The Jungle Book

For an hour we sloshed along through the gummy mud and pouring rain, leaving the capuchin monkeys behind us. The shower continued unabated, and along the pathway pools of brown water filled up and gradually trickled over into one another, forming muddy streams that rushed down the jungle trails. We covered our packs with rain guards, sealed tightly and protected, and we moved along with our backs bowed and our heads up, tasting the freshness of the raindrops on our lips. When we got to the first river crossing, the morning rains passed over us and moved on, leaving us soggy and satisfied. 

The rivers were always a welcome stop. Emerging from the thickness of the rainforest out into a clearing and being greeted by the familiar sound of flowing freshwater gave us a reason to stop and gain our bearings. At the first river, as the rainstorm sauntered off, I stepped out onto the bank and quickly plopped down, un-strapping my pack. Yanking my shoes off, I stuck my crinkled toes into the crisp water and pulled out a granola bar to munch on. 

The others dropped their packs and bounded off, back into the jungle with their cameras in hand. I was left alone with the sounds of hummingbirds whirring around me and the click-click-click of river rocks rolling over one another. Behind me the leaves rustled as scaly lizards twitched and shifted, scurrying their way into shady hiding spots concealed from my prying eyes. The thicket around me shook, and I had the sudden feeling that I was alone in a scene from Jungle Book. You know, the part where the man-eating tiger comes roaring out of the bush to devour the little brown native innocently gathering nuts and beans. But it was just the others coming back from their romp in the wilderness in search of exotic wildlife. So we stretched out our legs, strapped on our packs, and headed out, pushing further into the heart of Corcovado.

"That Monkey Was Crazy!"

Spider monkeys are oddly threatening in a fuzzy kind of a way. Their dark brown fur is tinged with a rusty orange hue. They hang from tree limbs with dark, naked palms and, when emboldened, their brown leathery faces contort into menacing grimaces. The first one we passed seemed to be going through a mid-life crisis.

He was a loner, and whether or not that is normal I can't say. But in any case, he made it known that we were not welcome. Spider monkey hospitality is pretty much non-existent in the real world, and this one shook his white whiskers at us, boldly scratching and slapping his armpits, screaming insults, barking in our direction and flinging twigs at us.

It was clear that he had a lot of issues, perhaps with a broken heart or a misunderstanding between best-buds, and he was simply taking it out on us. But whatever the cause of his lonesome distress, we decided to leave him in peace and move on.

Spare the Soggy Shoes

A few hours later past the crazy spider monkey, we came upon our second river crossing. Making our way through the shallow stream, we settled our packs on the other side and sat down to catch our breath and have a snack. 

Have you heard the story of the silly American who tried to feed the maned young lion in Africa, getting closer and closer to it's lazy jaws, until it let out a ravenous roar and he almost had a wet? Some travel tales remind us that we as humans have an innate fear of most things large, loud and wild. 

For instance, imagine that you are sitting in the center of a vast rainforest on the edge of a trickling stream. Your shoes are off and your feet are in, soaking up the cooling sensation of the crisp water. You've hiked miles in, and your only escape is to hike miles out. The sounds of howling monkeys, chattering birds and clicking lizards surround you, and you're filled with the realization that you are alone and remote. You're suddenly aware of how vulnerable you really are, sitting tired and defenseless in a world where large predators with course bristly fur prey upon unsuspecting four limbed fuzzy little monkey-men who sit around whiling away the day over peeled bananas and exotic nuts. In no time, they could be caught unawares, just another unsuspecting victim of a ravenous beast. In a split second, you realize, that could be you. But the key solace and source of comfort are your two companions sitting next to you. 

And then you hear it, a low rumbling in the bush directly across from you. A high pitched chorus of wicked squeals echo in your ears. There's a viscous band of wild, ravenous creatures hidden in front of your very eyes... starving and craving for your fleshy parts and your chubby tummies! And the alpha-male raises his voice... a deep, dark, rumbling growl-grunt! You try to run, but your legs are as watery as the water your feet are in. Before you know it the wild beast is upon you! You turn around and look for your friend, but he's already running upstream, soggy shoes in hand, looking for the nearest tree to climb, screaming, "Ahhh! Piccadilly's!"

Okay, so maybe the peccary never showed itself. But the bush did shake. It was terrifying. And someone did run, (with time to spare to save their shoes), going on about the fearsome pack of fifty piccadilly's waiting to finish us off, in the meantime leaving the rest of us behind to fend for ourselves. In all honesty though, I probably would have done the same thing if I could've made my legs move fast enough.

"I'm So Over This!"

A little over six hours into our hike, the sound of rolling waves reached our ears. In 2 days we'd virtually crossed the Osa Peninsula from north coast to south coast mostly by foot, a journey of over 31 kilometers. At the distant sound of pounding surf, we knew that our trek through the heart of the jungle was coming to an end. Soon we would arrive at the shoreline, and ahead of us would stretch the final leg of our journey, 20 sun scorching kilometers along the peninsular coastline to Carate Town, the first rag tag settlement of civilization outside of Corcovado. But, we'd have to get to Sirena Ranger Station first, and we still had another hour or so to go. Nevertheless, the familiar rhythmic sounds of the Pacific Ocean gave us a little more incentive to pick up the pace.

