m afraid they will not disappear with the rising sun.
Try as we did, we never got into Angola. Going around that country involves very long stretches of jungle in the Congo and Yoshko has lost her desire for that kind of adventure. Instead we went to the see the spectacular Victoria Falls, and then deep into Zambia, which was interesting but too wet for us. It was from there that we filed the Special Report above, which now includes pictures and may be worth a second look. After more close encounters with big game, severe flooding, car problems, and diverse adventures in the bush, we are back on the east coast of Mozambique for some Rest & Relaxation. My idea was to return to South Africa and try to hitch a ride on a freighter to another continent – maybe even drive around the world. Anyplace would be easier than what we have been through here in Africa.
But the real problem is not flooding or elephants, or even the Angolan officials. The real problem with continuing this adventure is us. Yoshko would rather be raising a family with me than driving a beach buggy around Africa and no change in our route is going to alter this fact. Our goals in life have diverged undeniably; I dream about sailing a boat around the world and she dreams of a house and children.
It took me a year to figure out that when she was in a bad mood all I had to do was feed her and things would usually resolve themselves… but this is bigger. We argue incessantly now, even when she is well fed. I blame her for being uncooperative and she blames me for everything. We are unpleasant to one-another for the most part and she seems unhappy and irritable almost constantly.
There are still moments — instances of real warmth between us, even love — and the Lord knows we have shared some unbelievable experiences. But her biological clock is ticking and she has become intractable. And I understand, I am even flattered; another gorgeous and intriguing woman wants to make babies with me! How many chances like that does one man get? Alas, the timing is wrong. But I want Yoshko to be happy, and that apparently means letting her go. There is no band-aid cure for this situation and we may be coming to the end of our road together.
Life is so beautiful and so cruel and we want everything but we cannot have it. We who strive to live life to its fullest potential must accept the pain our choices inevitably heap upon us, like lost limbs and broken hearts. And there should be no drugs or alcohol to soften the blows – such pain should be experienced undiluted to fully appreciate it.
So now I don’t want to go to sleep. Because I know that when I wake up things will not be better. Do we give up the adventure and go separate ways? I cannot envision an alternative. Tomorrow painful decisions have to be made.
Tomorrow.
Today we are still in paradise.
Pictures:
1) Just the northern edge of the spectacular Victoria Falls.
2) After 200 miles of awful road some Zambian irony?
3) Bored Westerners help with more car repairs.
4) Yoshko prepares a meal in the bush.
5) A fair price for a tow from the Mango Beach Lodge owners.
Date: Saturday, May 27th, 2006 Time: 17:00 (5 PM) Place: Zululand, R.S.A. Weather: Sunny and Comfortable Temperature: 25° Celsius, 77° F Enviroment: Almost African Buggy Condition: Sandy Tom’s Condition: Indecisive Yoshiko’s Condition: Home in One Piece Equipment Condition: Worn but Holding
Men Without Women
I ate dinner in this excellent little Indian restaurant last night, and now I’m back for a solid breakfast before heading north towards Swaziland. The proprietor is very impressed by my trip. As I am leaving he shakes my hand warmly and exclaims with lolling head and Indian accent,
- My greatest wish right now Mr. Tom is that all persons you meet on your journey should know what a good person you are and greet you accordingly.
- But you don’t really know me; maybe I’m not a good person at all?
- My dear Mr. Tom, I am an excellent judge of character, and you are truly a good man.
And as I drive north out of the city I wonder…
I wonder about Yoshko, why we fought, why she went home. I think long and hard about my children, who I haven’t seen in months; is that a good man? I wonder why I am in a Buggy alone in Africa… and the answer comes back resoundingly – I don’t know.
Life on the road is very different without Yoshko. I can smoke a cigarette anytime I choose. I can drink, flirt, and stay out all night (if the Buggy is secure). I can drive all day without stopping for food, or pull into a bar at noon for a beer. But usually I find myself wishing Yoshko were here to share the moments. Not least of all if the moment requires that I unpack the baggage, fix the car, tie on the cover, or perform any of the innumerable tasks that we have become so efficient at doing together. Or filming. And of course, I miss the sex.
Despite my adventurous lifestyle I maintain some degree of control over the risks I take. AIDS is indiscriminate and in the Republic of South Africa one in four people are HIV positive. In Swaziland and Botswana the figure is closer to forty percent. As attracted as I may be to some of the locals I meet, Russian roulette is not my thing. So unless I stumble upon a cute Westerner backpacking or working for an NGO – my bed will be warmed only by me.
And I begin to wonder if I have been in Africa too long. The other night I escorted a Swiss-German girl to a Shabeen — the South African word for local black bars that are very cheap and notoriously dangerous. Everyone we asked for directions warned us not to go. At one point we were walking across a desolate stretch of beach that we had also been warned about. Sonja, a lovely little blond, took my arm lightly and expressed her thoughts out loud:
- Tom, you have a torch (flashlight in American) in one pocket, a knife in the other, a Leatherman on your belt, and you just drove 40,000 kilometers through Africa in a beach buggy. I feel fairly safe with you. In fact, I think I’ll call you MacGyver.
- PLEASE don’t, I said.
But she was safe, and we had a great time at the Shabeen. By the way, I go to Shabeens in every town, I’m always warned not to, and I always have a good time. Attitude is important.
When Yoshko and I were at the Cape of Good Hope drinking Champagne and celebrating, there was an unusually large baboon harassing tourists. He grabbed bags off people’s arms, raided unlocked cars, and jumped up and down on locked ones. We were positioned in the center of a semi-circle of vehicles all being harassed aggressively by the baboon. The open Buggy, with bags hanging all over it, presented a wonderful opportunity. But each time this bruiser crossed from one vehicle to another he made a diversionary loop to keep clear of us. With my hand resting calmly on my knife I looked him in the eye with amusement. He continued harassing everyone else aggressively, and he continued to avoid us. After a while Yoshko stated matter-of-factly:
- We have been in Africa too long Tom; even the baboons leave you alone.
And Yoshko got tired and went home to Japan. And I am left wondering what to do next. Let go of Africa as well and ship the Buggy? Or drive it back? Ship it where? I don’t know where home is…
While driving long distances in a noisy open car allows for a lot of introspection, it does not always lead to clear insights. Is life just a series of uncoordinated events, gratification seeking, and procreation; or am I driving the Buggy through Africa in quest of higher meaning? If so, I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.
And I am left wondering about the words of the Indian storeowner as well. Just exactly what is a good man, really? Am I one?
I do so wish I knew…
Pictures:
1) Now I’m all alone with the crocs and the hippos.
2) And of course some Zulu dancers as well.
3) I did meet another adventurous Jap, but he was the wrong sex.
4) So I’m just missing Yoshko.
5) But I still have to write it all down.
Loading the Buggy on a Freighter in Durban’s Port
Date: Wednesday, July 26th, 2006 Time: 11:00 (11 AM) Place: Barcelona Airport, Spain Weather: Hot and Sunny Temperature: 35° Celsius, 95° F Enviroment: Mediterranean Buggy Condition: Sailing Tom’s Condition: Pondering Yoshiko’s Condition: Job Hunting Equipment Condition: Unknown
Diary of a Vagabond
Some days we just shouldn’t get out of bed.
After all my cockiness about getting forty thousand miles through Africa in an open car without a single theft, I got pick pocketed in Spain. TWICE! In two short days in Barcelona I managed to miss my friend at the airport, lose my wallet, sleep on a flea-infested couch, and then have four hundred dollars in cash lifted from my pocket seconds after I put it there. Obviously on returning to the West I had let my guard down, and I’m sure there is a lesson to be learned here, still… some days we just shouldn’t get out of bed.
After Yoshiko went home I decided to ship the Buggy to North America and then fly to Sweden to spend some time with my kids. Stockholm is beautiful when the sun is shining and my daughters are easily my crowning achievement in life. We had a wonderful few weeks together – I was like a strung-out junkie getting his first fix in five months! But Yoshiko’s brother died in a tragic motorcycle accident recently and she was very upset, so I went to visit her for a few weeks in Japan.
Driving around in her sister Yuko’s car, Yoshiko pulled into a gas station in Osaka. The old man who had waved us in so enthusiastically a few seconds earlier now shook his head apologetically, “Most terribly sorry” he explained to Yoshiko in Japanese and bowed his head, “we cannot take credit cards here”. So we tanked up further along the road and then had a bite to eat. Crawling in traffic on the way home an hour later we passed the same gas station and spotting the old man I smiled and gave a big wave. Startled, he bowed his head politely – it was unclear if he recognized me.
