Fast forward to 6pm on October 31st and I find myself, along with fellow travelers Jerry (Mexico) and Margunn (Norway), walking out of my guesthouse in the medieval town of Sighisoara, located in the heart of Transylvania. The three of us were the only guests in the guesthouse and after a quick chat over hot tea in the communal kitchen, we had decided to venture outside in search of a memorable Halloween experience in the land of Dracula.

Our adventure began with a cautious stroll along the impossibly dark path that follows the Tarnava Mare River, where we encountered mere shadows of other human beings, the vague outline of their mysterious figures floating past us in complete silence.

We then crossed the river using the footbridge located below the Old Town, with only the distant moonlight to guide us across. And as we reached the other side, we noticed that the town seemed quiet, too quiet, with not another person around, something that we were definitely not expecting on Halloween in Transylvania.

We wandered the town for ten minutes, eventually choosing to walk through the doors of a small restaurant located on the edge of a small plaza, one of only two restaurants that appeared to be open. And while there were no pumpkins, no costumes and no indication whatsoever inside of it being Halloween, there were a few grumpy staff members who proceeded to serve us hearty portions of chicken goulash and polenta and who kept our mugs filled with plenty of Ursus beer.

After an hour and half, with stomachs satisfied and courage superficially increased, we returned to the streets, seeking that Halloween excitement we had come to find. But alas, our search was fruitless. The town of Sighisoara remained empty, with no sign of activity, no gatherings and not a party anywhere to be joined. We stood on a lonely street corner, with the lip-cracking wind smacking against our faces and our minds dreaming of the warm beds awaiting us back on the other side of the river.

Without saying a word to each other we lowered our heads and began to walk in the direction of our guesthouse, heading back, forced to accept that Halloween night in Transylvania would be a bust.

A SUDDEN CHANGE IN HALLOWEEN PLANS

Upon reaching a confusing intersection of side streets and narrow lanes, the three of us all hesitated, not exactly sure of which direction to turn. We looked all around us, even behind us, wondering exactly when we had lost our way. But then, as we struggled to decide our next move, it was Jerry, our Mexican companion, who broke the silence.

Jerry suddenly suggested that instead of returning to our guesthouse, we should wander up the hill and into the citadel, the walled medieval part of town. Not only that but Jerry also felt that we should continue even further, by climbing the 160+ steps that led to the very top of the hill, where the lonely Church on the Hill and a massive Lutheran graveyard were located. After hearing this suggestion, Margunn and I argued and fussed and complained about the cold for several minutes, but Jerry would hear none of it, remaining persistent in his attempts to add some spice to this evening.

And soon enough, we gave in, not so much because we wanted to hike fifteen minutes uphill to the graveyard at 9:00pm but more so because we no longer wanted to be standing on this street corner shivering.

THE GRAVEYARD ON THE HILL

A few minutes later, we entered the large gate under the citadel’s imposing Clock Tower that marks the entrance to the fortified town of Sighisoara. We proceeded to walk through the town itself, as quietly as possible, as our steps were the only noise to be heard throughout this maze of cobblestone streets. It appeared as if we had the town to ourselves, with the actual residents remaining warm and safe inside their homes, and other travelers not daring to venture into the hometown of Vlad the Impaler (Dracula) on Halloween.

Creeping along, we turned left and we turned right, we passed a creepy tree and an ATM machine. And then, at the far back end of the town, we entered the seemingly infinite covered wooden stairwell that led from the town itself up to the topmost section of the hill.

We climbed up the creaky steps, speaking no words as our hearts pounded out of our chests every time the bushes next to us inexplicably rustled and the faint sound of a blender was heard coming from a house below. We were in no rush at all as none of us knew what to expect once we reached the top.

Of course, once we did climb that final step, we were not surprised to discover that we also had the highest point in town, this hill, all to ourselves as well and after a quick walk along the dirt path that circled the shining white Church, there we stood, all alone, in front of our final destination. There before us was the Lutheran graveyard, set inside a forest of both trees and impenetrable darkness, and surrounded by the type of black metal fence, which was some two meters high, that is clearly meant to keep people out. Yet despite the sword-like spikes on the top of this very fence, we knew right then and there that nothing was going to deter us from properly celebrating Halloween here in Transylvania.

So, over the fence we all climbed.

TOMBSTONES, BLACK CATS & BARKING DOGS

The dried leaves crumbled beneath our feet, the branches cracked in the wind and our breathing created a misty haze over the tombstones that only seemed fitting. We slowly inched forward, not sure what to do, or where to go, but riding high on the thrill of being in such a place on this very night.

With every noise we heard we stopped moving and looked at each other, as if any of us could determine whether that noise was a sign of real danger. Should we turn around and run straight back to the fence? None of us knew…and so we just continued heading deeper and deeper into the graveyard.

At one point, we each started taking photos and before we knew it, our confidence had grown even more. So, we took even more photos, pointing out the ghosts and ghouls we thought we saw in almost every shot, and no longer paying attention to our surroundings or the fact that we had just broken into a spooky graveyard.

As we approached one particular set of tombstones, we noticed several black cats, one perched on top of a grave, one in a tree, one bouncing all over the place, and soon enough, one sitting comfortably on my head. I’m not sure where that falls on the spectrum of luck, but the only natural thing to do was take some photos of that too.

And then, some ten minutes after we had pulled out our cameras, we were brought back to reality upon hearing the dogs. We heard barking, wild and ferocious barking, but we couldn’t determine from where it came. At first, we tried to ignore it by wandering even deeper into the forest graveyard (great idea I know), deeper and deeper into the unknown, but every now and then another evil bark was heard and we would immediately freeze up, once again unable to decide whether this would be a perfect time to bolt.

When a few minutes would pass without hearing the dogs, we would naturally return to taking more photos until the next round of barking commenced, a process that repeated itself for over an hour as we continued to tiptoe around the graveyard and occasionally exchange high-fives with each other for being so brave on Halloween.

However, eventually, a time came when the wind seemed to greatly increase in strength, the barking became more frequent and the trees and tombstones began whispering (so it seemed). And this is when we reached the conclusion that it was now time for us to retreat. In an instant, we all turned around and sprinted back towards the fence, hopping over tombstones, tripping on branches and feeling as if our lives were suddenly in great danger.

Each of us chose a different section of the fence to climb back over, and it was by no means an easy climb at all. As soon as I tried to rush myself, I got my foot stuck on one of the metal spikes and nearly landed on the ground face first.

But I made it, as did the others, and soon enough, we all met up in front of the Church on the Hill, having successfully escaped from the Lutheran graveyard of Sighisoara on this most haunted of nights.

THE WALK BACK

With a quick stop at the Dracula’s Restaurant inside the citadel in order to catch a glimpse of the only known image of Vlad the Impaler (thanks to Gary from Everything-Everywhere.com for letting me know about this painting), we once again crossed the cobblestone streets, wandered through the main gate under the Clock Tower and returned to the part of Sighisoara that lay below the hill.

Once on safe ground, standing right in front of the restaurant where we earlier ate, the three of us exchanged one final round of high-fives, and yes, we took a few more photos. And then we easily found our way back to the footbridge this time, walked along the river and down the street to our guesthouse, where we quietly settled into our beds, our Halloween night in Transylvania having thankfully come to a safe end.

*Note: The only reason I say ‘thankfully’ is because the next morning, Jerry had an interesting conversation with the owner of our guesthouse. It turns out that when the graveyard is closed every night, four Rottweilers and four Dobermans are released in order to protect the area until morning. And apparently last year two people were killed when they climbed the fence, tried to explore the graveyard and were promptly attacked by the dogs. Now you can understand how thankful I truly am to have made it out of that graveyard alive on Halloween.

Bus travel through India’s mountainous regions involves dramatic scenery, remote villages, fresh air and colorful passengers. The only thing missing sometimes is the road itself.

An overly squeaky, yet oddly enjoyable, Hindi pop song blared from the crackly speakers as the decrepit bus chugged along through India’s remote Spiti Valley. The wooden-planked floor rattled constantly, adding a unique beat to the tune along with the hypnotic vibrations of the many broken window frames. The bouncing up and down of the passengers, in response to the cracks, potholes and rocks on this semi-paved ‘highway’, resembled a choreographed piece of modern dance.

