I am a volunteer. A man, free. I choose to give of myself, in exchange for complete freedom of my soul. I can never forget it.

Freedom isn’t free. But sacrifices make what you earn so sweet.

It’s raining again. This afternoon the storms rolled in and as I stand, legs strongly placed on the steps of my clinic, shoulders set and arms crossed, I breathe in fresh air. I feel the moisture of life, listen to the deafening roar of a storm battering against the sheet-metal roof.

The drops fall with such force that I can feel the spray and splash against my face. Cellphone service cut, backup power exhausted, the familiar hum of our immunization refrigerator missing. Silence in a roaring tempest of sound. Me, I, standing a free man living a dream.

No, freedom isn’t free it’s a choice. We choose the freedom we seek. We exchange some things for others. It’s true I’m not making money. When I’m finished with my two years here I might have made 8000 dollars, less tax. 4000 dollars a year, so little, yet it means so much.

I forsook a career of money and comfort in the US. I left my home, family, car, computer, technology, and traded it for freedom.

Freedom of spirit, of soul, of moments. I spoke with my brother just last week. A hard moment. Our family communicates always. Alex and I saw each other almost daily. Now we talk once a week. But you know what? We’re living our dreams. We didn’t wait for someone else to make it happen…we chose. We stepped up. We made it happen. When you take charge of your own future, is there any other greater freedom?

On rainy days like today, staring out at raw earth, at history that may be transient…This world might not exist in 20 years. That’s part of my work – to preserve and destroy it at the same time. On rainy days like today I’m filled with the sweet nectar, the ambrosia of the gods, freedom.

Struggles, hard times, spectacular moments. A funeral for an innocent 7 year old girl…in the same week the birth of a beautiful child. The juxtaposition of life. Some ask, what would a free man do? It’s simple, a free man chooses his future and makes his dreams real.

Isn’t it time you took a moment to find your future and make it reality?

I was riding in a bus today, seated just there in the corner seat. The smell of field, sweat, fertilizer, growth and rural life thick on me. I fit in, yet stood apart, an unusual mixture of smells, musk and scent.

I took a deep breath…there was lime, mango, chickens and goats, dark rich earth, crisp morning soaps…a hint of perfume as an older woman nestled into the seats behind me.

I glanced around the bus. Men, women, children safely strapped and wrapped in chitenge, all jostling in a uniform manner as we hurtled across the broken road. Bumps, sudden braking, gravity, momentum trapped in physics, a moment shared by so many unique individuals.

Sighing I let moment pass to moment, sensation to sensation. Life moving forward in its cruel, benevolent persistence. I looked out the window, at fields of tall grass, rows of corn and cassava. I wished for a breath of that unsullied natural air, knowing at the same instant that it would smell of fertilizer and chemicals, not earth.

Another internal sigh and I caught the eyes of a strange man. We were both looking in the mirror. Ruffled hair, stunted curls struggling for ringlets, a thick fiery-red beard, blue green eyes…well built, thick shoulders, worry lines and some hint of stress. I searched the cabin. Who is this man staring at me in the mirror?

Suddenly I knew! It was the first time in three months I’d seen myself in a mirror. What a shock. Was that me? Familiar traits, dirt worked into a beard redder than I remembered. A tan and tousled curls. My face – a man I knew from the inside, but could only recognize parts of the outside.

My mind struggled, the cogs and parts squealing with stress and excitement. Processing, updating files, making new images, marking changes and associating features. I was my reflection once again. I’d become familiar.

Imagine before mirrors, catching sight of yourself in a clear stream, trapped as narcissus by an image that couldn’t be you.

We change with age. As time passes and life grinds forward, we discover a discrepancy between who we see inside and what a chunk of metal and glass shows us. I can only imagine being 73, feeling young and alive, capitalizing on my knowledge and experience, looking in the mirror and being shocked… Who the heck is that?

I guess that’s what’s so wonderful about living life without my reflection. I feel and believe I look one and the same. Who I am, how I decide to feel, governs how I perceive myself and my abilities. No chunk of glass and metal will tell me I’m not something I know I am.

Death. That cold patient friend who waits with us for our entire lives, and when our time has come welcomes us without so much as a grumble about the weather.