As I mentioned, we had been hiking for hours at that point, and it was beginning to get to us. Beautiful wild nature surrounded us, but amongst that nostalgia of fairytale feelings, there is a reality. And the reality was that we were all beat. My pack had shifted to every awkward position imaginable, and the soles of my feet were beginning to rub raw from constantly being soggy.

Not only was it physically taxing, but mentally as well. To be in the middle of nowhere with nothing to go by but a half-beaten mud path is a hard thing to get used to. At times we cried out for trail markers, kilometer signs,anything that would reassure us that we were making steady progress. At one point I turned around and sighed, "I'm so over this..." Even Scott cried out for a sign, "Please, give us an animal or something!" Yes, it's true, we were beginning to give in to our comfort loving western ways.

But the trail does not end there. After a little while more of huffing and puffing and trudging through sludge, a furry little creature appeared on the path in front of us. It was an agouti, a small, brown rodent-like creature with a tiny head and chubby behind. She flashed us a look, as if to say: "Don't give up! Follow me, there's something right up ahead of you!" Than she trounced her way down the trail a few more paces before taking off into the bush. And sure enough, just a little ways up and we came across our third primate species.

“Okay, repeat after me,” Lǎoshī stands in the front of the class commanding attention. I sit up a little straighter. “Jīntiān. hěn rè!”

“Jīntiān, hěn rè,” our imitative voices are soft and disorganized. We fall behind one another, each of us trying to understand every single word of Mandarin while attempting to hit the proper tones at the same time. I try to make sense of it all, but my brains are boiling from the heat outside. The streets of Kaohsiung, Taiwan have been brutally hot as of late. I wipe the sweat off my brow and try my best to sit up straighter and concentrate.

“Yes, okay, try again, ” Lǎoshī says, clearly wanting more energy from her students, more heat. “Jīntiān, hěn rè!” Jīntiān..that means today. Something clicks in my mind. Hěn means very. That means that today is rè, but not just rè, but very rè! Alright, so Today it's very much rè. But what is rè?

Okay, I can get this, I tell myself, I just have to focus. I shake my head to try and clear it, but the insane humidity is fogging up my mental capacities.

This time we muster up the volume to go at it collectively as a class. “Jīntiān, hěn rè!” We repeat in almost perfect unison. Lǎoshī smiles and nods her head. She looks pleased with our enthusiasm.

But what does that mean? I think. Hmmm...Today, it is very rè. This fill in the blank game is killing me, it's too hot to think straight. I feel like I'm going nowhere with this.

“Good, much better,” Lǎoshī's voice enters into my muddled thoughts and breaks my concentration. She continues, “So who knows what this mean?”

Wait, I almost have it, I think.

“Hot,” Oudi speaks up. “It means, Today, it is very hot!”

Ding ding ding! The delayed light bulb finally switches on. Of course! Hěn rè indeed...what else could it have meant? After all, today is 34°C, and at 79% humidity it actually feels more like it's 42°C.

Yes, Lǎoshī, I think to myself, you are correct...Jīntiān hěn hěn hěn hěn rè! (Warning: That was very poor Mandarin grammar.)

Lǎoshī proceeds to write the number 35 on the white board. “Zuótiān,” yesterday, “Kaohsiung was 35 degrees Celsius.”

Yes, I know, I think to myself, How can I forget?

Lǎoshī continues as she writes the number 38 on the board, “Zuótiān, Taipei was 38 degrees Celsius.”

Whoa! Sucks for those northerners! I think.

She turns around slowly to look at us and asks, “Do you know what the temperature was in Beijing?” Turning back to the whiteboard she writes 41°C.

Hěn rè! I think. Suddenly, I don't feel so bad for myself anymore.

Before coming to Taiwan I had heard about the brutal heat. I'd called up Gary and Stacey, who studied Mandarin in Tainan City for six months, to ask them what it was like.

“Oh yeah, one more thing,” Gary said, right before hanging up. “The heat is gonna kill you!”

But despite the warnings, I never took the time to really think about the numbers. Even after my arrival in March, I didn't think much of it. “Oh, this isn't too bad,” I said then. I can deal with this, I've been through heat like this before.

“Don't worry, it gets worse,” everyone else told me. “Ah, but anyways, you're from Hawaii, so you're probably used to the heat already, right?” WRONG! Well, to be fair, everyone was right about the first part. But still, they were dead wrong about the last. Yes, it's true, it definitely got hotter. But no, ohhhh no...being from Hawaii did not mean that I was used to this kind of heat.

Back at home there's a song, it goes: 96 degrees, in the shade. REAL HOT...in the shade.