The bus was full, every bench holding up to four colorfully dressed locals crammed together. The bags of rice, sacks of vegetables, and bulky boxes of unknown goods packed into the aisles acted as seats for more than a dozen others. I sat in the back row of the bus, where the five seats held eight people and legs overlapped in an intricate and intimate pattern.

I was headed from the mountaintop village of Dhankar to the riverside village of Tabo, home to the most revered and ancient Buddhist monastery in the Himalayas. Having been pre-warned that this journey usually covered the not-too-great distance of approximately 30 miles in around 2.5 hours, I had no choice but to accept this episode of bone-fracturing Indian travel.

All seemed perfectly on schedule as our bus moved along at its incredibly slow pace for the first hour, quite a feat considering that, during long stretches of straight road, our maximum cruising speed still never exceeded 15 miles per hour.

However, the leisurely meandering through these massive 15,000-foot Himalayan mountains, only a short distance from the mysterious Tibetan border, left me mesmerized by the awe-inspiring views at all times. Tiny Tibetan villages, recognizable by the scores of multi-colored prayer flags flapping in the wind, appeared in the most unexpected of places, impossibly high up on the slopes or far down below along the banks of the Chandra River.

Every now and then the bus would come to a stop at some unmarked location, with no human activity anywhere in sight. But sure enough, a passenger would disembark and vanish along a barely visible path that provided no indication of a destination. Looking around in all directions at the completely uninhabited landscape, I was often left to use my imagination in determining where this person could possibly be headed.

At moments such as these, being subjected to another slice of India’s wonder, I would glance down at the small sticker I had placed on the front of my backpack earlier in the day and I would repeat its simple words, “I love India!”, over and over again, fully appreciating every minute of my journey.

THE DETOUR

Of course, despite the happiness of being in such a unique part of the world, when the bus suddenly came to a halt and the driver turned off the engine, I was thrilled to observe all of the other passengers begin to collect their belongings and exit the bus. I definitely welcomed what appeared to be an early arrival at Tabo.

Unfortunately, this thrill was short-lived as I quickly discovered that we had not in fact reached Tabo one hour earlier than scheduled. Instead, we had stopped behind another bus, one completely empty of passengers and with its driver taking an afternoon nap on the roof. Our own driver climbed the ladder to the roof of this other bus, shook awake its driver and offered him a cigarette. While they shared a smoke, I chose to investigate.

The situation soon revealed itself – the road was gone.

I asked the young man who had been sitting next to me on the bus for an explanation. After introducing himself as Tenzin, asking about the salaries in my country and providing a detailed account of the lives of his two children, he finally explained that a major landslide had taken place a few days earlier.

Due to heavy monsoon rains, a ¼-mile stretch of road had loosened and plunged five hundred feet to the bottom of the valley floor. Where there should have been pavement there was instead a fragile and very alive terrain of dirt and mud and rocks, with the unsteady earth still tumbling avalanche-style to the bottom every few seconds.

Some of the other passengers immediately began walking along a narrow switchback trail that criss-crossed down the mountainside next to the road. Tenzin noticed my confusion and began to point repeatedly, straight across the wide gap in front of us, to our “new bus there”. I glanced across and after a good scan of the horizon located our destination, where the road started once again. But it took a second for the situation to sink in as I began noticing tiny specks moving in a line along the bottom of the valley floor and then straight up what appeared to be a sheer cliff on the other side.

These barely visible dots proved to be the passengers from the bus ahead of us, and while my initial reaction to the unexpected challenge that now lay ahead involved a good deal of rock-throwing and head-shaking, it did not take long for me to remember that, in India, you’ll be left behind if you don’t keep up with the non-stop pace of life. I needed to stop whining and start hiking.

THE GRUELING TREK

The difficult path rapidly descended several hundred feet to the bottom of the valley where it led to a vast field of thousands of recently fallen boulders, a field that I needed to navigate.

After a couple of minutes of hiking across this landscape in my sturdy New Balance cross-trainers, and despite considering myself to be in good physical condition, I noticed that I was constantly being passed by the locals. On a normal day this would not have bothered me, but when a 90-year old Tibetan woman with a basket full of vegetables on her head, wearing mangled, plastic flip-flops skipped past me without hesitation, I felt pathetic. Her two-toothed smile seemed to be a mocking gesture, a sense that intensified with each smiling, waving person that continued to fly by me, hopping from rock to unsteady rock with effortless ease.

Nobody at all seemed the least bit disturbed that their peaceful bus journey home was suddenly interrupted by the need to carry their belongings on a strenuous two-mile hike through an inhospitable and unchartered mountain valley.

Eventually, I reached the waist-deep raging stream, on the banks of which I stood for some time, unable to determine how the two dozen people in front of me had reached the other side. Only when I turned around and realized that I was the last passenger to cross did I inhale deeply and start jumping along a scattered collection of slippery rocks, semi-submerged in the frigid water. Upon reaching the other side, I was delighted that I had managed to only soak one pant leg up to the thigh.

So proud was I! That is until I looked in front of me.

What had earlier appeared off in the distance as a sheer cliff face of mud and rock turned out to be exactly what I now faced. As I watched my fellow passengers, hoping to find some clever local guidance, I instead discovered that the several hundred-foot climb was of the “anything goes” type of adventure. Some people followed a four-inch wide path that zig-zagged its way up, others just tried to bolt straight up the mountainside and a few people pulled each other up step by step. Regardless of what they were doing, they were moving and I was not.

I slowly began climbing, clinging to any rock, shrub or chunk of mud that I could grab onto. My sweaty clothes stuck to my body, dirt covered most of my face and my back painfully ached under the weight of my backpack. At several points I wanted to quit, convincing myself that a small hut in this valley would actually not be such a terrible ‘starter home’. But every time I looked straight up to the top, observed yet another Tibetan great-grandmother reaching the road without breaking a sweat, I forced myself to plod along.

The moment when I grabbed onto flat land and pulled myself over the final ledge gave me such joy that I immediately fell to the ground and smiled in victory, with my lungs inflating and deflating at the speed of light.

I was an adventurer! A warrior! A god of the mountains! I was….about to miss the bus.

THE NEW BUS

I heard the unmistakable, migraine-inducing honking of an Indian bus horn. Glancing up, I found Tenzin two-hundred feet away waving furiously for me to hurry. Stumbling off on the final stretch, I dragged my backpack next to me and tried to clear the chunks of mud out of my nostrils.

Just before I reached the bus I passed a group of 3 middle-aged Indian couples who were about to embark on this hike in the reverse direction. They took one glance at me and seemed to become quite concerned about what lay ahead. I looked at them, the ladies in their clean pastel-colored saris and high-heeled shoes and the men in their pressed trousers and dress shirts, each person carrying a piece of luggage. “Very easy,” I said, “No problem.” They thanked me for this good piece of news and I hobbled on.

As the final passenger to arrive, I received not only a hearty round of applause from my fellow bus mates but my repulsive appearance also induced a solid bout of uproarious laughter. And as I fell into my seat in the back row of the bus, once again next to Tenzin, I admitted that I deserved this humiliation. Everyone else looked as if they had just walked out of the day spa at a Four Seasons in Hawaii.

The torture had now ended and as the bus drove off I wasted no time in closing my eyes and entering the deepest of sleeps. My body needed to relax and even the mesmerizing Himalayan scenery could no longer attract my attention.

I slept for what felt like an hour, until I was awaken by Tenzin shaking my arm. I opened my eyes, let out a big yawn, and seeing the smile on Tenzin’s face, began anticipating a nice comfortable hotel room with mountain views and a hot cup of chai.

“Tabo!” I shouted.

Tenzin just patted my leg, let out a small chuckle and said, “No Tabo. No road. New bus.”

And off we went again to cross another landslide.

So as soon as evening approached and our hunger grew, we eagerly wandered over to the larger of the two Chinese restaurants we’d seen and prepared ourselves for a much needed feast of yummy Asian cuisine.