“What are you doing?” shouted Yoshiko in a sharp tone.
“Waving to the old man”, I replied, perplexed at her irritation. “He’s the one we saw before.”
“I know who he is” she fired back. “You can’t do that here!”
“I can’t do what here, wave to an old man?”
“No! Now you scared him.”
I bit my tongue and thought hard. Was she serious?
She was. The incident reminded me that Yoshiko and I could argue about anything. It also underlined the fact that our two cultures – and our two personalities – are so very, very different.
So I’m alone again, passing through Spain to pick up the film material from the first leg of our African adventure. Born in New York, with my children in Sweden, and my heart in the tropics, I am voluntarily homeless. I have no idea where I will be in two months or in two years. But the Buggy is arriving in New York in a few days and I will be there to pick her up. She has become my anchor, allowing me to float freely yet preventing me from drifting away completely. One thing is for sure, it is time to edit this film. Most likely that will occur in the US.
And I need to sell the film as well. And that will require a degree of luck.
I haven’t felt very lucky lately.
Yoshiko and I didn’t make it up the west-coast of Africa because of bad luck at the Angolan border. We had bad luck with the weather in Zambia and bad luck with our relationship the whole time. Not to mention my astoundingly bad luck the last few days here in Barcelona. And now I’m going to New York to try to get lucky selling the film?
Hmmm…
Here’s a joke; two guys are comparing pick-up techniques in a bar.
First guy, “I just walk up to every attractive woman I see and say, ‘Hi, would you like to have sex?’ ”
Second guy, “Wow, you must get slapped a lot!”
First guy, “Yeah I do, but I get laid a lot too.”
I once knew a biker who used this technique in real life. He was not particularly cute, well-hung, wealthy, or intellectual — but he got laid a lot. He didn’t get slapped very often either; the main risk was jealous boyfriends. My point is that he created his own luck. And that’s exactly what I have to do now with this film.
And when I think of my kids I am reminded that in the most important aspect of my life, I am one of the luckiest men I know.
But let’s face it, some days – through no real fault of our own – we simply shouldn’t get out of bed.
Too bad the alarm clock can’t tell us when it is going to be one of those days.
Pictures:
1) Hanging out with the greatest kids ever.
2) Enjoying a perfect Swedish lunch.
3) Attacked by big-game in Japan!
4) Yoshiko and Yuko in a Karaoke bar.
5) Leaving Barcelona for the Big-Apple.
Date: Sunday, December 17th, 2006 Time: 18:00 (6 PM) Place: Key West, Florida Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: 25° Celsius, 77° F Enviroment: Sub-Tropical Buggy Condition: Excellent Tom’s Condition: Philosophical Yoshiko’s Condition: 9–5 (in the Maldives) Equipment Condition: Hanging In There
The Meaning of Life
The riot police lined up menacingly. When the doors opened the agitated mob stampeded. The police opened fired on the unruly crowd with pepper pellets. Similar scenes played out across the country resulting in muggings, shootings, and stabbings. What political outrage or international event could cause Americans to act like this?
The release of the new Sony Playstation.
Ambulance chasing lawyers, profit hungry insurance companies, incompetent leadership, and absurd levels of consumerism have conspired to deflate the greatest country on earth. The courage, generosity, and open-mindedness that were once hallmarks of America are withering. We could have fed the hungry, achieved world peace, and developed sustainable energy. Instead we riot over toys, hide behind false security measures, and drive gas-guzzling SUVs. And the rest of the West is not far behind.
I prefer developing nations. While it may be human nature to choose wealth and comfort at the expense of others when given the chance, they have not had that opportunity. Their expectations are more realistic so there is less stress to fulfill them. Their attitudes are more relaxed so they are less judgmental of others. They have fewer material possessions and do not live in fear that the rest of the world wants to take their toys away. The warm climate pervades the soul of tropical cultures, and the simple life really can be beautiful. After five months in the States I am ready to return to the Third World.
But the Discovery Channel is here and I wanted to sell them this film. Unfortunately there are a lot of self-important pencil-pushers involved in their decision-making process; and they make no apologies for keeping us dangling on a string for months while they ponder their possible involvement in our project. The whole entertainment business is so full of itself that it can suck the enthusiasm out of the toughest small player. Before that happens to me I have decided to cut this film independently. This does not bode well for my wallet – but it does help to maintain my dignity. It will also result in a better movie, without the ‘input’ of office workers trying to play directors. But enough whining; the title of this update is too grandiose to permit such pettiness.
The Buggy survived the boat ride from Africa, got through US customs, and got a FANTASTIC reception from the normally jaded New Yorkers. I did more major repairs in New Jersey and now she is purring like a kitten. As summer faded the Big Apple got cold so I headed south. Yoshiko flew in from Japan to meet me in Atlanta and we drove straight down to the Florida sun. It is fun for me to have such an exotic vehicle in my native country. But Yoshiko wants no more uncomfortable adventures, and last week she flew off to a new job as a dive instructor at a Four Seasons resort in the Maldives. I am visiting friends here and killing time before my kids meet me in New York for the holidays. After that my plans are less clear.
The other day I got a letter from my former secretary in Sweden. Suffering increasing stress as the holidays approach she asked, “Must life really be this endless treadmill?” So I thought about that… Anna has a 9 to 5 job and a house and kids in the country where she grew up. Most Westerners are fortunate enough to be able to choose how they want their lives to be; she chose security, safety, convenience, and familiarity. Humans are creatures of habit and most like routine despite what they may say about it. I chose not to run on the treadmill. I never complain of routine and rarely suffer from stress — but the price is high. I have only a vague memory of the security of a salary, my kids are 5000 miles away, and I don’t even know what country I would want a house in – if I could afford one. When I cannot pay for my lifestyle in cash it can cost a little piece of my soul… or my sanity. Adventuring is not always as romantic as it may appear, but it is my choice.
So instead of lamenting the treadmill this holiday season, revel in your good fortune. If you are near friends and family, in a safe place, with a regular income, enjoy the holidays; don’t “suffer” through them. Largely, we create our own stress – and we can control it. There’s no need to plan everything out in perfect detail. As for the sick consumerism of the West? Ignore it; you don’t need to find presents for everyone. All that’s important is to be around people you care about and to appreciate the time with them.
I love my children — just the thought of them makes me happy — and I will see them very soon. I enjoy beautiful women, sunny beaches, and good company. I dream of sailing the oceans and I dream of true love. I believe that James Dean imparted sage advice when he said “Dream like you’ll live forever, live like you’ll die today”. And I am grateful that I could choose to do just that.
So what is the Holy Grail? What is the meaning of life? In our hearts we already know… it is whatever makes us happy deep down inside. Despite slick marketers trying to convince us otherwise – it is almost certainly NOT a Sony Playstation.
Here’s wishing you and yours a happy holiday season shared with people you really care about.
Pictures:
1) The Buggy in a US customs warehouse.
2) My folks outside their apartment in Manhattan.
3) The meaning of life.
4) At my brother’s house in Florida.
5) What next?
I had been behind three tractor-trailers as they crawled over a seemingly endless series of speed-bumps. My patience finally gave out and I gassed the Buggy, pulled out into the clear oncoming-traffic lane, blasted over the bumps and around all three trucks, and whipped back into my own lane – right under the nose of the Mexican Federal Police car.
I was guilty of both speeding and passing in a no-passing zone. The ‘fine’ started at 200 American dollars, but I understood this to be a negotiation. The “Federales” politely explained that if I wished to pay on the spot instead of at the police station they could give a 50% reduction; one hundred dollars. I had a thousand dollars in cash but ‘lied’ in imperfect Spanish to the police that I would have to go to a bank for such a big sum, surmising that they would not want to follow me there. After much haggling, the cop, frustrated, asked me directly how much cash I had on me.
- Twenty US dollars and a few pesos, I replied.
After discussion with his partner the Federal Police nodded his acceptance, opened a book, and laid it on Yoshko’s empty seat in the Buggy. I placed a twenty dollar bill between the open pages. He closed the book smoothly around the bill and then grinned, showing two big gold teeth, “Buenos tardes amigo, y bienvenidos a Mexico.”