That’s a funny way to think of it isn’t it? I guess it’s part of growing up, processing and learning. I’ve been overseas for two close family deaths. It’s hard. Sometimes you feel like it’s ok. You have rational control of your mind and heart. You keep yourself busy, on track. Then suddenly, there are those times… When you are alone in the dark and you feel lost at sea. You know the fullness of life is waiting but you can’t seem to reach it. Those are the painful moments, but they’re also the moments when you remember most fondly the warm, loving memory of your times together. It’s the time where you stand up in your lifeboat, and balancing precariously, you dance and sing and celebrate the person you know and love.

I guess that’s the best part of it. Those loving memories and moments of celebration for the time you could spend together. A celebration of life, of joy, of happiness, and experiences.

What is communication? What does it mean? Is communication talking? Acting? Exploring? Is communication a way to categorize, standardize and understand our world? Or is it a process of expression, one that can be measured, understood and predicted. Is communication so uniform that it provides commonality between all peoples, races and places? Perhaps communication is the emotional expression, a way in which we can share our perception of the world. Maybe it’s none of these, maybe it’s all of them. You can get a degree in communication, hell you can devote your entire life to it, and still barely scratch the surface.

Think of communication as every expression, dance, music, voice, writing, physical and verbal actions. Communication is the way in which we see and perceive our world. It’s a series of games, transactions and formulas, as described by Eric Berne and Alvyn Freed, but more than that, communication is a way to express the intangible. One of my favorite perceptions of communication comes from that loveable and always positive philosopher Nietzche. In his treatise on truth and lies he discusses language. He delves into the complexity of communication and its inability to truly express any universal truth.

The idea he presents is that language is altered by perception. A leaf he says, is not really a leaf. After all an orange leaf isn’t a ficus leaf, and this leaf definitely isn’t that leaf but, we call them both leaves.

We use language to describe our existence. I’m using it right now to express my thoughts. Communication is about sharing our perceptions, both tangible and intangible, of universal truths.

What becomes apparent is the spectacular complexity of language both physical and verbal, and the universality we find in communication. Visualize the concept with me. Imagine you’re traveling the world. You are exploring each country but beyond that, you are meeting each society, culture, and person on the planet. Whew! That’s a lot of traveling! Now, imagine that you show each person a copper bangle – and ask them to describe it. Each person will give you a slightly different description, affected by both their cultural ideology and experience in their spatial surroundings. If you take the communication at face value you’ll see similarities across cultures and geographic areas, but either macro or micro, each person’s perception and communication will be inherently different. Do that same trip again a year later and the descriptions will have changed again. Our perception of existence and how we communicate it is constantly evolving. So what is communication? We’re back at the beginning.

Communication is that bridge, between what is, and what we think is. It’s shaped and molded by our experiences and developed by societies to facilitate collaboration and to allow humanity to evolve and progress. It’s an organic, natural expression of reality. It’s individual to a fault. So we work, as a global community, to shape communication. Like a sculptor we subtract and add to a piece. We craft communication so that we can understand one another. But isn’t something lost? Language is a beautiful example.

If I read a philosopher’s work in his native language and then again translated, it’s different. It’s not just the words that are different but the meaning itself has changed. My perception of him has been altered because my frame of reference is now different.

Communication then, must be an art. It’s crafted and we are the crafters. We are responsible for expressing our own world in terms and systems that can be understood by anyone, anywhere … Or perhaps the goal is to be obtuse, to obscure our meaning, couch it in metaphors and hide it in a sea of abstracts. Either way we utilize the beauty of human individuality to create masterpieces of communication. Because we have no universal language we have art, culture, history, society. We are individual because there is no one truth, there is no single descriptor. A leaf isn’t just a leaf. It’s this leaf. Hahaha. So what is communication? Communication is an art, something beautiful, something to be treasured. It’s an expression of who we are as humanity. Communication is how we define ourselves.

That said, the next time you communicate, take time to think about your words, actions, movements, and expressions. Remember, you are an artist and communication is your tool. Words aren’t just words, they’re a work of art, an expression of who you are, where you’re from, and how you think. Communication is choice, choice is power, power is the ability to choose. Choice is your first unalienable right. After all, you are who you choose to be. How you speak and write – how you communicate- is just another choice in the ballad of who you are.

