Into the Heart of Darkness

This is the story of my journey into the heart of darkness, boating along the Chagres River deep into the wild jungles of Panama. From encountering local natives, observing tribal customs, trekking across waterfalls, and feasting on freshly caught fish, this was an out of the ordinary adventure not to be forgotten. Upon leaving the bustling metropolis of Panama City, we drove for several hours into the rural outskirts of the city. Life along the perimeter of civilization was extremely rustic, dotted with unfinished cement block houses amid yards littered with trash piles and scrawny chickens pecking at the detritus. The further we drove into the countryside, the more haphazard the dwellings became, ranging from shanties made from corrugated steel to huts built with wood from the surrounding forests. Despite being typical for most communities in Central and South America, the abject poverty seen in these small outlying communities is eminently heart-wrenching.

After being jostled to death for several hours by the bumpy rut-filled roads, we reached the river where we awaited our next form of transportation. Our wooden boat soon arrived, piloted by a man clad in nothing but a beaded loincloth. He was from one of the local native Embera tribes, and was ready to guide us up the river to his small village. We clambered into the canoe and drifted away from the shore, embarking on our river portion of the journey. Fortunately, some modern technology had spread to this region, and our boat was equipped with an outboard motor, sparing us from having to endlessly row upstream all day and expend our muscles in the process. Along the muddy river we passed by small groupings of wooden huts, each belonging to another village of native Embera tribespeople. Occasionally, children would run to the riverside and furiously wave to the strange passersby, excited for the brief interruption of their daily lives by these curious visitors. Cruising along the calm river was a welcome respite from the earlier bumpy car ride, and I enjoyed admiring the jungled scenery around every riverbend and watching the colorful birds flying overhead.

Several miles into the expedition, we landed at our destination, astride a swath of muddy beach. We followed our guide headlong into the jungle path, ducking past overgrown trees and climbing over vines and brambles. There was a break in the path as it led to a smaller river, which we carefully crossed by gingerly tip-toeing over wooden planks laid across the span, each board sagging into the river with every footstep. Upon successful crossing of the river without any casualties, we progressed along the path until we reached a spectacular waterfall hidden amidst the jungle brush. This was such a serene spot that we all stopped and stared, entranced by the view. After ample time, the guide notified us that we must continue onward, and abruptly broken from our spells we trudged forward through the underbrush.

A short while later we approached a clearing in the woods and were soon greeted by smiling tribespeople who welcomed us to their humble village. They ushered us past sturdily-built wooden buildings on stilts, built to protect the inhabitants from flooding and from unwelcome wildlife. There were many houses scattered about, and within the center of the village was a school and an adjacent large building for community gatherings. We climbed up into this broad central room and sat down to a table laid with plates signaling the advent of our lunch. The scents of freshly fried fish and plantains wafted through the air, and set my mouth watering. The meal was quickly devoured, not out of respect to the hosts, but as a true testament to the deliciousness of the proffered food that was freshly and locally sourced. The plentiful food was the perfect antidote to a growling stomach that was ravenous from a long and draining trek through the jungle. Contentedly sitting back with a full belly, I listened as the tribe leaders explained the story of the indigenous Embera people and how they continued to eke out an existence in the tropical regions of Panama. They explained their customs and daily routines, and then called out for the rest of the tribe members to display their native music and dancing while dressed in their colorful and traditionally handmade clothing. They sang and exuberantly danced in a circle, expressing the joy that can only be found from living contentedly despite their meager means.

After this immersion into the Embera lifestyle, we were invited to follow the tribe’s medicine man into his jungle domain and look at the different plants that are used to heal various ailments. Through an interpreter, he described each of the native plants within his garden, and how specific parts of each plant can be either curative or deadly, demonstrating the skill needed to differentiate each plant. Stomach pains, headaches, infections, diarrhea, and impotence were all some of the minor conditions which were touted to be cured by any number of these native plants, and this information was fascinating for the pharmacist-centered curiosity which always dwells within my core. While I don’t intend to add these latest treatments to my armament of medications, there is extensive science behind the curative properties of certain plants, leading to the creation of drugs used today – aspirin, belladonna, opioids, cannabis, etc.

Armed with this new knowledge and rejuvenated from an afternoon spent with the local tribespeople, I said my reluctant farewells as our time together came to a close. I had learned some valuable lessons from these pleasant people, proving that you don’t need material wealth to be content. Always wear a smile and treat everyone you meet like a welcome guest, and your outlook on the world can remarkably shift. This is a much-needed mantra in today’s divisive environment, and exemplifies that only through kindness and unity can we hope to achieve a better society for all. If only we could all strive to be more accommodating like the Embera tribespeople, we could leave the world a better place for those who follow in our footsteps.

