aric with an a

pretty, isn’t it?

called ‘the jurrasic coast’.

scary as well,

as we climbed that this afternoon.

tough climb, if I can be honest.

I have the blood to show you if vampires weren’t so in fashion.

and even better?

have a friend here who climbed it with me.

in a pea-coat.

and purse.

respect.

as crass as this is to say,

picture my setting right now.

what does that look like, to you?

here’s why I said that:

not a week goes by that someone emails me and says

‘be honest, what do you really do?’

as if I secretly have a trust fund,

and simply like creating the occasional mini-drama.

can I be honest?

I’m sitting in a hotel room.

just ate a fantastic chicken sandwich that I hope was cheap,

so I can order it again tomorrow.

I also hope it’s warmer tomorrow,

so I can go back to my little alley.

there’s a few people who are interested in my new travel-charity project,

big people.

in big businesses,

big businesses which can’t just say ‘go for it!’ and turn me loose.

and so I wait.

I wait here in Cairo,

having faith that what will be will be.

cautiously tallying the $290 I have left.

no credit cards,

no rich parents,

no savings.

$290.

I sold my photos, and you bought them

it got me to Egypt and that was the plan.

and I’m here.

crisis averted, as it always is.

but still.

it’s just enough to fly to Ethiopia,

but not enough to eat once I’m there.

‘do you have any missionary friends in Addis Ababa?’ in an email to my Dad.

33 and asking for help from his parents.

‘teach English in Cairo’ I entered in the box,

realizing I have no dress clothes anyway.

so, sure - the photos come up and some people click the ‘like’ button,

and I can tell a decent story thanks to having a bloodline of storytellers and carnies.

but please don’t find this glamorous.

nor think me brave.

or imagine me exploring the hidden walkways of this old town,

’cause it was cold outside today.

I picked out the crap parts of the tour and obsessed about them,

as that’s $20 I could have used elsewhere.

so here I sit, and here I write,

’cause I wouldn’t burden anyone with this in a normal conversation.

but know that once you take away the pictures,

and these little entries,

what you have is a grown boy.

who’s sitting in this little cheap hotel room,

scared.

and how glamorous is that?

walking around obsessing and worrying,

holding onto whatever cliche enters my head.

‘it always works out!’

‘you’ll end up exactly where you’re supposed to be’

‘look at the big picture.’

and so on.

so sure, on the cab ride home, I told myself that if things fall through,

I’m going to do it anyway.

you read that line and maybe you thought ‘atta boy!’

but please don’t.

it was said in my head a lot softer than this type resonates.

scared, scared boy.

and this is what it’s all about, I suppose.

in a week’s time I’ll have forgotten this and wonder if I should delete this childish admittance.

but for now, right now…

you get the picture.

okay, so.

here’s the big idea.

I wanted to wait until I had a bit more time to talk it over with some folks,

but this is the last night I’ll be at Ryan’s - with his free wifi and beers.

a dangerous combination, usually, but hey.

I made enough, thanks to people like you, to get to Africa.

but I can’t just do a few pyramids and say ‘yep - been to Africa.’

I want to experience it in a way that only being poor could.

tourism, it’s all be tourism - just longer than most, I think.

I want an adventure.

so here it is:

cairo to capetown…with no money.

[the only cash I'll keep will be for internet access, as this depends on it - $15 a week]

no money.

overland.

quick - look at a map.

that’s a long way down.

and into some dicey areas.

Sudan? dangerous in places, yes.

even Brother Scott had a few words of warning for me about Sudan - and he’s the bravest cat I know.

so, a week or so ago, I wrote it off and was just going to try and find a few NGO’s to work with.

but it kept at me, this little thought.

and then there was this fantastic lady I shared a cab with who just so happened to have lived/worked in Sudan.

so I took that as a sign.

and I finally spent money I don’t have on the domain.

fuck me, I’m off topic and haven’t even explained it.

sorry.

no money, just asking, in advance, for friends-of-friends

or charities you might know

who’d let me show up, do a bit of work, or help get their message out

in exchange for a bite to eat, a blanket and a ride into the next town.