Sunday aug 21. Had a great day today. Studied most of the morning, got some Frisbee in, had time to think, ate about 125 grams of soya pieces, biked. Pretty awesome. Then came back to my homestay, honed my knife, worked on some house projects: a different kind of rock stove made of just low heat fired brick and sand mortar. I want to test the locally available materials to see how resilient they are or if i need to procure anthill clay to properly mix a heat resistant mortar.

After the stove I drew diagrams of brick ovens, and pit ovens that would be more fuel efficient for my host family. I then drew and described solar dryer tech and mechanical advantage. Very difficult but using lever and wedge, pulley, ie my bike and block and tackle managed to get the concept across. On a health note I drew and explained a tippy-tap and the health principles behind it. We talked about hand washing and i described bacteria and germ theory. Pretty successfully . An awesome Sunday to be sure.

On Saturday our language class did some cultural exploration. We interviewed some zambians about cultural conceptions and beliefs regarding food, like why men should eat raw ground nuts, or the idea that pregnant women shouldn’t eat eggs or their children will be born bald. We had a great chance to break down these cultural beliefs, look at why they were actually put into practice, and them translate that information back to our hosts! Amazing!

Wed. Aug 17th. So. My leg got owned by something. Four half dollar sized bites are super itchy but manageable. I’m still loving Zambia.

Today we built protective and preventative health structures in our training communities. IE: We fenced off a well to prevent animals and children from harm and built drying racks so dishes were kept from contamination.

This morning we learned about paca, participatory analysis for community action. The seasons are changing and the transition is in full swing. Hot winds are bringing the winter to a close as the hot season approaches. Then at the end of oct come the life giving rains. Its a beautiful cyclical life in a polychronic society. Wonderful. The people are wonderful. Brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers of the earth. Full of respect, motivation, patience and uncanny understanding. Miss home and family but happy and contented here. I’m headed out, shalenipo.

Day II: Fishing, Swimming, Dancing – living on the beach 5-28-11

I woke up with the dawn, the cool crisp breeze coming off the water pushing the moist wet smell of the sea into every breath. I packed up my hammock in its quick pack sleeves, it took me 10 seconds to put it away and safely tucked back into its bag. I grabbed a bottle of sun screen, plastered myself white and ran joyfully toward the sea.

Mom and Dad had a pot of coffee on the burner and breakfast of oatmeal waiting as I stumbled back into the site. I wasn’t used to waking up with the sun at 5am. Heck, that’s about when I usually go to sleep. As I sat inside my father and brother brought out our Porta-Boat, a 12 foot folding boat, that folds down to the size and shape of a surfboard and then pops open, is reinforced by its seats and hold 2-3 fishermen, their tackle and with a 5hp motor is great for near shore sea fishing. Dad and Alex went out first, we launched the boat in the sand at low tide and they made their way down to the point on the south side of Cholla. They fished back and forth and caught a good 10-15 fish. Mom and I came back to the trailer and she took the truck over to have some work done on it. I settled down with a good book and began reading about Health services and medical services in remote wilderness.

As I read the sun rose and my skin turned that wonderful bright pink, sunscreen be damned. I smiled and continued enjoying the sun, beach and ocean.

Dad and Alex came back and we pulled the boat up on the beach then I switched with Pa. Alex and I took the boat out, down to the point and started fishing. I caught 4 rock bass and a wrass. Alex caught two more rock bass. After a relaxing morning on the boat we turned and came back into shore. We beached the boat, pulled the engine out and slid it up onto a trolly, returning it to the trailer.

Already salty and soaked from the waist down, we grabbed some shoes and the four of us rushed into the sea, floating and swimming on the beach. Lunchtime came and we headed back to chow down. After lunch we headed into town. Alex wanted to meet a friend of his in Cholla, and Ma and I wanted to go shopping on the cheaper side of Rocky Point – Rodeo Drive. Better prices, better silver, and more fun than the fish markets and main drag in the city. First as a family we went out to a second lunch at a cantina across from JJ’s cantina in Cholla. The fish tacos were ok, the beef wasn’t bad either. We finished up our meal and headed back to home base, we split up the vehicles and Ma and I headed into Rodeo Drive.