Typical dugout canoes used by the Embera people today

Passing by another Embera village along the route

Traditional wooden houses on stilts

Exhibiting their native music and dancing

The village chief is playing the flute

Following the medicine man into the woods

The medicine man is explaining the curative properties of his plants

Land of Fire and Ice

Florida’s winters are envied by much of the world, and throngs of snowbirds flock to the state during the winter months to escape the frigid temperatures of the northern United States. It would seem illogical for a native Floridian to abandon the state during its most ideal weather, squandering the rare opportunity to venture outside without instantly succumbing to heat stroke. But that is exactly what I chose to do one December day. But rather than leaving for an even more tropical destination like a sane person, I ventured to the extreme opposite climate by flying to the northernmost capital city in the entire world – Reykjavik, Iceland – during the middle of the winter solstice. This meant that I was greeted by two unfamiliar hosts upon my arrival – freezing temperatures and daytime darkness.

Iceland in the winter has several perks that make it worthwhile, including the opportunity to see frozen waterfalls, witness spurting geysers, hike across glaciers, and explore prismatic ice caves, all of which I was fortunate to experience. Each of these are worthy of their own post, but they are not the focus of today. This particular adventure starts with climbing into a different type of cave – a lava tube. Iceland is known as the land of fire and ice, and that is a well-deserved moniker. Beneath all of the snowfields and glaciers lies one of the most active volcanic regions in the world, which came to the forefront of everyone’s attention in 2010 when Eyjafjallajökull erupted and disrupted travel plans for millions.

Another similar volcano erupted over 5000 years ago, creating a slow-moving lava flow that formed an outer crust upon exposure to the cold temperatures. This caused the external crust layer to harden while the internal lava flow continued to stream through, eventually leaving an empty shell. Today this shell remains as an explorable volcanic tunnel that stretches for nearly a mile in length. Donning my hard hat and headlamp, I descend into the Raufarhólshellir lava tunnel. The cave is a reddish hue due to the mineral-laden volcanic rocks, and this bloody tint lends an eerie atmosphere to the experience. Because I am visiting in winter, the floor is slippery with ice, and there are frozen stalagmites and stalactites scattered about, formed by water dripping from the ceiling. The area within the cavern is quite expansive in some locations, which is impressive when you consider the entire tube had been filled with a river of molten lava at one point. Overall, the lava tunnel was relatively similar to other caves I’d been in before, but knowing it was created from a completely different process made it an intriguing visit.

The true highlight of the evening was the hunt for the fleeting lights of the aurora borealis, visible near the Arctic Circle during the dark winter months. In the middle of the night, you could find our small band of travelers venturing along empty backroads of the Icelandic wilderness searching for the perfect spot. After an uneventful evening, a faint glow started to develop in the distant sky, igniting a spark of hope deep within my soul. Could this be the elusive light of the Valkyries’ reflective armor, leading deceased Viking warriors toward Odin in Valhalla? This mythological aura was slowly coming to life in front of my eyes as the floating green hue began to grow in size. It twisted and contorted across the sky, building in intensity as the minutes passed. Staring at the sky, I was mesmerized by these northern lights that swirled and danced overhead, capturing the gaze of everyone below. My heart soared in rhythm with the piercing glow above, and I willed for this moment to last for eternity. Alas, the ephemerality of these mystical lights meant that the experience lasted long enough to appreciate this wonder of nature while wondering if it was all a dream. I count myself lucky to have been able to view the lights during one cold night in Iceland, and yearn to encounter them again one day in the future.

Having achieved this major bucket list item during my sojourn into the land of fire and ice, my short stay in Iceland was quickly coming to a close. On my final day, I had booked a late afternoon flight back home with the sole intention of spending the entire day relaxing in the geothermal waters of the Blue Lagoon. I caught the first bus of the day to the lagoon, and shortly after stowing my luggage and hitting the requisite showers, I donned my bathing suit and stepped outside. You’ve never experienced bitter cold until you are standing outside half-naked on a dark wintery morning in Iceland, fully exposed to the frigid temperatures and gusty breezes. Covered in goosebumps and beset by rigidly tense muscles, I managed to defy my shivering body and head toward the beckoning waters… and what an instant relief it was to immerse myself! The lagoon is a magical byproduct of superheated water from a nearby lava flow that is harnessed for thermal energy prior to filling the lagoon with a comfortable 100 degree temperature bath. This heat instantly soothed my muscles and brought me to a blissful nirvana in a matter of seconds.