96° Fahrenheit is hěn rè for us Hawaiians. But in Celsius that's just 35°, which has so far been the average in Taiwan. And it's supposed to get even hotter here. That's Strike 1 for Hawaii. Also, Hawaii's humidity averages 40%, compare that to Kaohsiung's recent 79% humidity, which automatically kicks the temp up quite a few notches. Strike 2 for Hawaii. Not to mention the fact that Hawaii gets the trade winds blowing through the islands, cooling it down even more there. Kaohsiung's winds blow hot and humid through the city. Strike 3 for Hawaii, the truth is out.

And yes, folks, the truth is ugly. I hate to break it to everyone else, but the heat in Hawaii is nothing compared to the heat in Taiwan.

But in reality, given all of this mind boiling heat, it is possible to experience brief moments of clarity. There are times when you find yourself sitting in the middle of the day, trying your best to move as little as possible, not wanting to exhaust any more precious energy than is necessary. Without the slightest bit of effort on your part, you can feel beads of sweat pooling up and streaming down your back. Your pores are opened up as if you are in a sauna, only you're just sitting at the windowsill, trying to catch the slightest midday breeze. Your mind is reeling, your thoughts are jumbled together and suddenly the whole universe seems to make sense. Until you realize that this moment of clarity is just a case of heat stroke.

Not to fear though, I've still been surviving alright here in steamy Taiwan. Contrary to what the math in my mind tells me, it is possible for humans to live and exist under these seemingly unbearable conditions.

Having grown up in the shade of tall palm trees swaying in the cool island breeze, I can't help but think that perhaps I'm just too soft for all of this hěn rè business. So I just try my best to look at this sweltering experience as something I can learn from, something that will help me build more character. In fact, I remind myself that many people are enduring even harsher numbers in other parts of the globe, and if they can do it there, than who am I to complain about it here.

So now, whenever I find myself walking down the street sweating profusely in the scorching heat, or whenever I go online and shake my head at the rising numbers, I try my best to remind myself that although it's true, Jīntiān, hěn rè,...at least it isn't as rè here as it is somewhere else. Not yet at least.

And now we'd like to ask: What is hot to you? And what's the hottest temp you've ever been in? What do you do to beat the heat?

I found Joy in Bangkok, at a coffee shop, in a soi off of Thanon Pra Athit, a young man about my age, maybe a year older. 

While all of the other waiters showered attention upon me, he was slow to open up. They said I was a curiosity to them. Not Thai, but not farang. Most were lightly chatty. But Joy was different. 

It took awhile, but after some time he spoke to me. His first words... "You and me look same-same. You look same-same like Thai people." 

I had to smile at that. Just the night before, I'd seen a tee shirt at the night market. A red tee with thick white letters on the front that read: Same-Same. At the time I'd wondered what that meant. I kind of had an idea of it's meaning now. 

At first Joy apologized to me for not knowing English so much. I only smiled and apologized for not knowing Thai at all. I think that broke the ice, because an hour later, I'd learned much about this young man.

I learned that in fact, we were not same-same, and that besides our age and profession, we had very few in common. The life of an average Thai is unlike anything that I thought I understood. It wasn't until after I found Joy that I realized where the line of similarities was drawn, and where a world of difference began.

Joy was a baby when his papa died. He and his sister were raised by his mama and her family in a northern province of Thailand called Isan. At the age of 14, Joy moved into the city, 9 hours away from his home, to find work.

"I'm not a student," he told me. He'd never finished school. For ten years he worked at whatever jobs he could find. On the streets of Bangkok at first, and eventually working from dishwasher to cook to waiter. For 3 bucks a day, six days a week, Joy is just barely able to pay for himself and his family and make enough for them to live.

The only time off he has to go home and visit them is once a year during a five day Buddhist festival. He drives the 9 hours home by motorbike, and drinks away his time-off with his family and friends, before heading back into Bangkok to work for 72 bucks a month.

His sister managed to somehow move to France, the details were intentionally vague, but she got pregnant there, and returned home to Thailand with a half-farang baby, and without a husband.

In the middle of our conversation, I began to wonder how much of Joy's story was the truth, and how much of it was embellished to gain the sympathy of just another well off visitor. But I eventually realized it was just a conversation between two people who, at first glance, looked the same. Nothing more, just a conversation for comparison.

Joy pointed to one of his fellow workmates who walked by, "She is from Bangkok. She is a student, lives with her mama and papa. Me and her are not same-same." And there it was again. His simple phrase to compare the situations of two very different people. 

I began to understand what he meant. In this world you may find someone whom, on the surface, may seem to be the same as you are. But if you scratch a little deeper, you'll find a world of difference.

We finished our conversation on the topic of politics. Joy told me of the Thai Prime Minister, Taksin, who is currently instituting new laws that will alter the face of Bangkok. This was a concern for Joy. It meant a lot of change for his work future. "If no work, than only die. If I die... family die." There was definitely a deep sadness in his tone. 

