Two Wheelin' Nation

Phnom Penh, Cambodia
16 December 2002

There seem to be more scooters than people in places like Vietnam and Cambodia, here is a Saigon street.


"WHHOAAAAA! Shit. Slow down, tiger." I slapped my driver on the back again as he swerved to avoid another motorbike going against traffic. Horns blare behind me as cars whip past our swarm of moped straddling schoolkids in blue pants and white shirts.

"YIKES!" My shoulder brushes the woman riding next to me, two children clinging to the back of her moto. Dust blows all around us as everyone covers their mouths and closes their eyes..."JESUS!" I pull my shoulders in tight. Each passing motorbike sports snagging cables, protruding pedals, boxy wiry baskets, and devouring drive chains. I curl my fingers and toes into tight little balls, lest some passing bike tear off this little piggie.

Phnom Phen, population one million, claims about four miles of paved roads, maybe nine traffic lights, and seemingly half a million two-wheeled vehicles, all in varying states of disrepair. Two-wheelers outnumber cars twenty-to-one.

It's simple economics, most Cambodians cannot afford cars, so anything with wheels or even hooves finds its way onto the roads: bikes, moped, motorcycles, tuk tuks, pedicabs, even horse and water buffalo drawn carts. Cargo of all sorts also gets strapped on, half a cord of firewood, three dozen melons, even a live 400-lb pig once!

Motos scoot along with all sorts of people and cargo, regardless of safety or capacity. A 250cc mopeds (the kind you had in college) carries up to three adults, with added foot pegs. I watch families of five straddling one moped, like some Barnum and Bailey circus act. A woman the other day struggled to steer with three kids on her moto, two in back, one in front of her, and a infant slung hammock-like in a Khmer krava (scarf) between her handlebars!!

Lots of cottage industries spring up in support of the motos. Small filling stations, a woman with a dozen assorted glass bottles (mostly Johnnie Walker) filled with vermilion gas and orange petrol sit every 200 yards. Every 500 yards someone sleeps next to a portable electric tire pump, charging the equivalent of 2 cents to patch and re-inflate a flat. Every other storefront repairs bikes, mopeds, or both.

With the traffic, stepping off the curb constitutes a combination game of chicken and Russian Roulette. Lanes are a suggestion, traffic signals are superfluous, and police are ignored. Like getting swiped by a wayward New York takeout delivery guy, you better look every which way but loose before crossing the street.

I initially shirk from crossing, waiting for impossible gaps in the traffic to appear. I end up getting sunburned. Finally, like an infantryman dashing across open ground, I crouch and sprint, camera flapping, backpack bouncing, to the other side. Whew!

Walking all day, I relent and flag down a passing moto for a ride back to my hostel, a ride costs about 30 cents. I endure good rides and bad rides, like the one mentioned earlier, realizing 9 of 10 drivers don't know where I want to go. I quickly learn to point out the turns required to get to my hostel.

After a few days, I feel brave enough to rent a moped in Siam Reap, the town adjoining the famous Angkor Wat temple complex. Granted, traffic here is analogous to the Buy.com tour when compared to Phnom Penh. But its just mellow enough for me to get around the temples safely.

Interestingly enough, there seems to be an underlying order to the macadam madness, a real-life exhibition of chaos theory. I witness no accidents, though I waited with camera ready when I spied a guy carrying two 8-foot long 4x4 beams across his bike, nearly swatting a score of other road users. Everyone seems to know how traffic works and these two-wheeled swarms flow smoothly around slow cars and other obstructions like water down a rocky stream.

The laid-back Cambodians, with ready smiles, seem not to mind the chaotic traffic, to them, its life. I think the predominantly Buddhist nation also thinks that wiping out some family in a moto accident will saddle you with bad karma for many lifetimes.

A week into my trip, I too am used to the traffic and the dust. I smirk at a bunch of fresh-off-the-boat tourists stand tentatively at the side of the road, waiting for a break in the traffic; or watch a backpacker cling tightly to the moto seat. Whereas I, Michael Seto, intrepid Cambodian road vet, wave my arms around like Kate Winslet in 'Titantic' and flash a silly grin at swarming around me.

I slap my driver's back, "FASTER!"

Sweet Ass

Queenstown, New Zealand
21 November 2002

Kim, a Swiss financier, and I, part of the 'Stray' gang basking in the light of a New Zealand sunset.


"SWEET ASSSSSS!" we shouted.

Our driver, Damien, 'Veno' used the phrase all the time when satisfied over anything, meaning 'sweet as...' and not sweet ASS. A garrulous 28-year old Kiwi surfer, he'd been our guide to New Zealand for the last 14 days since our departure from Auckland.

I chose Stray's tour bus on a strong recommendation from the hostel staff in Auckland. Backpacking seems to be a cottage industry here as much as sheep farming and cheering on the All Blacks, the national rugby team. There are several competing bus lines with names like Magic and Kiwi Experience, the latter reputed as the party bus; which I carefully avoided.

The Stray company started up just six months ago and they still lease buses. We went through six buses in as many days since our group kept getting bigger or the buses kept breaking down. Each bus sported its own quirks, though it seemed that the door on every bus broke - we kicked one open once. But our last bus has lasted a whole week and we've named her Daisy.

The whole country caters to backpackers, with a focus on the 'adrenaline' sports: bungee jumping (invented here), skydiving, rafting, caving, glacier walks, and the famous 'tramps' or hikes in the national parks. Affordable hostels abound in all the cities, and I quickly learned to 'self-cater;' meaning I dined like a college student, ramen noodles, PB&J's and granola bars - to save money. (And I felt like a 'real' backpacker too!)