On the market street I found a beautiful silver ring with a continuous line flanked on either side by dots of silver on a hatched background. It will serve as a good reminder of the circle of life when I’m in Africa. It was a good bargain and with a little negotiation I got an even better price. Satisfied we headed back.

When we got back to the trailer we took another relaxing break, talking, reading, and relaxing in the sun on the beach. We helped one of our neighbors with a project and then turned back in for a fantastic steak dinner, with potatoes and fresh shrimp. After dinner we relaxed again watching the stars over the sea. One by one each of us retired until I was left laying in my hammock, watching the stars sparkling over the ocean. I fell asleep content and excited for the morning sun.

Day I – On the beach:

As we drove down across Sonora we passed through the smaller towns as we made our way down Highway 8 toward Puerto Penasco. Although our family has been coming down to Puerto Penasco 3-4 times a year since before my older brother could walk, because of work and school we hadn’t been down as a family in too many years.

We had crossed the border without any issue. The Mexican federal police didn’t even check us. The American CBP had asked us where we were from, and if we had any weapons, he did a cursory inspection and waved us through. We drove through the barricades and barriers, crossed the Mexican lines, and drove through into Mexico.

Driving and traffic in Mexico are a little different, the rules here are based off an older ideal of law, what some might refer to as Napoleonic Law. We carefully worked into traffic and continued on our way. As we neared Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point) we began to smell the sea. Salt was on the air, the wonderful smell of ocean, sand, brush and fresh air. We drove down to the junction and took a right, heading out to our plot on Sandy Beach (near Cholla Bay). For 22 years we had stayed on the other side of the point. First at El Mirador, then we’d moved down from Manny’s to Playa Elegante, after almost 15 years there the park was closed in as the area was being marked for development. In 2008 we’d moved our 33ft 1982 Carrylite fifth wheel trailer to this side of the coast.

We passed the mammoth hotels and resorts, some half constructed, others complete, still others rusting away, the structural steel exposed to the harsh salt and oxidation that would one day reclaim them. The recession had hit hard, the news of cartel violence hit even harder. Investment has ground to a crawl, because of the news and fear, white American tourism has needlessly almost ground to a halt. Now it has been replaced with a different type of American tourism, those unafraid to visit and travel here. It is heartening to see a more ethnic mix of tourists visiting and patronizing the beaches, still, the tourist population is a weak shadow of what it once was.

We pulled around the last corner of our drive, crossing the sand roads and turning toward the Reef trailer park. We drove through security, down along the beachfront sites, and came across our trusted trailer. Water, WIFI, electricity, a queen bed, two big bunks, a full kitchen, bathroom and shower, two pull out beds, and space enough on the site for tents and my Hammock… All for $19 a night. We paid a little extra to have a beachfront spot.

We pulled the car under the hitch, tucked into our site and jumped out to meet our parents. They’d had lunch waiting for us. We stepped out of the trailer, walked down the beach a little toward the water, plopped down our chairs, and sat, enjoying the clear blue waters, the cool breeze, and constant thrush and rush of the waves crashing against the sand. It was perfect. We talked for hours, sitting and enjoying the quiet of the beach and water. There were three other people walking the beach… for as far as we could see, it was ours.

As night fell, we pulled out an old washing machine drum and started a fire in it. We gathered around and began singing old family songs, letting the orange glow of the fire dance across the glowing sand, as the stars above glittered and reflected like white and blue diamonds and yellow amethyst in the water.

The lights of the port danced and called out to us as the night deepened the quiet crashing of the waves and the gentle whistle of the breeze accompanied us as we set up my brother’s tent and my hammock outside. As we said our goodnights I climbed into my hammock, safe and warm with a fluffy pillow and fell asleep knowing that my memories of this world and this life were becoming reality with every breath.

Hey guys, I figured I’d take one of the quieter nights as I wait for the beach to empty from the night’s festivities of BBQ and beach fires/fireworks to sit down and tell a little story about last Thursday. Hope you enjoy.

