Infographic by Manuel Antonio Beach Rentals
I recently met a new friend in Cambodia, a very kind and conscious American woman from Denver who is traveling in Southeast Asia. She asked me a question so insightful I had to write a blog to answer it properly. Here is her inquiry, paraphrased: When I travel to poor countries I rarely take photos of people. I see so many art shows with photographs of the impoverished but it seems these people are no longer sentient beings - they become impersonalized backdrops at dinner parties, objectified as oppressed beings. I struggle with this. How do you feel when you photograph people who live in poverty? Here is my answer: First off, great observation! I think about that all the time as I travel or live in Third World countries and photograph people, many of them living in desperate poverty. I ask myself, “Am I just being a tourist in their suffering? Am I one of those people taking photos who think, ‘Oh look at all the starving dirty people in hovels - these pictures of their suffering will look great on my Facebook! My friends back home will think so highly of me. I feel SO good about myself for taking an hour out of my day to go visit their slum/orphanage/village, and now that I’ve got the photos I can go back to my air conditioned luxury hotel.’" My answer is always “Hell no!” but that’s the stark reality of too many tourists I see. A while back I even read an article about a South African hotel that was replicating the impoverished shanty experience. They weren’t bringing people into the shanty towns to let them experience a small part of the life of the poor, but were mocking it by building their own shanties complete with a few high-end amenities, right on the hotel grounds. That’s just dead wrong. But what about the casual traveler who can’t help pulling his camera that costs more than the local people in his finder make in two years? So much of photographing people as you travel comes down to your intentions, but you also have to communicate that intention, often within seconds and without words. I travel into some of the most impoverished areas in the world and take photographs without conflict or any problems with the locals. In fact, when I leave I’ve spread good will and hopefully helped them in some tangible way…AND still got authentic photos I’ll cherish. How do I do that? 1. When possible, I ask people if I can shoot a photo of them. Of course that loses spontaneity but if we've already made eye contact, said hello, or they see me, I'll smile and ask politely if I can take a photo, and then thank them profusely afterward. It may not sound like much, but it shows respect when you ask permission. 2. Many times I compensate them - a dollar here or there for taking their photo and sticking my nose and camera into their business. They’re always appreciative of that, no matter what the amount. 3. I ask myself how I would feel if someone stuck a camera in my face at that given moment. If I was eating dinner with my family or worshipping or in a compromising position then I might construe it as rude, but generally if someone is kind and interested in me as a human being, not just a an object for a photograph, then I’d be happy to have them document our connection. 4. Sometimes I take photos with them, not just of them. Once we’ve said hello, exchanged a smile or a laugh, and it feels appropriate, I’ll ask if I can take a photo with them, side by side as new friends. I’ve always found people to be honored and excited to be seen as such. 5. More than anything, I try to use the photo and my experience in their homeland to help them. I do that by writing about their lives, telling their stories to the world. Whether it's a blog, a fundraising campaign, or a whole book about their existence, that's my way of creating awareness for who they are and what help they may need on a bigger scale. 6. I educate myself about their country, the conditions of their lives, and the social ills affecting them, and then always make a donation before I leave. Instead of giving money to beggars on the street (which is often counterproductive by encouraging more begging and exploitation of children) I make a donation directly to a credible charitable organization that’s serving them. 7. Lastly, I smile and try to show love and respect to anyone I meet, regardless if I photograph them or not. I think it's so important to do that - my way of showing that I acknowledge them as fellow human beings and equals. Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve found that respect and friendship are commodities just as powerful as money. *** -Norm :-) What's your best advice for young adults looking to travel and where are the best places to go?2/5/2014 I received an email from a reader the other day with these questions: "What would be the best advice for young adults trying to travel or move out the country? And which countries are best to move to?" Super questions! My best advice for young adults trying to move out of the country would be to travel while you’re young. Do it now when you don’t mind long bus rides and bad beds and you don’t have a lot keeping you back in the states (or your home country.) Life has a way of anchoring you as you go on, and pretty soon you might have a good job, an apartment lease, car payments, a house, or a relationships or marriage that keeps you grounded. So do it now! I would also suggest that you form a plan how you are going to fund the trip a good ways out – maybe 6 months? - and work your butt off until that date arrives. You’ll have to sacrifice a lot; eating out, nights partying with friends, the newest clothes or concert tickets, but all of that money will be essential if you’re going to travel. In that time you have to prepare, read everything you can about your destination countries, learn about the cultures, watch documentaries, and read some travel articles and books that will give you a taste of real life on the road, too. Last thing: be careful. The rest of the world is not a fantasy land and most people have problems that we can’t even imagine in the US. So getting too drunk, walking around alone, messing with drugs, getting in with the wrong crowd, etc. could lead you into situations you can’t get out of. Slow play the partying and keep your eyes open and you’ll be fine. The other question, "Where should you go?" That all depends on what you’re looking for, but I’m going to take a wild guess and say you want someplace warm, with a beach, that’s not too expensive, where there are other backpackers? That opens up one set of possibilities, but others want to volunteer, or to experience authentic culture more than partying and lying on the beach. It also makes a huge difference if you’re just going backpacking around or trying to live there for a year and work. When I chose a country to live in (not just vacation!) I have a rough guide of criteria, based on priorities. Make your own list and then do some research what might be a good fit. Tier 1 • Cheap – lodging around $300-$500 a month, total budget around $1,500 a month. • Nice beach – a beautiful white sand beach goes a long way in balancing out all other factors! • Friendly people – Then again, I don’t care how beautiful a country is, if the people aren’t warm and friendly, I’ll keep it moving. I’m not down with snobbery or arrogance. • Safe politically – don’t be freaked out by one news story in a country (if we judged the US by that same standard we’d never want to visit!) but also don’t mess with places where a coup or political violence is occurring. Same thing goes for countries with terrorism, religious radicals, or drug cartel problems. • Good WIFI (no kidding – I write/work as I live abroad so I’m screwed without a serviceable internet connection) • City, town, or village? There are pros and cons to each as you balance amenities, convenience, laid back vibe, nature, etc. Tier 2 • Healthy, cheap food – I want to say “Yummmmm,” for $3 a meal, not for $7 a meal and up. • Culture – things to do like visiting temples, ruins, archeological sites, natural wonders, etc. • Night life – of course you want a little bit of fun, but are you looking for mellow beach bars or clubbing all night long? • Safety walking the streets • Ability to get work –teaching English, teaching yoga, or working at a hostel or bar are some of the best possibilities for local employment • Some tourism, but not overrun – the problem you’ll encounter is that the places you want to go, everyone else in the world wants to go there, too. The trick is to find a place that is ahead of the curve, not way behind it when it will be too crowded/too expensive/soulless. • Diversity of population – I like a place that has a healthy blend of backpackers, expatriates, vactioners, and plenty of locals who still live there – not just work there. That’s harder to find than you’d think! Tier 3 • Speak some English – you should attempt to learn the local lingo but it really helps when they speak a few words of English. • Proximity – The southern tip of Patagonia in Argentina is amazing, but don’t think you’re just a hop, skip, and jump away from main cities. It’s fun to be in a city/country where you can get around easily, hopping buses and even small flights around the country or region easily. • Good gym – since I’m living in these countries I want to go to the gym every day and especially love boxing or muay thai, etc., but maybe you just want to surf or do yoga, etc. • Family friendly – I like locations that don’t just have a bunch of 20 year old kids but a cross section of real life, including families and people who are old (my age.) Based on those criteria, some great spots I’d suggest: Costa Rica, Panama, Nicaragua, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Cuba (I’m dying to go there!), India, Sri Lanka, Israel, Jordan, Ghana, Senegal, Vietnam (good one,) Cambodia, Thailand (a little too touristy for my liking,) Laos, Mynmar, the Philippines, and Bali in Indonesia. That’s a short list. You can do the Caribbean and Europe when you’re older, plus they’re a little too expensive. I hope that helps, and happy travels! -Norm :-)