A group of us bonded quickly as we stuck together for the first ten days or so. The disparate backgrounds melted away as we found commonality in our adventurous life outlooks and mellow approach to work and life. The group spanned Europe, with several Dutch, Brits, Swiss, a German and an Israeli (yes, they got along). I alone represented America.

This fact was nice as one could sense the slight cringing of the Euros when one or two groups of 'Yanks' would loudly board the bus. You really could see the loud obnoxious side of us sometimes. But in fact, all the other Americans have been very nice for the most part (if a bit naive) and probably even felt a little left out of our tight little group - and maybe a bit intimidated by the multicultural band.

The Americans in NZ seemed to be the ones that prefer travel in more familiar and user-friendly surroundings. Whereas I found that Americans travelling in more 'off the beaten track' places to be much more open to new cultures and much more sensitive to differences in the local populace and a little less brash.

We got used to shouting, "NEW MEAT" as other travellers hopped on the bus, reminiscent of some prison movies. But all in good fun. The buses follow a circuit around the country, north and south island and travellers can hop on or off at any point, giving flexibility to remain in a spot that tugs you. But my lack of time forced me to book a sixteen day minimum trip and remain on the bus for the entire time, though seeing most of NZ.

I spent the first five days in Auckland figuring out what to do, including several trips to the travel agent to plan and sort out my around the world ticket through Star Alliance (US$2000 in NZ but $4000 if purchased in the US - go figure!). That finished, I clambered aboard the bus for the quick tour of NZ, now two-thirds complete.

The weather in the North surprised me with the cold and grey clouds and almost daily rain! I thought that down here it was summer, but its actually a early spring and rain is very common. The skies improved as we moved south and our first sunny day came on a eight-hour hike called the Tongariro crossing, which climbed 7000' to a group of volcanic lakes. Beautiful. I skipped most of the adrenaline sports, having 'been there and done that' in many other places and times.

I even skipped the mellow partying for the first few days as I decided to fast for three days as a way of initiating my travels. It felt great and I a longer fast tempted me, but I relented. I am eating more consciously, little fast food and lots of fruit and nuts; thus I've lost about five pounds already. I also manage to be disciplined enough to do some yoga and my 'prison' workout a few times a week to stay in some semblance of fitness.

The cafe culture rules NZ and I've managed to find good coffee and latte's all over the country - so much for kicking the caffeine habit! Its just like home here, with English spoken (albeit with funny accents and some WEIRD slang), all the bathrooms are REALLY clean, the usual fast food outlets, and nice grocery store with food I actually recognize.

So this place eased me back into the travel mindset after three months of life in America. No TVs and a really crappy newspaper here keep me out of touch with the goings on in the world. I figure someone will tell me when we go to war with Iraq. Its a comfortable way to start off and I am truly enjoying myself, though a little more spare time would be nice. We seem to 'fang' (drive quickly) through to each location, from one bungee jump to another jet boat site, and hardly get time to just sit around and relax.

I now track all my expenses on this trip since I am a bit over budget and need to be more conscious of my travel spending habits. This also forces me to be very diligent in my journaling, which I am happy to report goes very well and I am having some great insights and deep thoughts (more on that later!).

I leave most of my new found friends tomorrow and continue on to Christchurch, skipping the southern-most portion of the country. Its a bit sad since we've become a bit of a family, knowing each other habits and and temperaments. I look forward to transitioning to a more independent way of travel and some time alone; but I'll miss the Stray gang soon.

SWEET ASSSSSS!

On the Road Again

San Jose, California
3 November 2002

Me on the 'W' trail in Torres del Paine National Park, Chile - ranked top ten in the world by Nat'l Geographic.I climb on a plane for Auckland, New Zealand in six hours.

I am ready to get on the road again.

Arriving in New York in August for a wedding and a one month rest from part one of my around the world trip, I found my stay in the US tripled as a result of my sister's near fatal bicycling accident. The entire month of September found me in the hospital with nary twenty-four hours in a row away from my sister's bedside.

With a near miraculous recovery after five days in ICU, my sister spent the second half of September in rehabilitation, learning to walk and talk again. Now with a month spent recovering at home, she resembles her old self again and I feel ready to leave her in the care of her husband and my doting mom.

Looking over my itinerary, I decided to switch direction to give myself better weather throughout the trip. Instead of heading off to Eastern Europe and following winter around to the East, I chose NZ as the new starting point and will chase spring westward. The trip take me broadly through Australia & NZ, then South East Asia: Singapore, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Hong Kong and the Philippines (as the gateway to Palau for a diving trip); then India, Nepal, Tibet and onto Beijing. From Beijing the Trans Mongolian train carries me to Moscow and St. Petersburg and then through Eastern Europe then finally to Morocco, Scotland (golf) and back to New York City in September 2003.

I guess that's not "broadly."

I envisioned a two-year total time off from work when I first started this endeavor; which has morphed into a nearly three year journey. It?s been worth every moment and every penny (and the opportunity cost).

Packing differed little from the first time. I cut down my medical kit, after replentishing my Cipro/Flagyl antibiotic stock for an outrageous $270! (I now understand why we need drug coverage in our insurance ? DOH!) Otherwise, I found my original kit pretty suited my needs and everything still fit into my worn-in Eagle Creek convertible pack. I added a dedicated camera bag (waistpack) to carry my equipment, including a new Canon 3.2 megapixel digital camera. So hopefully, you will see more photos online this trip.

I want to take this leg of the trip in a more relaxed and laid-back ?come as you are? manner. In other words, totally opposed to my personality type and normal tendencies. But already I found myself stressing out in the last couple of weeks over flights, dates, and myriad other planning issues ? which I really did not need to do.

