By Anne-Marie Weeden

As the raft bucked underneath us, a cool spray from the churning white water all around us hit me straight in the face. I held on fast and instinctively slid deeper into the boat, trying not to lose my paddle in the process. This was one of the last rapids of the day and we were determined not to flip.

Suddenly, we seemed to be lacking any forward propulsion. The raft, and all its occupants, had been lifted up onto a standing wave, and for one incredible moment we surfed the River Nile, neither moving forwards nor sideways, momentarily standing still on top of our very own cushion of white water. It lasted a second or two at most, before our river guide plunged his paddle deep into the wave beneath him and launched us downstream towards calmer waters.

I was on an adventure safari in Uganda and had boldly agreed to go white water rafting on the Nile River. A veritable smorgasbord of adventure activities has developed around its source. Here, near a town called Jinja, the Nile empties out of Lake Victoria to start its 4,000 mile journey north to the Mediterranean, just as intrepid tourists empty out of safari vehicles to sample some of the adrenalin-fuelled excitement on offer. World class kayaking, white water rafting, stand up paddle-boarding and jet-boats are just some of the ways to explore this body of water. Back on dry land, the opportunities continue, with a variety of operators offering adventure activities such as quad bike safaris, horseback safaris, bungee jumping and mountain biking.

You could spend a week on safari here enjoying the adventure activities on offer, but we only had one day. So we signed up for rafting and were quickly assigned our river guide, named Jeremy. Before we set out, we tentatively asked him what the chances of us ‘flipping’ the raft were.

“As long as you do exactly what I say, exactly when I say it, there should be no problem”, he laughed.

It turned out, that was easier said than done. We paddled left and right when instructed, paddled hard on command, and all crouched down low in the boat when asked to ‘Get Down!’. But for many of us, it was our first time rafting, and it showed. Paddles clashed and clanged together as our strokes slipped out of synch, and at one point, someone had to be quietly advised that he was holding his paddle back to front. It seemed like we were not rafting naturals.

But, rapid by rapid, with Jeremy coaching and cajoling us from the rear, we somehow made it through. We bounced our way down ‘Overtime’, a grade 5 monster of a rapid, paddled hard through ‘Retrospect’ and the intriguingly-named ‘Super Hole’, portaged our rafts around the daunting sight of the grade 6 ‘Itanda Falls’ (quite simply too much ‘big water’, as they say in the adventure safari business, to raft commercially), and somehow made it through The Bad Place (I am not ashamed to say I shut my eyes). By the time we reached Kulu Shaker, the rapid of standing wave fame, our squeals and screams had become whoops of adrenalin, our paddles had found a common pace, cutting deep through the water to position ourselves for just the right course down each rapid. Suddenly we found ourselves in tune with the river, and each other.

In between the torrents of white water, the Nile meandered slowly, broad between its banks and overlooked by Cormorants and Fish Eagles. Here and there we spotted more wildlife  – a large Nile monitor lizard sunning itself on some rocks, and a flash of chestnut fur as Red-tailed monkeys moved through the trees. Children waved, as they bathed in the shallows of this, the longest river in the world, and for a moment we felt like true adventurers.

 Photo’s Courtesy Nalubale Rafting

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Above: Everything I owned in the sidewalk waiting for the bus to the airport

After being abroad for six years, moving home was scarier than leaving in the first place.

When I say ‘home’ I mean returning to North America, where people speak English, the culture feels less exotic, and food and housing are incredibly expensive compared to Asia and Central America, where I’d been living.

I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to earn enough money as a travel writer to get by. I was worried about running into tax problems after having an international  bank account for so long. And, more than anything, I was afraid that I’d get sucked into the North American rat race that had consumed so many of my friends, and somehow forget about the freedom of travel.

Basically, I was afraid of becoming broke and boring.

So, you’re probably wondering, why would I move home?

I had to. There were so many reasons. My father’s health has been slowly getting worse and, although he’s not in imminent danger, it’s apparent that he’s not going to be around forever. As amazing as travel is, it’s certainly not more important than making the most of the dwindling time that I have with my father.

Also, my sister is having a baby. In fact, as I write this, she’s 8 days overdue and ready to bring my parents’ first grandchild into the world at any moment. I was always close with my aunts, uncles, and cousins growing up. I don’t want to be a distant uncle.

And, my girlfriend Emilie also had to be near her family because a close family member  became ill.

A lot of travel bloggers write about perpetual travel. They talk about breaking free and living some overly-idealized life on the road. They tell you that you can gain financial independence, leave your job, and travel forever.

But, for most people, that’s not realistic.