Of course, had we taken a few minutes to properly think this plan through, we might have paused before deciding to enter this second floor restaurant. Truthfully, the sign out front prohibiting us from entering the establishment with any guns or knives should have acted as a clear indication that this was not your typical “lo mein-fortune cookie-free green tea” type of Chinese eatery.

And I’m not sure about your friendly neighborhood Chinese restaurants, but the ones I frequented when I was younger and living in the United States, did not require me to be thoroughly frisked by a large, leather jacket-clad man upon walking through the door. Luckily, Anil and I had both decided at the last minute to leave our AK-47s and machetes in our hotel room and so we both passed the security check, after which we wandered over to a table near the windows.

And as we sat down, the first thing that we noticed, as if this shouldn’t have occurred to us before, was that the Great Shang Hai Chinese Restaurant was one seedy establishment. Not only were we the only customers, but it was eerily dark inside, with only flashing fairy lights on the walls, which created an atmosphere that more closely resembled a brothel in the backstreets of Mumbai (from what I’ve seen in films of course).

Regardless of our observations, we were willing to put this sketchiness aside and concentrate on satisfying our hunger with some Chinese food.

But when the waitress, a young Chinese woman, approached our table, we were quite surprised to find ourselves in the midst of a conversation that went something like this:

Waitress: She says something in Kurdish
Us: We stare blankly at her

Waitress: “Kurdish?”
Us: “English?”

Waitress: “You live here?”
Us: “No. We travel here.”

Waitress: “What do you want?”
Us: “Food. Can we see a menu?”

Waitress: “Food?” (with an incredulous look on her face)
Us: “Yes, food.”

Waitress: “Chinese food?”
Us: “Um…yes, Chinese food.”

Waitress: “Kurdish food?”
Us: “Chinese food?”

Waitress: “Chinese food?”
Us: “Yes, Chinese food.”

She then walked away and returned with a menu, although given her reaction above and the dusty state of the menu, it was quite clear that this Chinese restaurant was not exactly accustomed to serving Chinese food. In fact, we might very well have been the first people to ever request a menu.

And when we did read through the menu, the expensive prices listed next to each item finally forced us to change our minds about sampling the local Chinese cuisine.

However, at this point, we were quite fascinated by our surroundings and wanted to learn more about what was going on in this joint and so we handed the menu back to the waitress and ordered drinks instead. We figured one drink would be reasonable before taking off once again in search of some food.

Little did we know that the beer Anil ordered would be of the “abnormally large can” variety nor that when I asked for a “whiskey”, I was ordering an actual bottle (albeit a small one) of the stuff and not just one glass. As a result, one quick drink turned into a 2.5 hour session as we sat there in the Great Shang Hai watching the place fill up with other men who also ordered nothing but drinks. And the entire time, Anil and I debated back and forth as we tried to make sense of what was really happening in this peculiar place.

It could have very well just been a bar, but after watching some of the patrons slip wads of Iraqi Dinars into the hands of one of the waitresses and then proceed to beg the bartender to allow the waitress to sit at their table with them (such requests were always refused), I began to think otherwise.

Here’s a short video to give you a better idea of the fascinating restaurant that is the Great Shang Hai:

And when our bill arrived, it was remarkably cheap, perhaps an indication that this wasn’t a brothel or underworld hangout after all. Usually at such places (again, so I’ve heard), you can’t drink the amount we did for a mere 10,000 Iraqi Dinars ($8.50 USD).

GIVE ME SOME FOOD!

Ten minutes after leaving the Great Shang Hai, we stumbled into a restaurant called “Pizza Plus”, which we were not surprised to discover actually specialized in sandwiches. Although, my eyes did nearly bulge out of their sockets and drool did begin to drip from my mouth upon noticing an assortment of fresh salads as well.

But naturally, since this was Iraq, not even a simple meal of sandwiches and salad could take place without something interesting happening. This time it was the man behind the counter who served us the food, a young Kurdish fellow who informed us that he now lives in Norway. And upon hearing that this young chap lives in Norway, we then asked him why he was back in Kurdistan.

His answer was quick and to the point, although somewhat confusing: “I come back to Kurdistan for money and sexy, sexy!”

Enough said. We sat down at our table and shoveled our food into our mouths in silence.

THE FINAL STOP OF THE NIGHT

With bellies full, and the night still young, Anil and I decided to pay a visit to what appeared to be the most popular night time hangout in all of Sulaimainiyah – the Shawany Maliek Cafeteria.

We stumbled inside this crowded, two-level shisha cafe and grabbed two large, comfortable chairs in the corner. And before long, there we sat, taking turns blowing smoke high into the air as we shook our heads in disbelief at the day’s events. (The day began with our encounter with the US Marine who was shocked by our presence in the region.)

In the end, we sat in this cafe for over three hours, simply too content to move.

When we finally walked back to the hotel just before midnight, both Anil and I were in agreement that this day ranked quite high in terms of memorable travel days we’d each experienced. And perhaps that’s hard to believe, as I don’t know, maybe it sounds like an unexciting or even dumb story when read here.

So if that’s the case, then I guess next time you’ll just have to join me and experience it for yourself, which you’ll actually have an opportunity to do once I announce, within the next few weeks, the new project I’m working on

Several hours later, on the ground in Washington D.C., I approached the Immigration Counter and handed over my form. The Immigration Officer swiped my passport, glanced at his computer screen and almost immediately stamped me back into the country. But just before I started to walk away he asked, “So you went to Afghanistan and Pakistan. How was it?” The only reply that I could muster up was a quiet, “Very interesting.”

He then called the next person in line and I turned away, relieved beyond belief at how well that had gone. Of course, that relief lasted a mere six seconds, right until the moment when a Customs Officer approached and asked me to step over to one of the inspection tables.

The following hour and a half of my life is a period of time that I will never forget and truthfully, never really want to endure ever again.

MY FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH A ONE-SIDED MIRROR

After another quick swipe of my passport and after reading the words “Pakistan and Afghanistan” on my form, the young Customs Officer immediately ‘invited’ both myself and my trusty backpack into a small interrogation room for a chat.

Once inside the room, the Officer began to inspect the contents of my backpack. First, he opened the front pocket, and immediately became suspicious of a collection of books that I had purchased in a bookstore in Delhi. There were five books packaged together, each containing the sayings and lessons of a different spiritual figure who had influenced India, including Buddha, Vivekananda, Nanak Dev, Gandhi and yes, the Prophet Mohammed.

Of course, the Customs Officer ignored the other four books and while holding up the book of quotes from the Prophet, proceeded to repeatedly scream “Do you believe in the words of the Prophet Mohammed?” over and over again while standing one foot away from my face.

Every time I tried to mention the other books, and the one time I tried to ask why that question was even relevant, I was immediately cut off and told to be quiet. So in the end, the only reply I gave to his question was, “What?”

THE INSPECTION CONTINUES…

The next problem began when the Officer picked up one of my pairs of pants and a shiny, unused bullet fell out of the front pocket. And while I will admit that the appearance of a bullet is always somewhat suspicious, I honestly felt that the additional screaming that was thrown my way as a result of this discovery was more than uncalled for. Without asking any questions at all, the Officer simply acted as if he had found a piece of evidence that undeniably linked me to terrorism.

As a side note, the bullet was given to me as a gift by a child who had taken me on a tour of his neighborhood on the outskirts of Kabul. I had been walking around on my own when he suddenly came out of nowhere, grabbed my arm and stopped me from walking up a hill that turned out to be littered with land mines. This kid had practically no possessions to his name, yet he wanted to give me a gift for spending some time with him. And so he gave me a bullet that he had found and had always kept with him for good luck.

After the bullet, came the burqa. I had purchased a deep blue burqa one day in Kabul in order to show my friends and family the reality of what it’s like to wear one of these things. As the Customs Officer pulled it out of my backpack, he demanded an explanation and even suggested that I had used the burqa in order to move undetected throughout the tribal regions of Pakistan and Afghanistan. As his suspicion grew, so did my confusion at the manner in which this interrogation was taking place.

THE BOX OF CANDY

Up until this point, I had really hoped that the Officer would not look in the side pocket of my backpack. But when he began to unzip the zipper, I had no choice but to take a deep breath and prepare for his reaction.