The Blue Lagoon deservedly earns the honor of being the most-visited tourist site in the entire country, and it is essential to arrive early. As daylight does not dawn until around 11am in the winter, the first couple hours of my visit were spent in a serene dark fog that helped to create the illusion of being the sole inhabitant in a foreign land. I floated around for hours in the curious pastel blue waters, trying out the various amenities such as silica mud masks applied to my face, beverages sipped beside a swim up bar, and a steam sauna hot enough to melt away any muscle pains. So much relaxation in which to partake, surely I must have discovered paradise! Suddenly, as if to quell any notions that this was a tamed paradise, Iceland decided to remind me that this is the land of fire AND ice, and subsequently released a barrage of sleet onto its unwitting victims below. The stinging of this frozen rain felt like ice needles were being hurled from the heavens, and everyone flocked to the covered regions of the pool, eager to escape Odin’s fury. But the blitz was short-lived, and soon it dissipated into oblivion, leaving no trace of its existence aside from pelt marks on wary swimmers. Soon we had all returned to the task of relaxation and quickly picked up where we had left off.

All in all, I experienced a wide range of weather phenomena during my visit, and glimpsed firsthand at some of the struggles that early settlers much have endured. Iceland holds a vast wealth of natural wonders for such a small island, and dares all visitors to experience its untamed beauty. Despite abandoning the tepid winters of my hometown for the bracing and at times unbearable arctic cold, I felt like I made the winning choice. This trip focused on the beauty of nature and the wild forces that it controls, and I will always look back with fondness on my time spent here, and long for the day I can return yet again… although this time hopefully in the pleasant summer months!

Frozen waterfall beside Kirkjufell mountain

Traversing through the lava tunnel

Encountering the northern lights

Swimming in the geothermal water of the Blue Lagoon

Summiting Skellig Michael

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away resided a small band of monks sheltering on a craggy rock, jutting up from the sea off of Ireland’s coast. These Augustinian monks lived on this inhospitable and windswept island to forsake the conveniences of medieval life and prove their devotion to God. They were purposefully isolated, weathering frequent storms and strong gales that threatened to wrest them from their rocky foundations, making for an extremely harsh and lonely life. Little changed over the centuries until the island was ultimately abandoned in the 13^th century as religious doctrines evolved, signaling the end of this ascetic assembly’s dominion on the island.

Toward this island I now journey. It has been called several names over the years, including Ahch-To – the remote outpost where Luke Skywalker trained Rey in the ways of the Jedi. Nowadays, it is simply referred to as Skellig Michael, and is accessible via boat ride from the coastal town of Portmagee. But just as both Rey and the ancient monks struggled to reach the island, so, too, did I have to pass my own trials before setting foot atop this rock.


Trial #1: Driving in Ireland. Since I was staying in the town of Killarney, I was obligated to wake up at an ungodly hour to make the hour-long commute to Portmagee for the early boat departure. For this occasion I had rented a car the night prior and was filled with trepidation at my looming inaugural experience of driving on the wrong side of the road. Heart racing from adrenaline and caffeine, I set out in the morning to make my own pilgrimage. Gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles the entire way, I passed through picturesque hamlets, scenic vistas, and endless farmlands, soaking in these gorgeous views while winding through narrow lanes that somehow passed for roads. I was slowly starting to feel more comfortable with driving on the left, always triple checking both directions at each stop sign and entering each roundabout with a renewed sense of accomplishment.

Suddenly everything changed when a gigantic lorry came barreling toward me like an elephant charging down a predator to protect her young. Left with nowhere to hide, I veered as close to the shoulder as I physically could achieve. Of course, along these narrow paths, there is no such thing as a “shoulder”, for if you recall, I passed through endless stretches of farmlands, each one demarcated from the road by sturdy stone walls deliberately built to deflect all intrusions. And that’s when it happened…

….CRUUUUUNNNNNCH!!!...

In a battle against the impervious stone wall which had withstood many generations of attacks, my car’s sideview mirror was a hapless casualty. For in the blink of an eye, it lay shattered and hung limp, completely useless to me now. The shock of the brutal assault quickly dissipated, and I assessed the situation after the truck rumbled past, spouting a plume of diesel smoke as if it was exhaling in a fit of raucous laughter at my folly. Upon inspection, the stalwart fence remained unscathed, while my mirror was a lost cause. Ireland 1 – Jeremy 0.

I trepidly continued my journey, determined not to give up so easily. Fortunately, the rest of the drive passed uneventfully, and I finally arrived at my destination of Portmagee, limping across the finish line with my sideview mirror dangling precariously awry. Bruised and battered, both my vehicle and my pride had taken a beating, but together we endured to the end.

I quickly located the boat dock where my pre-booked passage to the island was located, and informed the crew of my arrival. The tricky part about getting to the island is that it is wholly dependent upon Mother Nature’s whim, and she is a fickle master. Passage is only possible during the summer months, and even then, rough seas prevent a large portion of tours. Departures only occur once a day in the mornings to take advantage of the calmest seas. In the preceding four days, no boats had been able to dock at the island, making a victory today seem like an unattainable dream. But if my journey thus far had taught me anything, it’s that when beset by misfortunes, you must never lose hope and despair. As more people arrived and the time of departure neared, the confirmation arrived – we were go for launch! Everyone joyously climbed aboard and we began our crossing to the island.


