Hypertravel with Hardie #1: Far South America

Hi y’all. I’m Hardie and I welcome you to the first installment of my new YouTube Channel called Hypertravel with Hardie, all about the trips I’ve taken in my life, and especially the last seventeen years or so, which were the most intense. ‘Hypertravel’ is the same name I used for my previous travel journal called Hypertravel: 100 Countries in Two Years, which I wrote and published in the year 2012, and which will serve as a template for at least the first few videos of this project. Because this will be a little bit different from most “vlogs”, in that they will consist of my previous trips from that Hypertravel era but told mostly from the photographs that I took then and there and which number in the thousands. I will narrate those trips and regions to the best of my memory as we go, the goal being to inspire you to visit that city or country if you think you might find it interesting. So, some of these videos will be organized by the trip and others by region. Times for a specific region might be continuous or spread out over several different years, making it something like ‘time travel’. But my main interests are geography, language, culture, and music, so that’s what I’ll concentrate on mostly. I still travel overseas at least once a year, as I have for fifty years, and just returned from a three-week trip that included Japan, Thailand, Bhutan, and Hong Kong. Welcome to my world. This first video will concentrate on the first leg of that Hypertravel phase in the year 2008 when I was 54 years old and decided that it was time to get serious about travel. I’d spent most of my life traveling around the world to buy and sell handicrafts from the traditional peoples that I encountered, but at that point it still totaled only about 50 or so countries. Now it’s 155 countries. Are you still with me? Let’s go! This first trip was to the region of southernmost South America, which I’d never visited, even though I did business in Bolivia for many years, buying and selling alpaca wool products, even after doing business in Mexico and Guatemala. And it’s no accident that these are the Latin American countries with the greatest percentage of indigenous population. So, in late 2008 I booked a free flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and took it from there, figuring to do a literal round trip to Paraguay, Uruguay, through Argentinian Patagonia, and over to Chile, then up that long narrow country before crossing back to Argentina, overland, Bolivia optional, and flying back out before the Christmas rush. So, that’s what I did, the trickiest part first. That meant scooting up to Paraguay, before I got too bogged down in other things. But the trip started in Buenos Aires, Argentina. And Buenos Aires was okay, but Chile would be better for my American tastes, further down the road. Buenos Aires is more European, late breakfast meaning coffee and a hot sticky bun, if you’re lucky, and don’t forget the butter. Paraguay was very different, and worth it for the novelty, if nothing else, Latinos speaking Guarani’ just because they like it, I guess, since most of them aren’t really indigenous in any way, though the original Tupi tribes certainly were. The big thrill was catching a taxi from the Paraguay-Brazil border and going all the way to the Brazil-Argentina border without ever getting out of the car, much less officially entering the country of Brazil. I’d never done that before–or since. I guess it’s some kind of ‘free zone’, but I’m not sure. The driver even offered to take me to Iguazu’ Falls, for a price, but I politely declined. You can do that on the Argentine side, also, and all on public transportation. But the Argentine town on the other border was nice, Puerto Iguazu’, so I stayed there a few days, before hoofing it back down to BA. Buenos Aires and Montevideo, Uruguay, are almost twin cities, so that’s an easy hop, or river cruise, as the case may be. I liked it, too, if for no special reason other than its sentiment and charm, certainly nothing too exciting, unless you’re a tango fanatic. I didn’t see much of the country either, but that’s okay. I DID see a percussion festival, and Patagonia was calling me further south, as the weather warmed up for the coming South American summer. I didn’t make it to Antarctica, unfortunately, but that’s not because I didn’t want to. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of thinking that Puntarenas, Chile, would be an easy alternative jumping-off point to Ushuaia, Argentina, but that is not the case. Actually, more boats probably leave from Buenos Aires to Antarcticta, but that’s a longer discussion. Suffice it to say that if you want to catch a trip to Antarctica at the last minute, then Ushuaia is probably the better bet, even if it means crossing more borders. Puntarenas is nice, though, even if it’s no farther south than Edmonton, Canada, is north, so not too exotic, and neither is Ushuaia, for that matter. But that’s the closest connection to Antarctica, if that’s your goal. Puntarenas is something of a dead end, also, since from there, you either go through the fjords by boat to the north or hop over it all by plane. I lucked out with a cheap flight north to Valdivia and loved it there. I even caught a concert there, so very cool. Unfortunately, a puppy dog fell in love with me down by the seal docks, but I couldn’t take him with me, so that was sad. But the seals were cool, hanging by the riverside and smelling to high heaven. Santiago the capital was an anticlimax, even if I was staying in a whorehouse, haha, but Valparaiso was better. To some extent, the price of the room heavily dictates the nature of the experience. Vina del Mar would be better on the way back, also, but there were the desert cities of La Serena, Antofogasta, and Iquique up ahead on the road to the north, all of which were nice, but not too exciting, unless Gypsies excite you, so far from their traditional homes down there (up there?) in Iquique, while looking and acting so much like Gypsies, too. The smell of curry added to the drama, but I hadn’t studied enough Hindi at the time to make any broad predictions. And then there’s Calama, celebrated entry to the high desert. It’s high and cool, true, but too cool for my school, so I beat a hasty retreat. That’s the way to Bolivia or North Argentina, also, but I’ve got a date down south at Vina del Mar, with a film festival soon to start. Vina’s okay, too, much more famous than Calama, but not nearly so pretentious by my standards. Or maybe I just don’t like to be reminded of my hippie roots. I’d rather be reminded of my film school roots. That doesn’t last long, though, and soon I’m on the midnight run, over the Andes back to Argentina. Mendoza was okay, too, and the Buenos Aires Chinatown is certainly worth mentioning, but my allocated six weeks were almost up. Other events of note were some indigenous dances somewhere in Chile and a music festival in Argentina, but I can’t remember the locations exactly, so I’ll leave them with a bare mention. Unfortunately I was just warming up as a still photographer, so the number of photos is a bit scant. These photos from Colombia and Peru were later, and separate, but serve to fill out the feel of South America, especially Peru, where I spent several months in 2022-3 and which is my favorite country in all of South America. Colombia was only a brief stopover from Portugal back to Mexico, in 2022, if you can believe that, the cheapest route, if not the shortest, especially during a pandemic and the sometimes onerous regulations associated with airline travel in that era. Asia was locked down tight for two to three years, and that’s been my main stomping grounds for the last thirty years, after much time in Latin America. So South America was a nostalgia trip, and a welcome revisit, long after the Hypertravel era. If you liked the pictures, then consider the book, available from Amazon. The next installment will visit the Caribbean, including Cuba. Stay tuned. And don’t forget to like and subscribe. It will help with my ultimate goal, which is to convert all this to VR, Virtual Reality. It’s a different world there. Thanks for watching.