In that pocket was a box of candy, although this was no ordinary box of M&Ms. It was a box of “Osama bin Laden Kulfa Balls” a popular hard candy that can be found throughout the tribal areas of Pakistan. And on the front of the box, one finds an image of Osama himself alongside a tank, missiles and fighter jets. Naturally, the Customs Officer wasn’t too thrilled with me having this item in my possession and he again made the grand assumption that this box of candy linked me to terrorism.

“I could arrest you right now! Do you want me to arrest you?“, he started to shout repeatedly.

Eventually, I just gave up trying to offer my explanations and stopped answering his questions altogether.

In reality, I have no idea why I bought that box of candy, other than it grabbed my attention, I thought it was interesting and I wanted to take one home. It really was that simple.

A QUICK FLIP THROUGH MY JOURNAL

The next item to be closely inspected turned out to be my travel journal, the 300 pages of which were full of descriptions about the places and people I had met along the way. I wasn’t worried about him reading my journal at all as it certainly didn’t contain anything that this Officer could interpret as suspicious.

So I thought…

Here’s a tip. No matter what the reason, don’t ever write “You can get rid of your US citizenship by going to an Embassy and telling them that you don’t want to be a citizen any more” in your travel journal!

The Officer had opened my journal up to a completely random page and the line above is exactly what he found written. It was perhaps the only line in the entire book that could possibly have made my current situation any worse. Lucky me.

Before I continue, let me be clear. I was in no way at all implying that I was interested in getting rid of my US citizenship. Not even close! I had simply jotted down something I had read in an online article about the rules of citizenship in different countries. Unfortunately, I wrote down that one line and nothing else as I was in a rush that day and had to leave the internet cafe to catch a bus. I meant to go back and write more about the article I had read, but I never did.

And so there it was, alone on a random page of my journal, just begging the Customs Officer to get fired up once again. I certainly wasn’t surprised when he proceeded to read the line out loud a few times, get right in my face and scream, “Tell me now! Tell me you don’t want your US Citizenship and I’ll take it away from you. Right now!”

After trying my hardest to convince him that I did not want to lose my citizenship, the Officer suddenly left the room, returning a few minutes later with his Supervisor. Then, both men spent the following hour asking me a barrage of rapid-fire questions that included, “What do your parents do for a living?”, “Is that your natural hair color?”, “How did you obtain your visas?” and “Were the people of Pakistan friendly?”

“WERE THE PEOPLE OF PAKISTAN FRIENDLY?”

Really?, I thought. You’re really asking me that question?

Well, I could have just said “No, they were all mean and nasty to me” but there was no way I was about to do that to the wonderful people I had met during my travels. The truth is, almost everyone I met showed nothing but remarkable hospitality, kindness and generosity at all times. Almost every day during my visit, dozens of Pakistanis would politely approach me, shake my hand and inform me that they are not terrorists and that they do not support Osama bin Laden. They would then ask me to please return to America and tell everyone I know that Pakistanis just want to live in peace like everyone else. When I tried to explain this to the Officers, they once again ignored me, refusing to believe that there could possibly be even one decent person in that region of the world.

At one point, frustrated by the lack of training/knowledge of the people put in charge of protecting the US borders, I literally pulled out my guidebook and gave them a lesson in geography and in a sense, in reality as well. I showed them excerpts of the guidebook that spoke of friendly locals, must-see highlights and a generally safe environment for travelers. I also attempted to explain that my goal in traveling to this region was to educate myself, not to try and gain admission into a terrorist training camp.

Eventually, in a calm voice, the supervisor asked me one last time whether or not I “believed in the words of the Prophet Mohammed.” (It was as if all Customs Officers had memorized that exact same line.) When I told him that I’m not a very religious person at all, he stood up and much to my surprise, informed me that I was now free to go.

THE AFTERMATH

Through a friend of the family who used to work for the FBI, I later learned that as soon as I had left the Customs interrogation room, the local FBI office in Savannah, Georgia (where I was headed to visit my mom) had been notified of my arrival. As a result, the FBI then tapped the home phone at my mom’s house.

Further, for two years, I was given a private pat down and screening every time I went through security at a US airport. And whenever I returned from overseas, I was forced to go through a 30-minute, overly thorough inspection that involved dozens of questions, a ‘test’ about my previous travels and even a complete inspection of all my computer files.

The good news is that one day, it all stopped. Just like that I had apparently been removed from the list as a potential threat and I’ve never been inspected since.

However, I now realize that I should be enjoying these hassle-free Immigration & Customs experiences while I can, because I have a feeling that after this upcoming trip to the Middle East, I’m going to find myself right back in that interrogation room.

Photo credit: Pakistani man – babasteve

However, as any visitor to Kabul quickly discovers, one’s feet, despite the never-ending maze of nameless roads and the abundance of heavily-armed citizens, are infinitely more reliable than any local taxi you’ll find.

I learned this lesson during my first day in the city, after being forced to ride in four different taxis. The problem was that I didn’t use four different taxis to reach four different destinations. Instead, I needed the four taxis just to reach one single destination.

When I had walked out of my hotel (read this and if you’ve ever stayed in a nastier hotel, I’d love to know about it!) in the Zar Nagar section of town, I wanted to pay a visit to the Iranian Embassy. (Even though US citizens are not able to obtain independent travel visas to Iran, I figured I would give it a try anyway.) Assuming that a taxi would offer the most direct, and safest, journey across this mysterious city, I flagged down the first one I saw.

NOT AS EASY AS I THOUGHT

I jumped in and gave the driver my destination, which the manager at my hotel had written down in Persian on a scrap of paper. The driver read the note, pointed off into the distance and nodded his head several times. He then drove me three blocks down the road, stopped the vehicle, turned around, shrugged his shoulders and said “Sorry!”. When I repeated the words “Iran Embassy”, he just shrugged his shoulders one more time.

A bit confused, I climbed out of the taxi and immediately hailed another one. But this time, before I opened the door, I asked the driver, “Iran Embassy?”. He confidently repeated the words several times and invited me to sit in the front passenger seat. Then, as we approached a traffic light two minutes later, the driver stopped the car and asked me whether he should go straight, turn left or turn right at the intersection.

My reply was a blank stare, which led the driver straight into a bout of hysterical laughter. And when he finally regained his composure, he simply threw his arms up in the air and, with a smile on his face, informed me, “You go bye bye”.

You see where this is going I’m sure.

It took me forty minutes to hail another taxi, and after being driven around in circles for twenty more minutes, I found myself being politely kicked out once again.

Finally, the fourth taxi of the day was able to take me the rest of the way to the Iranian Embassy, dropping me off exactly 90 minutes after I had left my hotel. It felt as if I had traveled across the entire country, but I later discovered that the Embassy was only 2 miles away from my hotel.

Unfortunately, my visit to the Iranian Embassy didn’t last long at all. As I crossed the street and walked toward the entrance, I stumbled straight into a group of over 500 Afghanis, all trying to storm the front door of the building despite being beaten with long wooden sticks by a handful of armed guards. Not wanting to get caught up in whatever situation was taking place, I quickly jogged off in the opposite direction.

A DECISION TO MAKE

Confused, lost and a bit on edge, I seriously considered jumping into another taxi. But after the first driver that approached me shook his head when I mentioned the name of my hotel, I decided to just start walking instead. And off I went, despite having no idea where I was going.

However, it should come as no surprise that what turned out to be a six hour walk back to Zar Nagar proved to be the most rewarding and educational day of my visit to Afghanistan. During my adventure, I met a team of workers responsible for clearing the mine fields in the heart of the city, a group of children who insisted on holding my hand and guiding me around their neighborhood, the famous ‘King Fixer of Kabul’ Wais Faizi, a woman who had started one of Kabul’s first internet cafes and a friendly travel agent who was determined to grow his business despite having lost his sight and one of his legs in a bomb explosion.

Let me just say that when I finally walked back into my hotel room that evening, I was a different person from the one who had hailed that first taxi almost nine hours earlier.

