The results were way better than I expected, so now I think I may do a series (if you’d like to contribute a story, there’s info at the end of the post). 

Here’s my first instalment of super entertaining, super short travel stories. Enjoy!

The Hilarious ‘Hot’ Seat

When traveling through Bolivia I signed up for a 3-day 4×4 tour through the Soleli Desert to visit the Uyuni Salt Flats. The truck was full, so I sat in the front seat beside our driver, who spoke only Spanish. Although it was cold outside, the sun made it unbearably hot inside the truck.

Sweating, I looked over at the driver and said, “Estoy caliente (I’m hot).”

Instead of turning on the air conditioning, the driver looked at me in horror and confusion. I repeated myself, unsure of why he was acting so strange and would not turn on the A/C.

After a few uncomfortable moments a bilingual passenger in the back spoke up. “I think you’re trying to tell him you’re hot, but you just told him you’re horny…twice.”

The rest of that 8-hour car ride was pretty awkward.

By Jessie Festa of Jessie on a Journey and Epicure & Culture

Inches From Disaster

A sunset cruise on the Zambezi River was to be one highlight of my stay at Victoria Falls. The small boat holding 6 people was almost full as I gamely darted across the narrow wooden gangplank.

Suddenly, the boards broke under my feet.

I shouted for rescue while my fellow passengers remained frozen with shock. About to take a dunking, I was pulled to safety at the last second.

Only after I was safely on board did I see that I would have fallen in the water right where the fishermen had been throwing bait to waiting group of enthusiastic crocodiles.

By Elizabeth Avery of Solo Trekker 4 U

Good Vibrations Gone Awry

After about 10 days of driving and flying my right shoulder and neck hurt badly. I was dreading the final leg home. As I stood at the gate at the Philadelphia airport I noticed a small booth selling spa items. Among them was a small massager. I thought that the massager would help to work out the tension in my shoulder and neck and used it on the flight (totally oblivious to the curiosity of the gentleman sitting next to me).

After the flight I forgot about the massager. Several days later, I was checking out of the hotel room early in the morning before a conference. As I rushed out of the hotel room my carry-on bag started to vibrate. The elevator dinged and I decided it was better to get to catch it than to worry about the noise in my bag. What I had not anticipated was the stares I’d receive from the other people in the elevator as I pretended not to notice my vibrating luggage.

Susan Fitzell, M. Ed. of SusanFitzell.com

This Is What Happens When You Talk To Strangers

My friend and I were finishing a two-week trip to the USA and we’d just flown from Las Vegas to Los Angeles, where we were to catch our flight home the following morning. While collecting our luggage we struck up a conversation with the man who’d sat in front of us during the flight. When we told him that we’d be spending our last night in the States at an airport motel eating take-out, he invited us to dinner.

We were both girls in our mid twenties. He was a businessmen, probably just a few years older than us. On our way to his car our new friend made a call. We heard him ask about a room and then giving a credit card number. When he put his phone down, he told us that he’d booked us a room at the Sheraton LAX.

We began wondering if we made the right decision going with him.

I don’t want it too sound negative as we never were really worried or something like that.

We had dinner at a bar in Manhattan beach – which he paid for – and some drinks at another bar afterwards – which he also paid for. He seemed like a great guy, but all night long my friend and I couldn’t help but think that he’d expect something afterward in exchange for all of his kindness.

When he drove us to our hotel (well, actually he let my friend drive because she really liked his jeep) we braced ourselves for the come-on. But, when we got to the lobby we simply thanked him for a wonderful night and said goodbye. That was it. No dirty attempts. No hints of something more.

He just wanted to treat us to a great last night in the USA, and he did.

By Sofie Couwenbergh of Wonderful Wanderings

A Terrifying Border Crossing

In 2006 I was on a study tour in Israel and Palestine and we had been meeting with Palestinian Authority leaders in Ramallah, The West Bank. While our the bus waiting to cross back in to Israel we were told that that Ariel Sharon had a stroke. The border was closing, our bus was stuck in traffic, and we weren’t going to make it back. Our professor told us to get out find the border crossing on our own, on foot, while he stayed with the bus.

Stumbling in the darkness along the bombed-out “wall” while listening to the wail of sirens was pretty scary. When we finally found the border crossing I tried to keep it together watching the teenage Israeli soldiers armed with Galil guns inspect women adorned in full burkas (we had just been told that was a popular suicide bombing outfit).

