POSTCARD: James & the Giant Missile

My good friend James is a true traveler and passionate historian, as well as a delicious writer. He just got back from Turkmenistan, so I asked for a snippet.

The twenty-foot torpedo-shaped bombshell in the courtyard, ominously pointing at the chicken coop, admittedly, unnerved me a bit. Somehow I had missed this rather prominent piece of lawn decor while being swept, with effusive Turkmen hospitality, into my host family’s cinder-block home the night I had arrived in Serdar*, Turkmenistan. It was only in the early dawn of the next morning that, bleary-eyed with jetlag and focused on finding the outhouse, I stumbled into the projectile. By the end of the week, however, I was as comfortable propping myself against the cool gray shell to read Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas or to scribble in my journal as I was picking my way through Serdar’s dusty back streets, dodging past the occasional lazy, shaggy camel, on my “commute” to School #34. No one in the neighborhood seemed concerned by the bomb. There were, as I discovered soon enough, many more such relics strewn across the town’s low-level sprawl, remnants of a Soviet-era munitions plant. Empty threats transformed into items of strange, defiant beauty. Turkmenistan, despite the surreal legacies of Turkmenbashi’s megalomania, is not unlike those casings: hard and threatening at first glance, yet beneath the surface you find a surprising warmth and, yes, beauty.

-James Kessler

*Formerly Gyzylarbat, but, like everything else in this most reclusive of the ‘stans, it had been renamed for the former President-for-Life – “serdar”=leader.

How To Smuggle Cheese

I'm back from Paris all too quickly and yet everyone knows the best way to make a trip to France linger longer is with a bit of smelly cheese. The kind of cheese that you can't get here. And what kind is that? That would be the unpasteurized (raw milk) kind which the FDA says is bad for our bodies (but keep on drinking those bright blue slurpees). Smuggling food into the US is really easy but for those who've never tried it, here's a few pointers:

1. Buy the stinkiest, rawest Camembert you can, preferably from the town of Camembert in Normandy.
2. Wrap it in foil, but only right before you pack.
3. Bury the foil-wrapped cheese into your smelliest dirty clothes; socks are best. Close up your suitcase and check the bag*
4. Check yes on the customs form when it asks whether you are bringing food into the country.
5. When asked by a United States customs official if you are carrying food, merrily respond: "Why yes, look at these lovely chocolates I got in Duty Free!"
6. Pass through, go home, unwrap your cheese and pop it in the fridge.

OR . . .

7. Hide the cheese in your friend's suitcase and let them deal with it.

*If you've only got a carry on, then get the cheese shrink-wrapped or vacuum-packed. Remember though, don't leave it too long. A good cheese needs air to breathe.

Packing Light

After speaking all day at the Smithsonian about Paris, I just got way too excited and have to go back. Now. So I am, tomorrow. I don't care that one Euro is worth a thousand bucks or that all the airlines are folding or merging. The best part of this trip is that I have NO agenda. Paris without any agenda is pure indulgence and I shall indulge. I'm calling it a business trip without any business, though I'm expecting good cheese and at least one day with sunshine. Otherwise there are no expectations whatsoever. Let there be bread.

Last week in Atlanta I gave a lengthy sermon on the joys of packing light, and so I intend to practice what I preach. This trip to Paris is carry-on only, TSA be damned. I'm basically bringing my tiny gym backpack, minus my terrorist deodorant, shaving cream and toothpaste (see . . . Paris is the perfect destination!). I maintain that you really only need three things when you travel: a passport, a ticket, and a big fat credit card.

C'est tout. Bon Voyage to me.

One Person to Meet Before You Die

Had to add one more pic of me with Patricia Schultz! It's really nice to talk with someone who understands what it's like to write a strong and factual book about a place or many places. I've already read her books but after hearing her talk so passionately about America's great destinations, I am eager to explore much closer to home. In particular, I've got Quebec and Lake Winnipesaukee on my mind.

