Road Warrior

Though my parents would like to believe that my first international experience was at the heralded American College in London studying "British Museums" with weekend trips to France and Wales, my first international experience actually came the year before. That particular experience didn't require a leap over the proverbial pond but instead a brazen post midnight crossing of the Canadian border... Let's rewind.



I had just completed my first year at the University of Kansas though a more accurate way to describe the experience would have been that I "wintered in Lawrence." Despite my lack of scholastic success, I managed to squeeze as much fun as humanly possible out of each and every night of the week and on one of these drunken evenings at the tail end of the semester, managed to meet a beautiful girl named Kelly. Kelly was a sucker for adventure, and having just completed and been inspired by Jack Kearuac's On The Road myself, we quickly became an item. Despite our burning desire to see the world in shoddy motels together, the semester ended and with it's end, we returned to our respective home towns. Mine in Oklahoma City and hers in Wichita.

Upon returning home, used to the freedom of coming and going when I pleased, all I could think about was the adventure that Kelly and I had talked about. Good fortune came my way when my friend Parker's mother suggested that he and I drive her Ford Explorer, her dog Chief, and some of her finer clothing to her house in Northern Michigan where she planned on spending her summer. My family had a summer house there as well and without thought, we agreed.

Harbor Springs was a tiny harbor town about fifty miles south of Macinac Island and another thirty from the Canadian border in Sault Saint Marie. By winter, Harbor Springs is a lightly populated village where everyone knows everyone and by summer it is a bustle of tourist activity. The town has a tiny Main Street with more fudge shops than stop signs.

The town also plays summer host to a series of exclusive yacht, golf, and tennis clubs where members wore sear-sucker and talk about the good life over long putts, cocktails, and Gurney Sandwiches (a local favorite). Despite its perennial and pastel-clad summer residents, many of whom had kids our age, Parker and I were asked to drive up long before any of these summer dwellers would arrive. Given that I had just completed my first year of college and was itching for freedom, a week in a cottage in the woods with Parker, though transcendental as it may have sounded, would require some modification and I had the perfect solution. Kelly.

Armed with one fake ID, a little over five hundred dollars, and the self proclaimed title "The Road Warriors," we bid our families good-bye, agreed one last time that we would drive straight to Michigan and with that, headed to Wichita where Kelly and her lovely best friend Carrie, hurriedly packed their bags for their summer adventure. We picked them up and headed to Chicago where they shopped Michigan Ave. while Parker and I got life advice from a homeless guy (this was a rare site in OKC and unheard of in Lawrence) and went to a Cubs game.

After a fun-filled day dodging Parker's mom's phone calls, we made our way to Harbor Springs. I felt a keen loyalty to this little town, deeming it a heaven on earth and expected Kelly not only to think it was pretty but to also be as emotionally connected with it upon arrival as I was. This proved troublesome for our relationship. We fought constantly and what had been a romantic getaway over a thousand miles from our homes, designed to stimulate her adventurous side and charge her libido quickly became a nightmare and while we bickered, Parker and Carrie fell deeper and deeper into an outwardly affectionate state of teenage lust.

After three days of quarreling, I longed for that Walden inspired time in the woods alone but it was not in the cards. The only adventure, spare the road trip itself, was that Parker and I lost a bet and the girls got to highlight our hair. We sat around and later that night and the topic of travel came up. Kelly, who had been to Italy and was happy to talk about it to anyone willing to listen chimed in on the importance of international travel.

I quickly pointed out that Canada was only 90 miles north and almost out of spite, I suggested we go at that moment. After all, we were Road Warriors. Parker, always the contrarian and perfectly content in his summer home with his new found love, resigned the title Road Warrior but offered to pay for the gas were we to make it all the way to Canada. With that, desperate to defend my honor, I walked out the door. Kelly, sat on the couch frozen and confused. That confusion deepened as she heard the roar of Parker's mother's Explorer followed by a blast of the horn.

With the squealing of tires, we were off. Almost immediately, Kelly and I were in love again and all anger and resentment subsided. As Sister Hazel sang the song "All For You" through the blown Explorer speakers, we pushed our way into the Northern Michigan night, discussing everything from the relevance of music throughout history to the nature of God. My dream of adventure was rapidly coming to fruition in a way greater than I had imagined. As millions of stars shined on us through the sunroof, we pressed onward towards our international destination, happy once again, to be with one another.

Just after midnight, we arrived to Sault Saint Marie. The closest to an international border guard I had ever been up to this point was crossing from Arizona to California to check for fruit. After watching several cars breeze through the border as though they had some kind of international speed pass, we decided to cross.