Luckily, I Googled “Floating villages, Cambodia” while I was waiting for him in the lobby because several notices came up warning tourists. There are a few villages and two of them, Kompong Phluk and Chong Kneas, are the most popular with tour guides because they are closer to Siem Reap. However, based on the reviews these authentic floating communities had become nothing more than well-organized shakedowns, with someone begging, selling, or demanding a donation every five minutes. My driver was hesitant to take me all the way out to Kompong Khleang, the less popular village still almost untouched by tourism, because it was much further out on a bad road. But he complied and we set out on impossibly bumpy dirt roads with soil so red it looked like crushed bricks. Kompong Khleang certainly did not disappoint. The village, home to about 1,800 families or 6,000 total residents, is on Lake Tonlé Sap, Cambodia’s immense central lake that covers about 7,400 square miles when it floods (Lake Tahoe is only 191 square miles!) The Lake receives the water from every river and tributary on the peninsula, from rivers way up north in China to the Mekong delta in Vietnam, making it a flood plain that swells enormously during the wet season. The lake is Cambodia’s greatest natural resource, making it unique among other neighboring Southeast Asian countries and the largest fresh water body. More than three million people live around the lake, 90% of them earning a living from fishing or agriculture, especially rice that grows hearty in the flood plains. Nearly half the fish consumed in Cambodia come from this very lake, and it holds over 300 species of fish, as well as snakes, crocs, turtles, otters, and 100 species of birds like storks and pelicans. But life for people in the countryside here is hard, a fight for survival among extremes. They are so desperately poor it’s hard for me to comprehend through a western paradigm, and the majority of each and every day for them is just trying to secure food and shelter. There are only two seasons in this part of the world (and near the equator) – the dry season, December through June, and the rainy season the rest of the time. During the rainy season the water level could rise 20 to even 40 feet high, completely submerging villages. So the residents who live near the shores of the lake have to live there to make a living and eat, but also have to endure epic floods for months. The solution is that they build floating villages to survive. That could really mean two things – there are houses built on along the banks of the lake on giant stilts – sometimes 30 feet high – and residents get in by long ladders. Other people live right on boats, or floating pontoon structures that look like extremely primitive houseboats. So when the floodwaters rise, their houses rise right with it. They have whole families living in one-room bamboo hovels on the water, and you’ll see cooking fires, general stores, schools, and even medical clinics floating along. There is actually a big class divide between the inhabitants who live in stilted houses, which are considered higher class (even though they are just simple one room bamboo huts, themselves) and the floating village people. But when the lake rises every rainy season, the floating villagers move right along, while the water could come right up to the floorboards of the stilted houses, or even partially submerge them. People hang their laundry out on their floating homes, burn cooking fires, jump in and bathe by the banks of the lake, send their kids to school on boats, visit their Pagodas, dry small sardine-like fish on huge racks, set up fish farms contained in water, haul in catches with huge nets, and harvest crustaceans they can eat and seashells by the bag they can haul to the next town and sell. Even little kids row around long canoes or sometimes even sit in the water in 5-gallon buckets! The people were all amazed to see a tourist as I was enthralled by how they lived, but their big smiles and warm vibe never ceased to amaze me. On the way out of town my driver stopped so I could take a picture of the rice fields and flood plains from a bridge, and I encountered a group of kids and a family who welcomed me. I bought a bag of candy at the storefront next door and shared it with the kids, who all happily posed for a photo, waving and flashing the peace sign. Norm :-) I just landed in Ho Chi Minh city, Vietnam 48 hours ago, and the barrage to my senses is like a reunion with a beloved old friend; the chaotic blur of sights, the symphony of car horns, the masses of humanity. But no matter whether I’ve been in Cairo Egypt, Tamarindo, Costa Rica, or Manila in the Philipines, there are some commonalities I’ve noticed in all developing countries (sorry, Third World sounded better in the title.) For those of you who have traveled abroad – or grew up in another country – these might sound fondly familiar. 1. Most of the luggage on the airport conveyor belt is boxes duct taped together and addressed with a Sharpie. 2. Everyone wears flip flops, even the construction workers, except the police, who wear proper shoes, though they’re the only ones not running around. 