It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

By Lindsay Lewis-Thomas of The Traveluster

A Real Close Call in Rio

Before traveling solo in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, I had been warned numerous times not to pull out any money or valuables in public. I was cautious during my trip, but one day while waiting for the bus I slipped up and pulled out my wallet to look for some small bills before the bus had arrived.

Bad idea.

A local man with menacing eyes stopped in his tracks, glared at me, and started walking briskly toward me. There was no disguising what he wanted.

There was almost nobody around — just one group of four local women chatting nearby.

I walked quickly into their group, smiling and waving as if I knew them. They spoke only Portuguese and I spoke only English, but they realized the situation and allowed me into their circle.

The experience taught that you should never underestimate people willingness to do you harm, but should also never underestimate their willingness to help.

By Jessie Festa of Jessie on a Journey and Epicure & Culture

Easy Money For Easy Backpackers

One day on my first backpacking trip through Australia I suddenly realized that I was running very low on money. The next day I met a camera man who offered me a job as an extra in a movie. It was only $40 a day, but my options were limited.

After we finished filming he asked if I was interested in some more work. Of course, I said yes, but the next job turned out it ton be in an arty nudist movie.

There was no way was I getting naked for cash.

Then he told me that the pay was $100 an hour.

Ok, so maybe I would get naked for cash.

Two days later me and 4 backpacker buddies spent 5 hours at a naked house party — complete with naked bartenders and fire dancers — drinking mojitos, having a blast, and making an easy $500.

I typed this story on the iPad it helped me to buy.

By Chris Stevens of Backpacker Banter

Shark Encounter Fail

A friend and I were scuba diving about 150km off the Australian coast at Osprey Reef when I spotted an enormous shark coming toward us. My dive buddy was confused by my attempts to mime ‘shark’ underwater and didn’t even see the giant as it swam just metres from his head.

I did, however, manage to snap this photo of my confused friend as the beast swam away.

By Charli Moore of Wanderlusters

Couchsurfing Kindness in Budapest

I relied a lot on Couchsurfing to save money while backpacking through Europe. Halfway through my trip I made plans to stay with a Couchsurfing host in Budapest. I was excited because she had a cat and — missing my own two cats — I was in desperate need of feline company.

A few days before I arrived in Budapest my host emailed me to say that she had to leave the city for a family emergency. She lived alone, so I expected that I’d have to find a new host.

I was floored when she told me that one of her friends would meet me at the station to give me the keys to her house! I had only met this girl online, and we’d only exchanged a few emails, but she trusted me with her house, all her possessions, and her beloved cat.

Her gracious hospitality was the highlight of my trip.

By Aleah Taboclaon of Solitary Wanderer

A Rare Glimpse Into A World Few People See

It started off like any other night in Shibuya, having a few beers at a local watering hole. After a while we struck up conversation with a few Japanese locals. One guy started showing me photos of himself with Hugh Hefner and the bunnies, famous actors, and the guy who owns Orange County Choppers in New York.

Over the new few weeks this guy took me to VIP parties, to clubs (through the back door, never waiting in line), to eat sushi off naked women, and to dine in some of Tokyo’s most amazing restaurants (restaurants that no gaijin — foreigner — would ever have been allowed to enter unescorted).

I didn’t realize he was Yakuza (a member of the biggest and most powerful organized crime circle in Japan), but it was obvious to my Japanese girlfriend the moment she met him.

I probably should have known too, given the fact that people would bow subserviently to him everywhere we went.

By Derek Freal of The Holidaze

Have you had a unique, funny, or moving travel experience that can be summarized in a paragraph or two?

I’d love to hear it!

Use this contact form or email me directly at xpatmatt (at) gmail (dot) com to be included in the next Super Short Travel Stories.

The post Super Short Travel Stories: The Bolivia Makes Me ‘Hot’ Edition appeared first on XpatMatt.

A narrative of my experience during the 2011 Vancouver riot after the Canucks lost the Stanley Cup playoffs. Read it on the Huffington Post here.

The post <a href=http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/matt-gibson/vancouver-riot_b_878841.html target="_blank">My Experience During the Vancouver Riot | Huffington Post</a> appeared first on XpatMatt.

