Cairo, Egypt, April 2000

I shot up with a start, soaked with sweat and completely lost with the vertigo that a deep sleep had brought me.  I had no idea where I was.  Actually, I had no idea where I was, no idea when it was, and no idea who I was.  It was a horrible feeling, and I was still breathing heavily as my half-asleep mind spun in panic to try and lock onto some detail of my life, but I could not.  

I was in a dark room with the curtains drawn, the busy workaday noise of diesel trucks and motorcycles drifting in from the street outside.  It was oppressively hot, the only breeze in the room coming from a wobbly ceiling fan.  I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus, but I still felt like I was falling down an elevator shaft, desperately trying to grab hold of something to slow my fall.  Was I in the South Islands of the Philippines?  No wait, in Chang Mai?  No, I’m pretty sure that was last week.   That meant I had to be Bangkok, right?  But I had been in Bangkok twice already, so that couldn’t be it.  

I swung my legs off of the creaky bed and put my feet on the floor.  I couldn’t even remember the date or be sure of what month it was; maybe it was March?  Or February?  I wrestled to pull off my shirt, but it stuck to me because it was so wet with sweat, and then I threw it on the green tile floor.  I had been traveling way too long — it felt like wherever I went I left a piece of me, and pretty soon there would be nothing left if I wasn’t careful.  I rifled through the drawer on the cheap nightstand by the bed.  There was a menu and a letter in some language I could not decipher, a book that looked like a Bible or a Koran — I couldn’t tell which — that I pushed to the side, and a pad of stationery.  It listed the information for the hotel on the header: the Nuweiba Hotel in Cairo.  Damn, I was in Egypt — I hadn’t even been close.  In that dizzying kaleidoscope of my year backpacking around the world, I’d seen and heard and felt so much — maybe more than any one person was meant to in such a short time — that my psyche couldn’t keep up and process it all, but at the same time my spirit was vaulted to heights that I never imagined possible.  What dream was this — what dream of a life that I was walking in?  There was something I was missing, but I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it.  

A few days later I took a train from Cairo down to Aswan, near the Sudanese border.  Traveling within Egypt was always a tricky endeavor: I was advised not to take the train, nor sit near the windows, because militant Islamic fundamentalists would often take pot shots at the tourists, hiding in the sand dunes with rifles and causally sniping.  Then again, taking a car ride between cities was even more dangerous.  Egypt has the highest rate of road fatalities in the world and they drive like absolute maniacs, literally speeding up and swerving to try to hit pedestrians.  They could care less about lanes and stoplights or even going the correct direction down the street, instead cursing and honking and jamming five lanes of traffic into a two-lane road, running smaller vehicles, donkey carts, and old ladies carrying firewood off into the ditches.  So when I had to get down to Aswan I thought my odds of survival were better in a window seat on the train.  We were scheduled to depart at 6 a.m. but I was there early, just in case they scammed me with a fake ticket again.  I carried an oversized backpack that held all of my possessions in the world: a few pairs of clothes, notebooks bursting with my words, and souvenirs like Turkish rugs and jade statues.  As dawn broke on the train platform, columns of light marched over the dusty skyline, armies sent to warm the earth and send steam rising from the cold metal train cars.  One by one, the train windows were illuminated with reds, pinks, and yellows reflected from the sunlight.  The track was mostly deserted except for a few vendors selling steaming bread out of covered baskets and a sleepy conductor; it was surprisingly quiet for such a chaotic, bustling city.  

I felt someone’s presence behind me.  I half-turned and noticed a child huddled in the shadows behind a concrete column ten yards down the train platform, peeking out at me.  He was shrouded in darkness so I couldn’t make out the details of his form, but he was staring curiously at me while still trying to remain hidden.  Since he was my only company on the train tracks and I had time to kill, I figured I’d make him feel welcome, so I turned around to face him and smiled.  He jumped further back into the shadows, afraid at first, but then I gave him the thumbs up sign so he knew I was saying hi to him and that it was safe to come out.  He hesitantly stepped into the sunlight.  My companion looked to be around 8 years old, though it was hard to tell because he was so filthy and malnourished; he might have been 13 for all I knew.  He wore layers of dirty rags covered with train soot and black shoes that were falling apart.  I looked closer and saw that his skin was dried and diseased, covered in scales that plagued most of his body, including his face.  Even on his nose the skin was cracked and permanently marred.  His fingers were withered and raw with red sores where they weren’t covered with dirt.

At first his appearance shocked me, but then I made sure to smile at him again to make him feel comfortable.  He’d probably never seen a foreigner or even a white person before, something I found surprisingly often when I trekked through remote parts of Asia or the Middle East and the jubilant kids would run up and touch the blonde hair on my arms.  He stared up at me with big black eyes, taking in every detail.  This boy was obviously a street kid with no roof over his head, no one to look out for him, and not enough to eat.  The thought occurred to me that maybe he lived somewhere near these tracks and got his food by rummaging through the garbage cans and others’ waste at the train station.   Of course, I’d seen plenty of street kids over my last year of traveling; in fact, I’d seen much worse — people dying right in front of my eyes — but there was something different about this kid, something warm and alive in his eyes that registered much more than just the pain I expected.   

There was an empty soda can on the track near my feet.  I nudged it a few times with my sneaker like I was dribbling a soccer ball.  He looked up, intrigued.  I kicked the can in his direction and a huge smile broke out on his face as he realized I was playing soccer and including him in my game.  He stepped closer and kicked it back to me.  We kicked the can back and forth a few times, both chuckling at how quickly our new friendship had formed.  I said my name in English and then said a few words in Arabic.   He tried to respond, but when he opened his mouth only a grunt came out, even as he strained his throat muscles.  It seemed like he was also mute.  Damn, that’s rough.

A chill from the morning air overcame me, so I zipped up my fleece jacket.  Was he cold?  If so he didn’t show it, even though he was only wearing flimsy rags that were falling apart, the remnants of a matching sweat suit that was so yellowed with age I couldn’t even tell what color it originally was.  I noticed that on his sweatshirt were printed the words “The Best Quality” — now if that ain’t irony I don’t know what is.  

