Tracking the Captain

I want to be some sort of mysterious golden god. “Wouldn’t that be nice” I think to myself. Oh yes, sure it would…. Even better it would be great to be wise. If indeed wisdom is a talent bought with experience then I am well on my way to Solomon standards. What the great stories of old never tell you is that all of the stout hearted, well respected, figures of timeless stories bought their wisdom with darkness and tears.
I’m in the Straights of Malacca. One of the few remaining locations in the world plagued with piracy. Even as I sit typing the crew stands on deck gazing across the bleak waters with fire hoses coiled about their feet hissing softly in the eerie mist. They’re waiting…. Waiting for some small boat to come purring through the gloom towards us breathing flame and spewing RPGs at our hull in the hopes that the countless treasures of her belly will spill forth. And who can blame them, the Nation’s wealthiest have sent forth their children into the world bejeweled and naïve. We are a golden cradle pulsing through the Orient, dollars signs puffing from our masts.
I digress.
I made it home from South Africa, clearly. We ended up hitch-hiking across the country, riding in anything that would pick us up. By the time we strode into Cape Town we had traveled in everything from the flat bed of a semi to the back seat of a Volkswagen Golf as it blared Savage Garden bearing its owners to meet their internet lovers.
We made it… poor and hungry, but alive with adventure. I spent the last day in Cape Town with Lianne. The very same Lianne who came to the Tri-Cities four years past as an exchange student and who now works as the camera woman for a group making nature films in the Serengeti. We passed the time reminiscing about the days of old.
I’ve been to India, where my old friend (the ever charming and verbose) Smita’s father was the port authority of Chennai. I spoke to him for a time before venturing off into the wilds of the most foreign port I had yet to encounter. It was the small stone carving village of Mamalampuram that halted my forward motion and housed my weary soles for few nights. I made friends with a few local students and together we explored their home town. As the days flew past I found my way back towards Chennai and eventually to the ship after traversing the ancient paths of the Hindu faith.
Shortly after we made our way to the dictatorship of Myanmar. A place I still find myself to close to talk about. I would have stayed there for a great deal longer if not for the fact that for now my duties lie aboard the good ship Explorer. Well, that and I was also a governmental felon due to the length of my hair. Another series of rather untimely events led me to finding a need to employ a black market driver to speed me across the border and back to the ship sooner than we had expected.
This much I will relate, of all the countries to date… Myanmar was by far the most beautiful and serene, though under the sway of a military dictator. I will be posting my thoughts on this country and the adventures held within shortly; however I have class (strangely enough…) and should go do some real work I suppose.

Until next time.

I’m sure that most of you have heard about the terrorist attacks in Vernasi, India. This might be causing some concern with some of you as this is the country that we are currently coming into. I wanted to assure you that I am taking all necessary precautions and will be safe. For my time in India I will be traveling in the Southern half of the country and staying with friends who live there. One of which is the port authority of Chennai (Madras). I will be doing my best to keep you all updated with any new developments but I am hopeful that there won’t be any new news of a negative origin and that the trip will be a success. Any questions or concerns feel free to ask as I will be checking my e-mail more regularly.

With Honor-

Captain Staudinger

South Africa… The grandest adventure to date. (That is, on Semester at Cruise)
Following suit with my usual disposition towards life I realized that if I were to have any understanding of this country in the sparse seven days that I had allotted to me I would have to act fast and live large. So Thor (well Dan but the Thor Loki dynamic lives on… I’m Loki in case you didn’t immediately pick up on the similarities…) young Paige and I took off into the African wilds. Our goal… the majestic Addo National Elephant Park. Our constant guide “Lonely Planet” told us about Addo, a place where you get to the gate and rent a horse for one hundred Rand (in US currency something like 16 dollars). Then upon your new steed you ride about the park amidst the Zebra and Elephants while the theme to the Lion King plays on loop.
We left that night around 0600. After 12 hours of South African bus and another four of random sudo-bus, plus some 11 km. of walking what we found was Addo National Retirement Park. Where the wealthy tourists of the world go to die among elephants. This was devastating, not only because the immortal Lonely Planet had lied to us, but because I mean seriously these people were old and withered. It was like watching dehydrated food products pushing them selves around the Disney Land of Africa.
I wept.

