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“Revelatory... Harris's sly wit and infectious curiosity make understanding world chaos fascinating... witty, horrific, and necessary.”
-- Boston Globe
"Brave... irreverent... charges into the thick of the globe's myriad simmering wars... hilariously relaxed."
-- New York Observer
“Fascinating, enlightening, and surprisingly: NOT TOTALLY DEPRESSING.”
-- John Hodgman,
author, The Areas of My Expertise and correspondent for The Daily Show
"A rollicking ride of intellectual discovery and emotional growth... his comic timing never fails"
-- The Wall Street Journal
"A surprisingly touching memoir"
-- Entertainment Weekly
"Effortlessly funny and informative... tender, human, and very wise... A must for anyone who loves Jeopardy!, or has ever seen it, or is breathing."
-- Joss Whedon, creator, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
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Main Travel Entries
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Tuesday, 09 December 2008 |
Dang. I'm gonna need to use the can waaaaaay before then.
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Sunday, 07 December 2008 |
British road crews apparently dig really deep.
Shortly after passing this sign, the driver in front of me pulled over and spent more time with his kids.
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Sunday, 09 November 2008 |
Since I left in August, the subject of the U.S. elections has come up nearly every day, everywhere I've gone. When people have found out I'm American, it has often been the first thing they've brought up. I've tried to be the last one to express an opinion, since the point of travel is to learn what other people are thinking.
And after three months of conversations in more than a dozen countries on three continents, I've met exactly one non-Anerican who supported McCain. One.
One taxi driver in Christchurch, NZ seemed as convinced of McCain's righteousness and Obama's impending evil reign as any Palin rally deadender might be. One guy. Please excuse the Tom Friedman-ness of citing a taxicab conversation of evidence of anything. But that's just who the one guy happened to be.
Everybody else I've met so far -- everybody -- in France, Hong Kong, the Emirates, Indonesia, Korea, Australia, wherever -- has been neutral to pro-Obama. The large majority were clearly hoping for an Obama win.
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Sunday, 09 November 2008 |
Fiji at the moment. Probaby won't be settled anywhere for long until possibly January. Busy with enough actual paying stuff that blog-time remains hard to come by.
Meanwhile, I occasionally email collections of pics -- not unlike the Arles entry down the page -- to friends. (I usually don't blog these because uploading and inserting photos into posts is waaaay more time-consuming than the drag-and-drop of Apple email, and I'm just too busy of late. Sorry.) Mark Frauenfelder over at BoingBoing.net recently reposted my entry from a recent visit to the Korean DMZ, with my permission. Might be worth a glance.
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Friday, 17 October 2008 |
One morning near the beginning of this trip, I woke up in Arles, France, where Vincent Van Gogh spent his most productive period -- cranking out over 185 paintings in just 15 months, including many of his better-known works.
Since many of these paintings were executed outdoors, I thought it would be fun to tromp around Arles and see what some of the real locales look like today. ( Fortunately, visiting dilettantes like myself do this all the time, so the local tourist board has put up helpful little markers at several sites.) I only had about three hours before needing to get back on the motorway, so this is a rush job, and obviously only a shred of what someone who knows what they're doing could find. But still, fun. So:
Here's Van Gogh's Maison Jaune, the yellow house where he lived, as he painted it, September, 1888:
And here's the same corner today, exactly 120 years later:
The original house was damaged in a WWII bombing, so that explains the different building. But the perspective... I never noticed this before, but Van Gogh painted his subject here as if he were twenty feet off the ground. And looking through a giant yellow filter. It's not just the building that's yellow -- almost everything's yellow. Hmm.
Here's the Trinquetaille bridge, painted in October, 1888:
And here's roughly the spot where Van Gogh seems to have worked:
Again, it's fun not just to look at the obvious changes over time, but to see how much hasn't changed -- and to notice just how ordinary Van Gogh's subjects often were.
Here's another fairly mundane spot, the entrance to the public park, just south of the Roman ruins -- first, let's look at my boring modern photo:
And now let's look at the same spot through Van Gogh's eyes, again in October of 1888.
Or take this mundane cafe terrace on the Place du Forum --
And watch it transform into the famous Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum, September, 1888:
Wow.
This Van Gogh dude was... like... an artist, or something.