Since he couldn’t talk, I held out my hand for him to give me five.  He didn’t know what I was doing at first, and then his face lit up when he realized that I wanted him to slap my palm.  I bet that this kid was used to no one wanting to touch him or go near him because of his skin disease.  He probably had no one to hug him, and that thought broke my heart.  He had no chance to live a normal life: He would never be safe, never be well-fed, never be able to sleep indoors, never get an education, never know what it feels like to be loved and have family around him, and get married and raise children.  No matter what this kid did he was destined for a short life of pain, misery, and suffering.  Yet it was by no choice of his own — his only crime was being born at the wrong place in the wrong situation to the wrong people.  But even with all of these disabilities and detriments he was a smiling, good-natured soul, expecting absolutely nothing out of life but enjoying any little scrap of mercy it threw at him.

I felt ashamed that I didn’t appreciate my own life sometimes.  How dare I complain, feel sad, get stressed — I mean, what the hell in the grand scheme of things did I really have to worry about?  I sometimes felt that I had it hard, yet in my cakewalk life I had every advantage and opportunity, and very little of it was earned.  I suddenly felt guilty about my own hypocrisy; sure, I was traveling and witnessing all of this stuff, but what was I actually doing to make it better?  I watched him dribble the soccer ball around an invisible defender and then kick it to his new teammate.  Why wasn’t I the homeless one — mute and eating out of a garbage can?  Why was I instead a tourist to his misfortune, on my own grand adventure but able to head back to comfort and luxury after this year?  What separated the two of us?  Why were we different?  Luck.  Bad friggin’ luck.

It frightened me, and enraged me to my core how unfair life was.  And this was just one kid on one train track in one Third World city — imagine how many billions of others were out there who were suffering and needed help.  There was so much sadness in the world that you could get lost in it if you weren’t careful.  How were we ever expected to overcome it?  Was there enough light in the dawn to warm such endless and drowning darkness?

I motioned the kid closer and handed him a $1 bill.  It didn’t seem like enough.  I handed him a $10 bill.  His face showed disbelief, and his big, ancient eyes registered a gratitude I’d never seen before, nor since.  He looked around to make sure no one else was watching so he wouldn’t be robbed once we parted, took the money in his small, shriveled hands, and tucked it safely under his sweatshirt.  If possible, his smile got even bigger, but he was not focused on the money — he had found something kind in my face and that was most comforting to him.  Fuck it — I handed him a $20 bill, the last money I had with me, and closed my wallet.  Thirty-one U.S. dollars could probably feed a kid like this for six months.  He was now the richest urchin in the slums of Cairo, the king of his train platform.

It still wasn’t enough — these small tokens, though greatly appreciated, didn’t even come close to what I felt for him.  I motioned for him to hold on and went into my bag, rummaging around until I fished my best pair of gray Nike basketball shorts and my favorite T-shirt and handed them to him.  He proudly put them on over his rags.  They were so big on him that he looked like a child playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes.  He admired his reflection in the train window, proud of his new wardrobe like he was the luckiest kid alive.    

My train pulled up and the conductor whistled for everyone to board.  We looked at each other and smiled.  There was an understanding that we would never see each other again; our worlds couldn’t have been further apart, but in some transcendent way in our kinship we’d fought the darkness together and done well, even for one small, fleeting moment.  I walked onto the shiny train that reflected the new sky like the windows were on fire.  I found my seat and plopped down and in a few moments the engines whirred to life and we started inching along the track.  

I didn’t want to go; I didn’t want to leave him, and something had changed in me.  I’d been all over the world that year, registering about 70,000 miles over six continents; I’d seen ancient wonders of the world and majestic vistas that would steal your breath, witnessed people worshiping at 2,000-year-old temples and walked in the same footsteps as mankind’s most famous explorers, but somehow, inexplicably, there on that dirty train platform with a little street kid, I had found what I was looking for: I had found my purpose.  It finally clicked what I was supposed to do with all that meaning I had been carrying inside of me: I would be his voice.  I would make sure that he was heard, that the world knew that he took breath.  I would be the one to fight for his place in eternity because he could not, and I’d be the voice of all the underdogs — the weak, the forgotten, the scarred and stained — who ask for nothing but someone to tally their existence.  That’s what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.  

The train started to pick up speed and I looked back for him one last time and saw that he was looking for me, too.  He waved and a huge smile bloomed on his wrinkled, dirty face.  As we rolled on I watched him grow smaller, but before it all faded away I could make out a street urchin turn and walk on down the platform back into the ruins of Cairo, kicking a soda can.  I stared at the seat in front of me for a long time, just listening to the comforting “gilickety-clack” of the train heading on down the line, and for the first time I started thinking about going back to a place called “home.” 
 Tamarindo, Costa Rica, surf, ski, snowboard, diving, pura vida, Central America, Nicaragua, San Juan del Sur, Amazon best seller, travel, adventure, backpack, hiking, sharks, Endless Summer, Robert August, memoir, fitness journey, globetrotting, perfect beach, paradise, spring break, expat, live abroad, work abroad, summer reading, around the world, great read, humor, laugh out loud, South of Normal, Pushups in the Prayer Room

Rudy Maxa, one of America’s premier consumer travel experts, is host and executive producer of “Rudy Maxa’s World,” the Emmy-award winning, 20-episode public television travel series featuring destinations as diverse as Korea and Argentina.

His weekly radio show is simulcast to 160 stations in the U.S. and abroad, including the Armed Forces Radio Network.
http://www.rudymaxasworld.com/

Norm Schriever is an author, humorist, expat, cultural mad scientist, and enemy of the comfort zone.  He likes getting lost on the map and then telling stories about the cool people he meets there.  

Check out his latest book, South of Normal, and drop him an email at hi@NormSchriever.com

The day dream is a familiar one; you’re sitting on a white sand beach by the crystal clear ocean, a soft tropical breeze blowing as you sip your third mojito and finish up the day’s work – which took a grand total of an hour on your laptop. 

Unfortunately, then you always wake up at a desk stacked with never ending paperwork, shackled inside some cubicle. The drool from your mid-afternoon doze-off has short circuited yet another keyboard, which will have to come out of your paycheck (the third one this month) and your boss starts whining because you forgot to put a cover sheet on your TPS report and he needs you to come in to work on Saturday. And someone stole your red stapler again.