As they drove off I thought to myself, “Welcome to Mexico indeed you fat bastard” and I pulled into the first cantina I saw and ordered a beer. I surmised that the whole charade with the money in the book was so that the crooked cops could claim they never “touched” the money, should they somehow be found out. But the sun was hot as I downed an ice-cold Tecate, and the fact was that I had just gotten out of a double moving violation for twenty bucks. Philosophizing about rampant third-world corruption that made this possible would wait for another day. I had a cold beer on a sunny afternoon with a loaded Buggy running smoothly and I’d just gotten off cheap on a ticket – even by Mexican standards. There were a lot of people in the world with bigger problems than mine.
That was several weeks ago. My Spanish is improving rapidly here, I have a terrific tan, and the fact is that I love Mexico — I always have. I have been here since New Years, and traversed most of the country already. I entered from Texas and came down the Gulf Coast to Veracruz. Then I cut across the mountains past Mexico City out to Oaxaca and the big surfing beaches of the west. Then south to beautiful indigenous cities and great ruins and finally made my way up to Cancun on the Yucatan peninsula where I spent two perfect weeks with my daughters, who just returned to Sweden. I recently spent the holidays with my kids as well, but I had to share them with all my siblings in New York. In Mexico I had them all to myself, and my sister who popped down just for two days. We had sun and surf, terrific Mexican food, and excursions in the Buggy; it was great.
Unfortunately my original reason for coming to Mexico was not to meet my kids, it was to meet a Norwegian editor here and to finally cut the film. But the editor has let me down for the second time and decided not to come. So as far as finishing the film is concerned I’m back to square one. I’m really ready to get to it now, so I have decided to head for Los Angeles – slowly – to try and find an affordable editor in Hollywood. By the time I get there the weather should be suitable for the Buggy and hopefully I will have some sort of plan.
Meanwhile I’ve got several weeks and thousands of miles left in Mexico. After months in the US I am enjoying the weather and the culture here and the fact that I can drink beer in the afternoon without anyone giving me snide looks. Yoshko is on the other side of the planet teaching diving… and I miss her. Whenever she feels down she misses me too, but she does not miss adventuring in the Buggy. We have different tastes and goals. I love travel and adventure and the interesting people I meet everywhere. And sitting and writing this down and reminiscing I am reminded of a cute conversation I had with an old man many years ago.
I was leaving California on my motorcycle to circumnavigate. The old man had been in the South Pacific in WW2 and traveled a lot in Europe and elsewhere afterwards, and he couldn’t figure out why anyone would voluntarily ride a motorcycle around the world.
“Why do you want to go and do a damn fool thing like that?” the old man asked me.
“I don’t know, just to see what’s out there I guess”, I replied.
“Hell son, I can tell you what’s out there… there ain’t nothin’ out there but foreigners!”
True enough.
And some are terrifically crooked cops, and some are enchantingly exotic women, and some are just regular folks. But they all have a story to tell, and they all add to your experience… and isn’t that what life is about?
And that’s OK with me.
Pictures:
1) Another milestone for the Buggy.
2) Making friends on a surfing beach near Escondido.
3) Ruins in the jungle at Pelenque.
4) Marika and Pernilla are growing up fast.
5) My kids and my sister Jane in the back of the Buggy in Cancun.
Date: Sunday, May 6th, 2007 Time: 17:30 (5:30 PM) Place: Las Vegas, Nevada Weather: Hot and Sunny Temperature: 35° Celsius, 95° F Enviroment: Bizarre, Surrealistic, and Arid Buggy Condition: Ready for Hollywood Tom’s Condition: Ready to Work Yoshiko’s Condition: Unknown Equipment Condition: Totally Worn Out
Love at First Sight?
“No mi olvides”, she said though moist eyes as she boarded the bus bound for Mexico City.
“I will never forget you Maria”, I lied politely, and then rested my gaze on the small wound on her hand. She glanced down at it too, and her skin turned from luscious brown to bright red. The self-inflicted bite mark was the result of her attempt to stifle screams of passion the night before, screams which would have woken the tiny village otherwise. Maria smiled with sweet embarrassment at the memory, and with a final passionate kiss she climbed aboard the bus.
The impatient driver roared off into the steamy Acapulco night, and as quickly as Maria had materialized, she disappeared.
As I strolled back to my Buggy alone, I weighed the odds that we would meet again… not likely. I had earned a standing invitation to visit her in the capitol, but I had no plans to go there. At 29 Maria was already the administrative head of 200 workers at a large hospital. Throughout school and a master’s degree she had managed to avoid studying English; why should she, she had no aspirations of fleeing to the US or working with tourism. She represented the rapidly growing new middle class of Mexicans – proud of her heritage and happy where she was. We had been together for several days. It was the longest relationship I had ever had with a woman who spoke absolutely no English.
We had met on the beautiful tropical beach of Chacaua located four hours south of Acapulco – and a hundred years in it’s past. Except for ten thatched roof huts, the twenty kilometer (12 mile) strip of sand probably looked identical ten thousand years ago. There were about five hundred natives in the area, a few surfers, and me. Maria had a week’s vacation and wanted to get as far from the big-city stress as possible. She pitched her tiny tent on the sand right next to mine. It didn’t take me long to start a conversation despite my limited Spanish.
After I dropped her at her bus I went for a cheap beer in the old square, far from Acapulco’s infamous tourist zone. There, alone with my thoughts, I tried solemnly but in vain to recount all my lovers. Each time I thought that I had just about covered them more popped into mind, “Right, I almost forgot the two German Lufthansa stewardesses!” Which reminded me of the leggy Air France stewardess. Which reminded me of the busty Scottish stewardess. Which made me question whether or not I could remember all the stewardesses I had been with… let alone all the women? Then I remembered a period in LA when I was juggling three lovers simultaneously for several weeks. Finally I gave up the notion of listing lovers. But one thing I knew for sure — I had appreciated every one of them. When a woman gives herself to me, any woman, she is giving me something wonderful and deeply personal, and I am grateful. Outside of my kids, women are the reason for my existence. I feel sorry for the millions of misogynists out there who just don’t get it. I REALLY like women.
And then my thoughts shifted to the women that I have loved — maybe half a dozen; why so few?
Yoshko is waiting for a man to appear and sweep her off her feet. She wants to feel the sensation of being weak-at-the-knees, instantly, madly, head-over-heels in love. And while love at first site is a cute notion, I’m not sure it exists.
Of course it depends on your definition. Some would accept sexual passion or desire as a legitimate definition of love. I don’t throw the “L” word around that lightly. For me love is a profoundly tender feeling of deep affection for another person that is likely to last a very long time. There is no way I could be certain that I felt that strongly for a person without experiencing them over a period of time; which rules out love at first sight. There are a small number of people in the world that I’m sure that I love. I would lay down my life for any one of them.
I think the process to achieve what I consider love in a sexual relationship goes something like this:
We meet someone that is unusually intriguing to us. We feel a strong chemistry – a healthy natural urge to procreate, lust; which creates a desire to spend more time with this person. And with the passing of time spent together we discover common interests, get to know intimate details, and – and this part is critical – we develop a common experience base. It is first after we have some common history that we can begin to speak of ‘love’. Only after this investment of attention over time can we be sure that our initial passionate feelings (our “lust” at first sight) are profound and have a reasonable chance to stand the test of more time; love.
Many women have loved me; some have gotten hurt. So why do I like – even lust for – hundreds of women, yet love so few? Because to really fall in love requires time, and time is a limited commodity. In fact taking long periods of time together to make “love” is a luxury made prevalent by civilization, allowing an alternative to the carnal lust that is a natural survival mechanism. But it is a wonderful luxury, a worthy luxury, a luxury I would like to pursue with the right woman – even to the exclusion of the lustful encounters that I cherish so.
Do I love Yoshko?
I lust for her – there’s no denying the chemistry, or the desire to spend more time with her. And after all we have experienced together we know each other intimately. And we have history, from Africa and more, a common set of experiences that we will never share with anyone else. And for sure I have a profound feeling of affection for her that is likely to last a very long time.
Yes, I love Yoshko.
Can we live together?
Whew… whole different question! I’d like to try. Because since I love her I want to be near her all the time.
But she has isolated herself from me – working at a private resort in the Maldives for some time to come, partly to protect herself from her feelings towards me. So I’m left to finish the film and to wander the earth without her by my side. And I meet other women. And I wonder what love really is.