I wanted so much to tell Joy that his family would be taken care of. But I couldn't. I walked away from the coffee shop hit with the realization that I was in a world that I didn't yet understand. I knew that I would seem simple minded in my presumptions.

I made my way back to the market place to find that red shirt. It was still there, dark with thick white letters on the front that spelled out: Same-Same. When the lady took it down, I turned it around. On the back it read: But Different.

I left Bangkok that night, six years ago, without being able to tell Joy that things would turn out alright and that he and his family would someday find security. But when I go back to Bangkok, maybe I can find Joy again.

Coming Up: "Drifter Profiles" is a monthly series, so if you enjoyed this profile, don't forget to subscribe by e-mail or RSS feed.

And now we ask you: When you first meet someone, what are some things in common that you may initially look for? What are some of the first differences that you notice?

There once was a man backpacking his way through the wilds of Corcovado. Along the way, he came across a clan of crazy white lipped peccaries. They snorted their snouts in his general direction, and caught wind of the sweet sugary snacks stuffed at the bottom of his pack. They made an advance. He turned and ran. 

Up the nearest tree he went, scrambling like a squirrel monkey in search of a nut. Only he had to hold on for dear life. And hold on he did, for three days straight. All the while, the pack of fuzzy boars waited for him with frothy mouths and dirty looks until they finally got the point, and realized that he wasn't worth the wait. So they begrudgingly went off on their way in search of a simpler treat to eat. 

Such are the urban legends circulating through the dingy hostels and cantina's of Puerto Jimenez, the main entry town to Corcovado. Needless to say, tales such as these were flying through our minds as we set out on the second day of our hike, pushing further and further inland, right through the center of the rainforest. This trek would take us 20 kilometers into the thick jungle, and images of slithery snakes waiting under crackling leaves with fangs full of venom, and steel plated crocodiles sunning themselves along the riverbanks, kept us open-eyed and turning at every sound.

In the Heart of the Jungle

In the heart of the jungle, the trees soar to dizzying heights above your head and create a canopy of filtered sunlight. Their trunks grow down, thick and ancient, deep into the soggy mud, with gnarled roots and knotted appendages twisting their way around your scraped up ankles. 

The air is heavy and sweltering, and the slightest breeze that manages to trickle through the heaving canvas overhead is a welcome respite from the sticky heat that surrounds you. When the rains come you can hear it heading in from the distance. 

It begins with a far clap of thunder booming like a single drumbeat, deep and resounding. And then far ahead of you to the north, the sound of sand falling on thin paper slowly moves in. As the rain shower nears, the canopy above your head begins to flutter and shake and random leaves shower down, bobbing and weaving back and forth. 

The echo of what sounds like lightly pouring sand increases around you until it reaches a crescendo, resounding like a jar of marbles being poured out onto pavement. And then it hits you, a single raindrop on your upturned cheeks, not soft and misty like the morning fog that rolls down the hills of Lana'i , Hawaii at dawn, but thick, fat and heavy and refreshingly cool against your clammy skin. 

You look at your companions and smile or laugh at your first taste of the coming downpour and the shiver of expectation that trickles down your brow. And then you find yourself in the middle of a rainstorm, enveloped by sheets of cooling rain rolling over you like a waterfall.

When people think of New York they think of New York City, but there's so much more to the state. The City is like the front door of your house. It makes a statement, but it doesn't tell the whole story. People may pass by the front of your house and never know you have a beautiful back yard full of trees, flowers, a deck or a patio. I prefer backyards. 

My husband Bob and I both share a love for the outdoors and the serenity of natural surroundings. The best way for us to enjoy the "backyard" of New York State is by paddling through the lakes and rivers of the Adirondacks. I would like to share with you two paddle routes that we love to take, one is quiet and remote in its beauty and the other is diverse and interactive in its location.

Route #1: Fish Creek - Floodwood Pond Loop, A Paddle Through Serenity

Our favorite Adirondacks paddling route is the Fish Creek/Floodwood Pond loop, a spot near Saranac Lake. Here we go on a circular route through four lakes, two streams and two short carry's, which brings you right back to your starting point. This paddle takes you through 7 miles of a quiet wilderness that feels completely remote. 

We can go for hours here without seeing another soul, except for loons, ducks and deer, all of whom never seem to mind when we glide quietly up to them. Looking around, I find myself wondering why millions of people cram together into busy, noisy cities, leaving these wide open spaces empty. 

But my busy mind quiets with the gentle rhythm of paddling, the sun and breeze on my face, the crisp smell of pine in the air and the sounds of birds chattering, geese honking and loons with their distinctive calls. The surface of the lakes reflect the mountains that surround me and I lose myself in the peaceful beauty. 

Getting There From Albany: 
It's 155 miles of beautiful scenery. The drive will take about 2½-3 hours. Take I-87N to Exit 30, take NY-73 west to NY-86 then west to NY-3.Turn right on Route 30. Several miles down will be Fish Creek Campground on the left. Enter the campground and follow signs to Rollins Pond.