That’s a more likely scenario for all of the 9 to 5’ers out there, but here’s the good news – the dream is possible. It’s out there, ready for you. You can travel or live anywhere in the world and take your job with you, still making money in the U.S. (or your home country) virtually. It’s not easy, and it may take a lot of research, planning, and hard work, but it IS possible to live your life by a beach, or on top of a mountain, in a foreign country and still make a living.  

In fact, people have been doing it for years, but many chose to work from home instead of living by the beach, superwoman stay-at-home moms who earn extra money AND take care of the kids. You’ll also hear it called working “virtually,” “telecommuting,” or just working online, and a U.S. Census report shows that the number of people who work virtually or from home has soared by 41% in the past decade. 

Every year there are an estimated 6 million U.S. citizens living abroad. Some of them chose to live in foreign countries and become full-time expatriates, while others go abroad to study, backpack around for a summer, volunteer, or do business. For the youth in other countries, England, Canada, Australia, and most of Europe, taking a year or two to go backpack around the world is so common it’s almost a rite of passage.  

Many of them try to find jobs in their host countries, but I’m seeing more and travelers and expats working virtually from their laptop and making enough money to keep their dream alive, especially in some countries where living expenses may be much lower. This trend is in its infancy, thanks to a business focus on Globalization and the explosion of useful technology in the last five years. The concept was celebrated in Tim Ferriss’s wildly popular book “The 4-Hour Work Week.”   

Whether you are a stay at home mom looking to work, a college student who wants to backpack around Europe and still make some money, or a 9-5 burnout who gives it all up and lives abroad (like me) the dream is alive and well.  

Now I’m going to tell you how it’s done.  

First we start off with a specific list of jobs you can do from anywhere. In the second part of this article I'll go over WHERE to go to find these jobs, and HOW to get them.


Here is a list of jobs you could do virtually:

1. Writer.
 Selling blogs/articles on the Internet for magazines and newspapers, sites, or businesses.

2. Copy editor.
You can write and edit content for advertisements, sales brochures, manuals and guides, etc. 

3. Virtual call center/Customer service rep.
 As long as you have a phone and a headset (or a computer) you can take calls anywhere in the world. 

4. Web developer.
 This is one of the most common live-and-work-abroad jobs, and it does take a technical knowledge of HTML, Wordpress, or other web build code.

5. Blogger.
 You can start your own blog and attract enough visitors to start selling advertising or products.

6. Survey taker.
 They actually pay people to take surveys! Search engines also hire people to review their sites.

7. Telenurses.
 Virtual medical care is a rapidly growing field.

8. Teleradiologist.
 Radiologists mostly review x-rays, so this is easy to do virtually with the right technology.

9. Video producer and editor.
 Produce videos for corporations, non-profits, or entertainers.

10. Technical writer.
 Technical writers design manuals and instructions that are very specific and task-oriented (boring.)

11. On-line post-secondary teachers.
 There is a growing trend of online universities, colleges, and also high schools.

12. Translators.
 The world always needs people with good language skills to translate their messages. If you can speak two languages fluently, you will be in great demand!

13. Virtual tax preparer.
 You can prepare those pesky income tax returns over your laptop.

14. Phone sex operator.
 Do you really need me to explain this one?  “Brown chicken, brown cow!”

15. Data entry.
 Menial and unfulfilling, but who cares if you can do it by the beach?

16. Excel and Power Point specialist.
 If you know the technical intricacies of Excel companies will pay you to set up complex spread sheets and data systems, or prepare PP presentations for sales people, speakers, and organizations.

17. Medical transcriptionist.
 Transcribe notes from doctors and surgeons.

18. Medical billing.
 One of the work-from-home stalwarts, you can organize medical billing records for doctors offices.

19. Counselor or Therapist.
 Sit on your own leather couch and talk to someone about your problems via Skype, for $20 an hour, not $150 an hour.

20. Outside sales.
 Many sales jobs can be done via Internet, phone, fax, Skype, etc. and are based solely on commission.

21. Virtual assistant.
A lot of busy business people don’t want to hire a full time assistant in-house, so they outsource daily tasks to a virtual assistant.

22. Sell travel art and photography.
Though it’s a competitive field, many people sell their travel photography and artwork online.

23. Tourism.
Attract people to certain destinations with websites, social media, etc. and help them arrange hotel stays, condo rentals, fishing trips, etc. The proprietors will usually pay you a 20% finders fee.

24. Affiliate marketing.
You can promote other peoples’ goods or services on your website or blog, and if users click through and purchase something, you get a commission.

25. EBay broker.
 You can maintain an eBay story from anywhere in the world. Either hire people to package and mail the items for you, or utilize the ‘drop ship model,’ (below)

26. Reseller, drop ship model.
You sell products online, but instead of packaging and shipping the items yourself, your order automatically goes through to a warehouse that does everything for you. That means you can sell anything to anyone from anywhere and never touch – or even see – the product!

27. Graphic artist.
Every company needs a logo, infographic, or other artwork.

28. Wedding/event planner.
You can handle all of the minutiae of organizing big events, corporate or personal, and get paid to do it.  

29. Grant writer.
Writing grants for nonprofits and research is a super important field, yet requires a specific writing format. Nonprofits are ALWAYS applying and reapplying for grants and funding, so you will never be out of work. 

30. Social media consultant.
Every company wants to market their brand or service through social media and have access to an unlimited number of new customers, but many of them only know how to use Facebook enough to post inappropriate political comments and send out birthday requests. Help them, please! 

31. Publicist.
 Send out press releases, make connections, and garner traditional media attention.

32. Cottage Publishing.
Attract clients who want to self-publish a book and help them from start to finish, using cheaper subcontractors or services, and then mark up the price to include your fee.

33. Desktop Publishing.
Design the layout and graphics for menus, brochures, books, newsletters, etc.

34. Software engineer.
If you know all of that fancy technical stuff, you’ll be in high demand and can work from anywhere.

35. IT Professional.
These days an IT professional can assume control of your computer virtually, and poke around and fix the problem without even being there.  

36. Educational tutoring.
Tutor children in after school programs or learning centers, or college kids in specific subjects.

37. Language teacher.
Believe it or not, knowing English well is a commodity, and these days you can teach English via your laptop anywhere in the world (see profile at the end of this article)


38. Travel Agent.
You can arrange and book airfare, travel, and vacation packages virtually. The job of travel agent has actually shifted toward a work-at-home model years ago.