Now I have wandered to Las Vegas… how bizarre is that after four months in Mexico! Pretty fucking bizarre I can tell you. No where else can you find so many neon lights, mega-resorts, surrealistic decorations, and silicon breasts; this place is simply TOO much. But in a way I love it – it represents the height of Western decadence and stands in extreme contrast to my years traveling in less developed parts of the world. I like extremes – never boring. And the weather is good, and the Buggy is happy. I have a wonderful sister and nephew living here and I am visiting just for a week or so… my last stop before LA and film work.
And laying by my sister’s pool in Vegas my mind wanders back to women I have known. And I think to myself – maybe I didn’t lie to Maria at the bus station in Acapulco after all; maybe I would remember her for ever…
She was the most entertaining Spanish lesson I’ve ever had.
Pictures:
1) And that’s not Yoshko either, she’s Swiss.
2) A Norwegian of Asian decent, but still not Yoshko.
3) Nope, she’s Australian.
4) And now I am in Sin City…
5) LA’s beaches will be a bit more crowded than Chacaua.
There are construction workers banging away next door. I envy them. I want a job where I see the results of my efforts at the end of each day, then go home, drink a beer, and sleep like a baby. I am in LA so I’ve been thinking I need a nose-job. Sorry, I am drifting…
I was a mischievous child, but healthy and happy. I did well in school, had regular friends, and went to church most Sundays. That ended when my mother died just after I turned eleven. My degeneracy was so profound in my early teens as to be unbelievable to many of my contemporaries today. When other kids were smoking cigarettes or cutting classes to test their independence, I was stealing cases of dynamite from construction sites and planning the demolition of our local police station — thankfully we never found caps to ignite the stuff. On a daily diet of drugs and alcohol I all but completely missed high school. I raced cars, stole motorcycles, got in fights, and defied all authority. By my late teens I realized that I had to get out of New York so I fled to California where I traded drugs and delinquency for motorcycles and Martial Arts. I still drank on occasion and I regularly evaded police in high-speed pursuits, but it was a step in the right direction. After a few years of relative stability my wanderlust got the best of me; I sold all my possessions save one motorcycle, bid my girlfriend goodbye, and rode south on what was to become an epic global adventure. I returned to LA two years later as a man of the world, wiser and tougher. Riding my English registered BMWR75 back from the Long Beach Grand Prix one afternoon I was struck by a drunken woman in a car.
The impact broke my back and my neck and shattered my left arm. It crushed my left shoulder down several inches ripping all the nerves to my upper left quarter out of my spine and leaving me permanently paralyzed throughout that entire area. My left leg was forever weakened and sensation on my right side was forever altered. Eventually my left arm was removed altogether. I underwent spinal surgery so invasive that my family did not recognize me at first when they came to the hospital to visit. Before one operation that risked leaving me a quadriplegic I made the two people in the world that I trusted most – my father and my then-wife – promise that they would kill me if I awoke unable to physically take my own life. But the powers that be had created me from durable material, and eventually I found myself in the hospital bed of a recovery facility back in New York.
I was assigned a Social Worker; a psychologist who’s job it was to assist my mental recovery while physical therapists did their best on my body. Sue visited me daily for an hour or so and we would chat. I felt no need for a shrink but I was happy for the distraction. One day she did not appear; when she showed up the next day she looked concerned. She had been pondering my ‘case’ and wondered if I would be willing to meet with a colleague of hers. Two days later a man sporting a neat black beard and spectacles sat by my bedside. His questions had obvious but unclear direction. I played along for two sessions before finding myself alone again. When Sue finally returned a few days later to resume our regular chats she bore a perplexed, almost amused expression. To a psychologist it was unimaginable that a person who had experienced what I had in life, from the loss of a mother to the loss of an arm — and everything in-between — could be as well-adjusted as I appeared to be. Obviously I was repressing terrible anger and resentment that Sue lacked the expertise to pry loose. Hence she had called in the bearded guy, one of the world’s leading authorities on retrieving repressed emotions.
- Well? I said.
- We are in full agreement in your case. You are either the strongest person we have ever encountered in our combined professional careers, or…
- Yes???
- Or you will pull out an M‑16 one day and shoot a lot of innocent people at a public playground. We can’t be certain until it happens.
Sue and I went on to become great friends and I haven’t killed a single innocent person to date. I believe there are weak people in the world and strong people, and like shoe size it is mostly genetic. Tragedy runs off me like rain. My exaggerated lust for life coincides with an ability to absorb whatever it hurls at me. But lately I have been feeling tired. I want to spend more time with my children. I think I need to find a good woman, I probably need a place to call home, and I definitely need a success – like with this film. They are not unrelated.
After my last update about ‘love’ I was berated by readers. An ex-secretary wrote that I was a fool to delude myself about loving Yoshiko when it was obvious that we never got along at all. An ex sister-in-law whisked away a charming young friend of hers who had taken an interest in me at a dinner party in Vegas, “You are just an international playboy” she explained, “I read your homepage!” An ex-girlfriend was the most scathing, “It is pathetic how you use your site to try to impress women with your conquests. Has it occurred to you that nothing could be more vein than making a movie about yourself?” (It has) Only my little sister understood, “Your writing is terrific Tommy but it feels like you may be using this update to communicate with Yoshiko. Perhaps you know that”
I knew it. What’s more I succeeded – though I now wish I had failed. I got Yoshiko’s attention sufficiently for her to take a vacation from her work in the Maldives and fly to Thailand to meet me there for three weeks. It was the worst trip of my life. At her request I will skip the details. We ended our four-year relationship in a monumentally bad way and likely will never see each other again. The very last time I saw her she was naked, extremely drunk, and puking all over the bed of our Bangkok hotel room. I walked out and did not return. Perhaps we were seeking closure – what we got was a train wreck. I feel nauseous when I think about what a horrible couple we became after all the wondrous times we have shared.
But she was great on camera, and I had a film to cut. And what better way to nurse a broken heart than by diving into your career? I was coming home from a bad time in Thailand to begin work in earnest because, finally, I had found en editor. Things were going to be all right. We would cut an award-winning documentary and my life would get back on track. Who cared if I repressed insecurities about whether or not anybody would be interested in what I have to say? Who cared if I wondered why no network had yet bought my concept? And who cared if I secretly feared that this may in-fact be the last vein attempt of a middle-aged, one-armed has-been to jump-start his professional life? Because… I HADANEDITOR! I would be working and the film would be done in a few months. That knowledge gave me the strength to face each day despite my fears and anxieties and despite my searing pain over losing Yoshiko.
Until today.
This morning my editor informed me that he would be unavailable for my project since last night he had accepted a job writing for HBO.
And so, like Russell Crowe in The Gladiator looking up at the cheering crowds in the Coliseum, I looked up toward the sky at an imaginary God and I screamed, “Are you not entertained!” There came no response. I turned and walked away, head down, until I came to the edge of that bottomless abyss that is the sum of all our fears and weaknesses, dashed hopes, broken dreams, failed loves, and deepest insecurities; where there is no reflection at all.
And here I stand. Do I let the blackness suck me in and cower into a corner of the Southwest where I might become a truck driver, marry a waitress, and have annual visits by my Swedish children? Or do I dive into the abyss head first, fist outstretched, and go down kicking and screaming all the way to the gates of Hell? This is my chance to back up my bullshit, to prove that I can do more than just talk the talk, to once again turn a downward spiral of life upwards and find a better editor and make a better film and ultimately end up with a better woman; YES, this is a fucking opportunity!
Or maybe I’ll just pick up an AK-47, walk down to the local playground, and open fire; then the networks are sure to buy the film.
Courage is not a lack of fear but an ability to take appropriate action in the face of it.
Pictures:
1) Bruce Meyers with our Buggy more than 40 years after inventing the very first one!
2) About the only things smooth and easy in California are the colors.
3) Speaking of which, in Thailand I re-colored my famous tattoo.
4) This CHP officer only aggravated my lousy situation, but I beat the ticket in court!
5) With no editor I work on my tan pondering problems in the pool; clothing optional.