My favorite is Starry Night Over the Rhone, one of his most famous works, painted just a few steps away from his own front door at the yellow house, September, 1888:
Experts say there's evidence of a great deal of reworking of the foreground -- apparently Van Gogh took several cracks at that part of the scene, trying to get it just right.
Then again, when we look at the same spot today, you can see why -- he had to get this big honking cruise ship out of the picture.
Yup -- the spot where Van Gogh is believe to have painted Starry Night Over the Rhone now overlooks a dock for river cruisers. If Vincent were painting today, one of his works might be entitled Booze Cruise Under the Stars.
Even so, and conceding that my Starry Noon Facing a Bigass Boat on a Sunny Day Over the Rhone was never gonna come close to Van Gogh's look -- go back and compare. Check out the curvature of the Van Gogh's coast, framing the scene; the strange largeness of the ripples in the water, given that a cloudless night would probably have little wind; the multiple shades of blue in the sky, creating an almost electric energy; and dozens of other details that transform this completely ordinary river scene into unforgettable art.
I'm no art history major, but you don't need a keen grasp of impressionism and expressionism to recognize that Van Gogh was painting not what was -- but what he saw, and needed rather compulsively to record, and ultimately what he wanted you to see, too. You just need to glance at the subjects and what he made of them, side by side.
Unfortunately, less than three months after completing all of the paintings we've just enjoyed, Van Gogh's growing madness -- about which there are dozens of theories, ranging from epilepsy to drinking too much absinthe (which may account for the dominant use of yellow) to lead poisoning from his own paints (which might have caused the way he portrayed stars as having large halos) -- led him to infamously cut off part of his own ear in the course of various seizures, paranoid ravings, and assorted thrashy hollering.
Van Gogh spent much of the next several months looking out a window here, at what was then the local hospital.
Here's one of Van Gogh's last works from this period, The Courtyard of the Hospital at Arles, April 1889.
Shortly after this painting was completed, Van Gogh committed himself to a mental hospital in nearby San Rémy. He spent about a year there.
With limited subjects and his constant drive to paint, Van Gogh resorted to repainting subjects he'd already painted before, from memory. But he also painted this famous work:
It was based on the view out of his window in the mental hospital.
For what it's worth, if anything, note the increasing halos and dominant yellows, even in a night scene.
In May, 1890, Van Gogh left the sanitarium at San Rémy. Although he continued to seek medical help, Van Gogh ended his own life less just two months later. The most expensive Van Gogh painting ever sold was a portrait of his last doctor.
Still, I'd like to end the email on a cheery note. Hmm.
The countryside in the area is certainly beautiful enough.
Although I was never able to find this exact set of twelve sunflowers.
Still, finding twelve sunflowers was never really a problem.
Another boggling realization:
Van Gogh, even when surrounded by this wondrous French countryside, would still look, find, and share such vivid beauty even in the most ordinary, pedestrian scenes.
These are eyes we might all try to see with sometimes.
Thanks for reading.
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Thursday, 11 September 2008 |
Not sure if it made the news in the States, but yesterday there was a significant earthquake in Iran.
It was big enough we could feel it here in Dubai. Not surprising, really. We're right across the Persian Gulf from the Iranian coast, comparable in rough terms to Cleveland being across Lake Erie from Detroit.
Whole office buildings cleared out in some areas here, as people ran into the streets. Things stayed fairly calm here in my hotel, which is to say some of us walked outside.
No real damage here, but a real tragedy across the water. Buncha homes destroyed, 4-6 dead (reports vary), dozens injured, more to come.
Now, something incredibly obvious, but I'll say it nonetheless. It's just a weird thing about human experience. I've seen earthquakes in Iran and elsewhere on TV before. And you feel for the victims and send a few bucks and stuff, but it always seems so far away. You kinda have to map their tragedy onto something you can understand, and when you haven't been somewhere, you have to work a lot harder. But when your own butt shakes in the same quake, that's a different thing. So now, even though I've never been there, earthquakes in Iran will always feel a little more real and human. But the next time a quake whaps Sichuan, China, maybe not, still. Until I've been there.