Hypertravel with Hardie #10, Central Asia: Uzbekistan, Pakistan, Afghanistan...

Central Asia was—and is—something of a logical extension of the original Hypertravel inspiration, to “see it all,’’ with the only real difference being the much larger scale of the endeavor over a plot of land that is as difficult to define as it is to navigate. I only knew that however it was ultimately defined, Uzbekistan would be at the heart of it, and so that would be my starting point when the possibility finally presented itself in 2013. It wouldn’t be the BIG trip, of course, since that’s almost unfathomable, beginning in India and winding up through Pakistan and Afghanistan, then Central Asia proper, i.e. Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Kazakhstan, before detouring into China for the rebound tour through Xinjiang and Kashgar before finally diving back down the Karakoram highway to Pakistan and India, with an option to return instead through Tibet and Nepal, then India. Whew! I schemed and scammed on that idea for years before finally settling on a quick trip to solitary Uzbekistan in 2013. All those countries required visas back then, and often obtainable only in the home country, or maybe a visa on arrival at the airport only, in a random country or two. But overland travel has its own reward, so I figured to revisit the trip in 2014 with an extension from India into Pakistan, first, then Afghanistan, then who knows? But the inspiration for Uzbekistan in 2013 was the Sharq Taronalari music festival in Samarkand. That was in my world music days, and I was always a culture vulture, so it all fit together nicely, especially when wedged in and around Thailand, as usual, my sometimes and often home and refuge. But first I flew from LA to Frankfurt, with a layover there, before continuing to Tashkent. And Tashkent is nothing special, but proof of the Russian connection, big and boring. Samarkand IS special, with the same typical architecture that you can still find in much of Central Asia, the Indo-European part, before the massive Turkic immigration. And that’s what the classic cities of Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva are, Tajikistan maybe even more so. The music festival is good, too, even if slightly high-cultured and not some wild-ass hippie event. My guesthouse owner is a character named Firkat, that I call Fur Cat, who puts out a breakfast spread that must be seen to be believed, shades of Istanbul, with serving plates stacked skyward for three-dimensional effect, it seems. The food is good, too, whether it’s ultimately Turkish or Iranian, I don’t care. The architecture shows more affinity with Kashgar and Tehran than Istanbul, and both Bukhara and Khiva would be similar. Bukhara is next stop down the road and into the encroaching desert, and it’s nice, too, with variations on that same Iranian central Asian theme. But it’s a little bit smaller, so more compact and less famous, and apparently a favorite of itinerant Russians looking for excitement in the Central Asian outback. But what it lacks in fame, it makes up in authenticity. That means suzani ikat weavings, old-fashioned markets, and a babushka half my age who’s giving dirty looks at my dirty boots. From there it’s a long haul due west across the desert to Khiva, and once again it’s the shared taxis who carry much of the load for people like me, too rich for scuzzy buses and too poor for private cars. But it works, even if it keeps the bus system slow and funky. We’re in a different part of the region now, though, almost Turkmenistan and probably proud of it. They’re stricter here, and you can feel the difference, Mullah Abdullah and his minions with breath that smells like onions. In short, Bukhara is more like India, while Khiva is more like Iran. But the first thing I did in Khiva was to buy a train ticket back to Samarkand, and I had no regrets about that. Because Khiva is less attractive to me, and that is simply a fact. The catchy pop music is here replaced by long dreary dirges, and the people are less friendly to match. For some reason the French people like it, though, and that may be because they (we) are literally inhabiting a UNESCO World Heritage site. Is that even legal? Overcharging is a problem, also, especially the kind that comes with racial and facial distinctions. Given the dependence on taxis for transportation, this is no small issue. So, Samarkand is a welcome redux, even if it starts to feel slightly boring. The once exciting weddings that produce so many babies now seem excessive, as if people are getting married just for the parties! Since bars as such are certainly not publicly tolerated. But they are privately tolerated, and a troop of girls touring from nearby Tajikistan show how the local dances are done, smiling like visiting American dignitaries without the slightest hint of a hijab. But all good things must come to an end, of course, and Russian-era Tashkent is no match for the more traditional sites of Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva. Either way, it’s Muslim Lite and Turkic Lite. Speaking Russian is still your best defense against overcharging, even though the local languages are Indo-Aryan and Turkic. And that’s a subject that fascinates me immensely. So, this 2013 excursion is just a teaser for the really big Indo-Euro show that will get picked up in 2014 with a full-fledged introduction to India proper, with side-trips to Pakistan and Afghanistan, respectively. Neither of those will connect to Uzbekistan, but it could have. I made the choice to return to southern India, first, for a month or two, after Pakistan, and then Sri Lanka and the Maldives Islands after Afghanistan. Fortunately, I had a double-entry visa from the Indian consulate in Bangkok, so that worked fine. Now it’s even easier, just do it all online and stamp it all up at the border. So, after a couple months of travel in the north of India, I exited the country in the farthest NW corner of the country, into Pakistan, one of the weirdest border crossings in the world, and, given the fact that the people are genetically very similar speaking languages that are very similar, one of the strangely least traveled. The big drama the first day was finding my hostel in Lahore. Considering the relatively good English language skills of neighboring India, the skills for Pakistani taxi drivers was low, which made arrival to my destination difficult. But we finally found it, of course, and the next challenge was to enjoy an evening of Sufi dancing here, at its place of origin. As with all of Pakistan that I saw, women were nowhere to be