Never the less we decided to give it a go. While we had no car in which to travel through the park and we couldn’t afford any of the horse back safaris we could afford a camp site. That is to say that we could pool all of our money to rent for one night a ten by ten patch of gravel upon which to sleep. At least we found one with a tree so that if it rained we could at least give the lightning a better chance of striking us and keeping us warm as we huddled together exposed to the elements.
As night descended we found a small trail leading off the beaten path marked “Game Trail”, I hadn’t played Monopoly in while so Thor and I decided that it might be worth a go. (If you didn’t get the subtle humor of that last line then stop reading this page now, it really isn’t worth it.) In a matter of minuets we encountered a small trail marked “Do Not Enter” so of course we took it. I mean come on. Following our trail as it coiled through the spiny brush looming over our heads we crawled like plump field mice through the thick air of African night. When with out warming a gentle murmur alerted us of a 14 foot tall fence a few yards in front of us. With steel posts the like of tree trunks connecting wire cable the size of a man’s fore arm supporting a system of fourteen periodically placed humming wires we were confronted by a fence strangely reminiscent of Jurassic Park. Along its pulsing border was a path for the rangers.
Motivated by curiosity (a bad sign), a desire for adventure (and increasingly worse sign), and our own poverty (not unlike the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet or the peasants of the French Revolution) we followed the trail. Thor armed with his head lamp, I sporting a handsome camera capable of blinding a bat and both of us armed with the fact that we could easily out run Paige. We walked for some distance after ensuring that if we fell over (because that happens all the time…) we wouldn’t end up as a cooked treat for our carnivorous friends rotating conveniently on the electric fence. I plucked a blade of grass and laid it across the wire to test its current. Finding it to be mild I was both comforted until I looked through the wires to the darkness of the African plains smiling back at me with shrouded fangs. Still we marched on.
We didn’t have to walk long until we soon came upon a crashing sound in the bush. I cocked my camera and readied for the charge when a massive heard of Elephants came slowly plodding into view some forty yards away. They were on their way to a local watering hole illuminated by a lamp post near by and were soon joined by a herd of Water buffalo. My companions and I sat down and began clicking shots of our new found companions. After sitting there for a while captivated by the majesty we made our way back to our tree.
When we returned we all sat down and pulled out our meager food and tallied our supplies. While we were eating peanut butter and bread I decided to visit our neighbors. A pair of couples in their mid-fifties traveling trough South Africa. They were South African but had never taken the time to see their own country and finally found the time. They invited us to coffee and we ended up talking late into the night. They were thrilled to meet people so young with a passion to understand the world and such a bold spirit of adventure. One of them told us that her own son was hesitant to even leave town let alone go abroad. Realizing that we had nothing to repay them with I offered that we could repay their kindness and act as guides our even just offer a place to stay should their children ever come to the states. Delighted they accepted.