As a stout border patrol officer made his way to the car, I quickly put a piece of gum in my mouth. Over the course of the drive we had consumed at least four beers apiece in addition to countless ones before our hasty departure. "I thought he was going to just wave us through!" said Kelly as he tapped on the window with his flashlight.

I rolled down the window. "What brings you to Canada?" he asked.... Good question.
"We just wanted to... go to Canada?" I uttered with wavering confidence.
"Please step out of the car, sir," he said stoically.
As I opened the door and stepped out, I felt my bare foot hit the cold Michigan pavement. I had left for our adventure with such urgency that I had forgotten to put on shoes.
"Can I see some ID?" he asked.
I fished around in my pocket until I found that familiar plastic and presented it. The officer looked at the ID fora moment and then said "Colorado, huh?" My heart began to race. Though my alter-ego, two years my senior was from Colorado, I certainly was not.
"Sit on the curb," he ordered.

He walked over to Kelly's side of the car and after a brief conversation, she joined me, furious. She scolded me as my feet froze and my heart raced. We watched as the officer pulled Parker's mother's expensive clothes, the ones we had been asked to deliver to Michigan to ensure their safe arrival, and tossed them in a pile on the ground. A moment later, an empty Labatt's Blue Ribbon Box plopped onto the roof of the car, followed by at least eight empty cans.
After an agonizingly long time, the office made his way towards us. "Is this your car?" he asked.
"No sir," said, my voice shaking.
"Does the owner of the car know that you have it?"
"No sir."
"So you have stolen the car," he said bluntly.
"Well the owner's son said that we could take it," I said in a week effort to defend myself.
"and how old is he?"
"Seventeen." I said, resigned.

The officer took a long breath, shook his head and began to speak. "Do you understand," he said, "that right now, you are crossing an international border in a stolen car while intoxicated and in possession of a false form of identification?"
"That's one way to put it." I thought as a tear ran down my face and Kelly huffed in disgust.
I was going to jail and she would never speak to me again. How quickly the tides change, I thought as my new found summer freedom had me in a downward spiral, plummeting towards a life sentence for international crimes.

"I want you to know...." continued the officer, "That you are quite possibly the stupidest person I have ever come across." I agreed. He took another long, contemplative breath, allowing for an uncomfortable silence. I noticed other officers watching. "There's a hotel on the other side of this bridge," he said. "I want you to go to that hotel and I want you to get a room and when you wake up in the morning, I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and take a long hard look, remind yourself of where you are and then just ask 'why?' Then I want you to get into your car, cross this bridge, take this car back to whoever you stole it from.... and never, ever, ever come back to Canada again."

My body melted into a massive puddle of ecstatic relief. "Do you understand me?" he asked. I certainly did. "Good. Now get into your car and go." I couldn't believe it. "Oh and one more thing," he said, as I put the car into drive. "It's illegal in Canada to drive without shoes. Be careful you don't get pulled over."

We got into the explorer and only then did I realize that I hadn't taken a breath in five minutes. As oxygen gallantly returned to my blood stream, we triumphantly made our way across the Sault Saint Marie Bridge as Sister Hazel continued to sing from the speakers. With no emotion left in us from the experience, we simply began to sing joyously as we crossed into Canada.

We checked into a perfect shoddy motel, the kind we had talked about back in Lawrence when we first met. That night, I looked at myself in the mirror and did as the officer had asked. I took a long hard look and as I did, I didn't see the screw up he had been addressing but something else entirely. A smile curled up on my lips. I may not have been the world's greatest student, but I had done something. I had managed to drive across the country with an alternate ID, avoid arrest for international crimes, and all the while in the company of a beautiful woman. I was a road warrior.

It's all in the Kava Kava!!!!

The country of Fiji, despite the masses of wealthy tourists eager to experience the thrills of surfing intense reef breaks in crystal blue water or enjoy a dive or snorkel on one of many easily accessible and diverse reefs, is actually a culturally diverse country with a beautiful interior. Beyond the Nadi city limits, the large island of Viti Levu expands into a mountainous terrain spotted with small agrarian, culturally and spiritually diverse villages.

After five days of pampering at the stunning Liku-Liku Lagoon Resort, my travel partner and I returned to the mainland seeking adventure. We explained to a kind woman at the tourist desk of the Fiji Westin of our desire to see the country’s interior. Without hesitation she suggested a one-day trek to the Nausori Highland.

This trek would begin atop one of Fiji’s finest vistas and proceed through a canyon and to a tropical river where we would arrive at a Fijian Village. Once there, we would participate in a traditional Fijian ceremony, enjoy an authentic Fijian meal and have an afternoon to enjoy a swim in one of several local rivers or to simply wander the beautiful town. The idea of exploring such diverse terrain and to end with such a beautiful cultural experience sounded perfect.