Route #2: Raquette River, Paddling Parallel with Society 

I love this Adirondack river route because of its diversity. If you leave your vehicle downriver, and put in at remote Axton Landing, you can enjoy an 8 mile paddle. There's a good chance of having this section of the river all to yourself. While paddling with the current, you are surrounded by fields and woods with mountains just a few miles away. 

The river snakes around you so the scene is constantly changing. A few miles down river you meet up, and run parallel, with NY-3. Vehicles whiz by with no idea that you're there, and you notice things that you would never see from your own car. 

Even further downriver you come across a part of the road where there are houses. As you quietly pass along their backyards you begin to see how the people here really live, and you understand what is important to them. 

Perhaps their beautifully landscaped yard is filled with flowers, or it could be terraced and decked - arranged in perfect settings for company and conversation. They could have a boat. Or maybe there is a swing set or toys, telling you that this is a backyard for kids. But regardless of what their yard says about them, everyone here is always friendly as you paddle by. 

Getting There From Albany: 
Follow the above directions to west NY-3. Continue on NY-3 about 12 miles until you come across Corey's Rd on your left. Follow this bumpy, seasonal road for about 3 miles. Look for a small sign on a tree that points to Axton Landing, which will be down an even bumpier road off to the right. There is parking for several cars and a place to sign in with time and route. 

The City is like the Front Door of Your House, I Prefer the Backyard

Kayaking along the quiet waters of the Adirondacks is a very fulfilling experience. It is a gentle workout for your body, while it quiets your mind, pulling you completely into the moment. All your senses are engaged by your surroundings and all your stress melts away. When your kayak rounds that final bend and you see your car at the boat launch, you know that for the rest of the day you will carry the feeling of well-being and peace that came from paddling New York's backyard.

And now we'd like to ask you: Is there a specific place or activity that you turn to whenever you feel the need to erase the stress and worry of everyday life?

I am presently in Asia, sitting under those good old golden arches, eating a fish filet sandwich with french fries and a medium sized Coke. I'm also considering the possibility of getting myself a twist cone very soon.

It seems to me that a lot of travelers would be ashamed to admit this openly, but I happen to be fine with my current dining choice. Just because I choose to stop by and say 'howdy' to the yellow-and-red clown, (literally, they have one at the front door,) does not make me any less of an avid globe drifter. Ronald McDonald and I go way back, and I am not about to forget an old friend now.

Too many times I've seen fellow travelers turn their noses up at 'western' franchises. “Why would you fly halfway across the world to eat something you can get at home?” they say. Or, “I hate it when people give in so easily. That's not experiencing a new culture!” And they're right, chowing down a double cheeseburger is no way to experience the local cuisine, but at the moment I'm not interested in local cuisine, I'm jonesing for something comfortably familiar.

Of course, that's not to say that I don't enjoy indulging in the local cuisines of the places I visit. On the contrary, there's something excitingly invigorating about having your first taste of pungent, saucy 臭豆腐 chou doufu, or burying your chopsticks into a steamy bowl of fried pig intestines. It makes you feel like an authentic traveler, braving the world head on and embracing all things foreign. When you experience the local cuisine, you learn that things usually taste better than they initially sound, and some things that seemed strangely unpalatable at first could even become a part of your regular diet given time.

It's true, getting a taste of the local dishes wherever you are is always a highlight of any trip. This is definitely a big part of the reason why we travel. But does this mean that we are restricted to solely enjoying the local cuisine? As globe drifters, should we be expected to completely deny ourselves of any food that is comfortably familiar just because it may be considered too 'western' by our traveling comrades?

When I am home, I eat hamburgers and french fries, hotdogs, pizza and deep fried foods. But I do not always eat these things. In fact, I usually don't. Coming from Hawaii, we actually have a very culturally diverse and extensive cuisine.

In Hawaii we eat white rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner, literally. We commonly use sauces like shoyu, bagoong and kimchee in our every day dishes. We have lunch-plates called locomoco, mochiko chicken and pork tonkatsu. And everyone in Hawaii knows that a big fat bowl of saimin noodles with fishcake and wontons is the perfect accompaniment to a rainy day. At home I am accustomed to having a vast majority of dining choices, western or otherwise, and my appetite at the time governs my decisions.

Sometimes other travelers will assume that the only reason you would go for a basket of fish and chips while cruising in Tokyo is because you just can't stand the thought of stomaching a big bowl of slimy natto. And this may actually be true for some. But as for myself, you can see that the art of eating has always been a multicultural experience, whether at home or abroad.

So, why am I sitting here at a western food chain? Well, simply because it's what I feel like eating at the moment.

I eat hamburgers because they make me think of backyard barbecues, and pork adobo because of its sweet, tangy flavor. I eat hotdogs because they have always been a cheap, quick meal, and bibimbap because my friend loves to cook it. I eat pizza because I love the taste of salty pepperoni and tangy tomatoes smothered in cheese, and fish-head soup with eyeballs to suck on because it reminds me of my dad. And I eat fried chicken with white rice and macaroni salad because I love mixing those crispy, crunchy golden flakes with rice and mayo.