My budget targets fell apart with the unplanned three months here in the US (a three day golf trip to the Kingsmill Resort in Williamsburg Virginia and a weeklong seminar with my teacher Brugh Joy being the main culprits.) It amazes me how I can live for a whole day in a third world country, including hostel bedspace, for the price of a bagel and coffee in New York City. So I expect to run about 15% over budget for my three year sojourn. But that does not really matter in the long run (when we are all dead anyway).

Slowly I expect to settle back into backpacker mode and my coffee and adrenaline fueled past months will fade away and give me time to reflect on the personal events of September. I grew much closer to my family than I ever have been in my adult life. Friends showed so much compassion and sympathy; and my bonds with you deepened also. Of course, I learned a great deal about myself, which is what this whole silly existence is all about; and what this whole silly "trip" is about.

So I hope you look forward to reading about my trip as much as I enjoy experiencing and writing about it. I cannot wait to go. I cannot wait to come back. It?s only in the contrasts that we can see the gradations of life.

Bodrum Doldrums

Bodrum, Turkey
21 July 2002

The beach in Bodrum, Turkey with it's distinctive 'sugar cube' architecture, a favorite get-away for Europeans.


I wanna go home!

I WANNA GO HOME!

Are we there yet?

Its official. I am burned out on travel... ...for now.

I slog through the motions here in Turkey - ambling aimlessly along at the semi-posh Mediterranean beach resort of Bodrum. I am tired of beaches, buses, hostel breakfasts, cold showers, hot stuffy rooms, and looking at stupid ruins.

Holed up in my hotel, in vain I searched the satellite TV for a broadcast of the British Open. Instead I sleep off my hangover and avoid the midday sun.

Catering to upper-class Turks and middle-class Europeans, this famous beachside resort boasts the Halikarnis disco (the largest outdoor open-air club in Europe) which cranks along till 5am. The crowds don't even show up until midnight. With my convertible pants and tevas - I don't make the velvet rope hurdle; even if I wanted to pay the $20 cover charge. I feel like I'm back in New York trying to get into some Meat-Packing chichi spot...and getting thrown out. So I stick to the $2 local Efes beers at a breezy beach bar.

Resistance is futile. The bars and restaurants and promise of meeting some of the tanned, string-bikini clad partygoers pulls me out of bed at 10pm. I cruise the narrow street along the beach, both sides clogged with bars, restaurants, and stores - all beckoning for hard currency sporting tourists - Euros welcome, Dollars not.

I chill out at Lodos, a popular but easygoing bar that opens onto the beach; actually everything lies along the beach and therein lies Bodrum's appeal. A dual bay and yacht harbor bisected by an ancient crusader castle jutting up between the twin harbors filled with masts, like something impaled on a bed of nails.

During the day, the beach resembles the typical nightmare Mediterranean resort; every inch of the rocky strip of land called beach covered with lounge chairs, umbrellas, and red Northern European bodies; juextaposed among the drak chocolate tan of the Turks. Cigarettes in evidence everywhere tell you this ain't Santa Monica.

I perk up in a conversation with Kata, short of Katarina, a beautiful blond German woman at Lodos. Maybe going out was a good idea afterall. Tagging along with her friends for a nargila (waterpipe) on the beach, things go well. Near 3am we still chat and sip beers when I ask Frank, a guy looking roughly my age who he came with. He gestures to Kata, "My daughter and I..." DAUGHTER!!! DAUGHTER GOES MY MIND. UH OH.

I ask Kata a few moments later, "So, how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"DOH!!!!" My Homer squeal echos off the castle walls and over the water. Time to call it a night. I excuse myself and retreat to my shabby room. I'm getting too old for this shit. The next day my hangover reiterates that point. Too old.

So I hang in and watch TV and eat some greasy Burger King lunch to soak up the ethanol. Instead of the horror of Tiger Woods' impossible collapse Saturday at the (British) Open at Muirfield; BBC World brings me non-stop coverage of the sýnking ship called the US stock market.

All I think about is home. I imagine walking down West Broadway, window shopping; I see myself dining at Asia de Cuba, wearing all black and Gucci; I want corned beef hash and scrambled eggs at the University Restaurant near my old studio; I want to hit golf balls out on Long Island like the old days.

I want to drive my Boxster... whoops, sold it. I miss the service in the US. I miss holding a sophisticated conversation with a native English speaker. I miss driving a car and listening to my own music. I miss soooo much.

One thing I've learned on this trip is to listen to your heart and soul. It'll tell you what it wants - if you know to LISTEN. Sometimes we can't get what we want right away - like Kata and satellite TV. But as the song says: 'sometimes, you get what you need' and I need to just relax a little and create a comfort zone around me - a little bit of home. So I dine at BK and Mickey D's, and browse through 'Entertainment Weekly' at the bookstand, and surf the net.

It's enough and on this last day in Bodrum before heading to Ephesus, the famous Roman ruins up the coast, I feel like laying out on the beach, playing in the water, and drinking a couple beers in my last night in Bodrum; no longer in the doldrums.

The doldrums will return someday, as they always do, but I know just the prescription to ease the pain...listen to your heart and do something for yourself and like that silly 'dance as if no-one is looking,' eat what you want, sleep when you want, and have a beer if you want.

Or not.

Born Again Beirut

Beirut, Lebanon
1 July 2002


Car horns honk outside my hotel room as people scream and shout celebrating Brazil's victory in the World Cup final over Germany this afternoon. A line of Mercedes convertibles and Audi's and Volvo's drive down Bliss Street in front of the American University of Beirut, across from where I am staying.