3. Women have burn scars on the back of their calves from hot motorbike exhaust pipes. 4. You’re supposed to throw toilet paper in the waste basket, not flush it. 5. There’s a showerhead right in the tiny bathroom and a drain on the floor, so you could sit on the toilet, brush your teeth in the sink, and take a shower all at the same time if you were so inclined. 6. The top sports on TV are soccer, beach volleyball, cricket, badminton, and Formula One racing. 7. The newscasters have English accents and only about 10% of the stories they report concern the United States. 8. You see a family of 5 on the same moped, including infants and toddlers, and the father is the only one wearing a helmet. 9. Every afternoon it rains harder than you’ve ever seen every for exactly 2 minutes. 10. Crossing the street is the most dangerous thing you’ll do all day. 11. Travelers are the only ones wearing sunglasses. 12. Poor people are skinny and rich people fat, the opposite of what how it is in the US. 13. Everywhere you look there are plastic lawn chairs. 14. People carry furniture, fishing pots, assorted construction materials, and three of their friends on their bicycles. 15. You have to count out 20,000 of the local currency just to buy a Coke. 16. Kids work in the streets all day and all night right next to their parents. If they get tired, they curl up and sleep on cardboard boxes right on the sidewalk. 17. Every bar has a gay host with a comb-over, two hot chicks pulling in customers from the street, three salty dog expats drinking beer and sweating all day long, and a little fat kid wearing a skin-tight tank top and a gold chain who has attitude for days. 18. The same street worker will gladly sell you gum, cigarettes, a lighter, bracelets, sunglasses, marijuana, change money, or sign you up for a boat tour. 19. If little kids need to pee (chee chee), their mothers just drop their pants in the middle of the sidewalk and let them go. 20. Girls hold hands when walking on the street with their girl friends or mom or dad. When they’re older and they walk with their boyfriend, they always are on the inside, away from the street, so they won’t be mistaken for a prostitute. 21. You check your shoes and bed sheets for scorpions. 22. There is laundry hanging from every available horizontal surface. 23. An amazing meal costs you only $3 on the street. 24. You lose 10 lbs in the first two weeks when that street meal does amazing things to your stomach, confining you to the bathroom for 23 hours a day. After that you can eat cheeseburgers and drink beer all day and still lose weight. 25. People pass the time smiling, laughing, and talking to each other. They are happy, and though their lives are hard, they somehow manage to restore your faith in humanity. Safe travels and be good to each other, -Norm :-) Last week, an Arizona mother of seven was detained in N, Mexico and thrown in jail, facing charges of smuggling marijuana. Yanira Maldonado, 41, and her husband were taking a bus back from a funeral when stopped by military police outside of Hermosillo. Everyone from the bus was herded into a small room and after a two-hour wait, the military came and told Gary Maldonado, her husband and also a US Citizen, that twelve pounds of marijuana had been found under his seat, but then they stated that the drugs were actually found under Yanira’s seat. She was arrested and is being held in a jail in the border town of Nogeles. The family’s Mexican attorney arranged a $5,000 bribe for police and prison officials, but it was rejected, and Maldonado appeared before a judge today for the first time. No verdict was issued as expected and she remains in custody, but witnesses continue to testify and the prosecutions case seems weak. However, if the judge does not set her free she could be held for months until the trial. Gary and Yanira were in Mexico for an aunt’s funeral and riding a luxury bus liner that brought them from Phoenix because it seemed safer. They claim they were the last ones on the bus and brought no luggage aboard, but placed their bags in the buses’ side compartment. Gary wisely collected witness accounts on the scene after the military police arrested his wife. The family claims they are being framed. Gary, now safely in the US, the Maldonado family, and even the office of state Senator Jeff Flake are closely monitoring the situation. *** I recently published an account of a year I lived in Costa Rica, where a friend and US citizen was arrested for allegedly growing marijuana. He was thrown into a rough prison alongside murders, big-time drug dealers, and cocaine traffickers, the only US citizen in a prison of 1,600 rough Central American prisoners. I had to visit him almost every weekend, bringing home food, money, books, clothing, and communications from his family, his attorney, and the embassy. Eventually accepted a plea bargain instead of trusting justice in a corrupt, inept court system. He was sentenced to 5.4 years and still remains in prison, more than 2 years later. If you want to read a first-hand account of what life in a Central American prison is like, and the complexities to the police and judicial systems there, I suggest reading South of Normal. 