I eat what I eat because I enjoy it when I'm eating it, and not because I'm too afraid to step out of the cuisine box. This globe is peppered with a plethora of scents, flavors, dishes and bowls of foods, all fantastically mixed, stirred, baked and fried to be eaten and enjoyed. 


Personally I feel that as long I'm always open to experiencing the local cuisine, than there's nothing wrong with me falling back on the old familiar every once in a while. When it comes to eating, I choose not to limit myself to just foreign or just familiar. I choose to go with what I feel like enjoying at the moment.

And at the moment I think I'm ready for my McDiggities twist cone.

And now we'd like to ask you: What do you think when it comes to dining out in other countries? Are you open to trying out other flavors, do you stick more towards familiar dishes or a little bit of both?

I once heard a man say: ¨The rainforest? That sounds wet!¨ And yes... it was. Well, at least such is the case with Nacional Parque de Corcovado, Costa Rica´s grandmama of all rainforests. We spent 3 days hiking through its vast wilderness, chasing monkeys and running from mother chonchos. 

Even though Carate, the first town we hit after leaving the park, seemed to be nothing more than a tiny dust plot of tin-houses, emerging from the jungle after stumbling around for days was like stepping out of the badlands back into comfortable civilization. Our packs were damp and our feet sore, but nevertheless, we knocked off our soggy boots, gingerly brushed off our blistery soles, and stepped up to the little snack shop-slash-bus stop and bought a round of sodas, 2 whopping bucks a pop. 

But in all honesty, it was before all that cozy soda-pop fizz, while deep within the primeval hinterlands of Corcovado, that we had our real adventure. The story is squeezed between two points of comfort: the simple joy of our Carate soda-pop fizz, and the soundness of snuggled-up sleep in a comfy eco-lodge on the edge of the wilderness.

Day 1 - From La Finca Kobo EcoLodge to Los Patos Ranger Station

Backtrack three days prior, where we find ourselves bunked up at a cozy 'bed & breakfast' type place called Finca Kobo. It was here that we stopped for the night after a 9 hour bus ride from San Jose, but that's entirely another story. 

The fresh morning of Day One dawned, so we packed our bags and started off early. Or at least we wanted to, but ended up sleeping in. So in reality we got on our way later than we expected, but early enough to make it to the first ranger station on time. 

We took a bus from Finca Kobo Eco-Lodge to the nearest entry town, called La Palma, which is simply a cool little hole on the northern shore of the Osa Peninsula, 30-minutes outside of Puerto Jimenez proper. There we discovered that the taxis, (or rather 4WD pickups with benches in the back), charged 40 bucks to transport us from La Palma to the entry of the park. We decided to shop around and discuss our options before departing. Not shop around for taxi deals, but for fruits and snacks, as this was the last stop before entering the jungle. 

While running our goods by the cash register, we asked the clerk what our options were for getting into the park. He told us three. (1) We could go for the 40 dollar taxi ride, which happened to be a deal because it was normally ten bucks more. (2) We could walk the two hours, which didn't sound so hot since it was so SO hot! Or, (3) we could pay just six bucks to get dropped off down the dirt road at the last remnants of civilization, a bunch of shacks called Guadalupe, and hike an hour upriver from there. This, of course, would be a halfway compromise. 

We found out that the reason why it was only 6 bucks halfway there, compared to 40 all the way, was because of the 20 or so river crossings that the taxi truck would have to make from Guadalupe onward. So, being the thrifty but comfort loving bunnies that we are, we decided to go with Numero Tres.

After a series of random bumps and dusty potholes, the taxi driver kicked us off a little past Guadalupe at the first river crossing. He assured us that we could make it to the entry of the rainforest in about an hour and 20 or so river crossings later. So we slid off our boots, donned our slip-slops and went on our way. 

Entering the Jungle

Hiking upriver allowed us to gradually get a sense of our surroundings. The steamy jungle grew thick and tangled right up to the edge of the riverbank and it felt like we were skirting our way along the fringes of a soon to be discovered wilderness. At one point we took a wrong turn off the worn path into an Indian village, where someone came out and gave us directions. We regained our bearings and headed back upriver, consciously trying to follow in the tracks of 4WD pickups long passed. 

As we moved along, the sounds of click-clicking and rustling leaves told us that we were not alone. Tiny frogs chirped and jumped out of our way, and a jittery jesus lizard skipped frantically across the surface of the water as we approached, reaching the other side of the river and clinging on to a branch that had fallen in. With his head cocked sideways, he eyed us suspiciously as if he wasn't sure what our next move would be. The trek upstream was a stirring introduction to the jungle lands we were about to enter. 