I might have to hitchhike.

I might have to have a few pages of phrases translated each place I go.

I might, as a semi-healthy white guy, get some funny looks when it’s me begging for food,

but I’m living proof to the kindness of strangers.

I’m living proof on how Facebook/Twitter helps you meet people.

and I’m living proof you need not be educated, wealthy, nor informed to travel.

this is the project I spoke with Nat Geo a few times about - still don’t think they’ll legally be able to do it.

and that’s okay, it was the confidence I needed to get me to the next step.

so - I’ve bought the site, and admitted it publicly.

and in a few weeks, I’m going to try and do it.

but will, once again, need your help.

…

we’ll start with the first three countries - who do you know in either Egypt, Sudan or Ethiopia who’d be willing to help?

what am I not thinking of?

what should I prepare in advance for?

and if you don’t think it can be done, tell me why.

this is Ryan.

my original best friend.

his family was my family - still is.

we dove Cayman twice.

hiked Colorado twice.

dined at Frank and Kathy Lee’s once.

and usually always have a role in our ‘old stories’.

he was the first, the pioneer,

moving to Israel 16 years ago,

after visiting once.

he writes for a well-known publication.

and is my friend.

the kind of friend that needs not a catch-up,

but just a beer.

I like friends like these.

this might not look like much of a view to you,

I mean, it’s nice, new to some, old to others,

but this valley, the spot where I stood when I took it

was an important spot to me.

see, it was ‘98, I think, I was quickly becoming an asshole,

an asshole on the radio.

and decided to take a 2-week vacation,

over to Israel to see my highschool b.f.f., Ryan.

so I went and we went out, had beers and tried to look good smoking nargila.

traveled all around, even through the West Bank and up to the Golan Heights.

[it was up there on a kibbutz I tried to chat up a girl who rolled her eyes

[I probably shouldn't have told her about being a well-known radio dj]

but this spot we’re talking about,

happened on the 2nd day.

‘you see that tree?’ Ryan asked, pointing out a tree, as you do when you say something like that.

‘that one?’

‘no, further up - that one.’

‘okay, yeah, I see it.’

‘historians think this would have been the spot where Judas hung himself.’

wow.

and when I type/say/remember saying ‘wow’, it’s not out of Biblical remembrance,

but more of a realization that the stories I grew up with,

happened.

somewhere, to someone.

the Bible, history books, Indiana Jones, etc.

[okay, maybe not Dr. Jones, but I was 12 - and still hope he was based on someone]

but the spot - the spot.

I stood there and, be it historically correct or not,

it represented a whole world outside of late-night dedications and 9-minute Pearl Jam b-sides.

2-weeks later, I came back,

started re-visiting maps, the ones I loved so much before discovering basketball, girls and being known.

left radio - mainly because they asked me to,

after an all-out attack on our boss, the city, people I knew, etc.

I’d always wondered why I did it, this thing that ended up in a slander lawsuit,

and chalked it up to needing to be heard, to be known,

but the more I think about it,

it was life pulling me back into those stories that kept my attention.

and now, it’s a dangerous addiction.

because the cab driver in NYC was from Tunisia.

these coffee beans came from Guatemala.

it would kill me to know you went to Easter Island and I didn’t.

things like this.

things like that.

things like looking out into a valley,

and being told it was a place I’d heard about,

and was now there.

I got rejected.

but I’ll write about that in a few days, as it’s a post I think some can benefit from…you know, because so many of you kept hounding me about tips for getting the much-disputed Syrian visa at the border.

sheesh.

this is about something else.

a sadomasochist-type of travel enjoyment.

the big things don’t move me - despite what the photos may show. the Taj, the Great Wall, Eiffel Tower etc - nothin’. I might have already mentioned that previously. but they don’t. I doubt they move you - maybe in the sense of ‘I really made it!’ but that’s more masturbatory than it is moving.

I also just used ’sadomasochist’ and ‘masturbatory’ in the same post.

go web-hits go!

anyway.