That night I laid out my towel (thank you Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy) and prepared for the long night. I woke up around 0300 freezing and looked over at Paige wearing all of her extra clothes and balled up, and then I saw Thor with his shirt off snoring loudly as he hung out of his thermal sleeping bag. I reached into my pack pulled out a few of the heaviest cans of peaches and a bottle of water we had purchased and put them in Thor’s pack. I put on another shirt curled up and went to sleep.
When dawn came slowly grunting to the Savanna like the warthogs some ten yards away we packed up our belongings and bid farewell to our new friends and began the long march towards Addo. Paige shivered and said “God I slept terribly” Thor smiled and began happily chatting about what a wonderful night he had. Paige and I just looked at him as he made polite commentary about how hot it was with his sleeping pad and bag. We began hitchhiking and we fortunate enough to get picked up a few kilometers from the park. A young man who worked at the park was only too happy to make conversation as we rode along. He himself used to have to hitchhike a few months before because he was feeding his family and couldn’t afford a car. We talked about how difficult it was to get a ride and the heart of South Africa until at last we arrived at the township of Addo and he dropped us off. As we waved good by I miss stepped and felt something strain around my fifth metatarsal. Great… now we were screwed. We had some 1600 miles left to go to get to Cape Town and almost no money… and I went lame. We stopped for a few more supplies and I did what I could to bind my foot.
We ended up walking through some of the poorest parts of South Africa along the highway with convoys of people from the townships marching the 10 to 14 km they had to go every day to find work with bundles of wood, textiles, and produce on their heads. We spoke about their homes and life. After a while (some 47 cars later, all BMWs or Mercedes) we decided to try something new. So I taught them the Sea Shanty of Luck. When we finished the chorus a small truck pulled over. Thor and Paige jumped in the cabin in back and I rode shoty with Greg Nelson, the distant relation of Lord Admiral Nelson. Ironic I know.
Regardless, he took as far as Port Elizabeth where we managed to find a cheap bus to the township of George. When we finally arrived in George it had been three days without a bed. We began our walk towards the outskirts of town looking for a park bench when a taxi pulled up along side us and called “Eh, you missed it.”
We just stared blankly at him. “Back packers?” he questioned undeterred by our silence. “Yes?” I ventured. “Op in, free of charge, I’m on my way that way anyow.” We did and he took us to a youth hostel where we found beds, coffee, and a hot shower for ten dollars. The next morning was a particularly bright one and things looked up. We found out where the nearest bank was and went to change the last of our money into rand so that we could get a bus back to Cape Town.
Walking into the bank I pulled my emergency one hundred dollar bill out (as it was the last of what we had) while Thor tried to pull some money out of the ATM. Paige had only a little bit left. I was waiting for the attendant to return when Thor comes raging up and tells me that Semester at Cruise had charged his card for his expenses when we got into Cape Town leaving him with nothing. He and Paige looked at me with expectant eyes. “Oh, so I am buying the tickets back then?” I questioned. They continued staring. “Ok…” I was cut off by the clerk returning and announcing in her Fran Drescher way “Forfeit” “
“I beg your pardon?” I asked.
“Your bill, I can’t take it, it is counterfeit.” She stamped something and looked away.
Can you all see the expression on my face? I hope so, it was a shame to have missed it as she handed me my bill back. It only got better with the next three banks. Yeah…
Paige looked at me and asked “So how far do we have left to make it before Cape Town?”
“About 900 miles left.”
“How much do we have” Thor asks. We took a moment to count.
“A little under two hundred Rand (33.3 dollars USD)”
We looked out the window.
Thor wept.


…to be continued…

You know, it would be nice to have my brothers along for this adventure around the world. Of all those that I would want with me by my side as I wander through the streets or foreign ports and crawl through the forests of the world I would choose my brothers for this one. They keep me open.
Now don’t get me wrong I would love to experience the dew bejeweled village of Lençoís at dawn with a young woman, sipping our acaí in the morning as the mist recoiled from the grumbling sun. Likewise I think often think of traveling the length and breadth of Sur America with a home town friend whose company made the halls of high school an adventure, or of sailing the jagged coasts of Africa with a cousin whose absence has been harder to deal with than expected. As I walk along steep slopes I think of a father that once taught me to seek sound footing… but for this one I would want my brothers.
They don’t wait for time like I once thought they would. They don’t even wait for me to blink, this moment, this second, this present are too slow for them. I find myself wondering why I haven’t thought to call them back from their bold assault of the future until now. I keep turning and finding them having their childhood chiseled from them by sharp edges and rough falls. With each new skinned knee or passionate battle, whose cause is beyond the grasp of older men, the world seems to beat their youth away leaving something dangerously more like me.
I keep charging off on adventures and quests looking to fulfill that burning desire to trek the world over and seek the mystery of life and taste its more subtle truths. While all the while I’ve been setting my course by the wind I seem to have neglected the fact that my brothers are doing the same, and that someday when I return to port they might not be the glossy imps I see smiling back at me from my wallet photo as it goes from hand to hand; girls sighing as they ogle my brothers charm. It is becoming an all too real thought that I will return and find young men gearing up and preparing to cast off as I do now.
For this one I would want my brothers there to help me see with younger eyes everything that my harder view may have missed.


HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOEL! I hope your swordsmanship is coming along. I’m sending you the homework you sent me off with, completed as you requested.
David, stop making all the girls fall in love with you… you’re killing me.