Trial #2: Seasickness. The initial 20 minutes of the boat ride was exhilarating! The sun was shining, the cool breeze was blowing, and the Irish coastline was breathtaking from the water. But that’s because we were still in the protected waters of the bay. Upon entering the open seas on our passage to the island, the boat started barreling headfirst into an infinite barrage of waves. Salty spray was beginning to dampen my clothes, while a chill was soaking through to my bones, dampening my spirit. Yet, while the Atlantic waves were splashing over me, a more foreboding wave from deep within was also beginning to wash over me. As this wave of nausea developed, I quickly understood that my stomach was vehemently disagreeing with its current predicament on the choppy seas. There was nothing I could do except close my eyes and will the island to miraculously appear. But as swell after swell continued to rock the boat, there seemed to be no end in sight to this doomed journey. Inexplicably, I managed to suppress the nausea for the duration of the passage until we finally docked at the rocky outcrop in the middle of the ocean. Here we were at last – Skellig Michael! Upon disembarkation I defeatedly hobbled off the boat, feeling battered by the seas and unsteady on my wobbly legs. Ireland 2 – Jeremy 0.


Trial #3: Stairmaster. Feeling solid ground beneath my feet, I bent down to kiss the earth and vow that I would never abandon her again. I waited for the swells of nausea to fully abate, and then I proceeded up the path to rejoin the group. The path was deceptively easy at first, curving around the perimeter of the island with merely a slight incline in elevation. And then it appeared out of nowhere – a precarious stairway to heaven with its summit practically encircled by clouds. I mustered what strength I had left, and began the arduous climb upwards.

Now, in order to fully appreciate this climb, let me help you to visualize what I saw. Soaring straight up for over 700 feet is the most uneven rocky path upward that you have ever seen. There are no handrails, there are no protective nets, there are no safety regulations which have become ubiquitous throughout the United States. Instead, there were dozens of people haltingly climbing up a dangerous path to which no end was even in sight, each praying that they didn’t slip and tumble down the cliff into the rocky waters below. It was up this pathway that I, too, began to ascend. Step after step, never seeming to get any nearer to the top. Several times I needed to stop and take a rest to catch my breath and wait for my heart to stop pounding out of my chest. I lost count of how many hundreds of steps I climbed, pushing onward until I finally reached the top… only to realize it was simply a bend in the path and that it continued on even further. Feeling defeated, I trudged on ever higher, unwilling to let my goal elude my grasp. Eventually, the remaining steps dwindled in number until at last… I had summited the craggy mountain! Reveling in my victory, I promptly threw myself down and refused to move one step further, lest I die of overexertion. You win again… Ireland 3 – Jeremy 0.

After a sufficient course of time passed and my body tiptoed back from the brink of exhaustion, I managed to push myself upright and finally begin to explore my surroundings. Here I was, amidst the ruins of devout monks that are still standing despite hundreds of years of being battered by the harsh elements. The most prominent structures are the beehive huts, which were the individual dwellings of the monks which face the large oratory. Just past the huts lies a small graveyard filled with approximately twenty stone crosses signifying the burial sites of each monk. Stretching out across the site lie other structures such as the diminutive St. Michael’s Church, water cisterns, communal spaces, and retaining walls surrounding the entire site. Each structure was built by hand hundreds of years ago, and remains staunchly clutching to the mountainside, attesting to the world today the skill and beliefs of the original occupants.

Being confined on this tiny and inhospitable precipice was a true testament to the will and determination of the monks who willfully resided here. They gave up their earthly pleasures to concentrate on God and feel closer to His presence. Life on this island must have been miserable and dangerous, but they persevered and endured for what they saw as a higher cause. While we may not know much about the individual monks who lived here, we can acknowledge their unified purpose and their will to carry on amidst unending trials and tribulations. No one can blame the monks for ultimately abandoning this site after centuries of reverent worship, but one must certainly admire the tenacity and fervency of their devotion to their cause. Even today, these monks are teaching me about the spirit of determination, and that even though life will throw many difficulties and struggles my way, I must not allow myself to break. Strength comes from within, and each person has the ability to muster up the resolve to weather each storm and press onward.

So where does that leave me? I may have damaged a small piece of my rental car, but I successfully conquered my fears of driving on the opposite side of the road and made it to my destination. I may have felt queasy during the boat ride across the ocean, but I managed to hold it together and complete the journey undaunted. And while I felt like I was going to die from climbing up all of those stairs, I nevertheless ascended to the top and summited the challenging mountain. While atop Skellig Michael, I learned from the monks to change my world view and look for the positives in every outcome. And thus the final score has now been settled and I feel victorious. Ireland 0 – Jeremy 3.