The ground floor of my hotel, the University Hotel, houses a McDonalds, Starbucks, and Dunkin Donuts. Needless to say I don't walk very far for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Two soldiers in fatigues and carrying M-16's represent the only throwback to the Beirut of the 1980's; no doubt guarding the mighty symbols of democracy.

My first time hearing of Beirut came from watching the tragic news of a truck bomb which destroyed the US Marines headquarters and killed 271 Marines and sailors on 23 October 1983. I remember because I wanted to be a Marine at the time, though, I was still popping pimples in high school. I failed to understand the dynamics of the situation that my fellow Marines found themselves in; and I think the policy makers that put them into Beirut failed also.

Thomas Friedman's book on Beirut illuminated the situation and various factions fighting for control of the country, which eventually fell to Syria and Israel, who still control the Northern and Southern regions of Lebanon. I recalled anecdotes from Friedman as I wandered about the city.

I spent time walking down the infamous 'Green Line,' or Rue de Damas, the road to Damascus, which separated the Christian East Beirut from Muslim West Beirut. Things have changed. Now a Virgin Megastore stands astride this line of demarcation in the newly rebuilt marina district; some bullet pockmarks still scar the building.

The civil war ended in 1992 and Prime Minister Rafik Al Hariri initiated several projects to rebuild the war-torn country, especially the capital, Beirut, once called the Paris of the Mideast. The recent rebuilding focused on the city center, where new low rise office buildings in ochre Spanish Mediterranean style delineate a new business district, its streets lined with chic sidewalk cafes and downtown bars with names like Liquid, UV and Tribeca. Aside from the empty shell of the old Holiday Inn - a 30 story shell of bombed out hotel rooms, not much visible damage remains for casual discernment.

But further up the road, in the Achrafieh district, the contrast between old and new stands out starkly. A budding area with hip cafes and sleek bars stands next to war torn buildings, bullet and shell marks scarring the outsides. The narrow streets clogged with cars and ground level shops exude life, yet burnt out buildings, vacant lots, piles of rubble, and bullet holes remind us of the past.

But here, the Beirut nightlife as resumed, much less strictly Muslim than neighboring Syria or Jordan, young, uninhibited Beiruti's toss back imported beers and strut about in Gucci with Nokia phones and BMW's. The young women strut their stuff in spaghetti strap tops, miniskirts and hairstyles that would bring a public flogging from the Taliban.

Strolling from one end of Monnot Road to the other, about 400m, one passes about 35 bars and restaurants, reminiscent of the concentrated area of Lan Kwai Fong in Hong Kong. Like other Mediterranean countries, the nightlife only picks up around midnight as the streets fill with expensive cars and groups of young Beiruti's on the prowl.

The one throwback to the civil war days - red lights. Drivers never stopped for red lights, the fear of a kidnapping or car bombing calling for safety in movement. This has not changed in modern Beirut and one cringes in the old Mercedes taxis as the drivers shoot straight into intersections without so much as a glance at other traffic.

With just about 3.6mn people in an area about 70% the size of Connecticut; Lebanon's GDP per capita is estimated at $5,000, making it one of the wealthiest countries in the region. Fancy international hotels, multinational companies, and all the worldwide logos of Americana put Beirut on the road to recovery.

Appropriate that I happened to see the HBO Special on 9/11 while in this devastated, but recovering city. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the images from that fateful day flashed on the screen. Hearing Guiliani recount the events of emotions left me drained and numb once again. Yet the pictures of selfless firefighters, compassionate doctors, resolute leaders, and inspired citizenry remind of the strength of America.

Our strength lies not fleets of F-117 stealth fighters, nuclear weapons, nor the world's largest economy. Our strength lies in a country that welcomes open debate on the Pledge of Allegiance, flag-burning, abortion, and Enron. Our strength lies in freedom of expression, religion, immunity to illegal search and seizure. Our strength lies in a system that promotes individual rights which encourage each person to strive for excellence and realize their full potential.

As I travel, its these intangible virtues of power I hear others envy and aspire to; not the external trappings, but the internal foundations. As I observe others, I see the strengths and weaknesses of my home even more clearly. America is far from perfect, far from omniscient, far from omnipotent. Yet our way of life finds itself coveted and emulated in many places. Not just wishing for Mickey, Nike and Big Macs, but for the freedom to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."

As we approach the celebration of our nations' birth, I find comfort in the underlying strength and resilience of our way of life and our belief in the sanctity of individual rights and the right of all people to reach their life's potential. No-one can wretch this away from us and as others recover from even larger disasters and conflicts, so too, do I believe our nation can surmount the challenges confronting us.

A Year in the Life

Cairo, Egypt
6 June 2002

Reflecting on a year on the road - what does it mean? Photo by Michael Seto

Gray Glacier in Torres del Paine, Chile. A reminder of some processes where we are just a blink in their time.

"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." One of the best book openings ever, aptly describing the past year.

I left New York City just one year ago on my trip around the world, now half finished according to my initial plan. A lot transpired in the past year, both in my life and in the world; the following peice focuses on the former.

"Lies, damn lies, and statistics."

365 days
7 continents
49 countries (20 in this past year) 60 rolls of film exposed
1 ancient wonder of the world (the pyramids at Giza)
7 rounds of golf
36 postcards written
111 meters of bungee jump
17 scuba dives (Galapagos and Red Sea)
42 Big Mac meals
1 bad bout of diarrhea
1 more Christmas on the road and the experience of a lifetime... priceless.

I now touched all seven continents in the world and all the oceans dividing them. My feet trod the dirt of forty-nine countries, twenty new ones on this leg of the journey. How many more before I return home?