23 river crossings and 9 kilometers later, we came upon the edge of the Corcovado Rainforest, welcomed by a park ranger about to make his way into the interior. He said that after heading straight into the rainforest from where we were, it was still a muddy 2 kilometers uphill before we would get to Los Patos Ranger Station, our stop for the night. He told us that if we followed him in, he could show us a trail to a hidden waterfall where we could wash off. At this point we were clocking in at an hour or so from our first river crossing in Guadalupe. Not too bad, we thought, we were right on schedule.

Stumbling Around and Setting up Camp

We stumbled into camp 45 minutes later-- battered, bruised, and bloodied up. (Don't worry, I just had one of my customary nose bleeds where it looks like someone slaughtered a wild boar up in my nostrils). Anyway, we rinsed off our muck in the camp shower, popped up our tents as quickly as possible, refilled our water-bottles with 'agua potable', and set off on a mini-adventure in search of the fabled Los Patos waterfall.

The side trail took us down the steep edge of a muddy ravine, clinging onto exposed roots and relying on our boot traction for sure footing. At the bottom, we found a piddle of a waterfall, small and frothy, but still cool and soothing after the days activities. The jungle natives were slowly waking up from their afternoon siesta, and all around us the sounds of crickets and cicadas resonated. Initially there was a slight wariness of the trickling waters and mossy rocks as we realized that we were no longer in Hawaii, the land of non-existent land animal threats. But eventually we overcame our fear of the dark log in the middle of the pool and stuck our wrinkled toes in for a quick dip. 

As the day came to a gradual close, we meandered our way back into camp, crossing paths with slithering creatures in search of supper. After a warm bottle of red wine and hearty conversation, we tucked ourselves in under an almost full moon.

Coming Up: Part 2 of "Trek Through the Wilderness" will chronicle the second day of our trek through Corcovado Rainforest, where we meet up with the native wildlife and face up to our fears. Please be sure to SUBSCRIBE and stay tuned...


And now we'd like to ask you: Are you a hardcore adventurer or more of a laid back traveler? What is the greatest adventure you've ever experienced?

It's been about 2 weeks since I started my Mandarin course here in Taiwan. But just getting to that point was a feat in itself. It took me almost 2 months to decide whether or not going to school was the proper route here. After that was decided, than the search for the right campus was on.

I took my time narrowing it down to a few options, things were beginning to come down to the wire. My visitors visa was reaching its 60th day in Taiwan, and I would have to do my run to another country for an extension. But did I want to return as a tourist or as a student?

I had about 5 days left in the country when I finally decided that the best option for now would be to study at the Taipei Language Institute in Kaohsiung. This has been a turning point for my life here in Taiwan.

Some have asked me what is the hardest part of learning Mandarin. Without a doubt, for me at least, it has been the tones. There are four standard tones, five if you count the neutral one. The first, high pitched, is pretty much straightforward. Think robot with a cold.

The other 3 tones, (or 4 counting the neutral tone), can get tricky. Without this turning into Mandarin 101, the 2nd and 3rd tones sound incredibly similar, except the 3rd starts lower and dips slightly before rising. By the way both technically rise, although the rising of the 3rd tone will often times get swallowed based on some vague intuitive based rules. The 4th is written the way the 2nd sounds, and rather than just dropping from a regular tone, you actually start off higher than the high pitched 1st tone, before dropping suddenly to lower than the lowest part of the 3rd tone.

Confused yet? Well get this, although the 5th tone is simply called neutral, its not that simple. The actual pitch of this neutral tone changes, and is determined by the previous tones. It is voiced lower than the ending pitch of 1st, 2nd and 4th, but higher than the ending pitch if preceded by 3rd. As you can imagine, wrapping your mind around just the basics of this may come across as being very complicated.

But after two weeks of straight pronunciation, and being corrected 95% of the time, this tonal system no longer seems as complex as it looks. Honestly. The sound of Mandarin, or Jhongwen as it is referred to here in Taiwan, is actually rather rhythmic and highly intuitive. I'm beginning to not think so much about the rules of sounds and just trying to listen to what really sounds right. And on a positive note: I hear that once you grasp the basic concept of tones, the speaking part is pretty simple. Grammar and sentence structure is rather straightforward, with no real curve balls or questionable rules.

Wow, unless you're a lingo fanatic, I realize that I probably just seriously bored you all with this lecture on Mandarin tones. If you've actually read this far, maybe you're waiting for me to say how I really feel about going back to school again.

Well, so far, I love it!

I feel like I am actually getting something out of it. Sure, it costs a chunk of money, but after the first two weeks, it's definitely money well spent.

Life here has been so easy. There has honestly been hardly any adjustment period. The food is familiar and the people friendly. But the one thing that always weighed heavy on me was my inability to communicate verbally. The majority of Taiwanese are so cool about this that it always seems like no matter what, I've been able to get my point across regardless. But after two months of playing charades with the shopkeepers and waiters, and not even being able to say a simple greeting or introduction to my neighbors, it was all beginning to get old.