Approaching Skellig Michael by boat

Ascending the endless stairs

Getting closer to the top

The graveyard of the monks

The famous beehive huts where the monks lived

Monkey Business

Close your eyes and picture this if you will – a land plagued by drought and famine, rife with warring civil factions, and beset with innumerable starving children living in squalor. This is exactly the image that people conceive when asked to describe Ethiopia, a country in eastern Africa that was brought to the forefront of western attention through the Live Aid concert where dozens of leading artists sang “We Are the World” to an audience feeling guilty for their own excesses in the face of such deprivation.

Now, open your eyes and try to reconcile that outdated vision with the current surroundings in which I find myself situated. Deep within the wilds of the Simien Mountains National Park located in the northern region of Ethiopia lies the most fertile version of the Grand Canyon I have ever seen. Mountains stretch out to the horizon, entirely covered with lush alpine forests filled with the sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling. The fresh, clean air retains a slight chill leftover from the nighttime freezing temperatures which are slowly being washed away by the rising sun.

I am on a guided hike through this peaceful idyll, trekking across wooded peaks and admiring the stunningly beautiful scenery and my unsure footing at the same time. For inherently coupled with soaring mountain ridges come the perilously steep cliffs along which we tread. Only by stepping to the edge can you truly appreciate the splendor of the land while gazing upon the canyon valleys below. My heart swells with the exhilaration of being amidst this natural beauty, and my eyes feast upon every rise and fall of the verdant mountain range. Although this view would deservedly be the highlight of any other mountain expedition, I am in search of something even greater and more elusive today.

Another hour passes and we finally approach an expansive clearing ahead of us, dotted with indistinguishable figures in the distance. Our guide’s eyes and ears perk up as he signals that this is the coveted prize we have been seeking. We gingerly amble forward into the clearing and spread out so as to not appear threatening. For here it is – the highly sought Gelada baboon! These primates are found only in the Ethiopian highlands and have a strongly defined matriarchal hierarchy with males treated as subservient figures on the totem pole. Entirely uninterested in the bipeds which are slowly approaching the multitudinous groups of baboons, these small-group societies continue on with their daily lives.

I separate from my group and crouch down on the ground to observe these magnificent creatures and their intriguing habits, remaining wary of my surroundings and the sharp fangs occasionally on display when the baboons irritate each other. What may seem mundane to the baboons is fascinating from my fresh perspective – the Gelada are grooming and preening each other, yanking handfuls of grass from the ground to eat, and sauntering around the hillside. Babies are clutching onto their mothers and nursing from their distinctive, bright red breasts, while being gently caressed in a show of motherly devotion. Unconcerned with my intrusion, other baboon children are running around and chasing each other in a carefree manner, showing off their playful spirit. I could sit here for hours, watching the dozens of Gelada baboons simply living life.

After snapping countless photos and treasuring every moment amongst these captivating creatures, the herd followed an unseen signal and started drifting father along to the opposite side of the clearing. Always on the prowl for fresh grasslands amongst the mountains, the groups don’t stay in the same location for prolonged periods of time. So, too, must I rejoin my group and head back the way we came. Despite this encounter lasting merely an hour, these were sixty unforgettable minutes that will forever be etched in my mind as my most memorable experience in all of Ethiopia.

I never knew such beauty could be found in Ethiopia, and I was wholly unprepared for the impact that this excursion into the heights of the Simien Mountains would have on me. I saw unrivalled wonders throughout Ethiopia, including the monolithic stelae at Axum, the medieval stone castles of Gondar, the vividly colorful monasteries of Lake Tana, and the ancient rock-hewn churches of Lalibela. But during all of my travels throughout this wonderful country, the morning I spent amongst the Gelada baboons remains unrivaled as my favorite experience and still brings a smile to my face. Nowadays, whenever I close my eyes and think of Ethiopia, I only see unparalleled beauty and wondrous sights in my mind’s eye.

Simien Mountains National Park

Pure relaxation

Baby Gelada baboon nursing from its mother

Young and carefree

Lifestyles of the Not-So Rich and Famous

Traveling the world is glamorous and relaxing... except for when it isn't. I enjoy partaking in the pleasant indulgences and relaxing specialties that can be found throughout the four corners of the world as much as the next traveler. I've soaked my cares away at some of the finest spas in the world, finding inner peace while letting the restorative Dead Sea mud baths gently wash away my worries. I've experienced a delicate exfoliation of my tired feet by dozens of hungry little fish eager to nibble away the dead layers of skin from a hard day's walk. I've experienced a deep tissue oil massage over every last muscle in my body, leaving me feeling like a limp rag, wrung free of all cares. I've relaxed on the white sand beaches of Greece while soaking up the warm summer rays of sun. And while these glamorous pamperings are what most people equate with the joys of globe-trotting, this only scratches the surface of what it means to genuinely travel. Travel means getting dirty. Travel is jumping headfirst into new and unusual cultures. Travel is trekking through jungles wet with misty rain, climbing up precarious mountains at dizzying heights, hiking through desert dunes while getting sand in every orifice, and eating questionable foods of unknown origin out of both curiosity and necessity.