I woke up and ate the previous night’s leftover baklava for breakfast and then headed to the bus station. I wanted to peek at Harran’s famous ‘beehive houses’ before heading down to the Syrian border to cross over. I saw the houses, took a few snaps, continued to be unmoved by things like this and jumped in another taxi with another guy named ‘Mustafa’. we listened to Billy Idol and smoked too much and enjoyed the boring 16km drive to the border - I took a video, but it was even too boring to post.

I got there and was mobbed by money-changers and guys with bad teeth and big eyebrows offering to sort my visa out for me - I told them to ‘wait’ as sometimes these guys are needed and walked to the tiny Turkish police guardhouse - he would need to make sure I had a Turkish visa in there before letting me proceed. I have since forgotten his name and am sorry for that, but he was unbelievably nice for someone who had an mp5 semi-automatic sub-machine gun in his hand. he walked me over to the office and explained to the other two officers my situation:

I had no Syrian visa, and needed to get one. which could pose to be a problem as officially, you can only get them from your embassy back home…but I’ll leave all of this out and keep it for the other post.

long story short - I didn’t get it. got rejected. not allowed in Syria - at least that way.

you’d think this sucks, right? an hour spent in their office, $20 given to Mustafa for the ride, out in the middle of nowhere…

but it didn’t.

this is what I dig.

it was now, officially…an adventure.

never mind the great places I got to see from the comfort of our rental car and hotels with wireless… this was traveling.

I got a rush. being told no - I got a rush.

weird.

the officers made it a point to tell me ‘Turkey - no problem. Syria - problem.’ and shook my hand a few times to reiterate this.

I walked out, past the nice armed guard who waved back with his unarmed hand and out into the dirty little area that consisted of two shacks, two taxis and a lot of shady men. I asked how much the taxi was back to where I came from and the price quoted doubled that of Mustafa’s. both of them. they knew I had to get back, they knew I wasn’t getting into Syria [word travels fast in a group of 8] and they knew I had to pay it. I tried to bargain them down a little and they wouldn’t budge.

nothin’ - I could do absolutely nothin’.

this was going to be an expensive trip for nothin’.

poop.

then I heard a shout behind me in Turkish.

and then the same voice yelled ‘halo! tourist!’.

it was the nice armed guard.

he waved me over and shouted at the taxi drivers - I don’t know what it was, but am guessing it wasn’t nice…armed border guards can usually get away with that sort of thing.

he led me into his little guard shack and motioned for me to sit down in the chair that even a garage sale would have scoffed at.

and then gave me an orange, with a cigarette.

not being one who enjoys upsetting people with weapons, I lit up and started peeling - still not sure what I was doing in there.

he turned his back and started typing on his computer.

I had nowhere to go and even if I did, I wasn’t moving.

maybe he just wanted the company.

type-type-type.

the Vitamin C and Camel Light fought a war of Biblical proportions on my tongue, yet I refused to admit it.

‘come!’ he said, ashing on the floor and pointing to the computer screen.

it was up on Google’s translator:

‘araç sizin için urfa gider’ - a car will come for you and go to Urfa.

shit.

okay, I just paid Mustafa $20 from a closer town, so now I have an officer of the law who’s country I’m not from telling me a car will come get me and take me 56 kilometers farther than I was going?

I couldn’t afford this.

but nor could I argue.

‘how much?’ I said, swallowing hard and then wishing I hadn’t.

‘no!’ he said, his fingers emphatically typing again:

‘özgür’…

‘free’.

I smiled and he smiled and we shook hands and then sat down to eat and smoke some more - it was making me sick, but I didn’t care. some tea was brought in and he scoffed at my attempts to pay for that as well.

a few minutes later, a taxi pulled up coming from Syria - he walked out, told the couple in the back to ‘move over’ [I'm guessing] and had a few words with the driver - it wasn’t a conversation, it was an order.

I was to be taken back to town [72 kilometers] and I was not to pay any money.

‘no money!’ he said again, as I made my way out of his little checkpoint shack.

I went to shake his hand again and he shook it, grabbing my forearm with his left hand and pulling me closer. I went for a hug and he went for the Turkish move of touching each side of his forehead to each side of mine - I had only seen this done with close friends and family members - never with a foreigner.

but he did it anyway, opened my door and waved goodbye once more.