I have gazed upon mountain vistas from Patagonia to the Rockies, icefields from Antarctica, painted Namibian deserts, sunrises and sunsets, even places where the sun never sets. I have hiked granite cliffs to vast barren salt plains to steaming jungles. I have been nearly robbed, machete'ed, and driven off a cliff - and maybe nearly driven mad, according to some.

Varied modes of transport carried me to these faraway places: delapidated taxis, chicken buses, rusting ferrys, decrepit airplanes, and worn-out soles of my Nikes. Shunning the 'magic' of air travel whenever possible (where three hours in a alumninum cylinder transmogrifies the landscape when you emerge) I stuck with means closer to the ground; more so to smell the passing flora and feel the land underfoot.

Since I get this question everywhere; thus far, my favorite places include:

- Antarctica: the sheer desolation and vastness of the icefields, glaciers and mountains force us to recognize the limited geography of our own minds and worlds.

- Serengeti/Ngorongoro Crater: National Geographic comes to life here with every large wild animal you had as stuff toys when a child. The horizon to horizon wildebeast migration boggles the mind.

- Namibia: the red painted desert landscapes and starry skies, juxtaposed with the German heritaged towns come as a hidden surprise in Southern Africa.

- Antigua and Oaxaca: (Guatemala & Mexico, respectively) - these old Spanish colonial towns offer respites from the grueling third-world travel of these poverty stricken countries and harken back to a more sophisticated lifestyle, albeit of the ruling class.

Time

Time plays its funny Hermes tricks on us all the time. From dragging interminably and to disappearing imperceptibly. Time and space is very much a paradigm in our minds - the interstices of our relationship with the outside world brought to us through our five limited senses. The mind easily slips these bonds.

I perceive my days as ranging from mind-blowing overload to mind-numbing boredom. Yet as the trip progressed, I allowed my mind to drift on its moorings, giving out more leash, paying out more line - letting it meander along it's subtle path, with me as silent, often baffled, observer.

I witnessed scenes from my past, reliving and feeling into past loves, past mistakes, past triumphs, past joys, and past despairs.

I reminisce endlessly about friends and good times in the past, from grade school to the Marine Corps to golfing with buddies in New York. Good times bring a warm glow in rose-tinted memories, paradoxically, even bad memories' hard cutting edge dulls in retrospect.

With each visit to the past I gain greater clarity into the meaning of each, at a personal and an archetypal level. Understanding that every experience carries both layers; and by freeing myself from the narrow personal aspect and embracing the eternal and universal, I came into a greater understanding of the harmony and natural rythyms of the world around me.

As counting angels on the head of a pin, how much time can pass in any instant? Is that time well used or carelessly discarded? I am convinced it all depends on how conscious we are during each passing moment, summarized in the Zen proverb:

Be Here Now

Try it sometime. Highs and Lows. Highs and lows define the perimeters of world travel; from the physical heights of Mount Kilimanjaro (19,028 feet) to the lows of the Dead Sea (-1,085 feet) - the lowest point in the world. Emotional highs and lows: the exhilaration and majesty of desolate Antarctica to the despair and desperation of Cape Town's black townships.

And metaphysical boundries get tested: from The Fall off a bridge at Victoria Falls, to the descent into the fecundity and femininity of the deep oceans, to the salting and cleansing of the Dead Sea; many psychic forces get stirred.

I learned about myself all along the way. I learned that I am an anal retentive type-A. (Though anyone who met me saw that in about three minutes.) I learned that I am intelligent, irreverantly funny, insightful, optimistic, and generous. I learned that I am insecure, naive, childish, pessimistic and selfish too. I learned that I love to read poetry; listen to (and sing) opera; write nonsensical travel articles, sleep-in whenever possible, and eat Big Mac meals. In the end, I learned that I still have a lot to learn.

Socrates said, "the unexamined life is not worth living." Little did I realize how little time for contemplation remained in my NYC/Wall Street/Palm Pilot/cell phone infused 'life.' Smelling the coffee a Sunday at a time or two weeks of vacation in a stretch stopped working for me.

Fortunately, I recognized the slow death of ossification for me and departed for something else. That is not to cast aspersions on those who covet, choose, and remain in this kind of life. It's true that one man's meat is anothers poison. We much each walk our own path.

I realized deep in my heart that money isn't everything. That was easy to say and write but hard hard hard to truly accept. I still don't know if I really believe it since I fantisize about winning the lottery a lot - and the weeklong Pebble Beach blowout I'd treat my friends to.

I began to understand the total freedom I possessed to live my life in any way I chose; BUT only by letting go all notions impressed upon me since birth of what life meant and what was a 'waste' versus what constituted a 'meaningful' life of a upstanding citizen. Dropping the internalized values of society's, my parent's, my friend's, and my coworker's perception of life took a lot - and I still feel it sneaking in the back door sometimes.

The path to salvation is narrow and treacherous, like a razor's edge, said the lama in Bill Murray's adaptation of the Somerset Maugham book, The Razor's Edge.

And as Lao Tzu says,"the path that makes itself known easily, is not the path."

I look forward to the next year and the next moment.

Namibian Skies

Luderitz, Namibia
16 May 2002

Sunsets in Africa dazzled with a palette of pinks and oranges. This is in the Okavango Delta, Botswana. Photo by Michael Seto


The skies in Namibia draw your eyes upward. Its the thing you notice most in this enchanting country.

At night, the clarity allows you to see the Milky Way as a white streak across the heavens, including some of the dark spots in the universe. Below the Milky Way, a fainter white spot, like subtle cotton, is the Large Magellanic Cloud, a smaller galaxy orbiting our galaxy at 170,000 light years distance.