Weekly updates huh… Yes, okay I’m late. Its true but you know… I uh… I am late. Regardless, here I am now and I am ready to provide any who are actually still interested in my life with a discourse of gripping details and pulse pounding adventures. Or at the very least I can provide some mindless distraction from the daily norm.
I wandered around the city of Salvador for a while when we came to port before deciding that I really needed to get out and experience the countryside. My first move was to buy a new back pack for my journeys. Something rugged, something that commanded respect and pronounced to all that viewed it “This man is and Adventurer, rob him not”. Well, something like that. It took me under a fraction of moment to locate the perfect bag. It was constructed of leather and reeked of sex appeal, not to mention is was in my budget (somewhere between stolen and begging) so I pounced on the opportunity. As I strode away sporting my new acquisition I looked to my new buddy Dan and asked smugly “So, what do you think of my new bag man?” Glancing causally over his shoulder he remarked “It looks like a woman’s handbag.”
Sure enough. As I raised the object that clung to my back like a demon possessed child I saw with horror that his words rung true. I had indeed purchased what could easily be misconstrued as woman’s handbag. I panicked. “Dan, what do I do, what have I done?” Dan regarded me calmly and said
“Perhaps you could get a nice dress to go with it.” That was it I stumbled out into the streets clutching my handbag to my chest and gazing out onto the cobblestone streets of Brazil I new what I had to do.
I spent the next few hours dragging the bag through the streets, playing soccer with local children, and using it to play tug-o-war with any street dog that came my way. By the end I had a rugged, weathered looking bag that had held up to the ultimate test of endurance and said something along the lines of “This man is crazy and possibly very dangerous to himself and others, rob him not.”

The remainder of Brazil was far more moving and majestic, though no less fraught with peril. A small group of us found a bus going to the village of Lençoís (some seven hours to the West of Salvador). We all geared up and boarded our new transport around 2300 that night. I rode shotgun and tried to pick up as much Portuguese as I could while our driver attempted to glean some fraction of English from me.

As we pulled into the sleepy little village the sun was just peaking the horizon. We found a local hostel and slept for a few hours before locating a local trail head and heading out into the wilds. The countryside that comprises Lençoís is arid forest, almost entirely tropical trees and cacti nestled in rocky terrain and sandy hills.
Our convoy hiked through the forest for several hours before we happened upon the oasis of Lençoís. Here we found massive pools of water with no visible bottom, cascading waterfalls and endless river beds with cool caves and smooth rock. The crowing centerpiece however was the main water fall which created a smooth slide down the 70’ slope of soapstone which could easily be ridden (provided you treated her with respect). Of course nothing is a s perfect as one hopes in the begging.
Within half an hour one of our number, a young woman named Jasmina, managed to tempt fate and the waterfall took her and flung her to its base, none to gently either. When we met her at the bottom most of us were stunned she was alive, let alone able to swim back to the group. We sat her down and I finally found an opportunity to employ my wilderness first responder skills. Which is of course a mixed blessing. Not many people really like to reattach someone’s leg, but its pretty sweet to know how. Lucky for us, that wasn’t the skill needed. Turns out she fractured her lateral malleulous. (I’m sure I’m spelling that wrong but role with it, the point is I know where it is and how to treat it… even more impressively I knew how to properly diagnose it over a sprained ankle.) Well we hiked her out and the day was saved. This of course is a slightly blander version but I’m trying to keep time in mind.
That night we all enjoyed an evening in the village tasting the local culture…some more than others…
Myself, I broke off from the main group and wandered the streets savoring the moment and letting the fact that I was there, in Brazil, sink in just a little bit deeper.

The next day we made for the valley and spent our remaining time in Lençoís hiking through the wilderness. We went a good 20 km. into the wilderness and then turned around. Setting up camp about ¾ of the way back we made a fire in a an old river bed near one of the local waterfalls and talked deep into the night. Once it was about ten in the evening we geared up and hiked back out under the stars.
We when returned the locals that served as guides couldn’t believe we were alive, it was literally shocking to them. Which in retrospect is rather flattering… and discomforting. Regardless we waited until 0330 that morning and then began the bus ride back to Salvador and our return to the open ocean.