found, but that’s just Islam at its core. But the policemen were the big surprise, as they beat the unruly crowd, including me, with sticks, that and the unruliness itself, which I presumed to be prohibited in Islam. But it’s not, quite the contrary. This is all in the midst of hashish incense that perfectly matches the level of the policeman’s incense. I never got hit upside the head, but I did feel the breeze, and I felt my own level of incense toward our trusted leader Hassan, I think his name was. But Lahore was good enough, and I knew nothing of the Indus Valley Civilization at the time, so the only other destination was the capital of Islamabad, after I canceled Peshawar due to illness. So, I got my Afghan visa in the capital, with three months to enter, which it turns out that I would sorely need, pun intended, after I lost my voice as the reward for a never-ending bout of cold and diarrhea. Islamabad was weird, too, deliberately erect in contrast to Lahore’s grimy grottoes and lurid exteriors, but both with no women showing their faces or even their burqas, victims of the thorough he-job that is fundamentally Islam. And this is the Lite version. So, I beat a not-so-hasty retreat to Mumbai to weather the winter and wait for the spring, trolling the west coast of India before returning to New Delhi. #Kabul #Afghanistan: Jihad for Dummies vs. Spring Hopes Eternal This trip got reignited a month or two later after a full tour of southwest India from Mumbai to Kerala state and all points in between, one of India’s nicest areas. Then I’m back in New Delhi with a flight to Afghanistan. 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 expectation, with strange tongues and whispering strange sighs, body odors wafting from overcoats whose histories likely date back to eras unspecified and improperly documented. Any one of these guys could be a Taliban terrorist, al-Qaeda conniver or Saudi Salafist, down on his luck and up on his religion, out of his rightful mind and into the only one that's left, high-tailing it or in-boxing it or tweeting it or snap-chatting architectural blueprints for any one of 1000's of memorials and buildings and airports freely available on Internet and suitable for bombing. That's probably what they're saying about me, too, CIA or worse, agent provocateur. The flight itself is no big deal, endless klicks over uncharted desert, over the border somewhere that divides India from Pakistan, Hinduism from Islam, vegetarians from carnivores, and divine hierarchies from an abstract figurehead, the latter looking to the Arabian desert for inspiration, the former to themselves and their past, mutated in direct proportion to the distance from the source, in time and space, the twin gods of physical existence. Afghanistan is the kind of place—Papua New Guinea is another—where it's easier to feel comfortable in crowds, the clusterf*ck itself some measure of security, a bulwark against bullsh*t, where white skin is the target, the whiter the better, since our distant-cousin Afghans themselves have no lack of light skin blue eyes and blue genes, vestige of some point in time and space back when back where on steppes balustrades and genetic ladders blazing a trail out of Africa and heading for greener pastures and broader vistas, all suitable for us featherless bipeds walking around semi-erect. This is fortress Kabul, never so beautiful in the first place, now reduced to concrete bunkers and abstract considerations, cold steel construction under mostly sunny skies, kids and old ladies begging for food, a burqa to hide the shame, a war of words and mutually exclusive concepts, consumerism and religious fundamentalism fight it out in the streets and villages, the only decorations for today's New Year celebrations the loops and swirls of concertina wire gracing fences and railings of any importance, Checkpoint Charlies at the most important military installations and warehouses of consumer goods. Nothing helped the Serena Hotel last night, Kabul's finest, cobbled together from those same hopes dreams and big ideas, and ultimate killing field, if for only a moment, in the battle to harvest souls for slaughter, always easier than conversion, multiple casualties and unspecified damages, the strategy of most journalists diplomats and businessmen being that the more layers of protection the better, thicker stronger and longer the path an enemy projectile must penetrate. I prefer to hide in plain sight, wearing nothing for protection, playing with children and scrounging for food, hanging with locals, something most foreigners would never do, go figure, so maybe that's part of the problem, the foreign intervention, the imposition of order from the outside, rather than from its own internal logic and familial bonds, that fortress mentality that only feels good on the inside, if you're one of the lucky few... and not claustrophobic. I like (ex)war zones—Belfast, Bosnia, Beirut, Belgrade. The challenge is to get the timing right. Show me a former war zone and I'll show you a travel bargain. But nobody wants to dodge bullets, not really. Sure, it makes good copy, but... naah. Kabul may have to wait another season. Some people chase tornadoes for kicks. Man, those folks are crazy. Me, I prefer half-crazed maniacs with machine guns. But this is no accident, no random occurrence. This is the afterlife. This is World War III. This is the war to end all wars. This is the beginning of the long dark nod. The Great Migrations have already begun. This is love during wartime, baby. Could you hold me just a little bit tighter, please, even though you're ten thousand miles away and we've barely even met? Thank you. I appreciate that. Election Day in #Kabul #Afghanistan Tomorrow is election day in Afghanistan, and all fingers are crossed, all eyes watching. Regardless of who wins, the future is not so bright. The Taliban vows to punish anyone who votes. And they aren't known for making idle promises. Of course the real challenge begins when the US pulls out later this year, and questions remain what sort of contingency will live on here. The smart money would probably bet on smart money, with few soldiers. That would probably be the best move. Of course the widely predicted civil war won't necessarily occur when the US pulls out, and if it does, that doesn't mean that the Taliban will win again. Another possibility is that the country might be partitioned de facto into a Taliban-controlled south and a more liberal—less conservative, that is—'Muslim lite' north, where women can walk the streets without a burqa and men can eventually learn to appreciate that, and