39. Franchise owner.
If you own a Subway store, you’re not the one expected to bake the bread. So hire great managers and supervise virtually. Think about it – you don’t even need a staff if you own a laundry mat or vending machine.

40. Landlord.
Own rental properties and manage them from abroad. The check will be in your bank every month and you can have a handyman on call. You can even rent out your own house while you’re out there traveling!

41. Answering service or scheduler.
Many businesses use an answering service during off hours, or someone to manage their busy schedule. You can take on as many clients as you can handle.

42. Insurance adjuster.
A lot of tedious work in the insurance field – like worker’s comp audits, for example, has been outsourced to virtual employees.

43. Support for open-source software. 
There are software systems out there like Linux, Wordpress, Dupral etc. that may be free, but people will pay for technical support.  

44. Accountant/Bookkeeper.
Manage the books and accounting for any business, from the beach.

45. Financial advisor.
Many independent financial advisors can work virtually – why not? They are dealing in information and expertise, not standing on the trading floor on Wall Street.

Does that help? Look for part 2 of this article where I reveal the specific websites you'll use to get these virtual jobs, and even actual companies that are hiring right now. 

I'll also talk about the application and interview process, avoiding scams, and virtual employment code of conduct.  

Do you have more questions about living or working abroad?  Email me and I’d be happy to help. 

Happy job hunting, and safe travels!

Norm :-)

Work Abroad Profile: Tommas Coldrick
Working virtually as an English teacher at an online school.

How long have you lived abroad/where have you lived?
 I'm from England, originally, and have lived abroad the last four years, in Australia, New Zealand, U.S.A. (Texas), The Czech Republic, China, Nicaragua and Russia.

What have you done for work?
Australia- Concreting and steel fixing. New Zealand- Nightclub security. U.S.A. Online teaching. The Czech Republic- English Language Teacher. China- Head Teacher of an international school. Nicaragua- manager at a bar/restaurant and teaching English online. Russia- Head Teacher of an international school, teaching English online.

What are the challenges?
Cultural differences always seems to be the biggest challenge while working overseas. Language can also be a challenge, but more of a fun challenge.

What are the unique opportunities?
Getting to fully immerse yourself into a completely different way of living, is one of the coolest experiences anyone can have. It also opens up your mind, and humbles you in such prolific ways, I can't even begin to describe. Being able to work within a different country, within a different culture; allows you to see the world in a different light, and it allows you to understand the unknown, just that little bit more.

Where do you see growth in careers working virtually?
Having taught online, I see the benefits to virtual careers. I was able to have a half decent paid job in England, Nicaragua, and the U.S. I didn't have to worry about finding work in each new destination; It was already there. 

What advice would you give young travelers who are looking to work while they live/travel abroad?
Do it! Ask yourself "What do I really want to be?" "Where do I really want to be?" Once you know the answers to these questions, then there's no stopping you. So go ahead and quit your day job, book a flight, and don't regret a moment! You will experience things that you would never imagine, you'll meet the most interesting people on the planet, you'll broaden your views on life, and you'll make friends who you will treasure forever.

You can email Tommas if you want to say hi!

Is a relaxing trip to a tropical destination on your agenda? A family vacation is always time well spent, but after seeing the astronomical airfare prices many people decide instead to fill up the family truckster and drive to Amish country or just rent every episode of Lost and crank up the thermostat at home. However, the good news is that with a little bit of know-how and planning you can find an inexpensive flight anywhere in the world, saving you hundreds or even thousands of dollars.  

I've been lucky enough to travel all over the world, over 35 countries on 6 continents, even with a (very) limited budget, and I've always managed to book cheap flights. I am going to share my secrets with you.

Here are 9 secrets to finding cheap airfare anywhere in the world:

1. Reverse searches:
If you are flexible with which days you can travel, a lot of cheaper airfares may open up for you. There are several travel search engines that will allow you to search by destination without putting in a hard date.

Adioso.com
Flexible searches based on dates, locations, and connections. 

AirFareWatchDog.com
You can see the top 50 fares for different destinations.

Kayak.com/Explore
Search where you can go anywhere in the world based on  certain budget, continent, or even what activities once you get there.

2. Travel off-season.
Many vacation destinations in tropical climates, like Mexico, Costa Rica, and the Caribbean, don’t have set winters and summers like up north. Instead, they have a dry season from approximately late November through April, and a rainy season (or hurricane season) from May to November. If you don’t mind some clouds and a little rain mixed in with sunshine, it can actually be cooler (but still plenty warm) and far less crowded, meaning cheaper flights, hotels, etc. I actually love traveling during the rainy season, but watch out for October, where it can rain all day every day!

3. Search flights into different airports.
Most search engines default to the biggest international airport in any country, but make sure you include searches to smaller and nearby airports. They are usually less crowded, meaning more options for cheaper flights. 

4. Let your search engines do the work.
There are some great internet search sites out there who will do all of the work for you. Even better, register a search to a certain destination or below a certain price and they will give you automatic email alerts.  I like:

CheapOAir.com
Kayak.com
FareCompare.com
BudgetAir.com

5. Know your airlines.
 Search engines are great, but also search directly on the airlines’ websites. They often offer private deals or promotions that the search engines can’t access. Increasingly they are running cheap deals on social media sites like Facebook, so it’s worth it to Like their page and check in.  But act fast – these promotions sometimes only last a day or even a few hours!

6. The best time to search and book air travel:
Did you know there are up to 10 different ticket prices on the same flight? So how do you get one of the cheap seats? Timing is everything.

When to search:
Airlines release their new weekly fares on Mondays, so at Tuesday by 3 pm their competitors have released their deals, making it the exact time to search.  

Studies show that the cheapest time to book is 49 days before your departure, or 81 days ahead of time for international flights. Interestingly, flights booked 200 days or more in advance are more expensive, and last minute flights may be cheaper, but the seat availability is extremely limited.

If you are flying during the holidays, start searching 10 weeks ahead of time. If you’re headed to a non-vacation destination, shop on a weekend - it will save you 5%.

When to fly:
The majority of air travelers want to fly on a Friday or Sunday, so you’ll find the best deals available for flights on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Saturday.  