You may also want to:

See more pictures in my Flickr photostream.

Read my first-hand account of the riot on the Huffington Post.

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Update!

See the girl in orange smash a cop car with a piece of wood and then light it on fire in this video. That starts at 6:57. She has already been identified numerous times in the comments on the video (and the title of it).

I’m also in the video a few time around 4:48, 6:03, 6:15, and 6:32, but just for a few seconds each time.

The post 16 Photos of the Vancouver Canucks Riots appeared first on XpatMatt.

One week ago, on May 11^th, a team of five climbers and two guides began their final ascent to summit Denali (also known as Mt. McKinley) in Alaska, which, at 6194m, is the tallest mountain in North America. When they left camp they had about 1000m left to climb and the weather looked “perfect”.

The forecast, however, called for wind and one team member opted to stay in camp. The remaining six began their ascent of the West Buttress.  After ascending about 300 m to the area near Denali Pass, team member Tony Diskin decided to turn back because of frostbite on his hands. He returned to the camp with assistant guide Henry Munter. The three then descended from high camp to the next camp down, located around 4300 m.

The remaining three climbers, Jeremiah O’Sullivan, Beat Nierder, and Lawrence Cutler, went on to summit Denali with their guide Dave Staeheli. About 200 m below the summit, near “Pig Hill”, O’Sullivan tripped pulling the entire team, which was roped together, down 300 feet of glacial ice. O’Sullivan broke his leg, Staeheli broke a rib, and Niederer dislocated his shoulder. Cutler came away from it relatively unhurt.

They tried to radio for help, but could not get a clear signal. They tried to use their satellite phone, but the antenna was broken. Staheli sent Nierder and Cutler down the mountain to find a spot with better reception while he stabilized O’Sullivan and tried to drag him down the mountain in a bivy sack. After several hundred feet he gave up. It was too difficult.

At this point the weather was still fair, so Staeheli decided to leave O’Sullivan and take Cutler and Niederer to camp in hopes that he could organize a rescue there. At around 5600m near a place called “Zebra Rocks” Niederer became separated from the group. By this time the temperature had dropped to -28 degrees Celsius and winds were blowing up to 48 km/hr.  Staheli gave Cutler directions on how to get back to camp and went off by himself.

After Staheli reached camp, wind speeds increased to over 90 km/hr. Despite this, Cutler still managed to find his way.  At the camp the two men met another team of climbers who had summited the mountain earlier in the day.

The next day winds prevented a helicopter from reaching O’Sullivan until 5 p.m., nearly 21 hours after the accident. He was airlifted to base camp, and then to a hospital in Anchorage.

Unfortunately, Niederer was found dead at around 5500m. The cause of death is not yet clear.

The post Climber Dies After Accident on Denali (Mt. McKinely) appeared first on XpatMatt.

Photo courtesy of Suzie Katz on Flickr.

The post Watch it Now! Paul Nicklen: Tales of ice-bound wonderlands on TED.com appeared first on XpatMatt.

I was eating breakfast in the hotel dining room and looking at my map when the hotel manager walked by.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

“Kinabatangan.” I replied.

“You’re driving a car?”

“A motorcycle.”

“Oh.” He replied and looked out the window beside my table. I turned and looked out the window. It was overcast and raining lightly.

“Maybe you should take a bus.” He suggested.

“Why?”

“Rain.” He replied. “It has rained every day for the past two weeks.”

“Is that normal?”

“It is the end of the rainy season.”

When planning to ride a motorcycle across Borneo most people would think it prudent to invest the 25 seconds that it takes to type “Borneo weather” into Google and read the results. Others would go so far as to purchase a guidebook that might contain a sentence like, “It is unadvisable to go on long motorcycle trips during the winter in Borneo because it’s the rainy season.”

I, however, am not what you would call a ‘planner’.

Rain or no rain, I would continue with my trip as planned. I had paid in advance to rent the motorcycle for ten days, and I was already in Kundasang, a village located high on the highway that crosses Mount Kinabalu. I would waste at least a day of my trip, and more than a hundred dollars returning the motorcycle to the capital. Besides, I had been living in Taiwan for seven years and had ridden a motorcycle there all year round, including the rainy season. I had even driven in a few typhoons. How bad could the rain in Borneo be?