Sometimes people ask: why travel so much? That's why. You get your butt shook sometimes. You get hugged sometimes. You get a flower from a kid, or you get a dirty look from an old lady, or you fall off of something, or you get stuck in the rain. Sometimes you make a new friend, sometimes a really good one. But whatever happens, that part of the world gets more real, and you get a little more connected to it.
There's a real selfishness involved, of course -- even if all of your experiences are somehow only of giving and helping others, you're still getting. It could easily degenerate into high-end solipsism, unless you really make an effort, and even then it still might.
Part of that effort is doing stuff like this. It's a tiny part, but it's still important. And if you want to help, too, with the relatively small quake yesterday, pick "Disaster relief emergency fund" but "Where most needed" might be an even better option.
Thanks.
PS I'm writing this from a hotel room with a view of the Burj Dubai, which will be roughly a half-mile tall when it's done. And we just had a tremor that was scary from the 10th floor. Oh, man.
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Wednesday, 10 September 2008 |
So I'm in the middle of another round-the-world trip, this time for ForbesTraveler.com, where I'm gonna be doing some writing for a while, plus taking notes for other possible projects along the way.
I've been wanting to update the blog since I left, since I'm seeing some pretty wild stuff, but frankly the days are crammed -- work, fun, work, fun, work, fun, work, sleep, repeat. So far I've been bopping around England, France, Monaco, Andorra, and now the Emirates, and I'm not even a quarter done with the trip. It's wonderful but exhausting, so I'll have to post things retroactively as I find time.
For now: it's Ramadan here, which means (a) a solid month of complete fasting during daylight hours (the devout can't even have water, even in 105-degree heat; visitors like me are only to indulge only if we're discreet), and (b) an inevitable marketing opportunity at least as major as the Christmas holiday season in the US.
So: a Happy Ramadan to one and all -- from Fuddruckers and Krispy Kreme.
PS -- "Kareem" actually is closer to "generous" or "gracious," but the phrase "Kareem Ramadan" is used more like the way we use "Happy Holidays," so "Happy Ramadan" is a more common translation in this context.
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Thursday, 14 August 2008 |
A happy development: looks like I'm going the long way around the planet again. A new writing gig (to be described when the time comes) means that I'm actually getting paid to go places I want to see. Pretty neat.
The details aren't all worked out, but this one should involve between 12 and 15 countries, including lots of places I've wanted to see for years. (And yes, many of them I first learned about during the frenetic cramming-for-Jeopardy! period of my life described in Prisoner of Trebekistan.) I'm hoping to touch base with some friends I met last time around, too.
As always, I'll share with the rest of the class -- pics, stories, etc. -- as time allows.
If this is your first visit, I hope you'll pop back in sometimes when you get a sec. Thanks for visiting.
PS -- the first time around, I stumbled across some guy giving Free Hugs in an outdoor shopping mall in Sydney. So I figured what the heck, gave him a good one, and moved on. Had no idea I was being filmed. The video came out about a year later, and sure enough, I can be spotted lumbering through at the 1:12 mark.
Hope the planet is just as benevolent this time, too.
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Friday, 06 June 2008 |
 A question for the Great Internet Overmind: a group of friends is planning to climb Kilimanjaro (picture credit: Wiki) around Sept. 13-20th, hoping to add a week in Kenya (I'm guessing the Maasai Mara) before and a similar safari in Tanzania (I'm assuming the Serengeti) after.
They're pretty experienced elsewhere in Africa, so general hints on malaria pills etc. won't be necessary. And I'm pretty sure they're taking the Shira route up the hill, so no need for any advice on the climb itself. But the rest of the trip is still up in the air. So:
Anybody have a line on what's up with the migration at that specific time of year? Will the various beasties be up north, heading south, what? Any specific places they (my friends, not the beasts) should know about? Recommended guides/operators? Personal reminiscences of Arusha, Amboseli, or Tsavo to share? If so, drop an email
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and share away. I'm sure they'll appreciate it.
I mention this here because I've been invited to tag along. Not sure if I can make it, but if I do I'll post pics etc. in this space. Thanks! |
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Friday, 16 May 2008 |
In 1973, Victor Jara was Chile's leading singer/songwriter, the local equivalent of Bob Dylan and more.
His songs mixed idealism, empathy, and hope, all in support of the popular movement that brought Salvador Allende to office -- and in defiance of the growing and often explicitly fascist opposition.