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 Last week it was widely reported that President Barack Obama visited Costa Rica, touching down long enough to meet with President Laura Chinchilla about “reinforcing the deep cultural, familial, and economic ties” with the country, inciting both leers and thankful applause from Ticos (Costa Rican nationals) Together, they emphasized partnering to modernize Costa Rica’s economy, promote fair trade, and attract investments. But there was something that was left unsaid, an unspoken agenda not picked up on the microphones or documented by reporters: violence from the drug trade that has ravaged Mexico and Central America has started to infect Costa Rica. It’s not the first time we’ve been concerned - back in 2011 the U.S. deployed the USS Makin Island, 46 Coast Guard ships, 42 helicopters, and 4,000 sailors to Costa Rica, a geo-political chess move that had left a lot of people scratching their heads as to why we'd give tens of millions in aid money and amass a troop presence in this sunny, politically stable, but diminutive, Central American country. The official cause for troop deployment was to help that government's effort to control the transit of drugs into their borders. I lived in Tamarindo, Costa Rica for a year as I was writing a book and found it to be a charming, tranquillo village on the Pacific where surfboards outnumber cars, with good-hearted, smiling people. But there is a shadowy side to paradise, the game-behind the game that tourists never glimpse and gets almost no international attention. Until now. About 1.5 million tourists and expatriates come to Costa Rica ever year to enjoy plenty of sun, sea and lush jungle, returning to the U.S. with nothing but glowing platitudes about their time in paradise. Costa Rica of only 4 million people that's as big as Vermont and New Hampshire together, who takes up only .03 percent of the landmass on the globe but enjoys over 5 percent of its biodiversity. Located between Panama to the south and Nicaragua to the north, it's often lauded as a tourist haven and socially progressive nation with a stable constitution, no army since 1949, and a high literacy rate. It also happens to be one of the biggest drug transit nations in the world -- maybe THE biggest. An avalanche of cocaine flows into Costa Rica's borders from nearby Colombia, and, to a lesser extent, Panama, infiltrating the hundreds of miles of coastline on both the Pacific and Caribbean coasts of the country. It's estimated that 90 percent of the cocaine that ends up in the United States originates in Colombia and moves up this route -- by sea into Costa Rica, north into Nicaragua at the border at Peñas Blancas and up the Pan American Highway, or by sea up the chain of Central American countries, and then into Mexico, where the price jumps steeply in cartel hands before worm holing its way across the border into the U.S. Of course the Costa Rican authorities try to stop it, but in a country that doesn't even have an army and the average police officer makes about $400 a month, it's truly a David and Goliath prospect. Costa Rican President Laura Chinchilla's has vowed to deal with the problem by doubling the police force, increasing enforcement, and building more prisons, but that's on the scale of adding a second fly swatter to deal with a plague of locusts. They still only have 10,000 prisoners in the whole country (compared to three million in the U.S.) and are ridiculously out-manned, out-spent, and out-gunned by the drug traffickers. Although well-intentioned, to date these measures haven't been effective in slowing down the unfathomable supply of cocaine that enters their country by speedboat, fishing boat, charter plane, packed inside truck tires, in the stomachs of human drug mules, hidden inside dolls, furniture, diapers, hollowed-out bibles, disguised as humanitarian aid, and everywhere else you can imagine. It's stored in clandestine warehouses, gutted buildings, and factories where it gets "stepped on" and repackaged for distribution. They even transport it in wooden submarines. Wooden submarines were first detected by law enforcement around 1993. Technically they're not submarines but semi-submersibles because they don't actually dive, but cruise along just under the water's surface. The very top of the cockpit or exhaust pipes rise above the water to access breathable air. These "narco subs" are built in clandestine shipyards hidden in the jungle, each one taking two million dollars and a year to construct. They're nearly undetectable by radar, sonar, infrared systems, or patrolling aircrafts. Most of them are handmade with wood and fiberglass, reaching 60 feet long end to end. They move pretty slowly -- about seven to eleven miles per hour, powered by underwater diesel outboard motors and manned by a crew of four. They have fancy GPS systems but no bathroom. Each wooden submarine can transport up to ten tons of cocaine at a time. Whether on a speedboat or a