One such launching point into an unusual cultural experience was along Lake Titicaca in Peru, the highest navigable lake in the world, and the largest lake in South America. We were headed miles away from shore to search out a group of people whose territory is a seeming impossibility -- floating islands made solely of reeds. Like something out of an aquatic fairy tale, we spotted these miraculous islands in the distance, and watched in awe as we gradually approached these unparalleled domiciles. We docked alongside one of the islands and learned we had arrived at the Uros islands, a group of around 45 floating manmade islands created from the abundant totora reeds that grow within the shallow waters of the lake. Originally created as a defense mechanism against marauding tribes along the shores, the islands could be cut loose and sailed away for protection. Nowadays, these friendly people need only defend themselves against the daily barrage of curious tourists, which now sustains this unique culture.

Stepping off the boat onto the reed islands was akin to stepping onto a large waterbed, gently bouncing along with each step while maintaining an unsteady footing as I explored this surreal environment. This must have been how the astronauts felt who first landed on the moon, bounding along in the foreign atmosphere and exploring the unknown with each teetering step. Everything on these islands is made from reeds -- the houses, furnishings, and boats, in addition to the islands themselves. Several Uros families live on each island, and they must constantly add reeds to the island floor to account for the gradual decay and rotting of the reeds. Despite this simple yet hard life, the Uros islanders have emerged as a peaceful and gregarious people, welcoming everyone with open arms and warm smiles.

After spending several hours exploring a few of the neighboring floating island homes as well, we set sail yet again for another island much farther away from shore -- Amantani. Unlike the Uros islands, Amantani is a naturally-formed island which is home to around 4,000 inhabitants. This was the location of our overnight homestay, where we were going to be housed in a room of a local family to experience daily life and customs of the island. Upon landing, we met our friendly "mama" of the household who led us up the treacherous path to her humble abode. Passing small yards filled with wandering sheep and various other livestock, we headed onward and upward ever higher and were afforded some amazing views of the island's surroundings as we approached the house.

After playing several jumping and swinging games with the adorable girl who lived in the home, I exhaustedly sat down for a delicious and fulfilling dinner. Instead, what I received was a small bowl of quinoa soup and several of the smallest plant tubers ever seen by hungry eyes. Such a stark contrast to the overindulgent, supersized American meals to which we have grown accustomed. After my dessert of humble pie which did nothing to quiet down my noisy stomach, I was able to finally sit back, relax, and reflect on how varied yet similar everyone's cultures truly are. All around the world, families gather together for dinner and share their daily experiences with their loved ones. During this contemplative interlude, the sun gradually disappeared over the horizon in a spectacular sunset filled with blazing, iridescent hues of pinks and oranges unlike anything I'd ever seen before. The setting sun signified the end of yet another day, but was also a reminder of the rebirth that is destined to happen the following morning.

While ruminating on the adventures of my day, I thought about the experiences that I was now able to add to my memories of a lifetime. True, the bathroom toilet compartment was a frightful sight which provided no sink, toilet paper, or recognizable plumbing. Evening's light was ineffectively provided by a sole dangling 10 watt bulb that was powered by a short-lived solar panel. The bedroom was frequently visited by the family chickens and goats who left stinky, steaming presents in the house's courtyard. And yes, the bitter cold of the night penetrated through the handwoven blankets as the island was drenched with incessant rainfall all evening. Despite the inferior amenities that the island afforded, Amantani had so much more to offer when you looked beyond the surface. These hardships opened my previously blind eyes and unveiled an entirely new perspective of the hidden magic that this island provided. I discovered the unexpectedly vibrant beauty of innumerable stars in the night sky, only visible when freed from the pervasive light pollution found within civilization. I reveled with the townspeople in a celebration of traditional music and dancing, laughing the night away while dressed in the colorful garb of the islanders. I surveyed the interactions within family units, watching how grandparents and grandchildren lived together and passed on their customs and legacies to each new generation so that they would not be forgotten. I admired the self-sustaining locals who responsibly used the land to farm and the sea to fish, proving that happiness should truly be irrespective of economic status. I listened to the pleasing sounds of nature that permeated throughout the island and felt utterly serene as I drifted off to sleep.

So next time you decide to take a vacation, make sure you venture off the beaten path and experience life outside the hotels and tourist traps. Step out of your comfort zone and search out local customs and experiences -- only then will you open your eyes to the lifestyles around this small globe and appreciate the diverse world around you.

Approaching the floating Uros islands 

A demonstration of how the islanders build the islands from totora reeds 

A view of another Uros island 

 Celebrating and dancing with the locals on Amantani

A view of Amantani island from the dock



Fantasy Flight

Everyone has dreamed of flying above the clouds with the breeze flapping through their hair and all earthly cares dispersed by the wind, but few people get to experience this adventure in the waking world.  While we were born to walk the earth with our feet firmly planted on the ground, we were also instilled with the desire to soar with the birds and escape our terrestrial fetters. And to accomplish this feat whilst floating above a fairytale landscape would be the penultimate affront to our natural state. Does this fantasy sound improbable and unrealistic? Then catch a ride with me on a magical hot air balloon ride above Cappadocia.