A short while later I was driving out of Kundasang and down the mountainside. Soon the rain stopped. A little later the blanket of clouds broke apart and the sun came out. At the base of the mountain I stopped and put on my iPod. The road was lined with lush jungle. It rose and fell over gentle hills and bent in long slow curves. I put on Zepplin IV and zoomed along the jungle highway listening to The Battle of Evermore. It was brilliant!

“Rain?” I thought. “Ha! What did that guy know? This is perfect.”

My naiveté continued for about an hour. Then, the sun suddenly disappeared and was replaced by black clouds. All at once the rain hit me. It was like I had driven into a waterfall. There was so much water running down my visor that I couldn’t see the road clearly enough to continue.

Luckily, a moment later, I saw some blurry lights on the side of the road. I turned off and drove towards them. It was rural roadside store. I got off my bike and hurried under the awning where a teenage Malaysian boy and two young girls were squatting.

Even though I had been wearing a Gore-Tex jacket, I was completely soaked. I pulled the waterproof cover off of my backpack to check on my laptop and camera. They were in a waterproof bag inside my backpack and were still dry.

I took off my dripping jacket and hung it on a nail, and then squatted beside the teenagers and looked out at the rain. They looked at me quizzically.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

They stared at me blankly.

I asked them in Chinese if they could speak Chinese.

They continued to stare.

We squatted in silence for over an hour watching the rain pour from the sky like a river through a sieve, pounding on the aluminum room with a deafening clatter. Eventually it let up enough that I could drive somewhat safely.

I was soaking wet and was probably going to have to drive for at least another four hours in the rain. I wasn’t excited about this state of affairs, but I also wasn’t altogether surprised. I do this sort of thing more often than one would expect. In a way, I kind of try to get myself into these situations.

Like I said before, I’m not what you would call a ‘planner’. I never carry a guidebook and I rarely visit a country already knowing what I want to do. I like to just show up and ask people: “How do I catch a bus to so and so?” or “Where can I find a cheap hostel?”. Because of this, when I arrive in a new city I often end up wandering around for hours, carrying all my gear, drenched in sweat, looking for looking for a hotel or bus, and drawing strange looks from locals. Basically, I like to make things hard on myself.

If the pleasure I derive from an experience is measured by the absurdity of the situation that I get myself into for no good reason, then my third day in Borneo should have been one of the best days of my life.

Before I left the store I bought a plastic rain suit. It included a baby blue plastic jacket and a pair of baby blue plastic pants that reached to the tops of my ankles. I paid for it and put it on over my wet clothes. Then I put on my jacket and backpack and waved goodbye to the teenagers.

The rain continued steadily. I listened to my iPod for an hour before the rain worked its way into pocket where I had hidden it, at which point the headphones crackled and it died. I drove in silence for another hour before stopping at a gas station to fill up and check my map.

It was 3 pm. It had been about four hours since I left the hotel, and I had been driving in the rain for two of those. From here I would drive out to the end of a peninsula to the port city of Sandakan where I would get a room. That, I estimated, would take about another two hours, which, if correct, meant that I would be taking a hot shower at around 5 pm.

That, however, was not what was about to happen. There was one thing that I had not taken into account: my lack of planning.

I can pinpoint the exact spot where my lack of planning turned what should have simply been an uncomfortable drive into a misadventure of absurd proportions.

At about 4 pm I drove past a pair of monkey statues in the middle of a traffic circle. These monkey statues, I would later learn, are very close to the turnoff to the Sepliok Orangutan Reserve.  The Sepilok Orangutan Reserve is a popular tourist destination, and, since it is inconveniently far from Sandakan, there are several clean, well-equipped hotels and hostels nearby. At 4 pm I was a five-minute drive from clean towels, hot showers, and cold beer. If I had purchased a guidebook or done some research into the area I would have known this.

I, however, am not a ‘planner’. I’m an ‘adventurer’. ‘Adventurers’ , as it turns out, are the class of people that ‘planners’ refer to as ‘morons’.