When the coup came -- September 11th, 1973 -- Gen. Augusto Pinochet's men arrested tens of thousands of people considered threats to the regime -- activists, union organizers, teachers, playwrights, and many who had nothing to do with politics at all but were just rounded up by mistake -- and turned the country's biggest football stadium into a giant internment camp.
The locker rooms and corridors were used for systematic torture and murder.
On this football field, thousands of people were held, awaiting their own turn to be taken away into the locker rooms, possibly never to return -- all for their own country's "security."
According to witnesses, every morning the blood stains would be washed away with hoses.
Outside, guards would pick through a pile of leftover shoes worn by victims of the previous night.
A 2003 official investigation identified a minimum 28,459 victims of political imprisonment and torture. 176 of these were children 12 years and younger.
Perhaps 100,000 people were eventually arrested nationwide. At least 3200 were murdered or "disappeared." A death squad known as the Caravan of Death even flew around the country by helicopter, executing people from town to town.
US citizens should know (as the world does) that the CIA and White House covertly supported Pinochet, even helping the regime track down dissidents who fled the country. To this day, Henry Kissinger cannot travel to several countries for fear of arrest.
In fact, on September 11, 2001, a criminal case against Kissinger, Pinochet, and several others was opened in Chile; this barely reached US newspapers, which were properly concerned with much more immediate horrors. But in Chile, September 11th still refers to the date of the coup. The main avenue through upscale Providencia was renamed by Pinochet's government to commemorate themselves. The memorial remains in this wealthy area even now.
Less than 24 hours into the coup, Victor Jara was arrested in a mass round-up at the university where he was working. He was taken not to the football stadium, but to a smaller boxing arena, where he was recognized by the guards and kept in a group of prisoners considered of special interest.
Jara had often played concerts in this very arena, leading thousands of people in song.
There, for three days, he was held captive and tortured, while around him fellow prisoners were beaten, deprived of food and sleep, and sometimes simply gunned down in fits of madness. Given the army's interest in him, Jara must have known he would never leave the building alive.
But to the end, Jara defied his captors, who at one point broke his hands, mocking him with orders to play his guitar. And still, Jara tried to rally his fellow captives' spirits -- at least once by singing, in full voice, from deep in the locker rooms turned into torture chambers, loud enough for other prisoners in the crowded arena to hear, still giving them heart with his voice.
On September 15th, he wrote what would become his last words, knowing he was soon to die, and that his loved ones were facing years of danger. Even after Pinochet's men had broken the bones in his hands, Jara still found the strength to write one last poem, hoping that someday he might share even this, telling us that these things do happen, warning us, crying on our shoulders, communicating with people whose faces he would never see. The words are desperate and despairing. But writing them... was a final act of hope. For all of us.
Jara's final words:
How hard it is to sing when I must sing of horror.
Horror which I am living, horror which I am dying.
To see myself among so much and so many moments of infinity
In which silence and screams are the end of my song.
What I see, I have never seen
What I have felt and what I feel
Will give birth to the moment…
And just as his poem turned toward renewal -- even now, turning toward hope -- Jara was picked out by guards. As he was taken away, he shuffled the scraps paper to another prisoner, who eventually smuggled the words out in his shoe. Jara was machine-gunned to death moments later.
Pinochet's men dumped his body with several others in a rail yard, from which it was picked up by a van that was already making frequent runs between the arena and the morgue, so numerous were the dead. From there, Jara would have been thrown in a mass grave -- becoming one of the thousands of "disappeared," fate unknown -- if morgue workers hadn't recognized his corpse among hundreds and quietly fetched Jara's wife.
Joan Jara claimed the body -- this itself was an act of courage, given how many people were being killed, for so little reason -- and brought it to the General Cemetery, where bureaucrats allotted a tiny slot along the cemetery's farthest back wall, almost a mile from the entrance, where 35 years later Jara's fans and mourners still come with fresh flowers to pay their respect, often festooning the site with graffiti, stickers, and slogans lifted from his lyrics.
The sticker excerpts one of Jara's last songs, begun shortly before his death while walking his daughter Violeta on a beach, looking for a place for his family to hide should the worst occur. Its final words (cancion nueva, "new song") play on the name of the artistic and political movement he gave his life to.