We city-dwellers (especially New Yorkers) seldom get to see the night skies; our vision instead a kaleidoscope of neon, traffic lights, office windows, and the strobes of sirens. Walking on concrete and asphalt, surrounded by wood, steel, brick, and glass; nature is something we watch on the Nature Channel. We lost touch with the universe, literally.

Standing on a sand dune in Sesriem, or in a camp sight in Etosha National Park, or on the top of the Fish River Canyon, stars form a blanket over our heads. Southern skies reveal another view of our universe, different constellations than ones in the Northern Hemisphere, though friendly Orion still twirls about down here below the Equator. Venus, Mercury, Saturn, and Jupiter dance in the night sky. The brilliant moon soars across the plain of stars.

It's eye-opening, literally, to drag my sleeping bag into a clearing where I can lay back and just absorb the breathtaking sight. How small we really are. How small and insignificant I truly am, when compared to the unmeasurable multitudes of worlds out there. My life's accomplishments and all my sound and fury but a bleat in the cacophony of cosmos. My interminable lifespan an eye-blink in the history of the universe. I think I know my place now.

Namibia offers the hard baked pan of Etosha in the North, the foggy Skeleton Coast, and proceeding southward, sculpted red dunes of Sossusvlei, and the scrub diamond area bordering on South Africa, where cars cannot stop along the road for fear that someone will pick up a valuable "rock" while relieving oneself.

In Swakopmund, we participated in all the "adrenaline" sports offered in this Jackson Hole-esque outdoorsy city. One group tandem skydived over the orange sand dunes along the coast. We all tried our hand at sand boarding, either standing on snowboards, or prone on a piece of wood that rushed us sled-like down the dune at 60 MPH. Quite a ride. One day took us quad-biking or ATV-ing over 35 miles of eco-friendly trails up and down these 200 foot sand dunes. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia meets the Fast and the Furious. I flung myself off one sand dune too fast and jumped off the bike as it rolled down the face of the dune. I was relegated to the "remedial" riders group for a few miles till I proved myself. Humbling.

It's been a rambling journey across this intriguing country, which is very modern and boasts a couple KFC's to prove its place among developed nations. I felt and even now feel very lethargic and apathetic. Organized overland trips tend to breed a follow-the-leader mentality - where we just pile off the bus when told, take some pictures, then set up our tents and cook and sleep. My situational awareness is flagging, I am a overland zombie right now and a bit stir crazy.

The five of us who joined the trip in Nairobi, started seeking only the unusual in our last game park drives, which we admittedly tired of after ten weeks, five countries and uncountable game parks! In our last park, Kgaligadi, straddling the border of South Africa and Namibia, we became obsessed with "pronking," a four-legged jump performed only by Springbok - one of many LBJs in Africa's ecosystem.

(LBJ = Little Brown Jumpie Thing, as opposed to the Big Five: Lion, Leopard, Elephant, Cape Buffalo, and Rhino). We drove by herds of Springbok, yelling "PRONK! PRONK!" out the windows and standing by with our cameras and ignoring everything else. (I eventually did get a couple good shots.)

I look forward to continuing my travels on my own. I loved the last ten weeks and highly recommend truck overland travel for the more remote and inconvenient parts of the world, but the freedom and requisite involvement of single travel beckons and dangles its own rewards. I miss the time to laze around and think on interminable bus rides across the countryside, time to ponder.

The Void

Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe
15 April 2002

Me in flight, descending from 345 feet above the Zambizi River just below the Victoria Falls cataract.

The crowd shouts, "Five...four...

THREE TWO ONE...

BUNGEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

I squatted down a little, leaning forward, my hands came lightly away from the railings at my side and as I canted forward, the green canyon walls rose to fill my vision, and the brown river, flecked with white rapids, became a vertical wall in front of me. I leapt.

Somehow the human brain, through evolution, knows to block out sensations too alien or frightening to us, like circuit breakers. I never seem to remember the first second of any plummet I take, the sensory overload being too much for my conscious mind to grasp. And jumping off a bridge 111 meters above the Zambezi River certainly qualifies (to most) as incomprehensible and insane.

Somewhere in the distance I registered screaming (hopefully not me) and cheering as my truck mates watched me, the first of our group off the bridge, which spans the Zambezi River just below the monsterous Victoria Falls and crosses between Zambia and Zimbabwe.

The gyrating river and canyon walls gave me the only sensation of falling for the first moment. Then, I remembered my pre-jump thoughts and consciously tried to surrender to my inevitable death; not today but someday. For throwing oneself off a bridge can really only be considered as ritual suicide.

For a moment, my life and the world and everything I know, knew, or will know vanished. I felt free of all earthly encumbrance (excepting gravity) and plunged into a metaphysical void. In that passing moment, I sensed a timelessness and placelessness that can only be described as a rapture or grace. Like the Zen master said to the NY hot dog vendor, "make me one with everything."

Yet through that void, something tugged at me, some tether to the world of form and substance that we occupy beckoned to me. Time slowed, and sensation and conscious thought reappeared in a flash; the river ceased its mad rush at me and I decellerated to a stop, scant meters above the rushing deep. Slowly, the heavens sucked me back from my leap. I soared towards the sky (and the bridge - which I thought I might hit) and I noticed my friends taking pictures and waving, but why were they upside-down?. I waved back as I bounced yo-yo-like beneath the steel girders.

Failure on Kilimanjaro

18,000 feet, Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania
3 am, 7 March 2002

Me taking a rest break (and posing for The Thinker) among the volcanic rocks of Kilimanjaro, March 2002.

I failed.

I do not believe it.

My God, I, Michael Seto, failed.

I gave up. I surrendered. I allowed the specter of failure to defeat me. I turned around and headed back down the mountain, short of even the first peak, Stella Point, on Mount Kilimanjaro.