Flights at the crack of dawn, at dinnertime, or red-eye flights over night are cheapest.  

7. Book a package deal
 Booking a package usually drops your airfare into the leisure travel category, saving you money. Arranging a ticket for your hotel, rental car, and airfare together may give you access to lower prices on internet search engines, and travel agents can be helpful when it comes to these bargains. 

Contact any organizations, like AAA, AARP, unions, or Veterans groups that you belong to because they may be able to get you a discount.

8. Frequent flyer miles and points:
Always register to earn frequent flyer miles and keep track. Confirm with the booking agent and at the check-in counter to make sure they credited you your miles, and once you get home check to make sure they were registered.

Use a credit card that offers award points of frequent flyer miles. Some of them are great but only give you miles on one airline. I have a Visa Blue Sapphire card that allows me to accumulate points for all flights, hotels, rental cars, or even restaurant meals. I run all of my bills through it but pay it off every month, and the result is that I get at least two free flights every year.

9. Two important questions to ask the airlines:
When booking a flight, ask about their luggage policy. Slightly cheaper tickets for your family does no good if you are paying $50 each for baggage. According to the U.S. Bureau of Transportation Statistics, airlines make over $3 billion in baggage fees alone every year!

After you book your flight, call back the next day, within 24 hours, to check if the fare went lower. Most airlines have a policy where you could cancel and re-book for the lower fare within 24 hours without penalty.  

***
I hope that helps! Keep smiling and happy travels!

Norm

I have 3 more great tips that are guaranteed to save you money on your next vacation, so email me and I’ll share those with you.  

Did those 9 secrets help?  If so please share this article, and read my new book, South of Normal, on your plane ride!  

Only $19.95

OR read about how I flew 35,000 miles for only $2,500 on my trip around the world for a year in the book Pushups in the Prayer Room.

1. Prostitution is legal but possession of pornography is illegal.  They even have unions, membership cards, health benefits, and police protection.

2. In most areas people cannot flush toilet paper because the pipes are old and only 1” wide, so toilet paper goes in the trash basket.  

3. Pedestrians have very few rights in Costa Rica.  They joke that Ticos love to use their horns but hate to use their brakes!  It’s so bad that the Tico word for “speedbumps” is “Son muertos,” or, “The dead people.” 

4. When raising your glass or beer to say “cheers” to Ticos you are supposed to look them directly in the eye, or else you’re cursed with seven years of a bad sex life. (apparently I haven’t been making very good eye contact, then). 

5. Costa Ricans have no addresses and very few street signs.  When mailing something or giving directions, they just point out proximity to nearby landmarks.  So when I lived in San Pedro, a suburb of the main city, San Jose, my address was “50 meters south and 100 west of the church of San Pedro.”

6. Earthquakes are common in Costa Rica.  They may get 2-40 per month depending on the movement of techtonic plates.  Almost all of them are small, though they got a 7.6 last time I was living there.

7. Costa Ricans are not good at soccer compared to their Central and South American neighbors!

8. Ticos put coffee in their babies bottles along with milk, and also give it to young children.   

9. The most popular national beer is Imperial.  They drink it over ice with lime and salt, called a “michelada.”

10. "Guaro" is the national liquor, sort of like a fire-water sugarcane tequila. There is no denying it's strong,  but I find it kind of nasty.   

11. Fast food restaurants like McDonalds, Burger King, and Kentucky Fried chicken do home deliveries.

12. The meter in a taxicab is know as the “Maria,” which is a loose reference to the Virgin Mary and her honesty and virtue.

13. Cheap brand cigarettes are only about $1.65 per pack. 

14. You aren’t allowed to wear sunglasses or hats inside of the banks (due to so many robberies)

15. The slang is much different than proper Spanish.  Slang is called “pachuco.”  

16. One slang word is to call someone “Mopri.”  This is supposed to mean “primo,” or cousin, backwards.  In the 90’s Costa Rican teen culture went through a phase where they were saying words backwards.  Maybe around the time of Kriss Kross here in the US?

17. A lot of popular bands play the main stadium in San Jose, most recently the Red Hot Chili Peppers and then Lady Gaga.  

18. Scientist actually named a species of Costa Rican fern after Lady Gaga after she played there.  I’m not making that up!

19. They have bullfights in CR but instead of the bull being harmed, it runs free around the ring and tries to harm the brave teens and men who jump in there for sport.  Almost every little town has a festival with bullfights during the holidays.  

20. CR is one of the biggest cocaine transit nations in the world, as 90% of the cocaine that ends up in the US comes from Columbia to Costa Rica, and then up through Central America into Mexico and across the border.  

21. There are roughly the same criminal penalties for marijuana as there are for cocaine and all drugs

22. Robert August brought the surf scene to Costa Rica with his 1968 documentary, Endless Summer, and then Endless Summer II.

23. If you get pulled over in Costa Rica the police can probably be paid off for around $40.  

24. You are not allowed to wear shorts in a government or public office in Costa Rica - they see it as disrespectful and may turn you away. 

25. They say there are Three Great Costa Rica Lies.  It took me a year of living in Tamarindo, Costa Rica, to find them all out.  They are a bit secretive but I do reveal them in my new book, South of Normal.  

-Norm  :-)

If you liked these, check out 30 Fun and Wild Facts about Costa Rica. ​

Uncle Hugo?


My brief and inglorious stay in Venezuela.


Venezuela, July 1999


A cabbie warned us that our beach was the worst on the island.

He was right.

It was littered with beer cans, food wrappers, and French people in banana hammocks. A sewage pipe intersected the south end of the beach, draining enough mystery sludge into the water that it stung your eyes when you swam. It was crowded with poor Venezuelan locals who guzzled back-to-back Polar beers from coolers, plastic bags with ice, and local vendors. You could barely find a spot of sand not covered with a cheap blanket and a drunken family inhabiting it. When they turned their heads left to see what was worth stealing on their neighbor’s blanket, the neighbor on their right reached over and stole their beer. Naked toddlers ran around unattended, peeing all over the place as their parents made out shamelessly. On any given blanket you had a 17.5% chance of seeing a Venezuelan titty pop out, or worse. When they got up and brushed off the sand and stumbled to the bus stop, their only goal was to go home with some beer and approximately the same number of kids they came with.