We woke up early, put on suitable hiking clothes; shorts, tee shirt and footwear and headed to the lobby. Once there, a van driven by our guide Daniel waited to pick us up. He, like most Fijians, was a man of big smiles and few teeth. He pulled out indifferently yet perilously fast into traffic, all the while looking at us in the backseat. Thus began our trek.

Given the lack of government funding for well-paved roads in addition to our van’s lack of shocks, the van ride was more than a little bumpy. Daniel, who immediately proved to be a wealth of information on topics ranging from the Fijian political situation to the many religions that co-existed on the island, informed us that the road was about to get a little rough. When it came to his suggestion that we strap on our seatbelts, we were already several steps ahead of him.

As the van pulled onto an almost non-existent dirt road, my partner and I shared a concerned glance. Daniel informed us, as the car began to shake uncontrollably, that we were to spend about forty-five minutes on this road and then the adventure would begin. Given the already rocky road trip, I already found comfort in the thought of the hot Fijian meal waiting for us at the day’s end.

We wound our way up a large mountain past many small farming communities. Daniel explained to us that some communities were all Muslim and others were Christian, but that there was little conflict between the two. After an hour climb, on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, he stopped the van on the side of the road. He looked at us with a toothless smile and said, “Let’s begin.”

The narrow dirt road was surrounded on either side by four foot tall, golden grass that waved peacefully from a delicate ocean breeze. Daniel wore only a worn pair of rubber flip-flops and short shorts. The bottoms of his feet however were as thick as shoe soles. Without warning, he said “this way,” and disappeared into the tall grass.

We hurried to catch up with him as he pushed his way down a trail that was little more than a thin tire tread that could have easily been created hours before by a motorcycle. This was our path, he told us, through the Fijian highlands to the village of Veranasu.

Though the tall, wispy grass wreaked havoc on our legs, such discomfort was of little note given the expansive view upon the summit of this mountain. In front of us, we looked out onto the port of Nadi and into the South Pacific where chains of islands rose serenely like the humps of beautiful whales against a misty blue sky. Behind us, were riverbeds with foliage growing along the banks and smokestacks indicating villages in the hillsides. Daniel pointed to a smokestack in the distance. That was our destination.

The grassy path gave way to an easily discernable but rocky one as we made our gradual descent toward a riverbed several miles in the distance. Daniel impressed us with his botanical knowledge, stopping at various plants to describe their nutritional or medicinal value.

His primary focus was a small fruit called “noni.” This plant thrives in shady areas on volcanic terrain. Its green bulbous fruit is used to treat just about any ailment, according to the Fijians. Reading my skepticism in such herbal remedies, Daniel was quick to point out that despite the lack of any medical facilities, the average age of villagers in this particular area is seventy years old.

We continued down the path into a stunning bamboo forest. Walking through these bamboo thickets was like being in a maze of geometric wonders. The bamboo’s limited amount of foliage created a profound sense of depth that was then countered by thousands of shapes created by the crisscross stalks of this amazing plant.

We plunged deeper into the ravine of the canyon beyond the bamboo forest and as we did, the climate rapidly and drastically changed. As it did, we became aware of the sound of a river. Now humid, the chirps of brush birds were replaced with throatier cries of tropical ones as we entered the rainforest. The dirt path turned to rich dark soil as we approached a waterfall collecting in a pool in this paradise.

Daniel suggested we stop and refresh ourselves with a drink from the fresh, cascading water. At first nervous, I proceeded to take a sip and as the clear, cool spring liquid ran down my throat, I felt revitalized. As we rested, he showed us schools of prawn swimming from rock to rock at the river’s base until we felt ready to push on to where our restful afternoon awaited us.

Only a few minutes later, we could smell smoke and livestock through the beautiful clean scent of the flora and flowing water. A rooster crowed, announcing our arrival to Veranasu.

When we had heard the term “village,” we envisioned a small road lined with vendors selling fruits and souvenirs. A schoolhouse where kids kicked a soccer ball on a dirt field while parents gathered at small cafes. Veranasu was nothing like this.

We paused outside a clearing in the forest. From our vantage point, a fence of barbed wire ran around several windowless “houses” made up of aluminum and wood nestled in a circle. Clusters of naked children and chickens collected underneath cattle and goats that roamed freely throughout the small “village.” Beyond the village ran a river where villagers both bathed and fished.

As we made our way into the village, everything stopped and all heads turned towards us. The stares, though menacing at first, quickly turned to welcoming grins. There were no sidewalks so we quickly weaved our way through cows to our host’s house where our host eagerly awaited us.