It was Thursday night. I lay hot, tired, but unable to sleep. We’d been out on Mill Ave. Saying goodbye to a good friend moving to California, I’d said goodbye to another close friend just the night before. I’d come in about 2:20, and showered then lay down. My mind was ablaze with thought. As three AM wandered by, my mind wandered from thoughts of work at the Red Cross, fire season approaching, the tornados and people hurting and suffering in the central U.S. and east coast, to thoughts of what will be coming next. What adventure lies ahead?

Visions of African savannah, deep jungle, and grandiose waterfalls filled my sight, Rivers streaming in white torrents off high plateaus, plunging down into river valleys, feeding the bread basket of the world. I thought of lions, snakes, hippos… my mind wandered again, to the people, poverty and suffering, people without means, struggling and all too often failing to survive each day. I thought of a country where the average life expectancy is 36. Then I thought of the stories I’ve been told, stories of broken men and women waking up with the dawn, and humming, a hum that grew into song, and a song that was taken up by all those who woke with the day, happy to be alive regardless of the pain and tough times ahead. These people are excited to have made it another day, to see the sun rise… I half dreamed of stories of people with a hunger and desire for knowledge. Children who would run half a day to have as little as an hour learning something new.

As I lay in bed, the cool breeze of 4am pushed my thoughts of the future out of my mind. Instead, I focused on the now. A month left, and then… Africa. I needed to focus on the time I had left with the friends and family I will miss so much. I listened, and I heard the quiet pulse of the morning breeze, the pattering and chirp of the morning birds, singing and responding, nature coming alive from a night of rest, before the sun breached the horizon.

By 5am I’d already gotten sucked back into the future, thinking of the drive at 9am toward the south, down across Gila Bend, the fantastic architecture and history of Ajo’s historic district and mining heritage, into Lukeville and across the border into Sonora. As I slipped between daydream and memory we drove down the dusty roads, watching people clearing away the endless drifts of sand, work for monuments sake. Trying to keep what man has carved out of the sand and desert clearly demarcated. Memories flooded from the hundreds of trips before. We’d been coming down as a family since before we could walk. Before I was born, before my brother, our parents had made this drive, this leg of the trip down to meet the wild, clear waters of the Gulf of California.

I remembered clam & crab hunting in the estuaries, crab bakes on the coast of the Sea of Cortez, my mind slipped to the first time I’d tried an oyster with a pinch of lime and tequila. I remembered the beach, swimming for hours, with endless endurance. Exploring the tidal pools, learning the names of the fish and creatures which crawled beneath the blue churning waters as we uncovered them one by one. We had a fish tank set up in the trailer to bring our catch up. We’d then break out the encyclopedia of sea life for the region and identify and name each catch before we’d take them back and release them.

Back then, we were free. Just two boys, running the beach, exploring the ocean, living off the catch. In those days we had no worries. We’d come down for a month or more at a time, three of four times a year. The memories are of a perfect time. \

I thought of the big storms, so strong that the wind would pick you up off the ground. Waves 15-20 feet high, tearing the beach apart and building something new in its place.

I remembered the Harvest moon, looming over the ocean, and tides that went so far out, we’d seen reef and coral that we usually could only deep sea fish.

I was torn from my memories by the squeal of my cell phone. 8:45 rolled around. I slid out of bed, grabbed my stuff sack and my hammock, and headed out to meet my brother. I climbed into the car, and we set off, as my memories and day dreams became slow reality.

Hello folks! I apologize for the delay in blogging. Since Alex and I set off into the Highlands of Scotland and then across into Northern Ireland and then I continued into Northern England and down to London to return home I’ve not been able to blog. I’ve got quite a bit of catching up to do. As part of that process I’m now posting some of my writings regarding travel and some fun stuff that I’ve been working on during my trip. You’ll find the first of these below with more to come.

I’ve posted a great video:

And built up a nice follow-up blog of that video in Text:

Train travel and general travel tips in Italy:

Train travel in Italy is a friendly experience and one that can be faced without fear. Traveling by train in Western and Central European countries is the preferred route of travel by most visitors. Buses are an option, and although often cheaper may leave you at the outskirts of a city or have very limited departure and travel times.