THE TAXI EXPLANATION

The following morning, as I ate a breakfast of watery spinach and mushy peas with bread, the owner of the restaurant came over and sat down next to me. We had a good conversation, especially when he explained why my taxi experience was the most common kind of taxi experience in Kabul.

Apparently, the need for taxis was quite non-existent during the days when the Taliban controlled the city as people were unable to move around too freely. When the Taliban left Kabul, taxis were suddenly in high demand as the city began to grow rapidly and its citizens now had places they needed to be taken to.

And so, just like that, hundreds of taxis appeared out of nowhere.

The only problem was that none of the drivers had any experience given the earlier absence of taxis and as a result, nobody had any clue how to get anywhere. In addition, new businesses, schools, hospitals and more were popping up all the time and there simply was no way for the taxi drivers to know the exact location of the growing list of potential destinations. Throw in the changing of street names, frequent road closures and a population that doesn’t speak a common language, and its quite understandable that taxi driver’s spend much of their time shrugging their shoulders and asking their passengers for directions.

Needless to say, during the remainder of my stay in Kabul, I walked everywhere. Every day involved getting lost, several times at least, but by the end of my visit, it seemed that I had literally explored every single street, lane and alley. And all of that walking led to even more unforgettable interactions with an endless stream of local Kabulis, which is exactly what I hoped for when I made the decision to visit Afghanistan in the first place.

Of course, when I needed to get to the airport on my final day in order to catch my flight to Delhi, I did decide to give the Kabuli taxi system one last chance. After all, I didn’t feel too enthusiastic about walking the 16 miles with my backpack on.

Yet despite what I considered to be a very clear impression of an airplane – with my arms spread out wide, my back hunched over and airplane noises shooting out from my mouth – and despite hearing “Ah-ha!”, “Yes!” and “Okay!” several different times, I ended up being dropped off on three different street corners once again. Not one taxi driver knew how to get to the only International Airport in Kabul.

Luckily, just as I began calculating how fast I would need to run in order to reach the airport in time to catch my flight, another friendly local noticed me stranded on the side of the road and offered me a ride in his beat up SUV.

Photo: Kabul with mountains

This is a tale about my day today. While at this very moment I am able to laugh about the day’s events, I cannot say that this was the case earlier.

Actually, far from laughing, I found my legs shaking, my heart beating fast, my arms and chest tensing up and my ears burning as I was stricken with an overall feeling of hopelessness.

And it all began with trying to pay a credit card bill.

My friend and I set out at 11am this morning in order to pay the American Express credit card bill for her family’s business. We drove over to the local branch of Santander Bank, the very same branch that had confirmed to us on the phone that they accept payments for American Express credit card bills.

Of course, when we arrived, the woman behind the counter informed us that such a transaction was not possible.

We then walked across the street to the Banamex Bank, only to be told once again that we could pay every kind of credit card, except American Express.

Over the following three hours, we proceeded to visit three more banks and an American Express office, where we waited for a total of two hours in line, only to be informed each time that our transaction could not be processed for one inexplicable reason or another.

But eventually, after being forced to close our eyes and take deep breaths on several occasions, we managed to get the situation in order…sort of.

With an air of triumph, we walked out of the fifth bank of the day with all of the money we needed stuffed into my friend’s purse. All we had to do now was drive two miles down the road back to the American Express office, hand over the money and be on our way.

THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN TOO EASY!

Just one block from the American Express office, we got a flat tire.

We then pulled over to the side of the road and began to assess the situation. Not the most skilled tire-changers in the world, my friend and I spent about two minutes crouched down next to the rear right tire, trying to figure out how to remove the oddly-shaped bolts.

Once we eventually figured out what needed to be done, I suggested to my friend that she head over to the American Express office while I changed the tire. She walked around the car, opened the driver’s side door and…her purse was gone.

Before getting out of the car, she had placed it on the driver’s seat and now it simply wasn’t there. Somebody had opened the door while we were on the ground trying to set up the car jack, grabbed the purse and taken off without us seeing anything. I know it sounds absurd, but it’s the only possibility. With that purse went about $1000 USD, a driver’s license, a passport, every ATM and credit card, the keys to the apartment and a cell phone.

Somewhat distraught and disappointed in humanity, the both of us just sat on the curb for a while, unable and unwilling to move.

After about twenty minutes, I suddenly decided to take off and I began running like a madman all around the streets within a three-block radius, hoping to find some guy sitting behind a bush counting dollar bills. Of course I found nothing.

IT’S ONLY MONEY

It’s true, losing $1000 was not the problem as it simply isn’t about the money. Nor is it about the credit cards or the passport or the driver’s license, even though it will now take my friend at least three months to recover those documents given the slow speed of such processes in Mexico.

In the end, it’s about people and what kind of person would do such a thing?

Today’s events honestly made me sad. I simply can’t comprehend such an act and so when it happened right before my eyes, I was at an absolute loss of words. As we drove back to the apartment after this incident, my legs were literally shaking so badly and I felt so nauseous that I could barely concentrate. I ended up driving 25 mph the entire way home.

In all the craziness, I even contemplated putting this blog on hold as I began to lose faith in my long-held belief that people are inherently good. And since my entire mission as a global wanderer is based upon that concept, finding the motivation to write another blog post would have been a most difficult challenge.

ALL I NEEDED WERE SOME QUESADILLAS

Luckily, after going for a quick sunset swim and then biting into a few well-needed cheese-stuffed tortillas, my feeling of hopelessness did slowly begin to fade. Of course I’m going to continue writing, of course I’m going to continue believing that all human beings are inherently good.

I should continue believing that, right?

Today was just a disappointing day, a minor setback.

I know that this post might sound like a massive over-exaggeration to a simple robbery, but I really had a difficult time dealing with it….

UNBELIEVABLE!

Just this very moment, and I swear I’m telling the truth, we received a phone call from someone telling us that they have the purse! A girl named Diana found it hanging around a public payphone and after a quick search through the pockets, she discovered a bank receipt with our apartment phone number written on it. Apparently everything is still inside the purse except for the money.

Pardon me while I step away from my laptop for a few minutes of celebratory dancing!  Could it be that this one phone call has officially restored my faith in human beings?

On a side note, I’m a bit confused about what I should think of the person who stole the purse in the first place. Is placing the purse in such a public area, clearly intent on having it found, considered to be an act of kindness? Is it required by some bizarre thieves code of conduct down here?

Well, who cares! Human beings seem to be decent once again and I’m about to have a peaceful night’s sleep.

And Old Lyme is where I am right now.

Moments after arriving at the cottage yesterday afternoon, I sat in the enclosed balcony staring out at the abundance of trees, the brightly colored bird feeders, neighbors chatting away in the street and at signs posted in front of the homes that state such things as “Me and My Old Crab Live Here”. My grandmother immediately offered me an assortment of food fresh out of the oven. Unfortunately though, when it comes to my grandmother, this does not include tasty blueberry pies or warm apple crumble. Her oven is actually not used as a baking device, but instead as an extra pantry to store all sorts of packaged snack items. Food fresh out of the oven over here involves bags of chips and pretzels with questionable expiration dates.

In the evening, as we drove to a restaurant for dinner, I was also treated to a tour of their quaint four-street neighborhood. Leo drove and my grandmother provided the detailed narration, a commentary more informative than the eight hour tour of Rome I took last year. This commentary, however, did not explain the history of the area or the architectural changes since the early 1900s, but instead focused strictly on the fascinating topic of local gossip.

Without taking even a single breath during her spiel, my grandmother brought me up-to-date on all the happenings: “There’s Ellen and her dog, that ugly mutt, it craps everywhere and she never picks it up. Someone must be visiting the Grossman’s because their lights are on but it is Thursday night and Doris and Fred always go to the local theater on Thursday nights. Look at Francis over there, she’s a ghastly woman, at least she should do something with her hair…wait, she’s waving, everyone wave to Francis and smile, oh god what a beauty that woman is. It’s Frankie and Martha, Hi Frankie, the kids are in town I see, this is my grandson. His wife never says a word, NEVER, I don’t think they have a very happy marriage, she never smiles either, it’s like talking to a giraffe. That young couple over there just had a baby, they are very sweet people, but the baby has six toes on each foot, that thing will be swimming to Long Island soon. That man has Alzheimer’s and is falling apart along with his house, and there is Rupert, Hey Rupert, this is my grandson, Hey Rupert!, he doesn’t even hear me, deaf as can be and blind in one eye, everyone’s a mess over here. Earl, your grandmother is getting old, I’m getting old.”