As continued toward Sandakan I began to understand how severe the rainstorm actually was. It had been raining heavily on and off for more than two weeks, and the peninsula on which I was driving was beginning to flood. The highway was raised about eight feet above the surrounding flats. Along the sides of the highway were groups of stilt houses—houses suspended high off the ground by thin poles to protect them from floods. I could see residents of the stilt houses standing on the front porches with grim looks on their faces, staring at the water as it lapped at their feet. If it continued to rain, and the water rose just a few more inches, their houses would begin to flood. In some places small rivers ran across the highway, several inches deep, and I had to lift my feet as I drove through them.

It began to get dark. The rain continued, as hard as ever. I drove for another hour or more. I thought that I should have arrived in Sandakan by that time, so I stopped at a gas station to ask for directions. The attendant assured me that I was on the right road, so I continued driving.

Occasionally I would I drive past small clusters of buildings that stretched for several kilometers, but never encountered anything that looked like an actual city. I stopped at a convenience store to ask for directions again, and was again assured that I was on the right road. I became confused. Surely I should have arrived by now.

Actually, I had arrived and just didn’t know it. Sandakan is not a normal town with a city center. It’s spread over a large area with several small sections separated by long stretches of interlocking highway that crisscross the peninsula.  So, these people were telling me the truth. I was on the road to Sandakan. In fact, I had driven through several parts of it already.

I continued driving back and forth across the peninsula for another hour in the dark, on the flooded highway, lost in the monsoon. I was tired, wet, cold, and desperate to find a hotel. Then I suddenly realized that I may have an even bigger problem: I was probably almost out of gas.

I continued to drive until I came to another cluster of buildings. I spotted a clean, attractive-looking restaurant and pulled into the parking lot. It was an upscale restaurant by Malaysian standards. I walked in the door. People who had been talking quietly over their meals turned and watched seven hours of rain create a large puddle on the ground at my feet.

My boots made loud squishing sounds as I carried my backpack to a table where I sat down and created a new puddle. I took out my laptop hoping that the restaurant would have WiFi. It did, so I ordered some french fries and set myself to figuring out where I was and where I could find a hostel nearby.

After forty minutes I concluded that the nearest hostel was a few kilometers further down the road that I was on. I memorized the directions, paid for my fries, and left.

At 9 pm I parked my motorcycle in front of a harbor side hostel.  I had been driving in the rain for eight hours. When I got to my room and unpacked my bag, I found that almost everything was wet. My money was wadded together and my passport was dripping. The only things that were dry were my computer and camera in the waterproof bag.

I took a shower, climbed into bed, and fell asleep thinking grim thoughts. What had I gotten myself into? I had come to Borneo in a monsoon. There would be no jungle treks. I would not see any monkeys, orangutans, or elephants. And worst of all, when it was time to return to the capital I’d have to do that hellish drive all over again.

My predictions, though, could not have been more wrong. Things were about to get better—much better.  I would find monkeys and orangutans. I also would receive an email that would lead to one of the best assignments of my journalism career. And best of all, I would end up staying in a hostel that contained several attractive young European ladies and not one other single male.

If you’d like to hear about it, be sure to check back for my next update: Adventures in Malaysian Borneo Part 3: Salvation in Sabah.

Continue to follow my adventure in Adventures in Malaysian Borneo Part 3: Salvation in Sandakan

The post Adventures in Malaysian Borneo Part 2: Lost in a Monsoon appeared first on XpatMatt.

“Don’t drive at night.” The rental agent told me.

“OK.”

It was 4pm. I was in the capital renting a motorcycle that I planned to drive around the perimeter of the state and I was already a day behind schedule. The first thing I planned to do was drive at night. Telling the agent that, however, was not going to get me on the road any faster. So, I listened to his lecture.

“Animals walk on the road at night.” He warned. “And there are a lot of big trucks.

“Very dangerous.” I agreed seriously.

I had been riding motorcycles for nearly seven years in Taiwan where the highways are overcrowded and traffic laws are all but nonexistent. I could handle a bike well, and was pretty good at maneuvering out of tight spots.  I felt that I had good reason to be confident. The agent’s speech was for tourists on vacation who rarely, if ever, rode motorcycles. From the mechanical tone with which he spoke I could tell that he gave the same talk to every renter that came through his shop.

As talented as may I think I am at driving a motorcycle, there is one thing I have long since proven that I truly excel at: ignoring the sensible advice of people who know more than I do.  It’s a bittersweet gift. More often than not it lands me in ridiculous and uncomfortable situations. But every now and again it results in a brilliantly rewarding experience—something that that would not have happened if I’d worried about all the things that could have gone wrong.