Scrawny teenagers raced scrawnier horses up and down the beach at furious speeds. They rode bareback, hugging the horses with their bare feet and clinging to the mane with one hand, the other hand used to whip the poor beast mercilessly. Everyone cheered as they raced.

One kid got thrown from his horse when it stumbled in the sand and took a bad digger. I know Shane and I could have gone to the nicer beach and sat around with the pale tourists flopping around like sea otters, but what the hell was the fun in that? We wanted local. It was no postcard, but it wasn’t terrible for the ass-end of paradise.

We took out the Frisbee and found some real estate to throw it back and forth. Everywhere we went the Frisbee came with us — it was the perfect way to amuse ourselves at any beach or public park, or even in the parking lot while waiting for the bus, and chasing after it and leaping into the air to catch it gave us a great workout. Throwing the Frisbee around also provided a perfect opportunity to meet people. Most places we went, people had never even seen a Frisbee before, and kids always loved it and grouped around us, wanting a turn. If we saw a group of hot girls we wanted to spit game at, we’d just throw the Frisbee in their direction. Either it landed near them, in which case we’d run up and collect it and chat a bit, or it would hit one of them squarely in the face and cause a nosebleed, in which case we’d get to spend more time with them manufacturing sincere apologies that it had been a complete accident, and offering to take them out to dinner to make amends. That was a win-win the way I saw it. Our Frisbee was yellow with a big smiley face on it, and we must have thrown that thing an hour or two every day. We always held it up in pictures to show where we were and yes, that we were still smiling, like a hostage holding up that day’s newspaper.

And that is how we met our strange new amigo, a chatty guy around our age who walked by and asked if he could throw the Frisbee with us. After flopping it around unsuccessfully for five minutes he suggested that we have a drink with him and his friends instead and led us to a grove of trees. Several obviously unemployed fellows stood about, and a pregnant lady in a bikini sprawled out nearby on a tree stump. He introduced us to his brother, a sketchy bastard who was skinny and balding yet covered with thick body hair, like he was a little too far left on the evolutionary chart that showed man’s progress to get his knuckles off the ground and walk upright. To make matters worse, he was sweating like a whore in church. I tried to push Shane toward him and stand closer to the pregnant chick.

They were drinking from a bottle of anise, a strong local firewater liquor, and filled little plastic cups and urged us to drink round after round, while yelling enthusiastically in Spanish about things I didn’t understand and didn’t care to. They refilled our cups and insisted we drink more with them since we were their new best friends. The stuff burned my esophagus on the way down and hit me between the eyes instantly. The hairy brother couldn’t wait for the formalities of pouring it into cups, so he started drinking straight out of the bottle. He was a real kook, screaming because he was half deaf in one ear from the time a stick of dynamite misfired near him in a mining accident. I tried to stay on the side of his bad ear so he wouldn’t want to converse with me, but he still badgered me with anecdotes about his days working on civil engineering projects while he was in the military. I made it very clear to the brothers that I didn’t speak Spanish, but they ignored this fact and continued to catch me up on everything that had occurred in their lives over the last 25 years. The more I protested that I had no idea what they were saying, shamelessly pointing to Shane to divert their attention, the closer they got and the louder they yelled.

Someone didn’t smell right. The hairy brother drank more and became animated, trying to headlock me. He waved his arms around like a gorilla, his eyes bloodshot and unable to focus, and tried to hug me with his dripping man-sweater. I stiff-armed him but did it subtly, trying not to be rude so he wouldn’t turn on us and cut our heads off with a machete.

The only thing that seemed to calm these bad-breath bandits was Queen. Yes, Queen the band. A transistor radio sat on the beach next to them, antennae erect to pick up the only station on the island, and when a Queen song came on they went crazy. They loved rock and roll music, they said, and Queen was, of course, the best band ever. Really? I never got that memo. They wanted us to sing along and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was either that or do more shots, so right there on the beach Shane and I belted out our best rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “We Will Rock You,” and “We Are the Champions.” We had to make up most of the lyrics, repeat choruses, and switch songs mid verse, but it seemed to soothe these savage beasts a little. The brother tried to clap along and stamp his feet to the beat, but the shrapnel in his head most have stricken him tone deaf as well. But as long as I kept singing, he relinquished his headlock on me. I didn’t want it to end, so Shane and I went into repeat mode, mixing up the songs and singing chorus after chorus. They tried to keep up and sing along, to what I have no idea, and I didn’t want to risk injury or a breach in my hygiene policy by stopping them.

“We swill, we swill, watch you!” they howled. Clap, clap.

“Key swill, key gill, wash you!” Drink, drink. Clap, clap. Everyone within earshot stared at them, embarrassed that these men had been appointed the drunken ambassadors of their country.

“Key argyle clampions my friend!” Dynamite Head soloed. I made eye contact with Shane to communicate our breakaway. We told them that we’d had a great time but it was getting late and we had to go. They protested. Sorry fellas, we have somewhere to be, we pleaded. They wanted to come with us. They wanted more drink, more Queen, more girls. More? Where the hell were the girls that we were supposedly enjoying now? We were finally excused after taking three more shots and promising to meet them in the same spot in an hour. An orgy of handshaking, hugs, missed high-fives, and vows that we were hermanos (brothers) ensued. We walked down the beach quickly, without looking back, and ran the second we couldn’t hear Queen anymore. Shane thought that they were trying to take a crack at us, but I thought they were just blitzed out of their minds and overly friendly. When I got back to the hotel, I took a shower with extra soap and collapsed on the bed, passing put instantly from anise and sun.

When I woke up I was in a fog, confused about where I was and how I got there. That vertigo was becoming common, because on our trip so far we’d been in a different cheap hotel, or on a flight, bus, or train every third day. I got my bearings by looking at the hotel stationery. We were at the Blue Iguana in Isla Margarita in Venezuela.

That’s right — how the hell could I forget? As I eased into wakefulness I thought about our journey so far. It had been a wild ride — only a few weeks ago I had been so innocent and carefree until everything went wrong. It had started with the rat-hole King’s Inn, quite possibly the worst hotel on earth, infested with rats, hookers, and shadowy guests who paid by the hour. After two hellish weeks there we had finally plotted our escape, booking flights to Brazil.  We arrived at the airport extra early, eager and bright-eyed to depart the country, only to get turned back because our travel visas weren’t valid.  Back to the King’s Inn. The next day we found the Brazilian embassy and fought our way to the front of the line to apply for our visas.  The paperwork would take a few days, but our escape seemed imminent save one item: we needed medical certifications that we’d been immunized for yellow fever.