Date: Wednesday, October 17th, 2007 Time: 03:00 (3 AM) Place: Livingstone, Zambia Weather: Hot and Dry Temperature: 34° Celsius, 93° F Enviroment: Tarzanian Buggy Condition: Resting in Vegas Tom’s Condition: Good Yoshiko’s Condition: Good Question Equipment Condition: Stored
Heart of Africa…
I would have recognized them anywhere, the two gay cowboys from ‘Broke-back Mountain’. They looked exactly as they had in the film. They were seated just two tables away in the restaurant where I was eating breakfast. At another table sat a huge and ornery looking Texan glowering at the pair. Behind him was a large table full of eight or ten more cowboys and therein lay the danger; if they sided with the big Texan this was going to get messy. In front of the younger gay cowboy was an oversized bowl of yogurt and muesli – it was untouched. The big Texan spoke.
- Well eat up Boy, we don’t want no one sayin’ Texans ain’t hospitable! That IS the kind of food faggots eat ain’t it?
The reckless young cowboy glared back at the Texan defiantly but there was terror in his eyes — he couldn’t be counted on to help much. The older one looked down avoiding eye-contact, good — I knew he would fight if he had to. The Texan kept his eyes on the younger cowboy but addressed the table behind him.
- You boys see this? We got them two famous queers right here in our town. Boy I am gonna’ have fun kickin’ some faggot ass today!
The gang of cowboys was still not committed though some were snickering menacingly. I could have left my money on the table and gotten out of there. Instead I slid my chair back and rose demonstratively. I walked over and stood beside the younger cowboy who was startled but relieved. I stared straight at the big Texan — my actions had not gone unnoticed.
- Well now boys it looks like we got us another little faggot to kick the shit out of today. This is shapin’ up to be a fine morning!
I chose my words carefully and spoke them clearly; controlling the tone of my voice to disguise my fear.
- I’ve met a lot of good Texans in my day – you’re just not one of them. Now my guess is that this kid can handle you with no help at all, but we’ll never know, because before you get near him I will already have taken you out. It is ignorant assholes like you that can make me ashamed to be an American – you worthless waste of human flesh.
He lunged out of his chair at me surprisingly quickly for such a big man and I was already moving towards him — if this was a poker game then I was all-in.
I awoke sitting bolt-upright in bed, the adrenaline just as real while conscious as it had been in my dream state. Quickly I realized that the eminent danger was over – there was no big Texan, and of course no Broke-Back Mountain cowboys; just me in the semi-darkness. The shadow of a cockroach the size of a child’s thumb scurrying across blistered wall paint told me that I was in yet another dingy third-world hotel room, but where? What town was I in? What country? If thieves or police burst in what language would they be speaking? What continent was I on? Concentrate Tom!
I realized that I was not alone. I looked down in the bed beside me to see a pretty black face sleeping peacefully and the fog cleared immediately; I was back in Zambia.
I had met Mercy the year before when I had passed by Victoria Falls with Yoshiko. She was a tribal beauty working at the lodge where we had stayed for a week. Mercy and I had connected directly but innocently. One night Yoshko had been so annoyed with me for smoking cigarettes that she had locked me out of our tent, literally, with a small padlock on the zipper. I had returned to the bar where Mercy was closing up alone and we shared a beer and flirted, both knowing nothing could come of it.
- But if I ever return to Zambia you had better be ready!
- You will NEVER return to Zambia Tom, she had said almost angrily.
- You don’t know me that well, I just might. And if I do…
- IF you return, I will be ready.
Mercy had been true to her word.
After my cataclysmic break with Yoshiko in Thailand recently I had contacted her by mail and to my delight she was still single. LA was not helping me finish this film. Waiting around for a perfect editor was unproductive. I had all the equipment necessary to do a rough cut myself and I could set it up wherever I liked. A bonus to editing in Africa – besides Mercy – is that if I need any additional shots I am in the right place. I will return to the West for professional help with the final cut, but it will be a much smaller job. I can show editors my rough-cut in an afternoon and when I find the right one, we will finish the job in a matter of weeks.
Lions are not the most dangerous thing in Africa and I told Mercy we would need to take an HIV test. We met on my arrival and picked up Mercy’s clean bill of health and birth-control pills at the clinic. While this precluded any real mystery as to what was to transpire there was still the excitement inherent in every first encounter. After a late lunch Mercy finished a Coke and I drank a few beers and we talked, eventually retiring to our cheap guest house. It was with great pleasure on my part and some trepidation on her part that I coaxed Mercy out of her clothes. She resembled a black Barbie doll with a beautiful face and a figure even more pronounced than I had anticipated through her clothing. She turned her attention nervously towards me and grasped at my pants to help me out of them. She drew everything down in one move and then she literally gasped…
- Oh my God!
Despite her good-looks and despite countless proposals in her 23 years Mercy had only had one lover previously. He was a black man but apparently not one of those that keep the myths alive. Statistically speaking I am just above average in that regard, but contrasting my slim build at the right angle on a good day my silent partner can make a powerful impression. I smiled.
- I thought white men had small ones! She exclaimed.
Now I laughed so loudly that the bed shook and Mercy grew defensive.
- It’s true! A girl at my work slept with a white man I know. He is handsome and has his own car. She said it was like a finger irritating her and she never slept with him again. Now all us girls must run and hide whenever he comes to the restaurant for fear that we may laugh at him!
I was hysterical and managed to get out something to the effect that Africa was probably not the best place for a white man with a small one to come looking for a woman. Mercy reached out nervously to grasp it, as if to make certain it was real, and again she gasped, “Oh my God!”
When your afternoon ends like that you can be pretty sure you are in for an interesting evening. Neither of us was disappointed. Now, several hours later, I lay back down next to her and I lifted the covers gently to inspect her body, again – wow. The fresh air caused her to stir and turn towards me. She flopped a thin arm across my chest and nuzzled her shoulder into my armpit and her head into my neck. “Are you OK?” she mumbled dreamily, but she was out again before I responded. Unconsciously she cast a silky-smooth ebony thigh across my naked waist, heavy breasts against my right side, she clung to me securely in her sleep, and I thought about her question…
Yes, I was OK.
I would finish this film if I had to do it myself. I would get over Yoshiko though it would take time. I would never go ‘postal’ on a lot of innocent people with a machine-gun no matter what life threw my way. I would persevere. That was the point of my last update – though many readers misunderstood it.
With a last admiring look at Mercy I closed my eyes and relaxed; I had my demons on the ropes. They were no more or less real than ignorant Texans and I would always handle them. I allowed myself the luxury of fantasizing about a future with glowing reviews of this film, VIP parties, and even money. I would spend lots of time with my kids. I would buy a modest house on a tropical beach, or maybe sail around the world. With my arm wrapped down Mercy’s tiny back I patted her ample bottom gently and then rested my hand on the curve of her hip. Was SHE in my future? Was Africa my destiny? Its magnetic attraction is undeniable — Asia, Latin America, and the West all seem mundane by comparison. But the staggering poverty and the enormous cultural differences make it unlikely.
I pushed the future from my brain and concentrated on the moment. In doing so I realized that – for the first time in a very long time – I was content; and that for now, that was enough.
Pictures:
1) Victoria Falls has MUCH less water now in the dry season.
2) Mercy heads off to work on our second day together, all smiles.
3) Working at my portable editing suite in Africa I am often distracted by…
4) … my demanding roommate; poor me!
5) All the while the Buggy waits patiently in Las Vegas.
If you read a report from me next Christmas and this film is still not finished, shoot me.
Oriental women have fairly flat bottoms on average but Yoshko has a lovely ass. Black women are renowned for having asses that just won’t quit and Mercy is no exception, but her workmate is a cute Black woman with a flat bottom. Doggy style is the reproductive position nature intended for humans, we make up everything else in the comfort of our bedrooms. Therefore – simply to achieve adequate penetration for purposes of procreation – Black men have slightly longer penises than Oriental men.
On average.
White women have moderately curved asses on average so White men need – and have – medium sized reproductive organs. Asians seem to have a small advantage over the rest of us when it comes to logic and mathematics — on average. Africans are better dancers and they may have a slight physical advantage when it comes to some sports – like running and boxing. Again, Europeans land somewhere in the middle.
But the individual differences within each race are ten times greater than the general differences between the races. I know Asians who can dance and astoundingly well-hung Whites. Acknowledging minor genetic variations among different races is not racist. Assuming that these differences make one group of people superior to another is.
Being a White man with a Black woman is fascinating. Many White people are visibly uncomfortable with our presence and Black men occasionally comment outright. I had to strike one admirer of Mercy’s who got physically aggressive with her for being with a Mazungu (the local derogatory word for Whites). I have no tolerance for racism, and around Christmas I have to wonder – where does all the hatred in the world come from?
Non sequitur.