I felt like I had come as far as I could in the sign language department. If I was going to make a life here, I would have to get at least a basic grasp of the language, if not for my own well-being, than at least as a courtesy to the people around me who had become familiar with my presence.

Enter the three month long Mandarin classes at T.L.I.

Some $25,000NT and two weeks later, I no longer have to bow my head repeatedly in embarrassment for lack of words. I am beginning to differentiate between the 2nd and 3rd tones, I can compare the freshness of apples to bananas with a shopkeeper, or laoban, I can order green tea, black tea or tea with ice cream, depending on my mood, and I can say thank you, xiexie, and goodbye, zaijian, with semi-decent pronunciation. I look forward to what I have to learn in the upcoming month. I can see for myself that my resources are well spent.

So in case you were wondering how I really feel here...all in all, I can say with honesty, I am loving it.

Oh, and PS: I just bought a moped today. It cost me all of $1000NT, or $31.73USD. This is me...stoked.

And now we ask you: Have you ever tried to learn another language? What made you do this? And what helped you through it?

“Hello, Miiisterrrr...,” I look up, just as a moped with two young Taiwanese guys zooms by us. The kid in the back has his neck craned, and his smiling face turned in our direction. He follows us with his eyes as they disappear out of our line of sight, then points at us just as they turn the corner. Again, I hear his fading voice calling out, “Hellooooo, Misterrr!”

I can't help but laugh. I've always read online and in travel forums about the stares and the pointing, the laughs behind hands or calls from the street. But to be honest, I rarely ever experience this myself.

Of course, this isn't because I haven't traveled before. I have my fair share of stamps and visas in my soon to be expired passport. But this young man's call of curiosity from the back of a passing moped was not actually meant for me. In fact, it was really directed toward my friend Ryan.  

You see, Ryan is 6'2" tall, with stereotypical American features; blonde hair, blue eyes and relatively fair skin according to Taiwanese standards. I am  5'7" short, with stereotypical Southeast Asian features; black hair, brown eyes and brown skin compared to many Taiwanese. But Ryan speaks both English and Mandarin while I can only speak English. Ryan is Australian, I am American. And yet, he always gets mistaken for an American. And me? Well, I don't even get mistaken for a native English speaker.

But please don't get me wrong, I don't mind this at all. I actually enjoy being able to blend in with the people around me. And I still can't get enough of the double takes and the stares of shock or confusion when, after sitting right across from me for half the duration of the train ride, the other person who previously paid me no attention suddenly hears me speak out in perfect American English. It's an amazing thing to me, this ability to go from invisible to visible with just one word.

And this common case of mistaken identity doesn't just happen to me in Taiwan. It seems like almost everywhere I go, I am mistaken for someone else other than an American. In Mexico I was Chinese, in Laos I was Thai, in Thailand I was Malaysian, in Malaysia I was Filipino, and in Cambodia my sister and I were Japanese. Here in Taiwan, many people mistake me for an aboriginal Taiwanese, Amis or Paiwan. Even in my own country I am commonly mistaken for being Mexican. 

I guess the answer to this phenomena lies in my mixed heritage.

When my true nationality is revealed here, many of the Taiwanese are curious and will actually question me further about this confusing juxtaposition. 

“But you don't look like an American. How can you speak such good American English if you look like Asian people?” They'll ask. No, really...they do.

I've come into the habit of just smiling, and then I try to explain to them in depth about the mixing-pot that is Hawaii.

“I am American,” I'll say reassuringly. “But I am from Hawaii, and the majority of Hawaiians my age are of at least 2, if not 4 or more, different ethnicities. Most of our parents have mixed heritage, too. Everyone from the plantations, in the 1800's and early 1900's, intermarried and blended cultures.”

“Oh, really?” They'll say, with looks of wonderment on their faces. “So what is your background?”

“My father is Filipino and Chinese,” I'll say. “And my mother is Native Hawaiian and Portuguese.” There is, of course, a few more in there, but I find it's best to keep the explanation as simple as possible to avoid further confusion.

I even had a man sit next to me during a meeting. He had just found out from someone else about my background. I looked over at him and gave him a nod. He leaned towards me and whispered, “You mean to say, your mother's mother and your mother's father are from two different peoples?”

“Yes,” I whispered back, trying to be polite towards the speaker at the podium.

“Oh, okay,” he said in fascination. He stared back at me. I could see his eyes studying my face, my eyes, my nose and skin. His mind wrapped around the implications of that truth. “Well, my name is Mr. Hsu,” he smiled, handing me a business card. “Here's my number. Give me a call. I want to talk to you more about the social studies of Hawaii and Taiwan.” And then he left.

And so what does it mean to "look like" an American? Well, the answer really depends on who it is you ask that to. As for me? I just smile whenever someone is surprised that I am American. Like I said, It's an amazing thing to me, this ability to go from invisible to visible with just one word.

And now we'd like to ask you: Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you had to break down preconceived ideas tactfully? How did you deal with that?