Meanwhile, as Leo, who has lived in this neighborhood since childhood, turns a corner and drives by a small gray cottage with a fenced-in garden in the backyard, he suddenly recalls a most precious memory from his youth, “That is where I lost my virginity, right there in that garden.” He then laughs aloud as my grandmother shakes her head.

Old Lyme is the kind of place where neighbors generously share their homemade wine, brag exaggeratedly about their grandchildren, immediately inform the entire street when a bargain on nail clippers has been found and organize a ban of the local Dollar Store when the prices were raised to $1.25. Groups gather in the evenings to play poker or mah jong, watch the Red Sox or chat about the newest beauty salon in town. At the end of the night, everybody returns to the comfort of their own home, sips Wolfschmidt vodka on the rocks and prepares for bed. While wearing the bath robes they stole from their last cruise they take a quick read through the coupon booklets before turning out the lights. Another perfect day in paradise.

Last year, I was in Old Lyme during the Fourth of July, when the neighborhood was full of golf carts draped in flags, fireworks rocketing out of driveways and hors d’oeuvres served on red, white and blue napkins purchased from the Dollar Store before the ban went into effect. My grandmother and Leo held a barbeque, hosting and entertaining a motley collection of close family, friends, family friends and distant relatives with names such as Bunny and Irving. The warm weather, the beautiful beach only a few blocks away and 3 lb. tubs of cole slaw ensured that the day was a success for everyone. The three-month-old defrosted brownie cake was simply the bonus that made the event truly spectacular.

On the following day, when her party-hosting skills were no longer required, my grandmother was forced to deal with a situation so urgent that passersby may have mistakenly concluded that the survival of the entire summer cottage-living civilization depended on its outcome. I actually hate to admit that such a situation was created by a member of my own family, but the truth is, she had lost the slip for Leo’s shirt. ‘What slip?’ you may ask. I shudder with embarrassment as I say this, but it was the slip to pick up his shirt from the dry-cleaners. Can you believe that?

The slip had simply vanished and with it went my grandmother’s hope for ever being able to retrieve the shirt. She arrived at the logical conclusion that ‘the cleaners will give the shirt to someone else’ and this naturally threw not only her, but the entire street, neighborhood and town into a panic. People began to wish and even beg to be immediately stricken with Lyme disease in order to avoid facing another second of this tragic disaster.

‘How would the dry cleaners give the shirt to someone else?’ you may also wonder, just as I did. The explanation, as many of my grandmother’s explanations are, was more than obvious in the end. Someone would naturally find the slip for the shirt laying on the ground wherever she had misplaced it and because people ‘are not nice these days’, that person would undoubtedly drive to the address of the cleaners on the top of the slip, pay the $2.75 and retrieve the freshly cleaned large men’s striped polo shirt, just in case they happened to be or knew someone who was, a large male in need of a striped polo shirt.

The wait until noon, the time when the dry cleaners opened, was long and uncomfortable, with tempers flaring under the pressure of having the future of cottage life linked to this lost dry cleaning slip. Finally, a phone call was made and my grandmother desperately told her story to the woman on the other end of the line, begging her not to give the shirt to anyone else. “I will pick it up myself tomorrow,” she emphatically repeated. When she had conveyed her message as convincingly as possible, she hung up the phone. “I don’t think the woman is going to listen to me,” was all that my grandmother could murmur as she shook her head in hopelessness.

But thank goodness! The following day, the residents of cottages worldwide were able to relax as the shirt had been successfully returned to the bedroom closet.

Oh were we ecstatic! With such a disaster avoided, the three of us all sat down to enjoy a celebratory and hearty evening meal. The Wolfschmidt was poured more freely than ever and the tub of cole slaw was served yet again. In a state of relieved joy I enthusiastically began to plop spoonful after spoonful of the watery cabbage onto my plate, prepared to feast until I could feast no more. But then my grandmother suddenly chimed in, “Take more Earl, really, take some more. I’m going to throw it away tonight as soon as you’re done, I think the cole slaw has gone bad anyway.”

After putting my fork down and pushing the cole slaw aside, let’s just say that I laughed until there were no more tears to fall from my eyes, as did Leo and eventually my grandmother. And when we then discovered that the expiration dates on almost everything my grandmother had served for dinner had already passed, the laughter became even more uncontrollable and didn’t let up for a long, long time. Needless to say, we all happily settled for a meal of crackers and cheese instead.

The following morning, as I prepared to leave Old Lyme, I remember thinking how much I would miss such moments of laughter. Life needs such moments, when the absurdity reaches a point where nothing else but laughter will suffice. And that is why I return every year to visit my grandmother and Leo here in the adorable town of Old Lyme, because here such moments occur often.

JUST ANOTHER DAY ON BOARD

The telephone rang in my office and one of my team members informed me that an irate passenger was demanding to speak with me. This was a common occurrence during my time working as a Tour Manager on board cruise ships, so I simply straightened my name tag, walked across the lobby, slapped a smile on my face and extended a friendly hand to the angry passenger standing in front of the Tour Desk.

But this time, the passenger didn’t want to shake my hand. He was a large man, with disheveled hair, a scruffy unshaven face and dressed in camouflage pants, a black leather jacket and black army boots, not the typical attire of passengers on board the Queen Mary 2. And the fact that this man clearly hadn’t bathed in an extraordinarily long time made me want to resolve his issue as quickly as possible so that I could return to the comfort, quiet and pleasant aromas of my hidden office on the other side of the lobby.

He was an Italian man who didn’t speak any English, so I asked my Italian staff member, Susanna, to translate our conversation. It turned out that Mr. Campanella wanted Susanna to act as his personal translator when off the ship in every port of call on the itinerary and Susanna had rightly informed him that such a request was not possible. I again confirmed that Susanna had specific duties and responsibilities to perform every day we were in port and that with the size of our team, we could not afford to have her away from the ship each day.

Mr. Campanella then started slamming his hands on the counter before looking me in the face and stating “You are terrible man and you don’t want to help me.” He then stormed off. I just shrugged my shoulders, shared a chuckle with Susanna and returned to my office.

Three hours later, Mr. Campanella returned, demanding to speak with me once again. We then proceeded to repeat the exact same scene as earlier except that this time, he ended our conversation by yelling “Who do you think you are?”. Another shoulder shrug, another shared chuckle, another day on board.

When I eventually I finished my work for the day, I went up to the passenger gym for a quick workout. As I was sweating away on the elliptical machine, my pager went off and upon calling the number, I heard Susanna’s frantic voice on the other end. She told me that she had just run into Mr. Campanella in the lobby and he gave her a message to pass along to me. The message was: “Next time I see you, I will punch you in the face.”

Back to my workout I went.

SHOPPING FOR WEAPONS

At 7:00am the following morning, our ship arrived into the port of Newport, Rhode Island and I went out to the pier shortly after our arrival, as I always did in port, to meet with our tour operators and dispatch the day’s shore excursions for our passengers. It was a hectic morning as usual and when it finally slowed down I was happy to realize that my face had remained un-punched. But soon enough, Susanna came off the ship and pulled me over to one side. Mr. Campanella had now told her to “Tell your boss to be careful today. I will get revenge. Make sure you pass that message to him.”

So, with the message passed on to me, I promptly walked over to my favorite bakery in Newport, sat down and enjoyed a nice piece of apple pie and a cup of tea. And then I returned to the ship, went to my office and carried on with my preparations for the remaining ports of call of the voyage.