I had another dream…
I was flying around the town where I grew up. I often fly in my dreams but I don’t have very much control. I could not soar high or fast and just hovered along at trotting speed a few meters off the ground. It was only with great concentration that I could rise high enough to clear obstacles like trees. I flew towards my old house which was a giant doll-house with cutaway sections so you could see inside. I feared that I would crash into it, but with immense effort I just cleared the roof. Looking down I saw my two daughters sleeping peacefully in one room. I wanted to be with them but I couldn’t stop flying. Marika woke up and saw me and started to yell at me to come back but try as I might I couldn’t return – I could only hold out my arms in a distant hug. Marika ran down the steps yelling and Pernilla woke-up and followed her. Marika chased me to the stone wall at our property line and gazed up longingly as I was drifting away. Pernilla caught-up and hugged her and I could clearly hear her comforting words – “Don’t worry Marika, its just Dad checking up on us. Don’t you know he is always watching, always there to protect us if we need him?”
In dreams we work out real issues and this did not require Freud to decipher; it had been too long since I spent time with my children. So I came back to Sweden to be with them for the holidays. Mercy misses me but she understands the importance of kids and of finishing the film.
I’m excited about this movie. My ‘editing’ (filtering out the best scenes) has gone well. The material is there to tell a good story and I have started scripting the narration. I will return to Zambia in January and then on to South Africa to find a professional editor for the final cut.
I have decided to sponsor Mercy for one year while she finishes high-school. After completing the eleventh grade her father died and she had to work full-time. Mercy earns about seventy dollars a month (not a typo) for waitressing ten hour shifts six days a week with no vacation or benefits. She is the family bread-winner supporting her younger brother who just graduated this month and her mom who has no regular employment. Mercy speaks seven languages fluently and – when she dares – she dreams of studying at a university. Providing her with the financial freedom to finish high-school will be my good-deed for 2008. I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more. She is a fine woman who cared for me and demanded nothing in return. She adored me when a little adoration was just what I needed to recover from the events of last summer and regain the confidence to make a good film.
So I sit here smugly in Sweden enjoying the holidays, surrounded by family and friends, overfed and under-worked… and I wonder what I want for Christmas:
A beautiful woman? I have a Goddess of a girlfriend who thinks I’m a perfect 10 in bed.
A wonderful family? I have a bunch of cool siblings, a terrific ex-wife who is still one of my closest friends, and two of the greatest kids on the planet.
I know, I know! I need a Porsche!
Wait a minute, I HAD a Porsche. And I had a Mercedes, and a Jaguar, and I sold them. And what with oil shortages, the ozone shrinking, and the environment hanging in the balance I don’t even really want another super-car. God created the Buggy with me in mind.
So then what DO I need for Christmas? I mean what do I really NEED???
Nothing. I have a beautiful woman, a great family, a cool car, a full stomach – and I still have a few dollars left in the bank.
I’m one of the lucky people in the world and it’s nice to be aware of that, especially around the holidays.
Happy New Year everybody!
Pictures:
1) Mercy and I visit neighboring Zimbabwe.
2) I do a lot of flying in planes as well as dreams.
3) My excellent Father’s Day surprise breakfast.
4) Marika’s class singing the traditional Santa Lucia.
5) A Christmas feast, I’ve gone up two belt sizes in Sweden!
Mercy loves her new bikini but she still won’t swim
Date: Friday, October 10th, 2008 Time: 3:13 PM (15:13) Place: Livingstone, Zambia Weather: Dusty, Sunny, & Hot Temperature: 42° Celsius, 108° F Enviroment: Central African Buggy Condition: About To Be Woken Tom’s Condition: Infected Finger and Fever Mercy’s Condition: Almost a High School Grad Equipment Condition: Good Question
Obama vs. McCain
Obviously George W Bush has not fully comprehended his role in the world; I picture him waking up to an epiphany one day and actually mouthing the words, ‘Oh my God, what have I done?’
Paradise for me always includes a beautiful beach and lots of sunshine.
In Zambia the sun can cause second degree burns to unprotected skin in a day. Every river and lake is infested with crocodiles and hippos that really do eat bathers. So for sound reasons Mercy avoids the sun and fears water to the point that she cannot swim. I try to get her into our lovely pool almost every day but old habits are hard to change. I fear that our cultural differences may be insurmountable. But I have paid for her to complete her high-school studies. The death of her father several years ago forced her to quit school early and work full-time. Her grades are good and she graduates in December and I am proud of her.
My daughter Pernilla graduated in May near the top of her class and the youngest in her school. Now she is in New York to see a bit of the world before starting university. And I am proud of her too. And her little sister Marika graduated junior-high this year with excellent grades as well – seems I’m proud of almost everyone around me right now. Even I have had a productive year; I’ve been busy editing this movie.
At the moment I’m at Victoria Falls recovering from a nasty fever, not malaria thankfully. Mercy just wiped my forehead…
- It will soon be wet-season here, she said. When I have nothing to do I like to sit indoors and listen to the rain falling on the tin roof.
- I prefer to sit outdoors feeling the sun shining on my bare skin, I replied.
We watched a lot of films together on my laptop in bed while I froze with sweat and Mercy took care of me and I was glad that I wasn’t alone. ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ is a love story. Elisabeth Shue plays a prostitute who falls for Nicolas Cage who is deliberately drinking himself to death but none of the colossal insanity of their situation matters because they are soul-mates.
Ten years ago at the black-tie reception of a good friend’s wedding I got too drunk and almost embarrassed myself. I had held a cool speech in the groom’s honor, I was flush from the recent sale of my radio station, and I had the best looking date on the planet. Dinner was over and people were seated with drinks in groups of ten or twelve around the cleared tables. After commanding everyone’s attention I was approaching the punch line of a joke when for emphasis I made a drunkenly sweeping gesture with my arm and knocked over several glasses and a wine bottle. One glass landed in Sari’s lap, something spilled on my trousers, and the fancy tablecloth was soaked. I sat like an idiot, embarrassment clearing the alcohol-induced fog in my head. I wondered how I might vanish into thin air and never have to see any of these people again.
Sari was on her feet drying her gown with a cloth napkin. A young waiter was passing and she stopped him – he visibly blushed at the sight of this voluptuous angel with her hand delicately on his shoulder.
- There’s been a slight accident, she explained. We’ll be needing some fresh drinks here immediately. Can you see to that for me?
She took another napkin and adeptly patted my trousers dry. I waited for the sarcastic comment and searched her face for a trace of accusation at having just made fools of us both in these immaculate surroundings. In the seconds it took her to clean me up a small flock of waiters had changed the tablecloth, replaced every glass that wasn’t full, and asked sincerely if there was anything else we needed. Sari dismissed them politely, sat back in her chair, and handed me my whisky.
- Well, what’s the punch line? She spoke as though we had only been disrupted by waiters refreshing our drinks.
So I finished the joke.
Everyone laughed genuinely and warmly. After a respectful smile at my audience I turned and gazed into Sari’s green eyes; she smiled admiringly at me and nodded her head ever so slightly and I knew then that I had found my soul-mate.
Sari and I ended two years later nearly as badly as Nicolas Cage and Elisabeth Shue had in ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ – the difference being that Sari and I had not been a movie.
Yoshiko and I ended one year ago pretty badly as well – intense relationships often go that way. Our relationship hadn’t been scripted by Hollywood writers but it has been heavily edited by me, and now our story is a movie. While ‘Adventuress Wanted’ may appear to be about beach-buggies, big-game, and Africa – it is really about potential soul-mates destined to failure in the harsh reality we call life. It’s an unusual love story and not one of those with a tidy ending. But Yoshko just saw the rough cut in Japan and she was ecstatic. After nearly five years it seems that I may have gotten this movie right.
Since my last update posted from Sweden eight months ago I’ve been back in South Africa editing, in Zambia visiting Mercy, South Africa again working, over-landed all of Zimbabwe during the elections there just for fun, Zambia again, Sweden for Pernilla’s graduation, Bulgaria for a short trip with Marika, spent all summer back in Sweden again finishing the film, and now I’m back in Zambia again to chill with Mercy and digest my work. In a few days I will return to Sweden to put the final touches on the movie, then I’m off to Las Vegas to pick up the Buggy and (a drum-roll might be appropriate here)…
And then I drive her to Hollywood in early November for the American Film Market to try and sell this project.