He was a toothless man of great energy and love and welcomed us with the traditional greeting of “Bula, bula,” an enthusiastic term I had come to embrace since arriving on the island. We returned the greeting as he hugged us and welcomed us into his home.

He spoke no English but that didn’t stop him from carrying on to us in his Fijian dialect, one of many on the island. His wife, a busty woman with sprouts of chin hair, an impressive set of fingernails and a perpetual frown, propped herself up on the floor of their unfurnished living room. We sat on the thatched rug where our host began the Kava Kava ceremony.

Kava Kava is a root plant as well as an opiate and the equivalent of alcohol in Fiji. The ceremony began with our host putting this dirt-clad root into what looked like a sock. He then laid it on a small wooden table and with a rusted metal mallet, began to smash it furiously.

We watched nervously as his wife brought in a bucket of water, presumably from the river that ran around the town’s perimeter. She set the water down, then grabbed an old tire. The old man then reaches behind him and pulls out a metal tub that could have easily come from a prehistoric dig.

Our host muttered blessings as he dumped the brown-tinted water into the tub, then with his massive hands dipped the root, now in the sock into the water and began to squeeze it. He squeezed for an uncomfortably long period of time and then his wife brought him three coconuts. Having heard the pounding of a mallet, another villager enters the house. As I looked up to greet him as he entered, I also noticed that observing us with its head inside the window was a cow.

Our host looked at us with deep gentle eyes and said an emotional prayer. “The village began as simply an extended family in the seventeenth century,” Daniel explained “and each visitor that participates in this Kava Kava ceremony becomes a part of that extended family.”

With a tear and a smile, he dipped the dirty coconut into the filthy water and asked me how I wanted it. “Low tide?” he asked. Then more mischievously “or high tide.” As the room cheered, despite my inclination to ere on the side of caution, I took high tide. The room, wife included erupted in cheer.

He then chanted something else and clapped three times, my queue to drink. I took a deep breath, held my nose and swallowed. The Kava Kava tasted like dirty, metallic water with a hint of licorice. After a few moments, my body began to tingle and my gums went harmlessly numb. Despite the foul taste, I couldn’t help but smile.

I had hoped this would be the end of the Kava Kava ceremony, but it wasn’t until three full cups later that it came to an end. While the meal was prepared, we were encouraged to go for a swim in the river

As we swam in the muddy-bottomed river, Daniel explained how the river provided everything from drinking to bathing water. Food to waste removal. I couldn’t believe that these people lived to be seventy. Fijian boasted to being the happiest people on earth. Perhaps happiness and the “Noni” plant was the secret to life after all.

We returned to the house for a meal of river fish, spinach in coconut milk and a root plant that tasted like a potato. After our meal, our hosts encouraged us to take a nap in one of the bunks in the only other room in the house. Another family member snored away in one of them, so we declined.

Our host showed us their humble but quaint church and talked to us, via Daniel, about the importance of faith as a chicken walked over the small alter. Despite the strange meal and the fact that my lips were still numb from the Kava Kava, I felt at home with this man. We learned a bit more about what was now our village until it was time for us to return to our pick up point.

We waited, us in our shoes, and Daniel in his flip-flops in the Fijian sun, chewing on sugar cane for hydration until another equally bumpy van picked us up. Though not the beautiful day I had anticipated it had been far greater and more memorable as it had unfolded.

Koosh Ball Christmas

In addition to being a scrawny and socially awkward adolescent, I was a horrible student and failed at almost every attempt scholastically. Whether this involved doing my multiplication tables in under the allotted three minutes, or the successful but horrific (and still unnecessary) task of diagraming of a sentence, I failed. That said, when the holidays arrived, something magically scholastic washed over me. My Christmas list wasn't so much a list but an impeccably organized outline. It went something like this.

Electronics
I. Nintendo
A. Games
1. Mario Brothers (if it doesn't come with the Nintendo)
2. Track and Feild
B. Accessories
1. Gun
2. Extra remote

Sports Outline
I. Baseball
A. Fielding gear
1. Mitt-left handed... (as if my parents didn't know)
2. Baseballs
B. Batting
1. Bat (wood)
2. Bat (metal)
3. Bat (whiffle for the front yard)
C. Attire
1. Yankees
A. hat (non-mesh, fitted)
B. Jersey (with buttons, home NOT away)
II. Football
A. Equipment

... and so forth. The outline would end with the column "Miscellaneous" under which such items as "koosh balls" or "aerobies" would fall. These are things I didn't particularly want but knew Santa liked to give and I didn't want to hurt his feelings.