At 5:00pm we opened up our Tour Desk for business as usual and before long, I found myself walking back and forth across the Grand Lobby from my office to the Tour Desk in order to assist my team when long lines formed or to deal with the occasional complaining passenger. The only difference on this evening was that every time I left my office, I noticed Mr. Campanella standing in a corner of the lobby staring at me, shaking his head slowly from side to side and pounding his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

After seeing this a few times, I decided I had enough of his shenanigans and I went to speak with the Hotel Manager (cruise ship equivalent of a hotel General Manager) about the situation. The Hotel Manager, after listening to my story, made a phone call to the Chief Security Officer on board in order to have Mr. Campanella placed on the security ‘watch list’. However, it turned out that Mr. Campanella’s name was already on that list.

The Chief Security Officer informed us that after spending a few hours ashore in Newport, Mr. Campanella was caught trying to smuggle two hunting knives, a flip-knife, a machete and two spray-cans of mace that he had purchased in port back on board the ship.

Upon hearing this news, and for the first time in this saga, I started to fear for my safety.

CAPTAIN, WE HAVE A PROBLEM

Within five minutes, the Captain of the ship had joined myself and the Hotel Manager for a meeting and it was decided that Mr. Campanella would be banned from coming anywhere near me, my office, my team or the entire Grand Lobby.

Unfortunately, after receiving this warning, Mr. Campanella clearly failed to get the message as I found him waiting for me right outside my office the next time I opened the door. Needless to say, the Captain and Hotel Manager were soon issuing their second warning to Mr. Campanella, one that banned him from being anywhere on the entire Deck 3 at any time of the day or night.

The security office then provided me with an on-call security escort to accompany me around the ship 24-hours a day and I was also advised as an added precaution to begin locking the door to my office at all times, even when I was working inside.

A VIDEO CAMERA & A THREAT

The next morning, our ship was docked in Boston and once again, I went out to the pier to organize all of our tours as soon as the ship was tied up.

After about an hour, I suddenly found myself standing in front of Mr. Campanella’s traveling companion, a 6’6” Italian guy wearing tight black jeans and sporting a mullet, who had approached me to ask where he could find the bus for the tour he had booked. I quickly pointed out that he was two hours early for his tour and therefore, the bus had not yet arrived. He then mumbled something about wanting to wait outside and I just turned around and returned to my work.

But when I suddenly turned around a few minutes later, I caught this same guy videotaping me from a distance with a small video camera. Although as soon as he noticed I saw him, he quickly put the camera in his pocket and pretended to be wandering around aimlessly. Yet five minutes later, I caught him videotaping me once again.

And when I approached him, he just looked at me and calmly stated, “We will get you.”

Without replying, I instantly ran away, across the pier, back on board the ship and into the Hotel Manager’s office. I then informed my superior that either Mr. Campanella and his friend were kicked off the ship immediately, or I would be disembarking myself right there in Boston.

The following four hours involved meetings with the Captain, the Chief of Security, Boston Police and US immigration officials. Unfortunately, since Mr. Campanella had not actually committed a crime, the Boston Police could not arrest him. In addition, US immigration refused to allow the ship to kick him off because they didn’t want him on US soil. So in the end, the Captain had no choice but to keep Mr. Campanella on board.

And naturally, following lengthy meetings and discussions, I didn’t leave either, mostly because abandoning my team in the middle of a voyage would have caused some serious problems. In addition, the Captain assured me that the ship would try to unload Mr. Campanella once we arrived into Canada.

Of course, it came as no surprise when Canadian officials in both Quebec City and St. John’s, Newfoundland also refused to allow Mr. Campanella to remain in Canada longer than the ship’s stay.

LOBSTER & STEAK KNIVES

The final port on our itinerary, before finishing the voyage back in New York City, was the beautiful little village of Bar Harbor, Maine. And on this day, after I finished dispatching the morning tours, I treated myself to some much needed free time in the afternoon, which I spent devouring two yummy lobster rolls in the park and enjoying a massive cone of chocolate chip ice cream from an old country store and ice cream bar.

I stayed ashore as long as possible and only returned to the pier an hour before the ship was scheduled to set sail. However, when I did return to the pier, I was instantly snapped out of my relaxed state, as I noticed the Chief Security Officer arguing with none other than Mr. Campanella at the ship’s security checkpoint. It turned out that, once again, my Italian friend had been caught trying to smuggle knives on board, this time two steak knives, a hunting knife and a cleaver.

As soon as Mr. Campanella noticed me standing there watching the situation from what I felt was a safe distance, he started shouting in my direction and began walking towards me. I took a couple of quick steps back, but the security officers grabbed him before he could reach me.

For the remaining 36 hours of the voyage, the Captain had Mr. Campanella and his pal completely confined to their cabin, with constant security posted outside of their door. And despite all of the begging that Mr. Campanella did on the last night, trying to convince the Security Officer to destroy his knives instead of turning them over to the US Customs and Immigration officials in New York, the last I saw of Mr. Campanella was when he was being escorted into an interrogation room in the cruise ship terminal in Brooklyn.

Side note: Later that day I spoke with an Italian officer on board the ship who had acted as translator during Mr. Campanella’s meetings with the Captain. He informed me that he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Campanella was some sort of low-level, mafia-affiliated clean-up man based upon the region he came from and the suspicious way in which he acted. Whether or not this is true, of course, I’ll never know…but it seems like a good idea to look over my shoulder every now and then just in case.

UPDATE: A friend of mine just reminded me of one final part of this story. After the ship left Boston, Mr. Campanella asked one of the Receptionists on board for a detailed schedule of the Queen Mary 2 for the following year. He then informed the Receptionist that he would be “waiting for the Tour Manager in the port of Civitavecchia, Italy” the next time the Queen Mary 2 visited. Approximately five months later, the Queen Mary 2 arrived into Civitavecchia and sure enough, Mr. Campanella was waiting outside the port gates, still dressed in camouflage and wearing black army boots. Luckily, I was in India on my vacation in between contracts. But when the Chief Security Officer recognized him, he notified the port authorities and had Mr. Campanella removed from the area by police.

I had exactly one hour to kill before having to hail a taxi to the airport in order to pick up my close friend who was flying in from Thailand. And while one hour normally seems like a short period of time, on this occasion it was torturous, given that my arms, legs and chest required constant scratching due to the several dozen bedbugs I had shared my bed with during the night.

Why I had chosen the most ultra-budget, grimiest of hotels in Mumbai was beyond me, but there was nothing I could do at this point but to accept the consequences.

And eventually the hour did pass and I stood up to finally leave. But just before I reached the door, I noticed a paper calendar taped to the wall. It was a most ordinary calender, yet something struck me as odd. The date read “February 29th” yet my friend was arriving on March 1st. I suddenly realized that I had forgotten it was a leap year.

Therefore, I had one more day on my own in Mumbai.

I sat back down again in the cafe with my face in my hands, trying to decide how to spend that day, when the man from the reception ‘desk’ (which was actually just a three-legged wooden chair) approached me. He asked if something was wrong and I proceeded to explain my story.

He listened intently and when I finished, I just expected him to shrug his shoulders, let out a chuckle and wag his head back and forth.

What I absolutely didn’t expect him to do was to offer me an acting role in a BOLLYWOOD TELEVISION SERIES! (For those who are not as addicted to India as I am, Bollywood is the Indian equivalent of Hollywood.)

At first I thought it was a joke, but without even waiting for my answer, the man returned to the reception chair, made a quick phone call and then informed me that someone would be picking me up from the hotel in thirty minutes.

When I tried to press him for further details, all he said was, “You go and be actor somewhere, I think they will pay you.”

JUST ANOTHER DAY ON THE SET

The journey out to Juhu Beach (an upscale, coastal neighborhood of Mumbai) required two taxis, a commuter train and a rickshaw, but the young man who had collected me from the hotel seemed to know exactly where we were headed.

We eventually arrived at the set of the Indian soap opera Sansaar, which was actually a beachfront mansion in which half of the inside had been temporarily transformed into a London apartment building. As soon as we entered the door we encountered dozens of people – actors, producers, directors, set techs, errand-boys, etc. – as well as an endless sea of cameras, computers, props and sets. And while this is exactly what one might expect to find in such a place, it all seemed more overwhelming than the wildly chaotic streets outside.

I was quickly introduced to the casting director, a young friendly guy who led me into a small living room for a quick chat. After explaining to him that I had absolutely no acting skills whatsoever and was completely uncomfortable in front of a video camera, he promptly offered me a speaking role as a British police officer, a role that required me to act in five different scenes and memorize a page of lines.