So here I am. I surmounted the Pacific Ocean, physically swam across the Equator, slept in the streets of Tahiti, Came into port under full sail and lived the dream as an able bodied seaman. So what does a young adventurer do now that he has tasted the sweet victory of a Trans-Pacific passage under sail using the stars as his only source of navigation? Of all the answers the worst and unfortunately true one is get on a cruise ship and go the rest of the way around the world.
Now that I am within range of the internet I intend to do weekly updates… however internet is pricy here and I only get so many free minutes to work with before I need to start selling my children into indentured servitude to pay for net time.

I will have to sit down and tell of my glorious adventures and trials across the Pacific soon, but for now the ineffably meager understatement of “the Seamans was amazing” will have to suffice. We successfully made our ocean passage (just under 4000 nautical miles) and came into port in Papette, Tahiti. After spending a mere three hours there a group of us went and stayed at a house on Moorea (The Island just to the North West of Tahiti) for a week. The time there could never be captured in words… some of the most powerful and serene memories of true peace in my life will come from that week there. As if in a dream all time slipped away and only a hazy glow of warmth was left. As people began to leave one by one I eventually was the only one left on Moorea and my time was up in the house. So I packed my bag and went to talk to the “groundskeeper” Jacque.
My plan at this point was to spend my remaining three days walking around the main island of Tahiti and sleeping in the jungle when I stopped at night. This sounded like a great idea seeing as how I am almost completely out of money and need to make what I have left last for the remainder of my adventure around the world. When Jacque pulled his car up he starts making small talk and tells me (right out of the box) that his American friend was mugged last night on Tahiti.
This is ironic. This is ironic both because I had just been planning to sleep in the streets and because his friend was the leading supplier of Mace in French Polynesia. Ha ha ha… I laugh to keep from crying…
As we drove towards the ferry dock we happened to pick up a hitchhiker, some lovely young French woman named “Veronica”. Jacque and I were discussing my plans when Veronica tells me about a friend she knows that rents out rooms to people in Tahiti. I figured… “Okay, I could give that a try…”
Once in Papette Veronica and her husband gave me a ride to “Château Lola”. Now this little homestead being the cheapest accommodations in all of Tahiti still cost me a ridiculous 50$, however I was told I could get a ride tomorrow to anywhere I wanted to go and free breakfast. What I awoke to was a muttering matriarch handing me half of a stale baguette and repeating “You go now” repeatedly as she drove me to the airport. As she sped off into the distance I stood there for a moment and ruminated upon this, stopping only to lament my pocket book’s new slim figure.
I stashed my pack at the locker facility for pennies and then tried to come up with a plan. Walking about 50 yards or so into town a garbage truck swerved over to the side of the rode in front of me and three garbage men leapt off the back and came towards me. I was running scenes from old mob movies through my head when the leader of the pack started trying to communicate to me in broken English (and I in bad French) that he wanted to trade for my cowboy hat. We went through an in depth process of me refusing both smokes and marijuana and they telling me that they had no money. Finally they told me that they would give me a ride into town if nothing else. Shrugging I jumped on the back and we were off.
We made it about a block before a car that I swear would have been dwarfed by the bulk of a Geo Metro turned onto the sidewalk in front of the truck and a man at least 300 lbs. lumbers out with a very unkind look upon his face. Turns out in Tahiti the labor forces sometimes just choose… to not work… so to prevent their employees from sauntering off most industries come parcel complete with a supervisor whose sole job is to follow the workers around and keep them on track. Apparently picking up young men on the street was not in the trash collector job description and he motioned for me to go before he began beating the driver and yelling what I assumed were obscene comments about his breeding.
About this time I decided it was time to leave Tahiti. Thinking about where I could go with what I had I sprung for the option of returning to the considerable less developed island of Moorea again and trying my luck there. I bought a ferry ticket and departed.
Upon my arrival I walked a good 9 kilometers just to pass time before I encountered a local church. I sat down there and passed the time until dark. About eight o’ clock the sun set and I started the long walk back to the ferry dock. Walking in the dark on Moorea was incredible. With the ocean on my right some ten yards away lapping playfully at the reef shrouded shores and the jungle on the other side of the rode taking labored breaths and wheezing ominously as I strode along its side. For the 9 kilometers that it took me to get back to the ferry dock I walked in the misty gloom of Moorea with the Ferrell dogs glowering in the shadows and disembodied calls coming from the heavy darkness of the jungle to my left.
I made it back to the Ferry dock and found an out of the way spot to lie down on the outskirts of the extended stay parking lot and broke out a book as I waited for dawn. It was about 2 and half hours before the security guard found me. Standing over me he tried to explain that I wasn’t welcome there. My understanding of French is minimal but I got the point pretty quickly. As I stood and made ready to walk for the remainder of the night he sighed and smiled a little bit. Motioning over to the edge of the pool of light cast by the parking lot lamp he said, “There okay… you there fine.” Thanking him I went to the edge of the beach front jungle that he had indicated.
Now you need to understand that on Moorea the ground is riddled with gapping holes from which crawl nocturnal crabs that skitter through the shadows on eight taloned legs with razored claws reaching skyward, ready for battle, making a rapid clicking sound as the tear as carrion in the brittle leaves of the shore. The spot that the security guard had indicated was a small beach and to sleep there I would have to lie atop a swarming brood of these very same crabs.
I declined.
Instead I found a near-by tropical tree with many low branches and climbed a few feet up. Finding a safe and relatively comfortable spot I lashed myself in with some spare line and a scarf and fell (ah word choice) into a fitful sleep. I passed several hours of the night in that fashion until about two in the morning. Needing to stretch I made my way over to the pier that rested not more than a few feet away from my tree. Within minutes the guard was back. I made ready to leave again when he stopped me. “You need sleep?” He finally managed while pantomiming sleep with pillow hands. I nodded and he beckoned for me to follow. Cautious but curious I followed at a distance, ready to disappear if the need arose. He lead me to a small pickup in the extended stay parking lot and indicated that I could sleep in the truck bed if I wanted and that I would be safe there.
I thanked him again and waited for him to go before I jumped in. I waited about an hour before I fell asleep again and then passed the remaining two hours before the ferry came at five.
That day I spent in Papette and then flew out that night; first to LA, then Ft. Lauderdale, and finally Nassau, the Bahamas a day later. I passed the next night in a hostel and that morning prepared to board the MV Explorer.