their equality. Isn't that the real problem anyway: ignorant a**hole macho men who'd rather beat women down than lift themselves up? Old ways die hard, I guess... Partitioning is problematic, though, and symptomatic of possibly THE biggest problem in Afghanistan, its fragmented landscape. The fastest land route between Kabul in the central east, and Herat, in the central west, is through Taliban-infested Kandahar in the south, 'only' two days. The 'straight' route over hill and dale takes three days, with no guarantees. A flight only takes an hour or so, of course. You get the pic. I personally have no special interest in Afghanistan, no more than any other region of the world, anyway. My main reason for being there now—last week, that is—is two-fold: it's on the land route from India up through Central Asia and back through China, which I originally planned to do, AND... Afghanistan may be entering a dark time in which travel will be impossible. In other words, it may be now or never. Once there only then did I begin to see the country in a different light, full of real people in a very real situation—a very good metaphor for the modern world itself—mostly gone wrong, I might add. Volumes have been written about Afghanistan's lack of hospitality, but I didn't find that, just the opposite, in fact. And once people realized that I was NOT 'up to no good', harmless as a church mouse, in fact, they opened right up, pictorially, at least. I took no picture of a person that I was not invited to take, and I took every one that I was invited to take. The multiplicity of hired gunmen did not fit that list, unfortunately. EXIT Still, the writing is on the wall, and all bets are off, so I have no choice but to hedge them. That means catching the first flight out of the region, so that I won’t be any further inconvenienced. Because it’s already inconvenience enough just trying to get to the airport through the massive security on display. And since I have no remaining visa for India, then i must go elsewhere, in this case Sri Lanka, from which I’ll do a side trip to makdives. Hey, going to 150 countries is not easy, so I catch them when I can. C U there

#9 China, Mongolia, and North Korea: Beijing, Ulan Bator, and Pyongyang Hi y’all: Welcome to the ninth, count ‘em, ninth episode of my travel series Hypertravel with Hardie, about all the trips I’ve taken, as told by the pictures. Beginning in the year 2008, with my Hypertravel Book, which I published in the year 2012. This time we’re going to China, Mongolia, and North Korea, so something not so simple, but rewarding. It’s not the longest trip, but one of the more interesting. Are you ready? Let’s go. The oppressive heat and humidity ruled in China, but at least Beijing seemed a bit drier than my brief stopover in Shanghai, if no cooler. I took a liking to the city right away, its hutong alleyways a link to the past that’d be hard to find almost anywhere else in China, even in places much smaller and more socially backward. Still the first main order of business was preparing for North Korea. That’s a traveler’s Iron Curtain; you don’t just wander in, whether on a bus, train, or plane. It not only takes planning, but it takes guides; that’s the law. Still it can be done, with a fistful of dollars, and then a few dollars more… AND a lotta’ red tape. The whole thing seemed so sketchy and uncertain and bureaucratic that I felt obligated to check out the Beijing operation in advance, while I still might have some control over the monies involved, all this before I’d even gone to Mongolia, mind you, so something of an anomaly for me logistically. I managed to find their office, so I knew they actually existed, over in the Sanlitun “bar district” of Beijing nonetheless. It’s calm over there by Thai standards btw. So, I went to see the Great Wall with the time remaining. Now it’s time for Mongolia. That was enough to placate my concerns for the moment, so I felt free to turn my attention to Mongolia. I figured that’s where the real action is. I was mostly right. Mongolia is an unwashed traveler’s gem, waiting to be polished, and maybe one of the last great frontiers in the world. This is an area the size of Alaska perched between China and Russia at the latitude of the US-Canada border, and busy playing one off the other since time immemorial, or at least since China invented gunpowder and managed to keep the wolves at bay… for a while. The capital at Ulan Bator is just a hint of what lies in the countryside. The last vestiges of communism have mostly disappeared, and capitalism just pops up all around seemingly at random, a shopping complex here and a karaoke bar there, by some economic law of psychological value. This is especially evident with motorized vehicles, where seemingly everybody got the idea to buy a car and carry passengers for hire right at about the same time. So welcome to the world’s biggest traffic jams. Allow plenty of time to catch your flight. Outside of Ulan Bator, the cityscape quickly devolves into the vastness of a northern plain that was likely one of the original marshalling yards for modern evolution in the inter-glacial ages when large herds of large animals would make their way across the Bering Strait and begin the long trek downward, all the while dodging the spears and arrows of the freakiest albino apes that the planet’s ever seen. Through a process of elimination I somehow decided that Tsetserleg (Hot) would be the focus of my journey, mostly just because of logistics; I had five days in Mongolia, and there just wasn’t any more time to travel than a day out, a day there and a day back, with an extra day for snafus, but much more time than I wanted to spend in Ulan Bator itself. Tsetserleg has a rep as one of the nicer provincial capitals… but that probably isn’t saying much. It also has something rather anomalous for the vast outback of northern Asia, a British B&B. I figure that was reason enough right there for the trip. The terrain reminded me a lot of Alaska or the Yukon—except for the massive amounts of livestock—so that’s good. Travel on public transportation is a bit difficult, but not overly so. And then just when you think you’re the last lonely traveler at the end of a long lonely road, a pack of bikers on Harleys will pull up and fill the house with beer and laughter and tales of tire-wear… just like they do in Whitehorse. Tsetserleg itself was a bit disappointing, Stalinist architecture and all, but that’s no reflection on Mongolia as a whole, which is much greater than the sum of its individual parts. Still, it was a pleasant sojourn, at least until the ride