I don't sing for the love of singing or because I have a good voice.
I sing because my guitar has both feeling and reason.
It has a love of earth and the wings of a dove,
It is like holy water, blessing joy and grief.
My song has found a purpose, as Violeta would say.
A working-class guitar, but with a smell of spring.
My guitar is not for the rich, no, nothing like that.
My song is of the ladders we use to reach for the stars.
For a song has meaning when it beats in the veins of a man
Who will die singing, truthfully singing his song,
Not for fleeting praise, nor to gain foreign fame,
But for this narrow land, and to the depths of this earth.
There, where everything comes to rest and everything begins,
Song which has been brave will forever be new song.
Listen to it here:
The dictatorship ultimately banned Jara's music. They even banned some of the folk instruments often used to play it.
That day is over.
The boxing arena where he was murdered is now called Victor Jara Stadium.
Almost thirty-five years later, and nearly two decades after the end of the dictatorship, a Chilean court has found a retired colonel, Mario Manriquez Bravo, guilty in the murder of Victor Jara.
Unfortunately, they also closed the case, despite the clear involvement of numerous others. The Jara family's attorneys believe that the court is still protecting the rest for political reasons. Now come appeals.
In any case, the names of Jara's killers will be forgotten by history.
Jara's memory will live on.
When one puts one's heart, reason, and will to work at the service of the people, one feels the happiness of being reborn.
-- Victor Jara, August 1973, a month before his death
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Wednesday, 07 May 2008 |
If you've read about that Chaitén volcano that just went kablooey in Chile, it's one of hundreds down there. It's an amazing part of the world.
That's Villarica, a couple of hundred miles north of Chaitén, but it gives you some of the flavor. Of course, you have to be ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
In the town of Pucón, they even have a Volcano Alert Signal on the town hall. You can tell the volcano is exploding when the little red light comes on.
Alternatively, you can also look for the 20-mile plume of ash darkening the sky. Which makes it easier to see the little red light.
The only picture I have of Chaitén is this one, taken on the ferry to the island of Chiloe, from which the view of Andean peaks stretches literally across the entire horizon. (There's no way a jpg on the Internet can do this vista justice, but here it is, anyway.)
I'm pretty sure Chaitén is one of the prominent white peaks closest to the camera on the left. If this picture were taken today, there would be a monster ash plume extending high above those clouds.
Very lucky that the explosion was in a relatively remote area. There are similar volcanoes near Santiago and Quito.
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Friday, 02 May 2008 |
The only snack that really seems appropriate.
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Wednesday, 30 April 2008 |
I'm no expert, so I may be misreading things, but this image from Santiago seems to sum up the competition between expanding social welfare and international investment, not just in Chile, but in much of the developing world:
That's Salvador Allende, the elected Marxist overthrown in 1973 after years of actions against his government by the CIA and several U.S. multinationals (ITT, Anaconda Copper, etc.).
Allende's memorial is right outside the presidential palace -- and right in front of Citibank.
Perhaps not quite what he had in mind. |
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Wednesday, 30 April 2008 |
Also on the side of the road north to Santiago: possibly the strangest billboard ad I have ever seen.
I should begin by noting that IANSA is a Spanish acronym for "National Sugar Industry," although it was privatized toward the end of the Pinochet years.
 There is nothing sweeter.
That's probably true -- because Mom here is serving her daughter an entire bowl of pure white sugar.
While sitting on the kitchen floor, no less. No chairs in sight. Hey, I know what's sweeter -- buying some damn furniture, so your poor kid doesn't develop diabetes and lose all feeling in her butt in a single meal.
Can somebody please call Child Protective Services? No one even looks surprised. This is just how they roll. I mean, look closely -- does that kid even have any teeth? Mom does -- grinning like it's a pepper filet broiled with minced scallions and stone crab claws in lemon butter, and not weapons-grade glucose in a kitty dish.
Um, Mom? Can you get this kid, I dunno, a piece of raw beef, just for balance?
The artist has done interesting things with the details, too. That box has shadows and floor reflections as if it's actually in the photograph. Which means Mom keeps a box of sugar in the house almost as large as her own child.