My guide, Salim, tried to urge me on, but the decision stood finalized in my head. For the last two hours, each step required a herculean effort, straining just to place one foot in front of the other; barely maintaining my balance with trekking poles in each hand. I carried nothing except my recalcitrant body and a few candy bars, Salim relieved my of my light backpack an hour ago. My head ached from the 17,000 feet altitude, drunken with hypoxia (lack of oxygen to the brain), and laboring under a blanket of fatigue.

At this point, I cared nothing for what my friends would say about turning back; I cared nothing for what I would think of myself for turning back. I could not even remember why I was here! What was I trying to prove? I thought of nothing in my reduced brain function; except laying down and sleeping, as capable and temperamental as an eight-year old child.

Defeat hung around me like the early morning fog on the mountain. Humiliated, I did not want to face the cook and my porters, who cared for me for the last four days, just so I could make this attempt up the mountain. I slunk back into Barafu Base Camp, where our summit attempt started, hours ahead of the other climbers, who undoubtedly reached the summit and were celebrating as I lay in my tent.

Failure and I share a long relationship. One of me always running from it's insidious shadow, which drives us toward it's brother, success, in a desperate way, grasping for it like a life preserver. Forever just a step behind me, failure stood waiting to pounce at the first sign of indecision, or hesitation or God forbid, weakness.

I felt its cold embrace upon me not a few times in my life. Yet, I feel that I have never stood face-to-face with failure in a real meaningful way, where my whole life might crumble around me if failure won. No, things have always seem to come easy to me: grades, friends, success, money, and happiness. So when I did face potential failure, it was always with a smug self-confidence, the notion that I still held an ace-in-the-hole; that I would outsmart and outmaneuver its deadly grasp.

For my entire life, I managed to get by without pushing myself to the limit, even in the Marines and on Wall Street. I managed to surmount any challenge with my physical, mental, and spiritual reserves untapped.

Eighty-five percent effort seemed to be all required of me to succeed. So I only gave that much, never red-lining my capacity, never stress-testing the machinery, never looking into the abyss without a safety line around my waist. I have been cheating failure most of the time.

Fear of failure constituted one of my primary motivations in a lot of my life. The fear of looking incompetent, or stupid, or clumsy; which would reveal my true unworthiness as a person to the world. The Emperor wearing no clothes, the real Wizard of Oz exposed. People would see what a fraud I am.

This made me strive for success, not so much for the sake of success, but for the fear and loathing of failure.

Our society worships success. Winners stand venerated, losers excoriated. Pressure to succeed weighs on the mind of all men (women too, I'm sure, but I can only speak for men...well, maybe just me.) This got passed on from the "must slay the woolly mammoth and make fire" days and evolved to "must get gratifying job, buy house, have kids, satisfy partner emotionally, financially, sexually, spiritually etc." Otherwise you are officially a failure; and as such means being humiliated, ostracized, and castrated (symbolic).

As we get older, our failures get more spectacular and public (Mars Explorer, Challenger, Milli Vanilli); yet like protagonist Rob says in "High Fidelity" to his girlfriend, "if you really wanted to mess me up, you should have gotten to me EARLIER" (emphasis mine).

The failures that stand out most in my mind took place when I was young, when my naivete and sense of omnipotence was greatest: Third grade - sitting with Tanya (the blond girl scout), my friend, and being set upon by a bunch of the guys, who pinned me down and shoved grass in my mouth, while I writhed helplessly as she watched. Impotent.

Sixth grade - getting beaten in a singles tennis match at our club by Anita Colonna, a girl, a year my junior. I thought I played tennis well. I was crushed. I cried all the way home. Pathetic.

Seventh grade - in a gym lineup of all the new 7th graders, by size of course, I was tail end charlie, smaller then the smallest girl, Shelly Scoggins. My XS gymshorts came to my knees. Loser.

Ninth grade - while working in the school garden over the summer (for brown nose extra credit) I got punched in the face after stepping into a arguement between my friend Tom, and school bully Phil Crone. I backed down and he walked away laughing. Humiliated.

As we get older, our ability to make various sundry excuses and rationalize "non-success" comes much easier: "well, I'll get that promotion next year," "she and I were not really compatible," "I did not really want that job anyway," and the simple but true, "that's life."

We get used to our impotence and incompetence, like water seeking its own level; and therefore being constantly reminded of it does not sting like it did when you are nine-years old. Maybe that's why we switch to sports like golf, where there is no clear winner or loser, its all relative, you play a little better or a little worse each time out. You begin to see things in shades of gray.

As I look at my adult non-successes, like my marriage, some bad stock calls, etc, these things seem more like REAL life; part and parcel to the trials of being an adult. Failure comes naturally the more you do. Its also easy to turn these into some life lesson. Note to self: "Well, XYZ failure was all for the best and what I have learned from this will make me a better person," or some nonsense like that.

This way losers can still be winners! Just like those kids soccer tournaments where we hand out trophies to everyone for playing...its a self-esteem thing. As though with enough self-esteem we can solve all the world's problems, but I digress...

So has failing to climb Kilimanjaro made me any less a man, or a person, or changed who I am deep down? I don't think so. And at some point along the way I realized that; or I just forgot why I chose to climb that bloody mountain in the first place. Then the sting of turning around and giving up diminished, and the comfort of just being myself took over.

What was I trying to prove to myself for the umpteenth time? I, Michael Seto, who led men in combat on the battlefields of Kuwait, who survived the battlefields of Wall Street, who became a better person through ABC and XYZ failures. What did I have to prove? What DO I have to prove anymore? So I failed to climb Kilimanjaro, so what

I spent much of my life running blindly from the vampire Failure, lest he drain the life's energy from me and my endeavors, tossing me into a heap of lost souls, the pit of irrelevance. I ran and ran towards the light of success in order to escape the dark abyss lurking below its heights, where one misstep might cast me.