back. It rained the whole night before, so the ground was fairly soaked, and the road is not so good. So, when the driver took the bus off into a pasture to avoid potholes, slipping and slopping and spinning up mud, there was more than a little anxiety to deal with, a pretty wild ride, actually. We made it, though. We usually do. The main tourist attraction in Mongolia is nature, and that doesn’t convert easily to cities. So, you have to get out into the outback for the full effect of Mongolia, the gers (yurts) and the cowboys and the livestock and the nomadic way of life. Still, Ulan Bator is not at all bad. There are even encampments of gers there. And there are rock bands playing in the parks, too. And there are supermarkets. And then there’s Buddhism, something like a crucial link in the Mongolian historical dialectic of tribalism> empire> subservience> Buddhism> communism> independence. And it’s the Tibetan style, too, which must really bug the Chinese. Watching monks chant their chants in a replica of the temple at Lhasa was truly inspiring. I think I felt something move. North Korea is something else entirely. If Ulan Bator is the wild wild West, then Pyongyang is the exact opposite, something so controlled and coordinated as to be almost devoid of instinct or logic. Getting there is the hardest part, though. After all the runaround and the red tape and the rigmarole and the razzmatazz, the actual being there was somewhat tame… after the Customs inspection, that is. There they confiscated all the cell phones, with almost religious fervor, as if they were the epitome of capitalist evil. Anything with GPS is strictly forbidden, so maybe that’s the deal; they don’t want anyone calling in an airstrike I guess. That makes sense. Laptops are okay in North Korea, but you’re back in the pre-Internet era with them. Most people probably don’t even realize there WAS a pre-Internet era of computers, as if that’s why they exist. And don’t even think about Wi-Fi. Like Cuba, there is none. If you look for a connection, there is simply nothing there. Unlike Cuba, you’re not likely to be able to talk to anyone about it. None of the guides ever mentioned it. Few tourists speak Korean. In Cuba, I talked with many Cubans about many things, the most memorable quote being, “I’m fifty-five years old, and you’re the first American I’ve ever talked to.” The second most memorable was, “Why do you need Internet?” (Gulp). After spending the first evening at the Arirang Mass Games, the next day was a whirlwind of monuments and memorials and assorted minglings with the masses, in the markets and the metro. And there aren’t much in the way of markets, really, just stuffy old state-run souvenir stores and book stores full of Kim-style Communist propaganda. But the restaurants were good, if uninspiring in atmosphere. Everything felt sterile and regimented, institutional. There were even fewer vehicles, mostly mass transit and a few private vehicles for government and diplomatic personnel. And there’s the epiphany right there. If the whole regimented system reeks of mind-control and brainwash, then the functionality of a city without private cars borders on true inspiration. These are cities truly intended to live in, something that cities rarely are. More often than not, a city is intended for commerce, and often little else, people scurrying home to fairytale suburbs at the end of the workday for the actual living of life. In Pyongyang the tallest buildings are full of apartments not offices. It’s actually quite inspiring, a city with no pollution or traffic jams, quite the contrast to Ulan Bator. Indeed Pyongyang is probably the quietest cleanest city I’ve ever been in, and something of a revelation that that would even be possible. A few days after I left, typhoon Bolaven hit, same time as Hurricane Isaac in the US, some of my tourist buddies still there. I hope they’re okay. We also went to the USS Pueblo. Don’t ask. Back in Beijing there wasn’t much left to do locally, since I’d already visited the Great Wall, and I was saving the Forbidden City for the last day. So I went to Chengde, now only a few hours away after the completion of the new four-lane highway. We beg for high-speed Internet; they still beg for high-speed highways. Hotels in China didn’t have Wi-Fi in the year 2012 btw; they had ETHERNET (slow-ass hard-wire data ports). Chengde is on the UN World Heritage list for its Qing-era summer palace and Buddhist temples, but I’ll confess to not seeing much of them. The pollution was so bad on the day I was there I decided not to press my luck too much. I’ve still got a cough. It’s nice to see a smaller city, though, at a half million people Chengde being something of a village by Chinese standards. Back in Beijing I went to see the Forbidden City almost as an afterthought, that and to spend the hotel deposit that they refund at the end of your stay and which would all be eaten up in charges if you tried to exchange it. And it was way cool, like a magic Chinese box full of smaller nested boxes. All in all it was a good trip, if a bit wet and unusually muggy, at least in the southern climes.

Hi y’all: Welcome to the 8th episode of my Hypertravel with Hardie video series of all the trips I've taken over the last twenty years. This coincides with the travel journal that I wrote called Hypertravel: 100 Countries in two years, and many more that came after. So, in effect, these first eight episodes are a pictorial version of the same book, and more, since this episode contains events and pictures that came after. And there is much more to come, with maybe even a Hypertravel II book to match, if all goes well. But this episode is about the South Pacific, including the major countries of the Philippines and Australia. So, let’s start there, then. Are you ready? Let’s go! Sydney is the largest city in Australia, by far, even if not the capital, and that’s where much of the action of the country takes place. Unfortunately for me, Australia was in the midst of its China boom, when they were investing like crazy and driving the value of the Australian dollar to a level higher than that of the US dollar, with resulting high prices. So, there’s not much time to waste chilling, but there is some time to sight-see. So, after the obligatory tourist stops of the opera House and the bridge or whatever, I’m on my way to Melbourne, to check things out there. It’s far to the south and so colder there in the southern hemisphere, appropriate for this Christmas season. The only ethnic neighborhoods in either city, though, are the various Chinatowns, since anyone besides ‘good Asians’ are subject to thorough scrutiny and likely denial of long-term entry. That means that there are many short-time helpers, mostly students and travelers like myself who come for a year to do the work that most Australians aren’t interested in. That means that there are also many low-budget hostels for short-time stays for me and them, too, because by this time I’m a confirmed hostel customer. Does Santa Claus surf? I don’t know, but by this time I’ve got to go, next stop New zealand, little brother to the land of OZ. New Zealand has been on my radar for a long time, though, thanks to its reputation as an ecotopia, just like the ecotopia of Oregon where I was living in the 1980’s. If the capital and largest city of New zealand, Auckland, was analogous to Seattle of the Pacific NW, then I suppose that Wellington would be analogous to Portland where I once lived. But I didn’t make it to Wellington due to time constraints and a previous earthquake in Christchurch, which destroyed much infrastructure in that city, New Zealand’s third largest. I did go to Fangarei, though, spelled Whangerei, at the entrance to Maori territory. So that was nice. And I moved downtown when I got back to Auckland town, in a high-rise hostel that was something like Latino central for the city. I did go to the nearby islands of Waheke and Rangitoto, too, both lovely and I had some good convos with some locals, that made me remember why I’m here and where I came from. Like Oregon, within a minute of meeting these people we’re finishing each others’ sentences and talking about old times the minute before. It’s New Year’s Eve, too, so it’s festive downtown and I’m hanging out with the Hare Krishnas. They always have good parties. Happy New Year! Fiji’s the next stop, but that’s a working concept as the hub of Pacific hub-and-spoke travel, so I’ll be in and out a few times within the next month. So, I stay a day and then head straight to the Solomons Islands, famous for the Battle of Guadalcanal in WWII. That means that if the sea level were to fall a few meters then a battlefield would present itself in the surrounding waters like naval ghosts from Christmases past rising from the ashes like zombies. But I’m just trying to get comfortable, and the rasta-flavored GH where I’m staying on the outskirts of town is just not working for me, so help me, Carmelita, before I sink down. So, even though there’s an ex-pat Britpub in the neighborhood, I bargain for a week in downtown Honiara, knowing the plane only comes once a week, so that’s okay. And I roam around the Chinatown, bruised and battered since the locals tried to shut them down after a fit of spite or jealousy, I suppose, but they always come back like perennials that they are. I consider the nearby islands, even one called Tulagi like my favorite bar in Boulder CO, back in the 1970’s, but spend most of my time studying Melanesian Pidgin language and trying to find similarities between it and the other languages I know like Spanish and Mississippi English. I spend more time in Fiji on the rebound. Nadi is not the largest town, but it/s near the international airport, so that’s convenient. All the groovers go out to the Yasawa Islands, so it’s only the backpackers here on Wailoaloa Beach. But it’s okay, especially on Wednesday night, which is Kava night, featuring the Kavaholics on folk instruments and the rest of us on the slightly tipsy brew called Kava. Then there are the fire dancers, unsure of what kind of music to dance to. But the kava seems to be ubiquitous in the Melanesia region, and if the Solomons are the ‘real thing’, then Fiji is Melanesia lite, literally, the product of many eggs scrambling over many years to get the mix of features that we call Fiji. But If I imagined it as a tourism monster, then that is not true. And neither is it for me, either, better as a centerpoint to all than a destination in its own right. The town of Nadi is nothing special and I assume the capital of Suva to be not much more, but still interesting for its social structure, if nothing else. At one point the Indians almost equalled the locals in number until the Fijian army sent them packing. They run the military and the Indians run the businesses. They share the government, while the Chinese wait in the wings. The food is killer, Indian or Chinese, vegetarian optional. Next stop is Samoa. Samoa is comprised of west and east, of course, Apia and Pago Pago, independent or American, Sunday or Saturday, since the two capitals straddle the international date line with all the confusion that entails, i.e. they’re separate, as the two airports for the two different regions in Apia would suggest. This is no longer Melanesia, though, but Polynesia, descendants of all the Austronesians that left the Asian continent to Taiwan, all within the last few 1000’s of years, and then spread out from there with excellent navigation skills. Melanesians came much earlier, mostly by land. But this is the cradle of Polynesian culture. There are churches everywhere, so on Sunday I go church-hopping, just follow the music. I don’t want to stay in Apia the whole time, though, so I scout out the outer islands and eventually settle on the most unlikely one, US Samoa, centered on Pago Pago, in the US outlying territories, complete with not only Kmart and KFC, but Napa Auto Parts and the US Post Office. Apia is much cheaper, though, and the people are huge in both. It must be genetic, or diet, or both. The westerners still wear lavalavas, while the easterners have spiked hair and other punk fashion statements. Pago Pago has a beautiful harbor, too. Many of the American Samoans are long gone to America proper, though, so many westerners come over to fill the job corps, just one big happy family. Next stop is Tonga. If you’re saving the best for last, then this is not a bad choice. We beat the rain out of Samoa, but Tonga is not much better, and I’ve got flu-like symptoms, so I’m being cautious. I do the Sunday church scene with a Finnish guy, and we even get to sit in on a traditional wedding ceremony and feast. The city of Nuku’alofa is nothing special, but the graveyards are incredible, folk art of the highest order. They don’t wear lavalavas, either, but real grass skirts. Storms are threatening again, but we manage to make it out on time, just a stop back in Fiji, then on to Honolulu, with a stop in Kiribati, then on to LA. So this trip over, but the narrative is not, because i neglected to mention the trip’s very first stop, in Papua New Guinea. It’s a weird place, so I didn’t want to set the wrong tone for the rest of the trip. How weird? Let’s just say