Deep in the heart of Turkey lies a unique geographical region that was formed from the juxtaposition of sudden, violent volcanic eruptions and centuries of calm, gradual erosion. The resulting landscape is a veritable stone forest of fairy chimneys extending beyond the horizon in every direction. These spectacular pillars of various shapes and sizes seem like a conception from the perverse mind of Salvador Dali; yet, improbable and unnatural as they may seem, the steady progression of time is solely responsible for these intriguing natural wonders.

Ancient troglodytic civilizations inhabited this arid region and carved dwellings into the tufa rock structures.  Scattered throughout the valley, many houses, churches, and other living quarters have been chiseled deeply into the rock face, creating fantastical anthill towns that are hidden from view except for several exposed windows and entryways. While several rock-dwelling towns still thrive and prosper within these unique abodes, most regions remain uninhabited and preserved as outdoor museums nowadays. These protected sanctuaries showcase remnants of an ancient civilization, available for tourists to explore and discover -- colorful frescoes painted along church walls, smoke-stained kitchens and dining rooms for groups of families, and hidden passages that could be blocked by gigantic rolling stones for protection against vile marauders. While exploring these subterranean cave dwellings is an enlightening and essential experience, the best way to explore these geological wonders is from a bird's-eye view.

On my second day in Cappadocia, I awoke exceptionally early for my flight aboard a hot air balloon from which I would view the sunrise.  I joined my fellow travelers for our short journey to the departure location and watched as the team of pilots prepared the balloon for flight. We witnessed the amazing progression by which a large roll of nylon material slowly morphed into a buoyant vessel simply by adding a hot flame. While the balloon gradually took shape as the trapped air continued to warm, I, myself, was filled with anticipation as the scene unfurled in front of me. The sun had started to spread its first shafts of light beams into the sky as the horizon glowed an iridescent hue of orange and gold.  Incredible rock formations were beginning to emerge from the darkness and cast their eerie shadows in the distance. The entire landscape which was pulled straight from a fantasy novel was beginning to awaken before my eyes.

Once the balloon was fully inflated and ready for departure, everyone climbed into the wicker basket and held our collective breath. A gentle lurch, and then we were airborne. The ground slowly fell away from us as we drifted higher into the air, gently swaying with the breeze. In what seemed like a dream, a menagerie of colorful balloons began rising up all around us in a beautiful procession toward the heavens. And then the moment finally occurred that we had all been waiting for -- the landscape below was perfectly illuminated by the risen sun and came to life before our eyes. Dotting the ground were warped fingerlike rock formations seemingly grasping for the balloons gliding just overhead. The unfurling scene was absolutely breathtaking, and I gazed in awe at the beauty and wonder of this foreign environment. The flight was so peaceful, smoothly gliding through the air while I remained in a constant state of fascination at the miracle of nature below. Time seemed to stand still from our lofty perspective of the earth, and yet after an hour had come to pass, we knew the journey must come to an end as we began our descent back towards the ground.

Just like this seemingly fleeting flight above the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia, the years of one's life pass exceptionally quickly, which is why you should make the most of it while you can. And during this one brief hour, while flying amongst the birds in heaven and gazing upon one of the most amazing natural wonders of the world, I knew that today would live on in my memory for eternity.

Ascending toward the heavens in a group of balloons 

 

 The unique landscape of Cappadocia

 

Amazing natural rock formations dotted the landscape

 

Rock fingers reaching toward the skies

 

Soaring above the rock dwellings

Deep Cleansing

Travelling to a foreign country often involves some form of cultural immersion that forces you outside of your comfort zone and into an awkward situation.  This sometimes results in eating bizarre and disgusting foods, attempting/failing to communicate with simple hand gestures, taking public transportation while utterly lost, or participating in local customs.  And one such custom that every novice initiate to Turkey should experience is a traditional Turkish bath.

I started out my evening by choosing to visit one of the oldest and most prestigious Turkish baths located in Istanbul -- the Cemberlitas Hammam which was built in 1584 by the sultan's wife for the upper class to enjoy. Upon checking in at the front desk and paying for the services, I was then shown to my small changing room to prepare for the rejuvenating experience. After I completely undressed and then wrapped the equivalent of a small handtowel around my waist, I left all my worldly possessions (including my pride) securely stored within this room. Praying the towel didn't slip off while exiting the room and traversing the busy lobby, I proceeded to the men's showers to rinse off the daily grime from this industrialized city.