Another man then entered the room, had one look at me and whispered something to the casting director. Within minutes, I was back outside the mansion, being driven to a barber shop where I was given a shave and hair cut courtesy of the director, who had felt that my normal scruffy look didn’t exactly fit the role.

After a lavish buffet lunch on one of the mansion’s terraces overlooking the ocean, where I spent an hour chatting with several of the actors and actresses and trying to memorize my lines, I was handed a British police officer’s uniform and directed to my ‘changing room’, which was actually a closet that didn’t even have a door.

Then, fighting off my nerves, I walked onto the set and silently prayed to the statue of Ganesh in the corner. As if he magically answered my prayers, I found myself, over the following hour and a half, rising from an absolute nobody to an award-worthy actor. Sure, each scene took at least ten takes due to my mumbling and bumbling, but I think it was quite clear to everyone that it was the passion I showed for my role, not a lack of ability, that was the real culprit.

And while the look on my fellow actors’ faces, who were playing a family whose daughter was just in a car accident, often appeared to be that of frustration as I repeatedly blurted out, take after take, “I found and sweater, wallet this and car daughter book”, there were only looks of pure joy (and perhaps relief) when I finally nailed it and informed them that, “I found this sweater, this wallet and this book in your daughter’s car.”

I’m not exactly sure if joy was what they were supposed to display at that exact moment…but who am I to say what’s right? I’m only an actor, not a director.

When the actual director did finally yell out ‘CUT!’ for the last time, my day of acting did abruptly come to an end. Of course, I went around the room and accepted the handshakes of the other actors and crew, all of whom I assume felt so proud to have worked with me.

The young man who had picked me up from my hotel earlier that morning appeared again in order to take me back. But before we left, just as the man at the reception desk had predicted, the casting director handed me 1000 Rupees ($22 USD) and thanked me for my services.

Barely able to control my excitement, I left that mansion seriously pondering a new career.

ARE YOU READY TO START YOUR ACTING CAREER?

If you’re ever in Mumbai, all you need to do is wander around the leafy streets of the Colaba district. Unofficial ‘scouts’ scan the area for foreigners all the time, as they earn commissions for filling roles in films, television series, television commercials and even music videos. If for some reason nobody approaches you, ask anyone working at the hotel you’re staying at.

I’ve met a handful of foreigners who’ve spent months in Mumbai, earning a living from this kind of acting. As casting directors began to recognize and personally request them, they started being given better roles and a lot more money. And the greatest part is that in Bollywood, the least important requisite of being a foreign actor is having past acting experience.

Where else is it this easy to get your face on the big screen?

“Hello,” I replied somewhat groggily.

“Thank you,” he then said before turning around and victoriously running back to his group of friends who showered him with endless high-fives and pats on the back. My morning nap had been interrupted but I couldn’t help but smile.

I glanced around and sure enough, I was still surrounded by the same 150 Cambodians as when I had fallen asleep. We were all waiting for the same train, the only train of the day. And the train was late.

Five hours late so far. Not five hours late arriving at its destination, but five hours late in arriving at the station to begin the journey. Not one of the handful of staff at the train station could provide any details as to where the train might be, so I had no choice but to sit in the 110 degree heat, sweat myself thin and wait.

The train was scheduled to leave Kampot at 9:00am for the six hour trip to the capital city of Phnom Penh. Regular buses covered the distance in only three hours, but I had been in the mood for something different. And still sitting in Kampot when I could have already been in Phnom Penh was definitely different.

12:00pm…1pm….2pm….all came and went as I passed the time in and out of sleep, eating what appeared to be skewers of grilled chicken buttocks and engaging in basic Khmer conversation with the friendly people who approached me out of curiosity.

THE WHISTLE

But alas! At 3:10pm, the loud, undeniable whistle of a train! As I stood up in anticipation, I observed a rusted locomotive pass by, followed by cargo car after cargo car. All I could see was a quarter-mile long train of cargo cars.

“Wrong train,” I concluded and quickly sat back down. But then I noticed something strange – everyone else around me was gathering their belongings and gravitating en masse to the edge of the train.

My conclusion was immediately proven incorrect as I watched a teenage boy climb up the side of one of the cargo cars, using the holes and dents in the metal to propel himself towards the top. He swung his legs over the edge and landed on the light blue tarp that covered whatever goods were being transported. The boy then reached over the edge with a blanket and helped pull his mother, sister and father up the side as well.

I looked to my left and I looked to my right and observed dozens of people climbing up the sides of over ten different cargo cars. Five year old children, elderly men and women and even a woman with two babies strapped to her back carried on as if this was the only known method of boarding a train in the world.

Not wanting to remain in Kampot for the rest of my life, I walked over to one of the cars and tried to map out a climbing route. I looked up and saw the widely smiling face of a young man hanging over the edge looking straight down at me. He motioned for me to throw my backpack up to him and without hesitation I did. And then he motioned for me to climb, as he clapped and shouted encouragements (I assume they were encouragements!) in Khmer as other passengers poked their heads over the edge and joined in.

Without too much trouble, I reached the top and tried to stand on the unsteady blue tarp, full of crooked hills and deep valleys resulting from the what appeared to be haphazardly organized cargo underneath. Walking on it was like walking on a bouncing trampoline and I chose to crawl over to where my bag had been placed instead. Five minutes later the train left the station.

THE JOURNEY

Unique scenery this ride most certainly did provide. More scenery than anyone could ever possibly want from a train ride. Once the train inched out of the station at a speed of approximately 5 miles per hour, it remained at that speed for the entire duration of the trip.

The train moved so slowly that throughout the evening, passengers casually climbed down the side of the train, jumped off, relieved themselves in the nearby forest and then jogged back to their car and climbed up again – all while the train was moving!

Picking up additional passengers and purchasing food from the food stalls scattered along the way were also done in the same manner. Each time we rolled through a tiny village, a handful of new passengers would climb on board and a few hungry passengers would climb down, grab some snacks and climb back on.

At one point, a train conductor actually came around, stumbling over the tarp himself, in order to collect the train fare. However, he walked right by me without asking for any money. Due to an out-dated Khmer Rouge-era law, foreigners were not to be charged for government-operated transportation. This certainly wasn’t a generous gesture of the Khmer Rouge, but instead, a way to ban foreigners from moving around the country. Why nobody had changed the rule in the years since the reign of the Khmer Rouge had ended, I have no idea.

As soon as the sun set, the darkness left everyone with no option but to lie down and stare at the star-filled sky. It was the only option, that is, until the stars suddenly disappeared and the rain began to fall…and fall hard.

Almost every passenger had nestled into one of the more comfortable ‘valleys’ in the tarp, so it didn’t take long for all of us to find ourselves sitting in waist-deep puddles. At one point I tried to shift my position slightly, but this caused a not insignificant amount of water from my personal puddle to pour over onto the man next to me. So, for fear of drowning a small child, I just sat there motionless, occasionally letting out a slight burst of laughter at the situation.

THE GUNSHOTS

The rain fell for about an hour, which was more than enough to ensure that I would remain soaked through my clothes until whatever time we might finally arrive at our destination.

That time turned out to be 2:00am. The scattered lights of the outskirts of Phnom Penh eventually gave way to the city center and as soon as the station was in sight, the people around me began packing up their belongings and inching towards the edge of the car.

And naturally, nobody waited for the train to come to a complete stop before tossing their bags and boxes onto the platform and climbing down themselves. I stood up, squeezed as much water out of my shirt as possible and grabbed my backpack.

Then came the gunshots from within the train station. Three shots were fired and then after a few seconds, two more. People instinctively hid behind walls, laid down on the ground or ran as fast as they could down empty train tracks away from the station.

Two dozen police officers immediately rushed onto the platform to prevent anyone else from climbing down from the top of the train. Two more gunshots were heard from inside the station. I dropped my backpack back on the tarp and took a seat once again.

I had finally reached my destination, but in Cambodia, as I’ve now learned is the case with every adventure we embark on in life, reaching your destination does not indicate that your journey has come to an end.