I’d like to outline my experiences and draw on my time in Milan and traveling through central and eastern Europe to give you some insight into Train travel. I arrived in Milan, Italy January 20th 2009 and stayed until May 1st before participating in a Travel Study program across Eastern, Central and North Western Europe (Slovenia, Croatia, Montenegro, Albania, Macedonia, Greece, Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Serbia, Bosna I Herzegovena, Slovakia, Hungary, Poland, Latvia, Czech, Germany, Netherlands, Belgium, British isles). During my Travels I used a mixture of Trains and Buses. I’d like to focus the first half of this post on Train travel in Western Europe.

Specifically I’d like to start with the Italian train system as an example. The system is open, straightforward and efficient. There are three major rules,

1. When you enter a train station, look for automated tellers (usually coded for 3-5 major languages). This has two benefits, the first is that the machines avoid speaking with a teller who may or may not speak more than one language. Second this will help you get written information and possibly provide information in English/German/Native language/ Chinese. Do be sure to check if there are student/youth/senior rates that are only available from a teller.

2. Find the departures board and the regular/regional train board. These provide information on the types of trains (as well as a description of what their symbols mean) and a regular daily time table so you can plan day trips on short notice.

3. VALIDATE YOUR TICKET! I can’t stress this enough. In every country I visited it was required that you validate your ticket. In Italy the fine for failing to do so can be 50-150 euro. It varies country by country but often the cost of forgetting or failing to Validate is 2-5 times that of the ticket. If you notice you’ve forgotten or the machines are out of order, Train conductors (in Italy at least) are required to validate your ticket if you come and find them. If they find you and it’s not validated some will validate it for a in pocket fee of 5 euro.

If you keep these three rules in mind, travel in any country via train is simple, stress free and can be significantly easier.

In Rule 2 I mentioned that there are different types of trains. In Italy there are fast trains, normal trains, and then there are the big commuters – called regional trains. Treno Regionale are the cheapest form of train transport in Italy. They are generally half the cost of normal trains and 1/3 that of the fast trains. They take a little while longer since they stop at almost every station but the difference in cost can make up for the delay. If your traveling across Italy, it may be worth the time to check different major cities along the path and check the Regionale connections. Instead of an express train you can catch a few Regionale commuters for a fraction of the cost. (Note this is not always the case, at times the number of changes can make the cost savings minimal).

The photo’s included here are representations of Italian (Trenitalia) equipment. However, the principles held true in Germany, Poland, Czech, Belgium, Holland, and the UK. Validation, and Train departure/automated systems are nearly universal in developed countries.

The second half of this Blog refers to Bus travel in Eastern Europe.

When I left the European Union and the fringe Shengen countries, I encountered an interesting phenomenon. Major train lines passed through capital cities and avoided smaller principalities. Leaving me with only one option – Buses. Eastern Europe, Greece, and Turkey especially were prone to major inconveniences when using the Train system. The trains were slower, less comfortable (minus sleeper cars) and had less flexibility and variety in travel destination, however to my surprise Bus travel in Eastern Europe is exceptional.

Eurolines is one company that does cross European transit – I’ll use their coaches as an example of the type of buses made available to travelers:

These large, 40+ seat buses generally have media – TV/VCR/DVD and in eastern Europe (Bulgaria, Romania, Turkey, Serbia, Bosnia) they also have in drive refreshments (soda/water/snack food for free) and Orangeways and now some of the other major companies like Eurolines even have WIFI built into the buses. It’s a sense of luxury travel for a fraction of train ticket prices. As an illustrative example, I traveled from Istanbul, Turkey to Plovdiv, Bulgaria for 1/3 the price of the train ticket and arrived in just under ¾ of the time. As I continued my travels through Eastern Europe I ran into a lot of travelers who had purchased Inter/Euro Rail passes and found them to be a bad investment for eastern European countries for two reasons.

The first is that Train transportation in Western Europe is Much more expensive than eastern Europe making a Inter/Euro Rail pass a great investment because it sets a standard cost for each journey. However, Given the lack of functionality on most train lines and the lower cost in E. European countries the pass was more expensive than buying tickets individually and didn’t allow use of bus travel.