This was not going to be one of those times.

An hour later I was weaving between cars on the highway out of Kota Kinabalu. I was going to Kundasang, a village situated at the highest point on the highway that crosses Mount Kinabalu, the tallest mountain in Southeast Asia. Kundasang was only 100km away, but the trip would take me about six hours partly because, as I quickly learned, Malaysians don’t care much for road signs, and also because I would have to climb around 1800m over the last 60km. That is to say, the last 60km of road would have an average 33.3% grade.

Around dusk, after missing a few unmarked turnoffs and backtracking, I arrived at the base of Mount Kinabalu. I had passed the last town before Kundasang forty-five minutes earlier. From here to Kundasang the mountainside would be too steep for any settlements.

The road consisted mainly of switchbacks, which is to say it would ascend several hundred meters in one direction across the face of the mountain before turning nearly 180 degrees, and then climbing in the opposite direction. Zigzagging this way is the only way most vehicles can climb such a steep surface.  However, this makes driving very slow because drivers have to slow to a crawl to round the sharp curves and then try to accelerate uphill on the short straightaway, only to slow down again for the next curve.

It didn’t help that the road was still wet from rain earlier in the day.

Darkness crept across the mountain. The trees along the side of the road became muddy blobs, and the lines on the road grew faint, so I switched on my headlight. It was then that I realized the real reason the agent had warned me not to drive at night: the headlight on my bike was about as bright as a five-dollar flashlight.

I watched the road closely as I fiddled with the light switches. High beams. Low beams. Lights on. Lights off. I tried over and over, but no matter what I tried, the headlight did nothing to illuminate the road. Needless to say, I was less than pleased by this turn of events, but I was not concerned. It was manageable.  I just had to drive slowly, and navigate carefully by the faint white line on the shoulder of the road.

Cars zoomed past me as I crawled up the mountain. At first I tried to follow them, watching their red taillights, but I couldn’t keep up.

“It could be worse.” I thought. “It’ll take a while, but I’ll get there eventually.”

Then I drove into a cloud.

In the grey haze I almost couldn’t see the ground at all. Sometimes I could vaguely make out the white line on the shoulder of the road, but not consistently enough to be sure that at any time I wasn’t about to drive into the ditch, or worse, the oncoming lane. I slowed to nearly a walking pace.

“Nrrrooom.” A car sped by me so closely I could feel the wind off of it on my bare arm. I began to shiver. At sea level the weather had been hot. I had started my journey wearing flip-flops, shorts, and a sleeveless shirt.  As night fell and I rose in elevation the temperature dropped dramatically. I was freezing in the dense wet air, but there was nowhere I could safely stop to take clothes out of my bag. The shoulder of the road was just one or two feet at its widest.

Then, I began to worry. At the pace I was driving crashing into the ditch would not cause much damage. But what if a car came up behind me in the fog and didn’t see me until it was too late? The last one had been very close.

There was no other option open to me, so I continued. After a while I finally drove out of the cloud. Encouraged, I sped up. “Alright!” I thought. “Here we go!”

Then I drove into another cloud.

I tried to calculate how far I had already travelled, and how far I was from Kundasang. Then I calculated how long it would take to cover the distance at the speed I was driving. It would take at least several hours.

I mentally summed up my situation. I was alone in a strange country, freezing cold, riding a motorcycle up the side of the tallest mountain for thousands of miles, at night, in the fog, with no headlights, and there was no end in sight. A lump of discouragement turned over in my stomach.

I’m not sure how long I drove like that. One tends to lose track of time when one is berating oneself for one’s own stupidity.  Eventually, though, salvation arrived.

Salvation comes in many forms. Mine came in the form of an 18-wheeler carrying a cement ball the size of a small house. I heard it growling up the mountain behind me, gears grinding as the driver tried to maintain what little momentum he had. The truck crawled past me, allowing me to see close up the enormous concrete sphere strapped to the bed. It was at least four meters high, perfectly round, and smooth.

After the truck passed me its numerous taillights illuminated the road.  I could drive again! Under the weight of its load the truck was driving only slightly faster than I had been, but at least now I could see the road and didn’t have to worry about getting hit by a car.