wooden submarine, the cocaína is vacuum-sealed and dropped off in the open ocean floating in 50 gallon drums with electronic location transmitters, later to be scooped out of inlets, marshes, and estuaries by local runners in fishing boats. Believe it or not the worst occupational hazard for those pick-up men isn't cops or bullets, but crocodiles. Costa Rica has a huge croc population along its wild coast and drug runners jumping in and out of the water at night serve as a tasty snack. But when there's a will, and a profit to be made, there's a way. The financial windfall of transporting cocaine into Costa Rica, and north up the distribution pipeline, is staggering: a kilo of cocaine that goes for about $1,700 in Columbia might be worth $23,000 once it hits the streets of the United States, cut down to 20-40 percent purity. Most of us can only see this problem from a 10,000 foot high perspective, but I had particular insight into the drug trade in Costa Rica for another reason: unfortunately, an old friend of mine from Canada was caught and arrested growing marijuana and thrown in jail. During the year I lived there he was locked up in the prison in the small city of Liberia in Guanacaste Province, only an hour from Tamarindo, as he awaited sentencing. He had no family and few friends in the country, so I was the only one left to take care of him. Almost every weekend I had to visit him in prison to bring him clothing, toiletries, books, money, messages from his attorney and family, and food (they only gave the prisoners about 800 calories a day, most of which is in rice and beans and hot dog buns). He was the only gringo in jail -- 1,600 prisoners and him, and when I visited I was the only Americano in attendance, too. There was no safe visiting area for us, no well-guarded room with glass partitions and phones to communicate, they just locked us in with the prisoners for those visiting hours, in their beehive of cells in general population. Before going in I'd surrender my passport and get a stamp on my arm, so they'd know I wasn't a prisoner and be allowed to leave. "Don't sweat off that stamp or you won't get out," the prison guards told me, and I still don't know if they were kidding or being serious, but that only made me sweat more. My friend was locked up with murderers and big time traffickers, thieves and petty street dealers, as well as middleman transporters who were just trying to feed their impoverished families. There was no segregation of prisoners for minimum or maximum security, gang affiliation, or based on mental illness. I regularly interacted with Columbians, Ticos, Guatemalans, Hondurans, and Mexican cartel, all locked in there together, 70 prisoners per cell built for 25, many of them sleeping on the floor. For those hours every weekend I got a first-class education in the nuts and bolts of the Central American drug trade like few other United States citizens ever have. Eventually my friend got sentenced to 5 years for a small time marijuana infraction. He's endured riots, prisoner attacks, abuse by prison guards, and witnessed a spectrum of craziness that Hollywood couldn't even make up as the wildest fiction. But he's also seen some mercy, a ray of grace in the place you'd least expect it, good people mixed in with all of that razor wire and cold concrete, and so far he's stayed safe. I pray for his safe release soon. All of this may sound horrifying, and lead you to the ultimate question "Does the drug trade make it dangerous in Costa Rica?" The answer is complex, but for the most part I'd say "no." Most of the problems are between rival factions involved in the drug trade, not innocent visitors. The ecosystem has a delicate equilibrium and these problems aren't even visible in the light of day. If a tourist exercises a little bit of common sense and stays clear of illegal elements, and especially drugs, they will be perfectly safe. Sure, there's crime and theft in Costa Rica, but that can be said of any city in the United States, as well. For now the country of pura vida -- pure life, is still one of the most beautiful places on earth, with friendly, sweet people, and tourists will continue to enjoy unforgettable vacations. I have no interest in politics and it's not my place to judge anyone, from any country. I am certainly not qualified to make a statement about the three-decade long U.S. drug war in Central American and South America, but now maybe you will understand the true message behind the sound bytes about fostering partnerships and economic development. Email me if you'd like any advice about Costa Rica, traveling abroad, or want to check out the Amazon best-selling book, South of Normal. Check out 25 crazy facts about Costa Rica! 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
Every year 6.6 million U.S. citizens call another country home. They do so for a variety of reasons -- work assignments, warmer climates and better medical care, and a cheaper cost of living. But whatever the reason for buying a one-way ticket to being an expatriate, they have some important choices to make once they get there.