But each misstep, each misadventure, however brief, into Failure Hell did not destroy me, or emasculate me. Instead, when I embraced the dark ghoul of failure I found him to be an instructive and wise teacher. One to be cautious of, certainly, but not one to be hysterically fearful of. I realized that he and his twin-brother, success, share a close relationship; and that I cannot have one without the other.

So while I do not seek out Failure's company, when he does arrive unannounced at my door, he is welcomed at my table, for I know he bears wisdom for me; and I should be wont to listen.

Patagonian Paralysis

El Calafate, Argentina
February 8, 2002


Contemplating my navel in a non-descript hostel room, anywhere in the world. Photo by Michael Seto

I got a haircut (actually a head shave), dropped off my laundry (dirty from five days trekking) and ordered a burger and Coke for lunch. After that, I could not decide which shoe to tie first.

Both this week's flights to Bariloche are full the travel agent, Sabrina, told me. Shit. Now what? She started suggesting alternates, fly thru Rio Gallegos, or take a one of several buses, or there is a 4-day 4x4 trip up Route 40. What about a day trip to the Moreno Glacier, or up to El Chalten for two days and ice walk up there. No more suggestions I plead!

My original plan of a few days in Bariloche, a ski-resort in the Andes, then off to San Martin, another quaint little mountain town, lay in tatters. Uggggh. What to do? What to do? WHAT TO DO? Sabrina saw my indecision and took a phone call as I left, mumbling about how I would be back later, after I think things through. Yeah right! Don't hold your breath.

I felt like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Too many options is as bad as none. Analysis paralysis!

I wander up and down the three blocks that make up El Calafate, back and forth, past restaurants (all meat BBQs called parillas), past chocolate and ice cream shops, past artisan shops (did I mention Calafate is a tourist town) selling postcards, film, fleece, and t-shirts. I do this for THREE DAYS!

In between walks, I retreat to my hotel room and watch TV...there are 40 channels, but just 3 in English; nevertheless, ever ten minutes I surf through all of them (ten always seem to have soccer!). I watch old Ally McBeals, Boston Publics, Dark Angels, and the Simpsons, the latter in Spanish, but I have seen them all and know the words, so I laugh aloud. I see Die Hard, Die Hard 2, The Replacements (twice), and the Replacement Killers (in Spanish).

I hole up in my single room, though I lately have been in dorm style bunk rooms in hostals to save money. I take a single room this time because I don't want other travellers to see my weakness, my hesitation, my indecision, MY TRAVEL BURNOUT! 'Cause hey, this lethargy infects slacker backpackers faster than dysentary in an Afghani refugee camp.

The voices of a chorus of advisors debate my dilemma: You should be ashamed! But why should I be?! Huh, if I am tired then I am tired...so what! Yeah, leave him be, let him recuperate. He'll be fine, just needs a couple days. But look at what he is missing! Its a beautiful day, he's in Patagonia for God's sake! Get off your ass!

Shit. I was a Captain in the Marines..."rush the machine gun on the left, or charge the machine gun on the right;" a Vice President at Morgan Stanley..."buy high, sell low, or was that buy LOW, sell high"; surely I can make a decision. I can, and don't call me Shirley (oh yeah, I saw Airplane on TV too.)

So I try to do what my teacher/guru/faciltator taught me: sit in the tension and let what will be manifest itself and be known. So I sit...and sit. I meditate. What is my soul telling me? Where am I being pulled? What is my destiny, my karma? I meditate more...center...breathe...but don't TRY to breathe...think...wait, don't think! Breathe and follow your breath...wait, what is on TV?

So I do some yoga...but wait, what's on TV? I surf again. I nap. I surf. Maybe I should work-out. I do my prison workout...you know, pushups, situps, squats, then Ally McBeal comes on again. I wonder what is on the other channels.

(Mom and Dad, close your eyes.)

Make a fucking decision, goddam it! Jesus fucking christ! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuckity fuck! Yes, in a way I am imitating (that being the highest form of flattery) Dave Eggers' stream of consciousness style in "Staggering Work of Heartbreaking Genius." I hope you are flattered, Dave.

(Ok, you can open your eyes.)

I picture Eisenhower standing in front of his HQ window, it rains outside but a possible lull is forecast for the next day. He contemplates for a moment then turns and says, "OK, let's go." The next day, 6 June 1944, becomes D-Day. If he can decide the fate of the world, why can't I figure out if I want to see a stupid glacier or not?!

OK, why am I here. Out comes the list of reasons I wrote down about why I travel (in no order): see the world, learn about myself, meet hot local chicks...OK, that's enough of that. I figured learning about myself is most important...like, I've learned that I am a quivering, spineless jellyfish! Well, I kinda knew that already. Don't they have strap on spines now, like those girdles they give to guys who lift heavy stuff? Fedex me one.

OK, decision time. Let's have it, Eisenhower. "OK, I'll go." Wait, go where? Why, to Buenos Aires stupid! I will head off to BA and spend the next two weeks there, exploring that huge metropolis and learning to tango. Yeah right.

I plop down my Visa and tell Sabrina-the-travel-agent to book me the next flight to Buenos Aires, leaving tomorrow at 3pm. Done. Decision made. I return to the world of vertebrates. So what if I miss the Moreno Glacier, and Bariloche, San Martin de los Andes, and Iguazu Falls?! After all, you can't see it ALL, right? I step off to my hotel to pack... and to see if Ally McBeal is on.