Though certain that nothing would go overlooked in terms of what I needed for Christmas, I did have a concern that Santa would become aware of my secretly keen sense of outlining which would lead him to question my otherwise apathetic academic effort. This could potentially result in a Christmas morning comprised not of authentic football helmets and video game machines but instead, of a feeble mesh-backed Yankee's cap... or worse, a koosh ball.

In the meantime, my across-the-street neighbors, Drew and Laura had discovered a treasure trove of their own Christmas gifts in their father's closet. It was torture to know that those gifts potentially existed in my own house and with the right amount of determination, perhaps I could find them. Suddenly Christmas became about debunking the entire holiday.

The plan was two-fold. Seek out, then locate gifts intended to be given to me by my parents. Part two was to catch Santa in the act of delivering the other gifts. I was old enough that I deserved to see the fat man with my own two eyes.

One way to out-think Santa was to get into his mind. It had become obvious to me that the concept of a single man and flying reindeer were just not capable of visiting every single house on the planet, but when considering that he had to have lots of help making all of those toys, perhaps there was a cabinet of specially appointed individuals that could "deliver on his behalf."

Over the course of two weeks, we hid underneath an end table carefully drawing schematics. These included maps, graphs, case-scenarios and escape plans. From our rooms we could see one another's chimneys and Drew had a couple of crude spy devices. We narrowed it down to most likely times given our location on the globe in relationship to our bed time as well as our parents bed time. We had flashlight signals, hiding places, and most importantly, determination. We deserved to know just like our parents did, that Santa was real.

One afternoon, while my mom was at the store, just before Christmas, I was searching for my basketball in the garage when I stumbled across a nintendo. I was thrilled but puzzled, because this was something that I had specifically asked Santa for. I called Drew over to look at it. After much consideration, we came to the conclusion that given the ever-unfolding expansion of the population of the planet, Santa had dropped it off early and my mom and dad were just supposed to put out the gift that night before bed. The explanation, though logical, still felt weak. Given the date in December, this Nintendo still belonged in the North Pole.

Things became more complicated when one day after shooting baskets, my mom called me into the kitchen. I rarely got in trouble unless it was for bad grades and my report card wasn't due out of a couple of weeks. It could only be one thing. She proceeded to vaguely allude to the fact that I may have discovered something I shouldn't have. I insisted I didn't know what she was talking about but it was obvious she knew.

I went back over to Parker's and he wanted to continue with the plan, but I was disenchanted. I felt terrible. This whole thing seemed unfair. Santa was a fair and just man and we should respect his privacy, I thought, as though somehow defaulting the plan would somehow lighten the guilt that was beginning to surround me. By abandoning this plan, maybe somehow I could restore my naive belief that such a generous magical individual could exist and my mom would no longer be mad at me.

Christmas Eve rolled around and that night I went to bed. I didn't put on camo pajamas or pull out the binoculars to watch the house across the street, as originally planned. I didn't hold a cup to the wall and listen for reindeer cause I knew now there was no Santa. I also knew my lack of faith and honor would be punished in unspeakable ways. I wasn't gonna get that Nintendo but instead, the cursed and absurd goofy koosh ball.

The next morning, sure enough, there it was. The koosh. Though several other gifts were on display, as was Santa's tradition, that stupid toy was all I could see. Other gifts, like clothes and other atrocities began to appear but nothing else. I looked at my mom in despair. She had bought it... or Santa had. It had been in the garage two weeks ago. I saw it with my own two eyes! Was she just gonna give it to my cousin? Donate it to some poor kids? It had been on my outline! I looked upon my gifts in utter dismay. How could she or he or Santa or whoever do this?

After what seemed like an eternity, my mom asked me what was wrong, confused by my frustration. "Aren't you happy?" Hell no. Of course not. She looked at me, disappointed. "I thought it was what you wanted?" A koosh ball?!?! Had I not feared accruing more bad Santa mojo, I would have said "FUCK NO!" but I held my tongue. I knew why I didn't get it. I didn't deserve to. My grades sucked, I violated sacred trusts and stopped believing. Finally, I mustered, "I thought I was going to get a Nintendo." Upon hearing this feeble confession my mom pointed to my gifts and said it's right there. Suddenly, in the same spot I had been looking moments before, there it was. The Nintendo. My heart dropped. I knew that just a second ago, it wasn't there but miraculously it appeared. It was as if my feeble confession made it magically appear. Shrouded in the miracle of atonement and the spirit of Christmas, my family spent the rest of the morning committed to the magical world of Mario and taking the occasional moment to toss around the koosh ball.