I threw on my iPod and daydreamed about one day, having a powerful position in some company and him coming in for an interview and me, being clean-shaven, asking ‘you don’t remember me, do you?’ and him probably saying ‘no’ and me explaining who I was and the impact he had on me and giving him an overpaid position for life…silly, I know, but that’s how my heart felt.

the ‘couple’ who was forced to share their cab with a cheap traveler with excellent connections happened to be coming back from their wedding in Syria, where he was from. and I was crashing their ride home. I felt bad, but still was reeling from the wonderful start of the adventure, so probably not as bad as I should have.

they smiled and I smiled and made as big of a deal out of their wedding photos as one can not knowing the language.

[read: lots of 'oh's!' and thumbs ups]

as we drove, I saw him point to one of their gifts in the back and the new bride bought it out. they opened it and then opened the cellophane and gave me one of whatever was in there.

the newlyweds gave the American some of the food given to them as a gift.

me, the guy who wasn’t paying.

I ate it and loved it and mean that as it trumped my previous snack and the gesture it was given in.

we were all dropped off at some dusty lifeless intersection usually reserved for Coen Brother’s films and within 5 minutes a bus came and the groom whistled for it to stop - I helped them by carrying their huge bag full of flatbread and that made me feel nice. they laughed and it made me feel even nicer.

we all got on the bus and he paid for the 3 of us, not hearing of my attempts to pay him back.

I got out at the bus station and shook his hand, touching my forehead and heart - I’d seen this done before and then simply waved to the lady, as I still wasn’t sure how the whole ‘touching/not-touching’ thing goes for us and them.

bought a bus ticket for another town, one rumored to be more fruitful when it came to getting into Syria.

but secretly hoped for another mishap. another failed attempt.

and another adventure with the strangers who make it so.

I would love to tell you all about Sarah, how she’s one of my closest galpal’s, the adventures we’ve had stretching from Australia-to-California and her Dad’s advice on ‘bush turkey’s’ - but I fear it would take away from her talent. a talent seen people who know talent. her shows in Shanghai, San Diego and Brisbane led to her achieving a cult-following [guilty as charged] and her trademark touch can be seen on everything from panties to snowboards.

…and she’s one of my favorite painters.

what is it, exactly, that you do, Sar?

Good question! I know for sure I drink an unhealthy amount of red bull and that then leads to various creative… endeavors. I have a degree in Graphic Design – so that’s my ‘grown-up’ job. I seem to have branched out a bit, which is really common for designers after a few years of clients telling them what to do. I paint a lot. I make jewelry – because really, who wouldn’t want an online store full of jewelry. I just bought a sewing machine so I’ve been going crazy with that. I’m curating a Roller Derby art exhibition in Brisbane, Australia this year. Oh and photography – my Dad is a great photographer and so I thought ‘it must be in the genes, so I’ll give it a go’ and wa la… I’m now a fully-fledged wedding and portrait photographer! Who knew!

tell us more about the painting stuff…

Painting is my favorite thing to do in the whole world. I can sit on the floor and listen to music and get messy. It’s more than a creative outlet – it’s therapy. I deal with a lot of personal issues through creativity – death, rejection, jealousy, failure. It’s certainly cheaper than therapy and it seems to make people around me happy. I learn a lot too – about myself, new techniques, new media. I just did a couple of pieces for a show in San Jose, Gutter Glam that opens this week and I pulled out some really old letraset sheets I had salvaged to press them onto the pieces. The artworks turned out great!

but your stuff resonates of…well, loads of stuff - life-speaking…

28 years of coloring-in books (yes, I still color-in now)
10 years or travel
8 years of industry experience
and 28 years of wonderful friends and family who encourage me and inspire me.

whatcha got coming up?