The weirdest thought, to me: that this image, which actually gets more psychotic the longer you look at it, actually sells sugar. Successfully. Not, say, an urgent national commitment to children's nutrition, mental health advocacy, dental hygiene, and, I dunno, gift certificates to IKEA.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm making breakfast, and I need to get another oil drum of syrup to go with my pallet of Bisquick. And where did I leave my casket of jam...? |
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Tuesday, 29 April 2008 |
Unbeatable Cydectin -- against the most resistant parasites.
I only pray the picture means that Cydectin is for parasites that attack cows -- not parasites the size of cows, wearing special protective headgear and gloves.
Because those would be some pretty damn resistant parasites.
Been meaning to post a ton of fun pics from South America. Will try to trickle them up here regularly, maybe one a day or so for a while, now that I have a minute. Regular visitors, thank you for your patience. |
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Thursday, 17 January 2008 |
Walking the beach in Bocagrande a couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across some Colombian teenagers burying a male friend in the sand.
The Colombian kids, being exactly like kids everywhere, were giving the guy a large pair of sand breasts and giggling naughtily. Like they were the first ones who ever thought of it.
Flashback: for longtime readers, this is exactly what a bunch of kids in Singapore were doing, too. The only real difference was the weather.
All over the world, wars and languages and cultures may divide us, but humanity still seems united by one powerful force -- teenagers get a big kick out of sand hooters.
It's stuff like this that makes me think humanity almost has a shot. |
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Tuesday, 08 January 2008 |
Sorry I haven't updated in nearly a month. I've just been busy, and some places in South America have fairly spotty internet access, and I've been doing enough stuff in the real world that the 'net just hasn't been part of my life much for a while. But I'm not gone for good.
Hoping to get more pics from Colombia up, plus stuff from Argentina, Uruguay, Brazil, and more. Assuming real life doesn't just keep on being too interesting to leave.
Favorite thing of late was a visit to my new buddy Fernando's place in rural Chile, roughly fifty miles from that volcano that just blew, in a spectacular area of tree-lined lakes and mountains.
Remember when I linked to a site with a video of a pudu giving birth?
I have now met and hung out with that very pudu. (She says hi.) Also, 17 other pudus Fernando takes care of. Plus a bunch of other strange and wonderful Andean species, some of which I'd never heard of. Pics coming.
More when I get a minute. Thanks for stopping by in the meantime. |
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Tuesday, 18 December 2007 |
As a lifelong fan of the crudely named and endlessly frustrating Cleveland Indians, I couldn't help but smile to see that folks in Colombia are also willing to turn fellow human beings into mascots for a team that never wins the title. Ladies and gentlemen, the last-place Cartagena Indians:
The kids reminded me of my own friends when we were that age. And Cleveland Stadium was about as well-kept back then, too. However, my friends and I never had our psyches gently pummeled quite like this:
Those are three beautiful Colombian children playing with Santa Claus. Right next to a sign twice as big as they are, urgently warning families to stop paying kidnappers.
Can you imagine growing up with that? What would that have done to how you feel about yourself and the world?
I don't even pretend to know the answer for myself. |
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Friday, 14 December 2007 |
Traveling around South America for a couple of months. My Spanish still sucks, but estoy aprendiendo.
You know you're in Bogotá when the airport is filled with signs warning you not to mule.
It would be very sad for your family if you were a mule!
Interesting that the deterrent here isn't jail, violent reprisal, or any other punishment -- they're appealing to shame and family honor.
Not sure what that says about Colombian culture, but it's hard to imagine the US analog having any effect: Kids! If you got involved with drugs, your parents wouldn't like it.
Yeah. That would totally work.
Anyhow. Changing the subject.
Multiple studies have found that security in US airports is no better than before 9/11, so critics often decry various TSA measures as merely "security theater."
One wonders, then, what non-theatrical security might look like.
After having been through airport security in Colombia four times in the last week, I'm thinking I should share with the rest of the class. (Not saying they have things perfectly right, by any means. Just sharing what I saw.)
In recent years, Colombia has seen violence from FARC and ELN, the counter-revolutionary AUC, and multiple major drug organizations. Their airports don't double as political showpieces. They're potential targets in an area rife with active conflict for over four decades. And Colombia is hardly a rich country. They're clearly not in any position to screw around.
Just out of curiosity, let's compare the US and Colombian gauntlets.