Long-term travel is great for a lot of people at certain times in their lives. However, after a certain age many of us want a place we can call home. We want to spend time with the people we love while we still can. We want to explore our relationships with our families and friends which, in its own way, is just as challenging, frightening, and rewarding, as exploring the jungles of Borneo or the swimming among whale sharks in the Philippines.

Many of the best-known travel bloggers have decided to spend more of their time settled in one place. Last year Nomadic Matt announced that he was choosing a home over life on the road.  My good friend Ayngelina of Bacon is Magic had many of the same concerns I did when she moved home last year. This story is a familiar one. The traveler returns home to find that the life there had gone on without them and they no longer fit in

There’s not getting around it. Moving home is hard, But, I’m here to tell you that, although it’s frightening and depressing, it’s OK to move home.

There are a lot of upsides to my new life in Utah.

First, I can be healthy — which is extremely hard to do on the road. I can go to the gym and cook for myself (I don’t care much for restaurant food) as much as I want to. I love that.

Second, like a lot of people, I never explored as much near my home as I should have. When you live in a place, you tend to forget that it deserves as much exploration as a foreign one.

Third, I can finally, after years of blistering sun, annoying sand, and swimming in warm ocean waters, enjoy a full season of freezing my ass off on the ski hill.

Last, having a home doesn’t mean you can’t travel. I still get out a fair bit. Here’s what I’ve done at home and abroad since I’ve been back:

• Spent a week in Mazatlan, Mexico.
• Spent a week hiking, surfing, and exploring small islands in Taiwan.
• Climbed a mountain near my hometown that I’ve wanted to climb for years.
• Hiked for three days in beautiful Zion National Park.
• Canoed for a week through Manitoba’s pristine backcountry (link forthcoming).
• Gone horseback riding in Utah’s beautiful Soldier Hollow (link forthcoming).

And best of all, I’ve gotten to know Emilie’s wonderful family, and spent time catching up with my own.

If you’re tired of travel, you’re not alone, and it’s OK to go home. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Adventure is not an activity, it’s a state of mind.

Never forget, there’s treasure everywhere.

The post Why Perpetual Travel is Unrealistic (and It’s OK to Go Home) 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.

I couldn’t make up my mind.  Neither midget had tried very hard. As far as I was concerned the whole fight was a sham.  But everyone in the bar, which included seven drunk tourists, thirty bored-looking strippers, one greasy Filipino announcer, and two midgets wearing boxing gloves the size of their heads, was staring at me.  I had to make a decision. I was the referee.

I bent over and grabbed the glove of the shorter of the two midgets and lifted it over his head.

“The winner,” the announcer shouted into the microphone.

Two people clapped.  Somebody coughed.

When I told my friends about the experience later they were jealous.  “How was it?” They wanted to know.

I can tell you this about refereeing a midget boxing match in a Manila strip club: it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.

“How did you get to do it?” They wanted to know.

The simple answer is this: I didn’t do anything.

That answer, however, didn’t satisfy my friends.  They demanded I explain how it came about that I, the “lucky bastard”, had the good fortune to stand in a boxing ring with two three-foot tall men hitting each other in the face for the amusement of a handful of drunk backpackers. It had nothing to do with good fortune.  It was a scam.

This is how it happened:

Some Filipino friends had brought my girlfriend Catherine, our friend Sarah, and I, to the red light district of Makati, a seedy strip of convenience stores, street prostitutes, and strip bars, for our only night in Manila. They brought us to a bar called Ringside to see what the marquee advertised as “Lady Boxing and Midget Oil Wrestling”.

The inside of the bar was dark, lit mainly by neon beer advertisements, with booths surrounding a realistic looking boxing ring in the center of the room.  There were only two or three other patrons sitting on the far side of the bar, all of whom were men. It wasn’t surprising the business was slow. It was Thursday night. What was surprising was the number of bikini wearing bar girls.  There were at least thirty. Several were talking to the men on the other side of the bar.

We all ordered drinks for about 250 pesos ($6.50 USD) each, which was expensive considering there are places where you can buy an entire bottle of rum for nearly one-tenth of that price. The price made it clear that it was not a bar for locals.  It was for tourists only. The way the girls were talked to the male patrons made it was clear that they had a price too.

We didn’t want to party.  We were tired from traveling all day. We didn’t want to stay out late much because we needed to get up early in the morning to catch a flight.  We had only come to see the show. So, when our drinks arrived, we sipped them slowly, killing time, waiting for the show.

As we waited, a masculine-looking Filipino woman came and stood behind Catherine in the booth.  She started to talk to Catherine and, after a moment, asked Catherine if she would mind a massage.  Before Catherine could answer, the husky mustached woman, who had several homemade tattoos on her arm, began rubbing her shoulders.  She was polite and friendly.  She told that she worked as a boxer, used to be a bar girl, and had spent time in jail for beating up her boyfriend.  She was scary.