I had already had every immunization known to man before I left the United States; my shoulders were like pincushions over a three-week period at the Yale medical clinic. But Shane still needed his, so the next day we grabbed a taxi and headed out to try and find a medical clinic where he could get his shot quickly. Our driver took us all over the city, but every clinic or doctor’s office was either closed or they couldn’t fit him in for an appointment until the next week. Finally, the driver said he knew of a free medical clinic that would do it, but it was in a rough barrio and gonna be a crapshoot whether we got out safely or not. He took us deep into a shit-hole hood where young thugs hung out in the middle of the street blocking cars — he said the police wouldn’t even go there. He pulled onto the curb in front of the medical clinic and told Shane that they had to run in together and get out quickly so they wouldn’t be robbed or mugged or worse. He told me to stay in the back of the taxi with the doors locked and not to let anyone in, no matter what. He pulled something from under his seat and placed it on the back seat next to me with a newspaper over it, and then they sprinted into the building. I locked the doors from the inside and pulled back the newspaper; it was a huge butcher’s knife he’d left me to fight off any carjackers. Damn, this was getting heavy.

They came running out twenty minutes later, just as the locals were starting to circle and discuss how to dispose of my body once they stole the car. We got back to the embassy, but even with his medical card it would take almost a week to process the visa paperwork. There was no way in hell I was staying at the King’s Inn that long, so we hopped the first flight we could to Isla Margarita, a resort island off of Venezuela’s northern coast where rich people from the mainland and poor island folks partied.

The island was a welcome break from dirty, polluted Caracas and the King’s Inn. Our first night there we went downtown to check out a crowded strip of bars. Shane noticed several girls walking together up ahead of us. He was mesmerized by a tall, super-fly chica in their pack so we followed them for a while, trying not to be obvious by hiding behind trees and pretending to read newspapers when they turned around.

We were tailing them when they stopped abruptly for one of them to answer her cell phone. Shane and I couldn’t hit the brakes in time, so we bumped into the back of them at full speed. Since it was obvious that we were going to follow them around all night like lost puppy dogs without introducing ourselves, one of the girls took pity on us and said hello. Shane talked to his tall girl and I chatted with her younger sister, who spoke surprisingly good English. It turned out that three of the girls were the president’s nieces and their family was at Isla Margarita for their summer vacation. Back in 1999 not many people had heard of the Venezuelan president, but pretty soon people started paying attention to the name Hugo Chavez in international news as he grew increasingly antagonistic toward the United States, positioning himself as the new Fidel Castro. I suspect that the girls were really in Isla Margarita for security reasons, because President Chavez was on shaky political ground in his own country when he illegally extended his term limits and quelled a political revolt by physically locking his congress out of the capitol. The girls were staying at the best hotel on the island and always had security officers hanging around. They were digging us, so we made a date to take them out to ice cream later, and then it was time for the Ciao Line.

What’s the Ciao Line, you ask? In Latin American countries when you greet someone or say goodbye, no matter whether you’ve just met them or been exchanging bodily fluids with them for years, you kiss them on the cheek. Sounds painless, right? But the president’s nieces and their friends traveled in packs, like over-populated coyotes. I should have applied Chapstick when I saw them coming. When they got up to leave, I stood still with my lips puckered, doing that fake little half-hug where you stick your butt out so your private parts have no chance of accidentally touching, and said ciao to each of them. One by one, they moved down the line and did the cheek kiss and said ciao, like a gringo conveyor belt.

We kicked it with Chavez’s nieces for a few more days.  For some reason I can’t fathom, whether she just had awful taste in me or I was being set me up for a political kidnapping, the niece I was hanging out with took a real shine to me. There was no denying that she was beautiful, and I would have loved to properly date her, buddying up with “Uncle Hugo” and the presidential family and consummating my love for her with frequent relations, but that just wasn’t going to happen because of the toothpaste all over my man-junk. I should probably explain.

Shane was our official trip doctor. Granted, there were only two of us, so the options were limited, but I couldn’t even pass ninth grade biology, so the choice was obvious. Of course, he had no formal medical training but he was a pharmaceutical salesman, so that was good enough for me. Plus, he had a grab bag of pills in his toilet bag, so I could steal a random handful and wash them down with a beer whenever needed.

In Isla Margarita I developed a rash all over my man-junk region. Now, to be very clear, it turned out to be nothing — just a bad heat rash — but I’d never had something like that before, so I was freaking out. I pride myself on being as clean as the board of health, and I knew I definitely contracted it during my time at the King’s Inn. I bought a huge bottle of rubbing alcohol to wash myself down completely whenever I even touched a local, but it quickly broke in my backpack and doused all of my possessions, making me smell like a senior center on cleaning day.

I’d been trying to self-medicate for a few days, but the rash just wasn’t going away. I remembered when I was a teenager and I got a pimple, people would tell me to put toothpaste on it at night before I went to bed and it would dry up by morning. I thought the same theory might apply here, so I slathered toothpaste all over my man-junk every morning and night. I had gone through three tubes of Aquafresh but it wasn’t working so far — although I did enjoy the minty tingle. Finally, I started to panic and couldn’t take it anymore. I booked an appointment with the trip doctor (Shane) to look at it and give me his professional opinion and hopefully some drugs to clear it up; nothing is sacred when you’re traveling around the world with someone for a year.

We were crashing the breakfast buffet at the Marriot for the fourth morning in a row, our ritual of taking advantage of the hotel’s amenities without actually staying there. No matter what country we were in there was always an ultra-modern and sparkling Marriot somewhere in town. They didn’t seem to notice when we walked in like we were VIP guests and helped ourselves to some free coffee and breakfast, read the newspaper sprawled out in comfy chairs in their lobby, lounged by their pool, and even took our time using their majestic marbled bathrooms. After a few hours we’d leave the Marriot and retreat to our shit-hole hotel down the street, feeling refreshed. So Shane and I snuck into the Marriot bathroom for my doctor’s appointment. It was embarrassing, but I reminded myself that he was a medical professional (sort of), so I dropped my trousers and he examined me right there in the Marriot bathroom stall. He looked for a second and then said, “Hmmm ... I’m not sure. It may be something.”

