Blogs

(part 2 of 2, for more pictures see here)

First you have to realize that Puerto Lobos is not your typical Mexican coastal beach town, with palapas and cabanas, mar y sol, margaritas, mojitos and chicas in bikinis.  Oh sure, there’s a beach… miles of it, in fact.  And there are plenty of structures there, too.  Some people actually live there; others visit on holidays from the big city.  And there are even a few chicas playing there, also, most of them under six years old.  After that age they hav

After four days in Pohnpei, FSM, some of them with drenching rain, all of them with power blackouts, it’s good to get the hell outta’ Slidell, that is Pohnpei.  I’ll leave half a bear of honey behind, but the flashlight and Virgen de Guadalupe votive candle will go with me, presumably all the way back to LA, since the trip’s almost over.  And certainly the brownies will come along, too.  Micronesians make damn good brownies btw.  So I board the plane—a pound or two heavier—in a downpour and get

The queue for Safi Air flight #248 from Delhi to Kabul looks like something of a loya jirga in itself, businessmen and diplomats, village traders of lapis lazuli, scammers and schemers, all going back to the homeland for one reason or another, all with excess baggage—fridges toasters and microwaves, dreams hopes and expectations—all wearing long tunics baggy trousers and funny hats, all speaking strange tongues and whispering strange sighs, body odors wafting from overcoats whose histories likel

I'm not a travel hacker, not really. I enjoy the places, not the interfaces. And traveling in coach is just fine with me, thanks. As a matter of fact, I do much of my traveling BY coach—bus, that is. I went all over Mexico and Central America before I ever crossed an ocean thirty-five years ago. And the only time I've ever flown first class was when they bumped me up for free. Now don't get me wrong: I'm an avid collector of frequent-flyer miles, but I'd have to have an awful lot before I'd wast

As I prepare for my inevitable Never-Ending Tour and the inescapable expatriation that that will likely involve, I find myself standing at the crossroads (again) and taking inventory of my life and environs—particularly the USA—to see what's left to do here and what's here worth keeping.  And even though I've been to some 150-odd (as you know, some very odd!) countries, there are still some gaping gaps in my knowledge of people and places that I've often been very close to, but never actually ex

No, mercenaries have not overrun the Chinese lines, and there are no soldiers from the Mersey or the Thames or the Thyme.  No bombs have been launched; no shots have been fired.  No casualties have been reported; the hospitals are not full.  And if any negotiations have taken place, it's been within tourist (and drinking) circles, not political ones.  You see, we're not talking about normal society here.  We're talking about an alien life form—visa runners.

For those of you who don't know what a

        I stop. “Wha’dya’ got?  Is it good?”

        “Is it good?  Hell, yes, it’s good.  D’you think I’m gonna’ get you some Mexican carnicero to snake the drain that’s gotta’ process all those hamburguesas, man?  It’s the real thing, hombre…

        “Cuanto cuesta?”

        “Are you a gringo?

        “Claro que no, soy chilango, nada mas vivo al otro lado para ganarme plata.”

        “Entonces, I can get you a special price, only seiscientos dolares, mas o menos.  You got any complications?”

See video Voices United for Mali - 'Mali-ko'

It’s horrible, of course, the war currently going on in Mali, the desecration of Sufi shrines in Timbuktu, and the disruption of lives in a place where life doesn’t allow much margin for error.  Maybe the most ironic aspect of it all is that Mali has been able to cast itself so successfully in the last twenty years as the capital of world music, starting with Ali Farka Toure’ and including dozens of regional stars in its roll-call before making Ali’s s

Author's blog

Traveling through space is geography.  Traveling through time is history.  I just finished reading the Travels of Marco Polo and Great Railway Bazaar by Paul Theroux simultaneously; okay, actually I was alternating between them.  As fate would have it, they’re traveling somewhat the same route, at least part of the way.  No I didn’t plan it that way.  If I had, then it wouldn’t be serendipity.  I like that word, and I like the meaning behind it—the happy accident, the brilliant mist

Any flight that leaves at 1:20 in the morning is already doomed as far as I’m concerned.  It can only go down hill from there, especially when the airplane seat back doesn’t seem to want to recline backward.  But this one’s worse than that.  Not only do I arrive in Shanghai at six in the a.m. with seven hours until my onward connection, but I have to change airports—not terminals—to do it.  Fun fun fun.  At least I get something of a view of Shanghai in the process, though not exactly like cruis

North Korea is like the urban legend of the Japanese soldier still fighting WWII out on some lonely island in the remote Pacific.  In his mind, it’s all still very real for him.  When he starts shooting at us, then it’s real for us, too.  At first I didn’t know if they were even going to let me in the country, something about journalists not allowed in on tourist visas.  That’s the first time I’ve ever been accused of journalism.  Them’s fightin’ words.  Obviously they’ve never read my work.  Fi

As the plane is landing at Chinggis Khan International Airport in Ulaan Bator, I look down at the dirt tracks swirling through the pastures surrounding the runway.  They look something like a beginner’s guide to chaos theory, the likely paths and the harder ones, converging and re-converging according to some logic or design.  I figure this must somehow be the map to the Mongolian persona if not history.  I mean, you’ve gotta’ give these guys a lotta’ credit, not just for conquering half the kn

China’s cities are so large and massively developing that it’s sometimes frightening, and as hard as ever to travel independently.  There’s scarcely a word or destination written in pinyin (Romanized Chinese)—much less English—in the typical Chinese bus or train station, nor counter help equipped to deal with it verbally, something common in most of the world these days, from Mongolia to Madagascar, Botswana to Berlin.  Hotel staff are a little better—but not much.  So a little Chinese language

For pictures, see author's blog here

(part 1)  We Americans have our Wild West just like Mexico has its “norte bárbaro,” and they’re the same place of course, that vast expanse of land bounded by two mountain ranges and stretching from Utah to Jalisco, Mexico.  It’s home to cowboys and Indians ranging from Utes to Aztecs, vaqueros to buckaroos.  Where I’m going is right in the center of it.  I’ll start in my former home state of Arizona and cross the border into Mexico from there.  Mexico was th

Puerto Lobos is a study in contrasts.  If (the more developed) Bahia de Kino feels like “land’s end”—per Lonely Planet—then this is off the map, though that is changing with the new highway, as previously mentioned.  My only visit two years ago, the road had just been paved to here—from the north down the coast—shortening the distance from the big city of Caborca (pop. 60,000) and transportation links to the rest of the country.  Now that link to the links is even shorter, as there’s a bus thir

Puerto Libertad is a notch ahead of Puerto Lobos.  At least it has some hotels, and restaurants, too—even an Oriental one, I hear.  But I know in my heart the trip’s really over, anyway, because once the rhythm’s broken, then you have to skip to the next act…and that’s LA.  So why am I going southeast when I need to go northwest?  Chill, Hardie, chill.  All is not lost, of course.  During that hour or so of uncertainty, standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus, I probably chatted with more

Baguio is the only bump in a long ride up the coast from Manila to the far reaches of north Luzon.  I’m sure there’s a route that hugs the coast the entire way, but I wanted to stop at Baguio first, before continuing on to Vigan.  Manila is only 150mi/250km away from Baguio, but after a seven-hour bus ride, seems much farther.  That’s because the going is so slow through town after congested town full of motorbikes and three-wheelers putt-putting around and clogging up the main road, that it’s