WHAT THEY DIDN'T DO IN COLOMBIA (at least in my experience):
- You don't take off your shoes. They don't give a rat's ass about your shoes. They're going through the metal detector anyway.
- You don't take off your jacket. They don't give a rat's ass about your jacket. It's going through the metal detector anyway.
- You don't have to put all your fluids, emollients, and palliative goos into little 3-oz. containers. (Technically, the signs say that you do. But you don't. Nobody bats an eye.) If binary bombs were a real concern, I've just traveled across Colombia with enough shampoo and sunscreen to blow up Cali and Medellín combined. If you really get off on traveling with fluids, Colombia is a holiday paradise.
- You also don't always take your computer out of the bag. Two times out of four. But this was purely perfunctory. They don't seem to give a rat's ass about your computer, either.
WHAT THEY ACTUALLY DID IN COLOMBIA (at least in my experience):
- You will be surrounded at all times by heavily armed men. Fuck with Colombia, Colombia will fuck you right back. This message at least is clear.
- You will be metal-detected as the main event. First the big machine. Then the wand. Slowly. Seriously. About the speed of languorous foreplay, except surrounded by armed men and not remotely enjoyable. Then you turn around and get wanded again. Colombia looks for metal. If I ate a diet high in magnesium, I would be wary of traveling in Colombia. All your metal are belong to Colombia.
- You will be given a brisk full-body frisking by a cheerful but lethally armed soldier, in the company of half a dozen other lethally armed soldiers. By "frisking," I mean a procedure roughly halfway between high-speed shiatsu and a drive-thru prostate exam. If you like having your balls bounced casually by swarthy fellows trained to kill on command, a Colombian vacation is for you.
HOW LONG COLOMBIAN SECURITY TAKES:
In my four trips through, never more than three minutes tops, believe it or not. Twice it felt like I barely broke stride until the wand-o-rama.
Maybe I got lucky. And much of this is probably the result of lesser air traffic. Bogotá, for all its charms, isn't quite the air hub Atlanta and Chicago are. Go figure. Then again, Colombian airports also had fewer security lines -- never more than one or two operating, period. So I'm not sure how the size argument works out.
It's also possible that Colombian security is way more focused on drugs on the way out than weapons on the way in. I'm not sure how that necessarily changes anything, though. They sure as hell would have found anything strapped to my keister.
In any case, time and energy do seem to be saved by not wasting time on stupid shit. Colombia doesn't ask every single passenger in every single line to remove shoes, coat, laptop, and liquid goods, all while emptying pockets and juggling their smaller bags into various trays before slowing things down on the far side by undoing and reassembling all the nonsense they just did. Colombia doesn't try to prevent binary bombs that don't exist, nor do they worry about shoe bombs that could just as well be in your knickers.
Colombia (a) X-rays your stuff on a conveyor belt, (b) wands your ass until your fillings come loose, and then (c) asks you to hold still for about twenty seconds of vigorous manual contact that for ten dollars more ought to come with a happy ending.
Granted, there must be considerations I haven't realized. I'm sure there are. Consider this entry pre-disclaimed. I'm not saying Americans would willingly accept twenty seconds of rubber-gloved Kung Fu Grip in exchange for being allowed to pack a whole tube of Gleem. And I'm not saying the US should turn its airports into Colombian style armed camps. Hell no. Just pointing out what was.
That's the experience, anyway. Take from it what you will.
Meanwhile, he's another anti-mule sign posted in front of the McDonald's in the Bogotá airport food court.
And since you told your family you were a mule?
(With, I believe, roughly the tone of "and how's that working out for you?")
(And note again the emphasis on family shame, above all other deterrents.)
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Wednesday, 12 December 2007 |
Greeting you at the Cartagena airport:
Colombia,
the only risk is wanting to stay.
Um... I'm not sure that means exactly what they intended it to mean.
Still, fascinating place so far.
True story: I asked a guy on a plane what he did for a living here. He said he was in agriculture, but he didn't get into specifics.
A little later he said it was really more of an import/export business.
That's when I found stuff to ask besides what he did for a living.
I'm not completely convinced coming to Colombia by myself was the shrewdest move I've ever made. But damn, beautiful country, friendly people. Cartagena is like a living museum. Put it on your life list.
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