The waitress asked Catherine if she would like to buy her manly masseuse a drink and Catherine agreed. That was the hustle. Girlie bars across Asia almost universally employ this scam. Girls talk to customers, and customers buy the girls drinks that cost much more than the customer’s drinks. The girls are paid a commission for the drinks they hustle.  The drink Catherine had just bought would probably cost around $400 pesos ($9 USD), more than the price of a modest room in a hostel. Catherine, however, didn’t know this. This was her first trip in Asia. Catherine hadn’t traveled much before and I was proud to see her on the receiving end of her first tourist scam.  It was kind of like her indoctrination into our tribe of travelers.  Now she was one of us.

Now that I think of it that way, it sounds kind of funny. My girlfriend was being hustled by a Filipino ex-convict prostitute, and I thought it was cute.

Most tourist scams operate on a simple principle: make the tourist feel obligated to give you money.  Shame him into paying.  Be overly friendly.  Offer help.  Assume the role of guide.  Hail a taxi.  Give her a massage. Then ask for money or, in this case, a drink.

Since our table comprised nearly half of the customers in the bar, I thought it likely that we would be on the receiving end of some kind of hustle beyond the usually girls-for-drinks maneuver.

After waiting a while, and seeing no indication that a fight would take place, I asked Catherine’s friend if there would be any boxing.  She told us there would. It was a special night. We would get to see midget boxing. Then she shouted at the only male Filipino in the bar, a middle-aged man with greased back hair and a shirt unbuttoned to his naval.  He came over.  “You want to see midget boxing?” He asked me.

“Yes.”

“You want to buy them some drinks?”

“No.”

“Come on. They work hard.  You buy them some drinks.”

“How many?”

“Six each.”

“No.”

“You don’t think they work hard?” He asked.  I didn’t reply.

“Come on man.  Just buy them some drinks.”

“No.”

He shook his head and walked away, disgusted.

The man came back several times. Each time we repeated our conversation. Then he took a different approach.  He walked up to me.

“My friend.” He said.

“No.” I replied.

“No, no, no.” He grinned. “The midgets.  They box for you.  OK?”

“Cool.”

“You want to be referee, friend?”

“No thanks.”

“Come on buddy. We need a referee.”

Everyone was looking at me.

“Do it.” They urged.  “It’ll be great.  We’ll take pictures.”

I agreed.

A moment later, I was in the ring with two men whose heads barely reached my waist.  They each high-fived me.  The greasy announcer introduced them.  When announced, the first did a cartwheel, and the second jumped in the air and kicked himself in the head with both feet.  Then they went to their corners, the bell rang, and the fight was on.

Mostly I just stood here leaning on the ropes and drinking my beer.  Like I said before, the fight wasn’t very exciting.  When one of the midgets went down, I’d get down on one knee and do an exaggerated ten count (as you can see in the video taken by my friend, below).

Finally, after several boring rounds, I was asked to choose the winner.

Then the announcer asked me, “How did they do?” He held the microphone to my mouth.

“Great.”

“So,” he continued, “you will buy the fighters some drinks, for their great job?”

Everyone was silent.  The midgets were both looking at me. It seemed like everyone had stopped what they were doing and was staring at me.  He held the mike to my mouth.

“Uhhh.”

If I said no, I would basically be insulting the midgets to their faces and I would look like a cheapskate in front of everyone.  This was the hustle. I did a fast calculation. If the drinks cost 400 pesos each ($9 USD).  Six drinks each would cost nearly $110 USD. Was that worth insulting the midgets and losing face in front of thirty scantily clad Filipino prostitutes?

Definitely.

“No.” I climbed out of the ring and walked back to the table.

“That asshole!” Said my girlfriend. “He knew you didn’t want to buy the drinks, and then he did that!”

“Yes, that’s what they do. It’s their job.”

A couple of minutes later the midgets came over shook my hand to show that there were no hard feelings. It seemed like they knew I was being pressured unwillingly. They were so gracious that after they left I called the waitress and asked her to take them a couple of beers.

My travels in third world Asia may have made me good at resisting all manner of scams, but I think I’ll always be a sucker for good ‘ol fashioned decency.

The Ringside Bar can be found at:
4853 Kalayaan corner P. Burgos St., Makati City
Opens at 8 p.m. everyday
For more info or reservations call 8997106.

Manila Vacations

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This July I went home to visit for two weeks.  I didn’t take out my camera much (just a few times to take some pictures of my family and a trip to the lake with friends), but I got a some good shots.  Here they are.

Family

A Trip to the Lake

One afternoon my friend Theresa, her daughter Jaidyn, and her friend took me to nearby Jim Smith Lake.  It was entertaining.

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