I was a wanderer in my youth and it would appear that my past has caught up with me. I took twenty years off to pick up a degree, raise a family, and even become a respected entrepreneur, but old habits die hard. Over the last five years it seems I have come full circle back to the restless searcher that I was born. I am now a professional vagabond with absolutely no idea of what 2009 has in store for me. I’m nearly broke so if this film is not well received at the AFM I suppose I will have to look for an honest job.
But that thought is disturbing so you may spot me on the Bowery instead, bottle in hand, singing Sinatra’s ‘I Did it My Way’ painfully off key…
If so put a dollar in my hat, chat a while if you like, but don’t feel pity as I have few regrets.
Back to the title of this update. The world is truly a wondrous place – but reality is also brutal and sometimes painful and in too many ways our planet is moving in the wrong directions. People like Robert Mugabe should simply die. People like George Bush should probably never have been born. And people like John McCain should never again be elected to the most influential position in the world. The planet, including the US, is distinctly worse off than it was eight years ago. If you’re American don’t forget to vote in November; this may be the single most significant election of our lifetimes.
We’ll let you know soon how you can see the film.
Pictures:
1) Our lovely pool in Zambia won’t get worn out by Mercy.
2) I’m a billionaire! In Zimbabwean dollars…
3) Proud sisters at Pernilla’s high-school graduation.
4) An ice cold Bulgarian beer costs one US dollar!
5) Contemplating life through an African train window…
November 4th at the Democratic Convention in Vegas…
Date: Sunday, December 21st, 2008 Time: 11:30 PM (23:30) Place: Christiansted, St Croix, USVIWeather: Warm, Humid and Breezy Temperature: 30° Celsius, 86° F Enviroment: Caribbean Buggy Condition: Good Tom’s Condition: Hopeful Mercy’s Condition: Lonely Equipment Condition: Worn
God Bless America!
Did you ever notice that some car wheels have a different number of spokes than lug nuts? What’s that about?
Sorry…
Despite being the biggest Martial Arts school in Stockholm only about a dozen of the toughest guys showed up for Friday night’s full-contact sessions. Most of them kicked my ass on a weekly basis but anytime they relaxed for even an instant I exacted revenge. I quickly earned a reputation as a crazy one-armed American who was not to be underestimated. Rinsing off some blood in the showers one big guy claimed to understand why I never backed down. He had spent some developmental years in the States and told me he could sum up the difference between Swedes and Americans in two sentences.
- “In Sweden they teach us from earliest childhood not to think that we are better than anyone else. In America they teach you from earliest childhood that anyone can be president if they just try hard enough.”
It was an astute observation with enormous implications. Still I felt it necessary to explain that it wasn’t that simple because some groups, minorities for example, didn’t actually have much chance to achieve our highest office. But in a few weeks the halls of the White House will echo with the sounds of Black children who are not on a tour, and I’ve never been so happy to be proven wrong.
My daughter Pernilla and I were in Los Angeles for the American Film Market and I made a few contacts. Film acquisition executives work in slow-motion however and I probably won’t know if I will sell this film until next summer. Molly is my assistant producer and we have begun applying to major film festivals starting in spring. That should be fun and educational for me but meantime I need to find a place to live.
Proud to be American again and with my kids growing fast I considered staying on in Hollywood. But LA is a soulless city full of ageing actors, writers, and directors that never quite made it. They occasionally rub elbows with the rich and famous but that just makes them more vain and bitter. And the city keeps dangling fame like a lure and then holding new arrivals prisoner with their own dreams – Welcome to the Hotel California. So after I dropped Pernilla at LAX I bolted.
After a marathon drive across the entire US to Florida I parked the Buggy at my brother Ben’s in West Palm. I want to settle somewhere exotic so now I’m doing reconnaissance on St Croix in the US Virgin Islands to see if I want to live here. The worst hotels are a hundred dollars a day and I’m almost broke so the first night I crept alone onto someone’s porch to keep out of the rain. Next day I located the only cheap weekly accommodation on the island. A crappier closet with larger cockroaches would be difficult to find in Africa but St Croix belongs to the US. Located in the most dangerous neighborhood of an island known for its crime I share a bathroom that has no lock with two cute Puerto Rican strippers and three ugly Black ex-cons; one is a murderer. I get along with all of them and wouldn’t really mind the place much if it weren’t for the fleas — I’ve gotten eight bites since I started writing this update. When I accidentally walked in on one of the strippers showering she just smiled… and so did I — I’m a big-shot filmmaker living the life.
Friday was my forth night and I was very drunk in a bar at 4am with a short bearded guy giving me local tips. I told him I had just finished a movie. He told me he was on a first-name basis with the island’s only two billionaires. He said that there was going to be a Christmas boat parade in 14 hours and that he had to leave to begin decorating his yacht. I told him he was full of shit. He invited me to join him; he wasn’t full of shit. St Croix is small and the arts are limited so some of the folks on his boat organized a little screening of my film. When a woman asked where she could pick me up on Monday to drive me out to the show I replied honestly that I stayed in a friendly little place down-town and would meet her at the boardwalk…
And this is America; where billionaires live a stone’s throw from strippers and ex-cons, where you can wake up in a rat-infested dive and then have dinner on a yacht, and where – occasionally – dreams really do come true.
And I love it.
On November 4th I watched the election-day results at the Democratic headquarters in Las Vegas – it was an amazing feeling. I’ve personally received congratulatory mails about the Obama victory from friends in Africa, Asia, Latin America, and Europe. After years of embarrassment we have pulled ourselves up by our own boot-straps to elect the most exciting president since John F Kennedy in one of the most important campaigns in history. Once again America is a beacon of hope for the whole world.
No I have not found religion, but God Bless us anyway.
And Happy New Year!
Pictures:
1) Pernilla & the Buggy marketing the film in Los Angeles.
2) Crossing the Continental Divide in New Mexico.
3) New Orleans, where rain pinned me down for a couple days.
4) My luxury accommodation in the red-light district of St Croix…
5) Cruising onboard the yacht ‘Nirvana’ just off the same Virgin Island.
The Sun is Setting on the Zambezi; and on my African Adventure…
Date: Friday, April 24th, 2009 Time: 2:30 PM (14:30) Place: Chobe National Park, Botswana Weather: Hot and Occasionally VERY Wet Temperature: 33° Celsius, 91° F Enviroment: Jurassic Parkish Buggy Condition: Parked in Florida Tom’s Condition: Anxious About Film Distribution Mercy’s Condition: Pretty & Employed Equipment Condition: Very Worn
God, Women, Dogs, and Quentin Tarantino
Dogs love me; even if I ignore them they adopt me. I’m less certain about how God feels about me, or me about Him. I’m not an atheist, in fact the more I understand about life the less likely it seems that it is all just an elaborate chemical accident. But I agree with comedian Bill Maher, ‘religion is unnecessary bureaucracy between God and Man’.
The trick when your raft flips in category five rapids in Central Africa is to keep your body slightly fetal and your feet forward to cushion impacts with boulders. Despite violent choking from inhaled water it is imperative to stay focused on details like where your paddle is and where the crocodiles are. Once through the worst turmoil make a mad swim for the boat and hope you get it righted before the next set of rapids is upon you. Of course you have a professional guide along. Unfortunately ours lost her helmet when we flipped. She was knocked semi-conscious and had her hands full keeping herself alive. I was right in my element — but rafting the Zambezi just below Victoria Falls will put the fear of God into most people.
And God created women…
The idea behind this last trip to Africa was to import Mercy to St. Croix and live happily ever after. But Mercy is a female and, well… I’m not. We have begun to argue. In our case enormous cultural differences exacerbated the regular challenges of a relationship and in the end proved too great. So instead of taking her away with me I helped her to find a job and now she is on her own. An employed high-school graduate is not the worst thing one can be in Zambia and with her looks she won’t remain single any longer than she chooses. I on the other hand – no pun intended – am an ageing and unemployed vagabond with a passion for beautiful young women. I may be alone for a very long time.
Alone and waiting… the bane of all entrepreneurs. I am waiting to attend film-festivals that we may never get accepted to. If we do get accepted we might not win any notoriety. If we win notoriety we won’t necessarily find distribution. If we find distribution it may not be significant enough to secure me financially or inspire a sequel. So really I am waiting for a break, what every new filmmaker needs, that chance encounter that changes one’s destiny forever.