that these are some of the nicest people in one of the world’s most dangerous places. Not weird enough? How’s this, then? Until the advent of airline travel, no one even knew that there were tribes in the interior of PNG, much less the full 800 languages. That’s less than 100 years ago. It’s travel policy for me to do the weirdest things first, so I went straight from Thailand to Brisbane in northern Australia, and from there to PNG. There are no roads out of Port Moresby, so I went to Lae on the northern coast with the idea to continue by road to Goroka, heart of the tribal highlands. The trip got off to a bad start, though, and I missed my ride from the airport to my pre-booked hostel at the Summer Institute of Linguistics, the infamous tribal translators. Nobody knew the place, so I ended up elsewhere, with resulting disruptions to my schedule. Oh, well, that’s life. So, I stayed in Lae, mostly cowering in fear, from the reputation of the place and the looks on people’s faces. I got an earlier flight back to Port Moresby and stayed with the Christian missionaries there, with plenty of stories amongst them, including one who said he was robbed four times on the very road that I wanted to be on in Goroka. So, I satisfied myself with the Port Moresby streetside crafts market to satisfy my vision quest for the interior. That’s all for this particular trip, but there’s another waiting to do, in the North and Central Pacific. 2012 This trip got reignited a year or so later, with a trip to the Philippines and nearby environs. The Philippines is one of the more popular destinations in the Pacific, but at the same time one of the more difficult to get to traditionally, though that is changing now with the advent of budget airlines, of which the Philippines has a few. But at this time, 2011-12, the big boys still largely controlled the skies and so prices were equally high. Which is good, in a way, because otherwise I might not have bothered with Guam, the Marshall Islands, and the Federated States of Micronesia, which are also in my month-long itinerary of January 2012. But the Philippines are the largest peach in this pie, and that’s where the trip starts. Manila reminds me of nothing so much as Bangkok, Thailand, where I’ve also spent much time and energy. And if the bars and prostitution are the starkest reminder of that, then the signs are also much in evidence elsewhere: the street food and the street scene most notably. The biggest differences lie in Manila’s relatively less development and the lower tourist numbers to match. Part of that could be the Philippines more remote location, and then there’s the greater poverty. There’s also the relative difference in their response to the Chinese presence, but be sure that they both have Chinatowns, Jake. Then there’s Makati, Ermita, old town Intramuros and still more, but they’re all crowded, as the inflated family sizes would indicate, one of the largest outside Africa. This trip will only cover the main island of Luzon, though, so I’m immediately drawn to the north. That’s where you’ll find one of the rarest places in all the country, Baguio City, onetime hill station for the resident Americans who controlled the country. Call me American and count me in. The Philippines is generally hot and sweaty, even for a Mississippian, so Baguio is a welcome relief, at almost a mile high. That elevation is nice anywhere in the tropics I find. At only 150mi/250km from the capital, that is convenient, also. The going is slow on the roads in the Cordillera, though, and that’s Spanish FYI, which is one of my hobbies here, mixing and mashing Spanish with the Tagalog equivalents which are many, usually distinguished more by spelling than meaning, which are often absent as the many women named Corazon can easily attest to. They have no idea what it means. Language evolves like DNA, almost exactly. So, I go to the most Spanish of Filipino towns, which is Vigan, but nobody speaks Spanish. The architecture is nice, though. But my main interests are the tribal areas, and that requires a backtrack to Baguio before traveling into the interior. The rice terraces are beautiful there, down the road in Banaue. But first there is Sagada, the hippie capital of the north. That means banana pancakes and more, of course, like reggae bars and yogurt parlors. But the drive is the real thrill, through beautiful scenery and winding roads. I’ve finally got a window in my room, too, so I’m happy about that. Banaue is nice, too, though notable for its differences, in price and custom. It likes to shut down early at night. There are tribal people, though, and not shy about it, so that’s nice, even if they are looking for tips. Given my limited time, this is a nice little taste, but it will have to do for the time being. Next stop is Guam. Guam shares much of the same history as the Philippines, first with Spain, and then with the USA. The big difference, of course, is that they never got independence, whether they ever wanted it or not. It feels Japanese, though, even if the culture is technically Micronesian, as distinct from the Melanesian and Polynesian of the south Pacific. The restaurants are Asian. The bars are American. But if this is the crossroads of culture, then Pohnpeio, FSM, is the Micronesian ‘real thing’ and almost the opposite of Guam. Because they have the historic ruins of Nan Madol, second only to Easter Island is terms of Pacific island archeology. They also have ‘sakau’, their version of kava, no ceremony required. It’s stronger, also. But the power is off much of the time, taking much of the shine off of what would otherwise be a splendid place. Then there’s Majuro, major city of the Marshall Islands. These are atolls, not volcanoes, so when the sea levels rise, then they will be the first to go. The Chinese are there in full force, too, likely as a stepping stone to the USA, of which it is a part. They are most famous for their nuclear tests, though, so that is a dubious distinction. Do you remember the song, “No Bikini Atoll?” That’s here. Again, like Pohnpei, FSM, there are few tourists, so that’s enormous potential being wasted. There are good churches, though, flowery shirts and all. I feel right at home. You gotta’ believe in something. This island is the perfect metaphor, a long narrow chain of livability surrounded by doubts and uncertainties. Did mention that you can walk down the only road looking to separate and different oceans on either side. This trip is over. C U in Honolulu. If you like these pictures and this story then please LIKE and SUBSCRIBE. It goes a long way. Thanks! C U next time, I hope.