Atlanta Travel Expo 2008

Back from Atlanta where I had a great time at their inaugural travel event. I spoke on "Iceland and other offbeat destinations" and was flattered by the great turnout. I had the pleasure of meeting Arthur and Pauline Frommer, who are amazing in their breadth of knowledge and travel experience. I'm astounded by how in touch they are with what travelers want. I also had a nice conversation with Patricia Schultz, who's even more inspiring in person than in her books. Among her many wise words was her line that "travel makes you a better person." She also bought a copy of my Iceland guide and I was truly touched.

I always have fun at travel shows for the people who are there, and for all the great destinations featured. Among the lot in Atlanta, I was most fascinated by representation from some of the Caribbean's smaller islands (Montserrat, Nevis, Anguilla), Nicaragua, Tahiti, and Zanzibar. I hope to see all those places soon. Thanks to NaTour Communications for the invitation to Atlanta, and thanks to Borders for selling my books!

An Island of My Own

Out of print books are usually the best ones. These are stories that entertained for a time and then were put to rest by a market of attention-deficient readers. When a friend recommended the book "An Island to Oneself" by Tom Neale, I tracked it down on Amazon (with great difficulty) and got it about three weeks later. When it showed up, I started reading around 7 pm and finished at 8 o'clock the next morning. The book tells the true story of Tom's quest to live alone and in peace on a miniscule islet in the South Pacific called Suwarrow (Suvarov).

I think every human has that desire to escape to the quietest, remotest place he or she can find and simply be. It's the very subject of Yeat's poem "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" and a common sentiment among most sentient beings.

Today, Suwarrow is no longer an unknown entity. It's now a target destination for passionate yachties, who can range from a respectable bunch of travelers to an undesirable sort. Luckily it's the former who frequent Suwarrow (seemingly). A quick flickr search reveals dozens of snapshots from the island, including a monument to author Tom Neale with the inscription "Tom Neale lived his dream on this island".

I once spent a week alone on a deserted Caribbean island, though that is another story altogether. It was less idyllic than one might think because surviving is hard work. I especially related to Tom's frustration with husking coconuts. Not an easy task at all.

So now I am doing what everyone must do with out of print books. Passing it on to a friend.

Well I Guess That Makes Me an Explorer

It's no secret that Hollywood's adventurous character Indiana Jones was modeled after the real life explorer, paleontologist, naturalist, and taxidermist Roy Chapman Andrews (1884-1960). I must confess a strong affinity towards a guy who grows up in the Midwest, moves to the big city and in a few years goes from the janitor at the Natural History Museum to their prize collector. Andrews established the popular image of the rugged gentleman "explorer", complete with leather hat and whip, a hyper-masculine demeanor, and an honest to goodness fear of snakes. Nowadays, anyone who gets carried up Mt. Everest or "swims with sharks" at some Caribbean island resort gets tagged as an explorer. Worse yet are all the nonsense expeditions that serve no other purpose than to inflate the ego of the perpetrator (e.g. "Watch me kayak the length of the Mississippi backwards"). Once upon a time I was invited to help sail a boat across the North Atlantic from Scotland to Greenland. 'Twas the adventure that got away as I had to drop out at the last minute--but I had great respect for the salty captain and his rum-soaked world view. His opinion was that all the real explorers were dead and that anyone who called themselves an explorer--in the days of satellite phones, GPS, and travel insurance--was a ponce. Hmmm, a worthy thought.

Roy Chapman Andrews had his own set of standards which he laid out in his book This Business of Exploring (1935):

To meet the popular conception of an explorer a man must have suffered cold, heat, starvation, fever, attacks from wild animals and savage natives and must have been bitten by snakes.

Is that all? Well, let's see then:

• COLD? Check. Fell through the ice in the Gulf of Finland, air temperature -40°
• HEAT? Check. Phoenix, Arizona in July; 120° F. Suffered severe nausea from heat exhaustion
• STARVATION? Check. Ukraine, 1995. Lost a pound per day for 3 weeks straight as there was no food.
• FEVER? Check. Crimean Peninsula. 104° fever for 3 days.
• ATTACK (from wild animal)? Check. Bit by wild mongoose in Hwange, Zimbabwe.
• ATTACK (by savage natives)? Check. Beat up by street hooligans in England.
• BITTEN by snakes: Check. Bit three times on the wrist by wild garter snakes held captive by my older brother.