I’m not completely idle; I’m concluding things with Mercy here while a big studio is polishing the film’s soundtracks in South Africa. I’ve helicoptered over Victoria Falls and rafted one of the world’s greatest white-water rivers. Now I’m in Botswana camping with lions and elephants again — I even got charged by a buffalo! I’m hitch-hiking back to Cape Town to lock the audio on the final film and prepare high-quality copies for the festivals. From South Africa I’ll return to the Buggy in Florida. Then by summer, hopefully, the festival circuit starts for me. It could be exciting with celebrity parties and media attention, like my radio days but without the cash – unless ‘Adventuress Wanted’ sells…
I had a dream…
There was a small party in a house down the street from where I grew up. Some exotic cars and a huge guy in a suit with an ear-piece told me this was no ordinary gathering. A guy on the street said Oliver Stone was previewing his new film for Quentin Tarantino and a few other directors and my heart skipped a beat – was this my big break? I walked straight up to the security guy shook his hand firmly and said:
- Hey man, Oliver and Quentin here yet? Did I miss the beginning of the show?
He stared at me for a long moment, and then jerked his head towards the door. I remained calm and sauntered in towards a simple TV room. It could have been regular guys watching a football match at half-time but it wasn’t. It was some of the biggest film directors in the world taking a bathroom break during a private screening. I sat on a couch diagonally opposite Tarantino who was alone in the room. He sized me up curiously. I had to play my cards just right.
- How’s the film look so far?
- Who wants to know?
- Sorry, I’m Tom. I’m a filmmaker too. Well, not like you guys, I’ve just finished a feature documentary. I’m a huge fan of Pulp Fiction by the way…
He looked unmoved, got up, and left – there went my big chance. In a matter of seconds security would be here to throw me out. I had started to rise when Quentin flopped back down on his sofa, popped open two cold beers, and handed me one.
- So what’s your docky about Tom?
- Me and a cute Japanese girl drove a beach-buggy across all of Africa.
- No Shit? An African road movie, cool!
- On the surface it’s a road movie slash adventure film slash travelogue, but really it’s a love story.
- And it’s completely finished?
- Completely. And it’s good. I’ve got a DVD in my pocket. But I’m having trouble finding distribution.
- Shit man if it’s any good I’ll make a few calls for you. The other guys are going to piss themselves, a fucking beach-buggy across Africa! We’ll play it right after Oliver’s flick. I got to go tell them man, I’ll be back in a minute.
And that was that. Quentin Tarantino and Oliver Stone were going to screen my movie and I knew they would like it. They’d make a few calls and ‘Adventuress’ would be distributed. Destiny had smiled upon me and nothing would ever be the same. I actually stood in their living room in blissful disbelief pondering the fickleness of fate…
Then I woke up.
If ‘Adventuress Wanted’ finds major distribution I’ll be rich and famous again. If it doesn’t I’ll be a bum with a DVD in his pocket. 2009 is a decisive year for me but if I think too much about it my brain will explode. So for now I just work on my tan, send out the occasional DVD screener, flirt with girls, and try not to think about a potentially very lonely future.
Maybe I’ll get a dog.
Pictures:
1) Such a pretty thing – Mercy will be missed.
2) This elephant pondered charging my tiny Fiat…
3) And this buffalo DID charge my tiny Fiat!
4) So I stopped for a couple of cold Botswanan beers…
5) And pondered the Meaning of Life; dung beetles fighting over… dung.
Date: Sunday, November 15th, 2009 Time: 3:30 PM (15:30) Place: Tijuana, Mexico Weather: Hot and Dry Temperature: 34° Celsius, 93° F Enviroment: Urban Dessert Buggy Condition: Happily in Use Tom’s Condition: Nostalgic Yoshiko’s Condition: In Love… Again Equipment Condition: Honorably Discharged
Patrick Swayze (R.I.P.)
If my father had indulged my passion for motorcycles as a kid I probably could have competed professionally as an adult. I started much too late however and just dabbled with racing before my aspirations were distracted by real life. But I had a natural talent for bikes and I miss them.
I once aspired to a career in acting as well. In my late teens I moved to Los Angeles to become a stunt man but people told me that I had a ‘young Steve McQueen’ quality and that I should go for real roles. One of my few paying gigs was as an extra in a made-for-TV movie called ‘Return of the Rebels’ starring Barbra Eden (I Dream of Genie) on her way down, and Patrick Swayze on his way up. Barbra played the proprietor of a dessert resort. Patrick played the leader of a local hoodlum biker gang harassing her — I was one of his hoodlums.
At the end of the first day on location in the Mojave everyone piled on a studio bus to the nearest Holiday Inn an hour away. Patrick Swayze and I were the only two ‘bikers’ on set that had actually arrived on motorcycles.
- Looks like it’s just you and me riding back. My name’s Patrick, but my friends call me Buddy. I ride real fast kid, so try to keep up. I don’t want to have to worry if you’re splattered behind me on the pavement somewhere OK?
I just smiled…
- My name’s Tom… and I’ll try to keep up.
I was waiting patiently about 20 miles down the road when he pulled up ecstatically beside me:
- Tom, can you teach ME to ride like that!?!
- Sure Buddy, but it’ll cost you a beer.
Patrick (Buddy) Swayze and I were inseparable for two weeks. With his professional-dancer coordination he quickly learned to ride fast, and he really appreciated my tips. He tried to get me a SAG card and a bigger role in return. We acted, drank beer, and drove our motorcycles way too fast. Then he went on to fame and fortune and I rode another one of my bikes around the world. Years later when I was a big-shot radio station owner in Sweden he came through Stockholm on a film promotion tour but I never called him… I don’t know why.
Patrick Swayze’s death on September 14th made me think about my own life. As a young teen a lot of people bet I wouldn’t survive to my 18th birthday. Then at 18 they bet that I wouldn’t make it to 21. At 21 my boss loaned me the cash to buy a brand new GS 1100 – the fastest production motorcycle ever built – on condition that he was sole beneficiary on a life insurance policy that he took out on me…
When I think about how many drugs I’ve done, how much beer I’ve ingested, how many motorcycles and cars I’ve crashed, how many fights I’ve been in, how many dodgy borders I’ve crossed, and how many times I’ve been shot at, threatened, operated on, and just plain written off… it really is a wonder that I made it this far.
Since my last update I’ve been in Africa, Asia, and South America. I just drove across North America in the Buggy again, this time with my daughter Marika – one of the best travel companions I’ve ever had. And the road winds on…
But I’m tired. I need a place to hang my hat. I need a regular lover. And I need a source of income. I like exotic beaches and exotic women, but exotic countries rarely have real jobs… so I’ve decided to move back to LA; not very exotic but it does have beaches. I left the film industry and Hollywood as a young man on a motorcycle – I’m returning twenty five years later in a Beach Buggy with a completed movie in hand.
Perhaps it was my destiny all along?
And I’ll import my own exotic beauty by the name of Yoshiko.
Earlier this year with a heavy heart I gave up on converting my tribal princess Mercy into anything resembling a Westerner. Coincidently – after a long silence – Yoshiko began writing to me again. It seemed like a sign so I spent the summer in Japan starting a book while she taught English to beginning Japanese students. We have a rocky history to be sure, but we have also seen the worst sides of one another and weathered things that most people can’t imagine. We’ll get a modest apartment in LA where we’ll take whatever jobs we can get, keep trying to distribute the film, and play house.
So like a cat with nine lives, thus begins a new chapter for me that the odds were stacked against long ago.
Fame put only a mild dampener on Patrick Swayze and I remember how he used to try to keep up with me on his motorcycle at dangerously high speeds. He lived a proud life and he died around people who cared about him and that is as good an ending as I hope for. Ernest Hemingway and Hunter Thompson both blew their heads off in their mid 60s and I understand them. When they could no longer out drink, out drive, out fuck, and out fight most men it just wasn’t worth getting up in the morning.
I’ve walked this earth my whole life with my pride and when that’s gone you can have the rest. I figure I’ve got another twenty good years in me – but maybe Yoshiko will stretch that. And now another birthday has come and gone, another year; and the person most people suspected wouldn’t make it to 21 is still here, respectfully reminiscing the many friends that have passed before him…
Rest in peace Buddy.
Pictures:
1) Patrick Swayze in ‘Return of the Rebels’
2) I set one of my exotic beauties free this year.
3) Then unexpectedly regained a former.
4) And while we can never be sure of seeing tomorrow….
5) We can live our lives to the fullest today!