El Viejo Viajero Does Cebu

Hi, I’m Hardie. Welcome to my new vlog El Viejo Viajero, the old traveler, my Spanish nom de guerre in recognition of my many years in Latin America, and the past history of my current home in the Philippines as a previous member of the Spanish Empire. I’ve called Cebu home for more than two years now, but I’ve never really vlogged it, or even blogged about it, with a v or a b, unless you count the period of my hospitalization, which was almost the end of my career as a traveler, and a travel blogger—almost. Because when the title of your blog is ‘Have Catheter, Will Travel,” then you’re pressing your luck, and hedging your bets, beyond the point which might be considered healthy. That was then; this is now. So now I want to pretend that I’m the new kid in town, fresh and full of excitement, ready to conquer the world, while telling you the best place to get the best views of a world equal parts water and earth, history and mystery, truth and consequence. Because that’s my job, as I see it, to explain history and culture as best I can, complete with photographs, since so few do, while they concentrate on the bars and pubs, restaurants and clubs, while ignoring what came before and what needs still to be explained. If you’re new to Cebu, then it all began down on the water’s edge near the city’s center. That’s where today you’ll find Magellan’s Cross, the actual cross that Ferdinand Magellan brought to the islands to begin its worship of Christianity, back in the year 1521 when Magellan landed as part of his round-the-world travel. You remember Magellan, right? That’s his English name. He’s also known as Fernando Magallanes in Spanish and Magalhaes in Portuguese, his native language. If this was his approximate half-way point around the world, it was also his final resting place, as he fell victim to the recriminations of the locals led by Lapu-lapu. May he rest in peace, though his body has never been found. Nearby is the basilica of Santo Nino, the country’s oldest Roman Catholic Church, dating from 1565, when the Holy child (Santo Nino) was found. It’s also a fully functioning modern church, also, so morning mass is easy to find at 0800 am in English and other times in Cebuano. It’s all quite beautiful and spiritually fulfilling, especially if you’re Catholic. Remember to dress appropriately, with long pants and no spaghetti straps. Also nearby is the historic Fort San Pedro, constructed in 1700-something to keep the enemies at bay and the pirates at sea, but just between you and me I suspect it was also designed to oversee the burgeoning galleon trade with Acapulco, Mexico, which yearly transferred supplies and product from one port to the other, while the Chinese waited to count their silver from Taxco, Mexico. This is no mock-up job, either, no. These are the actual cannons used to forestall the plunder of precious resources by precocious freebooters. Also, not far away, and still in the downtown area is the traditional fresh market at Carbon, where you can get all your fresh fruits and vegetables. It goes late into the night. You probably won’t be staying there, though, since most tourists now stay uptown, or even farther away at Mandaue or Lahug or Lapu Lapu near the airport. I like it near Fuente Osmena, though, which is like the new center, since the old Chinese centers have long since lost significance and many of the malls, especially Ayala, near IT Park, now attract many tourists. Many museums are centrally located, also, and are often historic. The Chinese still run many of the businesses, though, and scam centers, too, as the recent news reports can verify. Whether their connections are to mainland China or diaspora networks in Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand, I don’t know. But since the main Chinese dialect here is Hokkien aka Fukien, that points to a shared history with the diaspora, more than the modern mainland putonghua language and CCP politics. I’ve never explored Taoist temples, though, before, so that’s new for me here, and they look like something so Chinese-y that it’s almost hard to believe I’ve really never been aware of them. And there are others besides the main tourist attraction in Lahug. There are also some Chinese Buddhist temples, also, and by comparison they look much more conservative, with fewer dragons and more dharma, I guess. I’d say Taoism is to Chinese Buddhism what Hinduism is to Vajrayana Buddhism, though that might be an over-generalization. Theravada Buddhism is ancestral to both. One of the main tourist attractions now, though, is TOPS, the recently remodeled literal high point of the city, which ‘tops out’ (pun intended) at about 600 meters, above sea level, or 2000 feet, depending on which language you speak. Promoted now as ‘the Circle’, this was forever the place to bring your hot date for romantic views of the city and normal life far below, while making whoopie far above the fray. Now it’s been heavily rebuilt and promoted as 'the Circle’, something of a sky mall, or at least the food court portion thereof. So, for a couple bucks USD per head, you can have your choice of luscious lumps and libidinous libations while looking down at the city any time of the day. The only problem, of course, is that it’s a long ways up from the city, both time and distance, but mostly time, depending on traffic. Because, depending on where you leave from, it may only be 5mi/8km, but that’s at least a half hour as the crow flies, and possible much more, not to mention a hefty taxi charge for the privilege. Cheap shuttles are available from IT Park if you’re a legit tourist, not a midnight rambler. That’s as far as many tourists will get, anyway, since it’s more central and typical for the average tourist in that neighborhood. And if it sounds like a high-tech business park, well, it is that, sort of kind of almost maybe. I’m pretty sure IBM is there, but I know that Amazon is not, unless you’re talking about the whole neighborhood, not just the block that is technically IT Park. But I think that it’s better known as a neighborhood, and the most-traveled strip there would probably be Ayala Mall, either the original not so far away from the center, or the Central Bloc, which forms something of a continuum with IT Park as the inner mall portion of which IT Park is the outer walk. Now, I know what you’re thinking: a mall? Really? That’s what you’re recommending as a tourist sight to see? To which the answer is no, not me. But for others, yes, absolutely. Now, I won’t call any names, but another vlogger, showcased exactly this, and TOPS, and nothing else, as the places to see in Cebu. WTF? Why? Well, for one thing, it IS a bit hot and sweaty almost any time of the day or night, true, so some fresh cool air IS nice. But, I think the main attraction of the uptown neighborhood and the malls, of which there are quite a few, is the chance to forget that the Philippines has a level of poverty that you won’t find in Thailand or Malaysia, and probably not even Myanmar or Kampuchea. And, while the reasons for this are endlessly debated, the result is the same: it ain’t pretty. So, rather than try to solve the problem, which might take years, if not decades, sometimes it’s easier to just escape it. I suspect that’s why some of the nicest malls are in the poorest countries now, while many wealthy countries have largely abandoned the concept. This would seem to be a relatively new role for the Philippines, also, which not so long ago was one of the brighter spots of a once-bleak SE Asian landscape. Some of the loudest critics blame the colonizers and the corruption while avoiding the birthrate which rivals that of Africa on even a good day. This is a very Catholic country, and large families are traditional. They were in Thailand, also, until the government started offering free hysterectomies. China’s problem is now under-population, not over. Still, it somewhat defines the Philippines now, and it is worthwhile to explore a little bit, if not more. Because many of these are people of fine disposition, even if their circumstances are a bit challenging. They seem to be at a crossroads that many countries already passed by years, if not decades, ago. But that doesn’t mean that they are worth any less, only that they have challenges to face. If escape is one way to face it, it’s also one way to deal with it, directly. So, many Filipinos migrate out-of-country to support their extended families, while foregoing the larger questions of how to avoid repeating this cycle endlessly. That is happening, though, little by little, as birth rates gradually come down, and women consider options for themselves besides the traditional choices, of motherhood, maid, or mama-san. These things take time. But their lives are not wretched. Even in the most basic of neighborhoods, they manage to maintain some dignity and decorum, while struggling to scrape by financially. There are always others doing worse, and many mothers with children spend their nights on the street. Most men could care less. These things take time. If you like this content, please like and subscribe, and I will really appreciate it. I hope to continue my Filipino travel blogs for a month or two and I also do some old travels on hypertravel with Hardie, on the same channel. C U there. Thanks.