Well, tonight I’ll be going for a swim, and then maybe some Indian?
Oh… art…
Currently I have a few pieces at the Gutter Glam show in San Jose. Then we have a Roller Derby art show coming up in 2010 that I am curating (and showing a few pieces in). It’s amazing how creative roller derby girls are! I am aiming to have a solo show in Brisbane in late 2010. Then onward and upward from there… watch out New York – here I come!

tell us something we don’t already know…

Well, I did my first aid course yesterday and it turns out that snakes can’t see you if you stand still. Or did you mean something you didn’t know about me? Oh… well, I was born in the States… don’t let my Australian accent fool you! I’m a bit stealth like that.

-

find out more at www.sculleydesign.com

if you know me, and/or you look closely, you can see that this is a favorite position of mine.

but not only ’cause I’m taking a photo.

look closer.

I’m wearing black, which I like.

I have on my favorite boots, which I love.

if you have superhero x-ray vision, you could see the Lucky Strikes [Silver] in my pocket.

it was taken in London, a far cry [or, so it seemed] from Oklahoma.

and it was taken by a friend.

we were going to get a pint somewhere.

so yeah, a lot going on in this shot.

stuff that makes me happy.

and stuff that keeps me going.

keep me going, stuff, please.

the big things just don’t ever seem to make sense.

I love a good adventure.

granted, 2008 was more of one,

but 2009 had a lot happening as well.

it started on a bus in Austin on Jan. 01 - I think someone broke the iPod player.

and then we slowly made our way down to The Keys - Tim a bit more slowly than the rest of us.

I took a month off and did Berlin with Alonso and Switzerland for Carnival.

then over to Austin for SXSW.

and back on the bus.

met Otis Redding’s son and daughter in Georgia.

then back to Oklahoma to watch my brother marry the girl he loved and still loves.

back on the bus and down through the southwest.

finally arriving in one of the best places in the U.S. - Bend, OR. [no photos or stories as I'm supposed to be keeping that town a secret]

got flown to Hawaii by the state’s tourism agency

and then back to Bend.

I loved it, sure, but there was no work to be had,

so I made the easy decision to move to Norway to work on a farm. [no photos and stories because I didn't actually make it there]

stopped in NYC and met a girl.

who then traveled with me in the U.K.

we tried to sail to France, but I got us lost.

and then moved back with her to Los Angeles.

back to Hawaii for another gig.

then back to L.A.

that ended up not working out, so I headed back home,

then to the East Coast.

then the U.K.

then Berlin.

and now find myself drinking black tea with no milk in an Istanbul hotel room.

…so, yeah. thanks, 2009 - 2010, I do have a few thoughts though.

this is a photo of the first time I got on the mic after a 4-year hiatus. it was in a big, big building, complete with armed guards and walls that kept both things said in, in. and things said out, out. sitting across from me is a guy named Ken. he had somehow found out I had radio experience and came to me with an idea - teaching English and Chinese via something called a ‘podcast’. so we met and we wrote and we recorded and then we produced this idea. the rest, as you know, went well. ChinesePod became a worldwide phenomenon. thru that whole time - even before, in the conceptual stages, Ken mentored me. he also looked out for me. he gave me money sometimes when I didn’t have any. and to this day, he never let me pay for a drink. [and let me tell ya, when you're spending hours-upon-hours in a small homemade studio, there's a lot of drinking.] he took care of me. and he took care of others. he was the creative pulse behind what was once a promising product. he would sit and listen to my ideas and push me to try them. he came to everything I put on. he came for Scott’s 4-hour funk session. he even funked on-stage for us once. he’s a goodfella. and he is someone I consider a friend. I say all of this as recently, as things do in Shanghai - a company he started with another made the press for closing up overnight, with everyone involved fleeing the country. money is owed both to students and teachers. rumors of ‘thugs’ visiting the schools are flying around and no one’s really sure what to believe. I don’t know what happened, but have spoken to a few who do. their story is out there if you’re really interested. but I’m writing this to say that Ken ain’t the type of person who would be behind this. the others, Steve and Brian? you betcha - I know from experience. but not Ken. is he caught up in it all? sure. but again, he ain’t that type. I don’t know what’s going to happen, nor do I really care. but with all the shit flying around, here’s one guy who owes his career in Shanghai - one that led to many more opportunities - to Ken Carroll. which means I knew him pretty well. and he ain’t the type of guy who does this.