Little did I know what I was in for. I’m experiencing major culture shock. To have gone from a working vessel where I was the crew aboard a 134 ft. working tall ship conducting oceanographic research on the frontlines of the scientific world to this, a pampered luxury cruise is hard. The Explorer is a staggering 400 ft (I believe) and seven decks. You could fit 20 of my last ship on this one. The interior is plush and gaudy with a professional staff of servants and crew. All of whom are doing an excellent job of keeping aloof and separate from the student bad and making sure that we are aware that they are.
The whole program is some gross intertwining of Sesame Street and Love Boat. We students are talked down to and kept on a short leash, rather reminiscent of High School. I think hat is the most comparable medium. The only major draw is the countries we are planning on visiting. However those are each only for a ridiculously short period of time and most of the student body has opted to go on guided tours of the major sights in each one. To me it feels as if the majority of the country will be missed, both by the observation of only the selected sights and by limited time. So the once major draw is now only a faintly glimmering thought.
I intend to give the whole program more time but I am having trouble with the whole ordeal. To have gone from the independence and personal responsibility of a life as a crew member on a sailing vessel to a passive passenger onboard a cruise ship is painful. As is the distinctive difference in class, for the vast majority of students on this trip are in the upper upper crust of society, speaking mostly of getting laid, getting wasted, or getting off.
Patience now, later I will make a more pragmatic judgment. For now I find myself surrounded by some 1000+ people and have yet to find anyone that I can talk to & receive anything other than a blank stare. A few people have made a valiant effort and I thank them for their friendship but the feeling of being completely apart and distinctly different and foreign persists with everyone, both faculty and student body. I’m tired of being talked down to, I’m weary of being so utterly different from those who permeate my environment, I wonder when this change occurred in my soul that I should suddenly feel so apart from people I can see myself once being great companions with, and I tire of feeling like a dark figure or a cold draft being blown into a warm room. I’m not like the people on this ship and they have made that clear to me.