I've been lucky enough to live in Costa Rica, Nicaragua, and travel all over the world, 37 countries on six continents and counting, and I've met U.S. expatriates almost everywhere. If you're considering a similar move, here are some things to consider: 1. Language. Communication is something we take for granted, but when you are in a foreign country you might not be able to walk right up to someone and express yourself... or ask for life's essentials, like the bathroom, and beer. You'll want to study and practice the language as much as possible before you go. Also, taking intensive language lessons once you arrive is a great way to meet people and ease the linguistic transition. 2. Where to go? There are many factors that go into your choice of a new home country: climate, political stability, crime, proximity to the U.S. for a quick flight home, cost, language and customs, etc. Many people chose to expatriate to places like Panama, Costa Rica, Belize, or the Philippines for these reasons. 3. Taxes, insurance, and other nuts and bolts. Even when you're living in another country, the IRS expects you to pay U.S. taxes as long as you're a citizen and make income. You'll probably also want to stay current with your U.S. health insurance, and many people conveniently forget to tell them that you don't live in the U.S. any more so it doesn't cause complications. You can bank online and pay bills online these days with e-statements, but you can also get your stateside mail sent to a relative or to a post office box. 4. Medical. It's important to be aware of the medical services available in your communities, and how they are rated for quality and consistency, as well as access to prescription medications. Many seniors who are expats want to live in countries with medical care that is much less expensive than in the U.S. Luckily, that is most of the world. 5. Buying real estate and a car. Your first instinct may be to plant "roots" by buying a home, a car, etc. but I've found it's best to give it some time. Don't make any major purchases for at least a year until you thoroughly learn the local culture, customs and business climate. There can be some complex and Draconian rules when it comes to property and vehicle ownership, as well as bizarre registration and paperwork demands. Basically, people get ripped off or make bad decisions all the time, so give it some time until you're a seasoned expat and enlist the advice of a trusted local. You'll also want to weigh out the import taxes and costs of having things like a car or furniture shipped down to you, or buying them locally.
6. Safety.
The reality is that you have to be careful no matter where you are in the world, but with some common sense you can stay safe. Don't walk around with jewelry, don't show off valuables, don't go into bad areas, befriend locals to show you around and watch after you, don't walk around late at night or get too drunk, and get a dog! Every country (including the U.S.) suffers from street crime problems, but avoid countries where there's political upheaval or religious fundamentalist groups. 7. Working, making money, and doing business. Many expats find out that life isn't quite as cheap as they anticipated and the savings goes fast, so you'll have some decisions to make about earning money. But do you try and open a local business? Try to keep working in the U.S., doing your job remotely from your new home country? Or jump into tourism? Do your research and go for a low risk consistent paycheck, not a venture that requires a huge up-front investment of time and money. I can't tell you how many people I've seen open bikini or surf shops or restaurants, and six months later they're broke, stressed and going out of business. Keep it simple. 8. Technology. Technology will be an invaluable tool as you try to stay connected to friends and family, do business, and get things done from your new country. With some adjustment and planning technology will be your best friend. Get a local cell phone. Almost every bar and restaurant has Wi-Fi, so iPads, laptops, iPhones (with your U.S. network turned off!), and e-readers can all be used as mini computers to keep you rocking and rolling. Applications like Skype, Netflix, WhatsApp, internet calling apps, language translators, currency converters, and GPS make your life easier. And a Go Pro camera is just fun! 9. Blending into the local community. Assimilating to the local culture is a long-term challenge, but also a constant source of beauty, humor and fascination. Be naturally curious and open to being outside of your comfort zone. Say hello and show respect to everyone, learn the local sayings, the customs, celebrate the holidays, make local friends, and even get in good with the police and officials. Attending religious services and volunteering to do charity work are great ways to foster good will and positive karma. 10. Residency and Visas. Some expats want to become citizens of their new nation, some are content staying there on extended tourist visas. If that's the case you might have some shuffling to do over the border to renew your visa every 90 days, and be your ability to open a business or own property restricted. Sometimes there are huge benefits to becoming a citizen, sometimes no real difference, so do your homework and talk to other expats, because it could be a lengthy and expensive process to establish residency. *** I hope that helped! Email me any time! Now, can you handle the UNFILTERED experience of my time as an expat in Costa Rica? The TRUTH that you will NEVER find in an article? Check out the CONTROVERSIAL book that has the Tico TImes, AM Costa Rica, and Costa Rican expats talking...and laughing!
Get the ebook: Limited time only $4.99 on Amazon for Kindle.
South of Normal; My Year in Paradise. A gonzo blast of laughter and adventure covering subjects like:
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Norm SchrieverNorm Schriever is a best-selling author, expat, cultural mad scientist, and enemy of the comfort zone. He travels the globe, telling the stories of the people he finds, and hopes to make the world a little bit better place with his words. Categories
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