I have a second personality trait (in addition to my inability to take advice) that often lands me in ridiculous situations. I am mentally incapable of just leaving well enough alone.

After following the truck for twenty or thirty minutes I became impatient. The truck was too slow. Now that I could see, I wanted to go faster. Cars were passing us every few minutes.  I knew that I couldn’t keep up with a car, but I wanted to get out from behind the truck.

Then a bus came roaring past.  Perfect. “I should be able to keep up with a bus,” I reasoned.

I was wrong.

The bus driver was a maniac, careening around the hairpin corners at speeds that I couldn’t match without risking sliding off the wet road. So, after a short vain effort to keep up with the bus, its taillights dissolved into the fog and I was once again alone in the thick grey.

So, once again I slowed to a walking pace and, eventually, the 18-wheeler caught up to and passed me. This time I stayed behind it until we finally rose above the clouds onto a mountain ridge beneath a glorious bowl of stars the that looked to me to be the size of Christmas lights and a moon the size of an orange. Without the clouds the sky provided more than enough light for me to see, so I zipped past the enormous truck and its enormous cement ball and sped off into the night.

A short while later I arrived in Kundasang and stopped at the first hotel I saw. Shivering and exhausted I checked into a room, took a long hot shower, and climbed into bed. “Well.” I thought. “At least the drive can’t get any worse. The worst must be behind me for sure.”

I need to learn not to think things like that, because the next day things got worse—much worse.

Continue to follow my trip in Adventures in Malaysian Borneo Part 2: Lost in a Monsoon

The post Adventures in Malaysian Borneo Part 1: Driving at Night with No Lights appeared first on XpatMatt.

Last Thursday we all waited to see if the waves would be good enough for the Eddie.  They were huge —  20-25 foot waves.  Unfortunately the event was called off because the waves weren’t consistent enough.  That didn’t stop lots of surfers from getting in the water, nor me from heading up to Waimea Bay to watch.  I was only there for an hour, but I got a few good shots.  Here they are.

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The post Huge Waves at Waimeia Bay appeared first on XpatMatt.

The waves were apparently caused by a low-pressure system over Iceland that sent them barelling nearly 600 miles to Ireland.  Scientists say that this system only occurs about once every five years, so, you can bet that the surfers will be back in 2015 for another go, kind of like Patrick Swayze in Point Break waiting for the 50-year storm (except not as handsome and without Keanu Reeves chasing them while making witty remarks in his trademark monotone).

So, if nobody else saw the waves, and nobody knows where they were, then how do we know they weren’t lying?  Video of course.  Check it out.

I noticed in this video that one of the surfers wiped out. I also surf and I’ve found that a wave just eight feet high will toss me around under the water like a child swinging a doll by the leg. Surfing waves this size is no joke.  They are five stories of water crashing down right behind, and, if you’re not fast enough, on top of you.  They have enough force to hold you under water for long periods of time, and push you down to depths of uncomfortable pressure.  According to renowned big wave surfer James Williams a wave of that size has the ability to dislocate limbs, and even kill, by the sheer magnitude of the force of the water. Hear more about big wave wipeouts in the video below.

Although the waves that the surfers in Ireland surfed were big, they were far from the biggest.  The waves they rode were 55 feet tall at the most.  The biggest wave in history, by contrast, was a tsunami that hit Litya Bay, Alaska in 1958, which was more than 1780 feet high. The biggest waves ever surfed were said to be over 75 feet high, and were ridden by a group of surfers on a reef 105 kilometers of the coast of Southern California. The video below is said to be of one of those rides.

Most big-wave surfers, like those who caught the waves last weekend in Ireland, need to be pulled into big waves by jet-skis because they cannot paddle fast enough to catch the wave. The record set for the biggest wave ever paddled into was set by Shawn Dollars this year at the Billabong Global XXL Big Wave Awards for catching a 55+ foot wave.  Below is the highlight video from the contest, featuring some enormous waves spectacular wipeouts.  Enjoy!

The post Surfers Ride Record-Breaking 50-Foot Waves off the Irish Coast appeared first on XpatMatt.

Disclaimer: This video contains graphic scenes of people hurting themselves badly by trying to do ridiculous stunts for no good reason. Watch at  your own discretion.

The post Watch it Now! Don’t Freerun or You Will Die appeared first on XpatMatt.