Yeah thanks, I could have told you that. We waited until the coast was clear to come out of the bathroom stall so no one would get the wrong idea. But needless to say, I was excluded from having any relations with the president of Venezuela’s niece because of my toothpaste. Ohhhh, if only Uncle Hugo knew.

After a long weekend on the island, we felt the calling to go back to Caracas to check on our visas. After more boxing out in line, we were told that it would be one more day. No problem. To pass the time, we hired an old taxi driver to drive us all around the city and show us the attractions — including a glimpse of the bad neighborhoods to see how the common person lived. He was hesitant, and we had to urge him again and again to drive us into these barrios. “This doesn’t look so bad,” we said to ourselves, as I snapped a couple photos of the scenery. When we turned up this one street the driver whipped the car around instantly and sped off in the other direction, tires screeching. When we questioned him why he abruptly drove off he only said, “Ladrones,” which means “thieves.” We thought he was crazy and just being paranoid, but found out otherwise pretty quickly.

We were waiting at a red light only a few blocks down, when all of a sudden a motorcycle rolled up with two skinny tattooed guys on it. They pulled up right next to my door and started yelling, and reached through the open back window, trying to grab at me. They were trying to rob us of our cameras, wallets, and watches, whatever a tourist might have on him. I was in shock, but in a split second it was obvious they were about to get violent, and there we were trapped in the back of this taxi. All of a sudden the old man slammed the gas and took off, speeding through a red light and dodging traffic. The thieves chased us for about ten blocks, trying to catch up and pull alongside the swerving taxi, but our cagey driver eluded them, and just as quickly they peeled off when we passed a police car. We were safe.

It took a minute for my heart to stop jumping. Our driver explained that they were gang members who controlled the barrio’s drug trade with violence, robbery, and intimidation. He said that they had knives and guns and they weren’t afraid to use them. So when they saw a taxi cab in their neighborhood (which never happens) and a white guy pulling out a nice camera (which also never happens), they decided to jack us.

We must have looked as conspicuous as if a helicopter landed in the middle of your street and Donald Trump got out. The driver turned his face around and showed us a big scar that led from his cheek to the side of his mouth. He told us that he’d been carjacked before in his taxi and the robbers pulled a pistol and shot him at close range. The bullet ripped through the side of his mouth and exited his cheek.

Our luck was changing, and indeed the next morning our shiny new visas were ready for us at the Brazilian embassy. We boarded a plane the following morning with our fingers crossed, hoping we were leaving behind the Dynamite-Head brother ad-libbing Queen songs, Hugo Chavez and his nieces, toothpaste on my man-junk, high-speed chases with ladrones, cab drivers with bullet scars, the Ciao Line, the Dantean hell of the King’s Inn, and butcher knives in back seats forever. But we did remember to pack the Frisbee, just in case we wanted to hit someone else in the head, which was really just our way of saying hello.

There are 194 countries in the world, depending on what we define as a country (Palestine, the Vatican, and several rogue or disputed states would bump that number above 200).  You’ll find a whole community of backpackers, travelers, and adventurers out there, hitting the road as soon as they have a couple bucks in their pockets.  It’s a rite of passage among 18-25 year olds, especially with Canadians, Britts, Aussies, Kiwis, and those from Northern European countries.  I’m also seeing a surge of United States citizens ready to move to other countries over the next five years and become expatriates. 

So how do we figure out where to go?  Out of 194 possible destinations what is the process to put one pin in a map and pull the trigger on buying a (cheap) airline ticket to get there?

It’s easy.  

I, too, am an expat, living in Costa Rica and Nicaragua the last couple of years and backpacking around the world, so I have particular insight.  It only took ten minutes for my buddy Johnny G and I to break it down, chatting at sunset on the front porch of San Juan Surf in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua.

Ok, starting with 194 countries.  

1. Obviously we don’t want to be a world traveller or expat in our own country, so that brings it down to 193.  Good start.  

2. We want warm weather, so that takes roughly half of the options off the table.

3. A country with a coastline and nice beaches is a must, so we’re down to South East Asia, Australia, the Mediterranean, the coast of Africa, and parts of Central and South America.  

4. We want safe, or at least to avoid countries with political instability.  It’s no fun making a hostage video between guys with AK 47’s wearing black pajamas.  Countries with religious fundamentalist problems, revolution, and military governments are to be avoided.  We also don’t want to be sitting ducks in countries with vicious drug cartel problems, so unfortunately that rules out Mexico for a lot of people, and Venezuela is off the table.  

5. Broke backpackers want cheap, cheap, cheap, like the little bird goes.  So I guess our $20 a day budget won’t fly in the French Riviera?  

6. Life as an expat is much easier if you live within a reasonable plane ride of your home country.  So the expats from the U.S. and Canada usually keep it within 8 hours due south, which means Central America, the Caribbean, and parts of South America.

7. Getting by speaking another language is hard enough, but Spanish is much easier to learn than, say, Portuguese, or Thai.  So Brazil is out, though it brings a tear to my eye, because it’s too expensive now AND they speak Portuguese.

8. A lot of the Caribbean is wonderful for vacation but I hear it’s a pain in the ass to live there because of all of the hurricanes, yet alone the high cost.

9. Cuba is fun to visit but probably not the place to live, Honduras and Guatemala are dangerous as hell, and Columbia is beautiful for the adventurous but a closed society if you’re a foreigner trying to do business there.  

10. Now we’re getting down to brass tacks.  If you’re from the U.S. we’ve narrowed it down to a handful of countries in Central and South America:  Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Belize, and maybe Ecuador.  

Now you have some information that will help you buy a ticket for a long vacation or even to relocate.  There are other considerations, of course, like if you plan on getting residency, buying property, opening a business, and access to medical care.  Of course, you and everyone else will be sticking to this next thought process, so you’ll also want to hit the NEXT great place, not the place that’s popular now.  It used to be Costa Rica, but now people are going to Nicaragua.  It used to be Thailand, not they’re going to Laos and Cambodia. 

Good luck and safe travels.  Touch base with me if you’re out there in the world because strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet.
Cheers,