After the brief cold shower, I hastily wrapped a new, dry waistcloth around myself, and humbly stepped into the grand entrance of the main wash hall. The first thing I noticed upon entering this spectacular domed room was how it sparkled with filtered daylight from overhead skylights, reflecting off the damp marble walls and exuding an aura of mystery and intrigue through the heavy mist.  In the center of the room stood a very large octagonal platform upon which the bathing ceremony was to be performed.  The second thing I abruptly noticed upon entering the room was the overwhelming explosion of warm humidity against my nearly-naked body that immediately caused every last pore to begin profusely sweating, either from the muggy heat or from nervous anticipation, I will never know. After having caught my breath while gradually growing accustomed to the thickly vapored air which threatened to drown my lungs, I was next beckoned over to the massive platform and instructed to lie down on it, fully extended and in complete contact with the warm marble. The stone was starkly similar to a hot iron, as it pressed all the wrinkles from my scorched body and caused me to go limp.

Now is the point when I fully comprehended that because this hot, humid hammam was over 400 years old, an equivalent 400 years of bacterial propagation had festered and proliferated on these ancient walls. Upon which I was laid prone. Practically naked. And with my last window of escape quickly departing, the hammam attendant approached and blocked all hope of egress. He doused me with warm, soapy water, grabbed a disposable scrub mitt, and began my ritualistic cleansing. Now don't be fooled -- this wasn't the typical spa experience where one is gently massaged and treated like sultan royalty. This hardcore cleansing relied instead on brute force, with every square inch of my exposed body (as well as certain unexposed but apparently still accessible parts) scrubbed clean with the equivalent of a sandpaper mitt. I'm all for good hygiene, but when my exfoliation involves removing most layers of my outer skin, it might be a *tad* excessive.

So there I was, after 10 minutes of determined polishing and buffing of my supple skin, I was left with scratch marks all over my body, which I interpreted as a sign of victory that I survived this brutal process. Next came one last rinsing off with cold water before heading to the next room in this cycle of Turkish torture -- the oil massage.

Still clad in my threadbare waistcloth, I laid facedown upon the massage table, and was ready to have all my cares and worries gingerly massaged away with expert hands.  Instead, what I encountered was a vicelike grip that was so forceful, I gasped at the initial pain as he lathered oil onto my bruised body.  The masseur proceeded to slowly work his hands from my head to my feet, taking care not to miss any muscles that were trying to hide from this sadistic monster. His oil massage made Helga's Swedish deep tissue massage feel like butterfly kisses, and I nearly shed a few painful tears while praying for death or an end to the massage, whichever came first. Once my last toe was free from his violent grip, I silently rejoiced that I had survived this experience and attempted my departure.  I lumbered off the table and meekly limped back to the shower to rinse off the last of the oil before heading back to the coveted semi-privacy of my changing room to retrieve my clothed dignity and hide my war-battered scars.

I was so exhausted from that mentally and physically draining experience that I headed straight back to my hotel room, forgoing dinner and even bypassing every last enticing store selling gluttonous bites of Turkish delight in every flavor you could imagine.  I somehow made it up the winding stairs to my shoebox of a room, laid down on the unyieldingly hard mattress, and let me tell you -- with every last muscle in complete surrender, that was the absolute best night of sleep I have ever had in my entire life!

The wristkey to my changing room

As no photos are allowed, here is a rendition of the bath

Swimming with Mermaids

One of the many benefits of living in Florida are the mild winters that we tend to have.  While the rest of the nation is enduring subzero temperatures with deadly windchills, relentless blizzards that cripple entire cities, and snowdrifts that are backbreaking work to shovel, we Floridians gleefully watch this travesty on the news with a guilty feeling of schadenfreude as we sip our iced coffees with the windows open to let in a cool breeze. Our population seemingly doubles during this time of year from all the snowbirds and tourists escaping their miserable existence up north to bask in our wintry warmness.  Fortunately for us, these unwelcome nuisances are not our only visitors; the mermaids of the seas also return to their winter abodes within the waterways of Florida, seeking the warmer temperatures for survival. But aren't such mythical creatures a figment of the imagination? Not so! They may have packed on a few pounds since their svelte days of luring desperate seafaring pirates and sailors to their watery graves, but these wholly reformed, gentle sirens of the sea are still eager for human interaction.  These extremely docile and playful creatures are now commonly known by their newer appellation -- manatees.

Another unique distinction about Florida is that we have the only location in the world where you are legally allowed to swim with manatees. And if you have not yet experienced this exciting animal encounter, it makes for a wonderful day trip from Central Florida for any nature enthusiast.  The morning of the swim, my alarm woke me up at the ungodly hour of 4:30am, and I struggled to get ready whilst in a bleary-eyed stupor of exhaustion.  Packing up my supplies, I knew that this long early-morning commute would be worth it in the end.  Arriving at American Pro Diving Center before even the sun was ready to awaken, we all donned our wetsuits and watched an instructional safety video on manatees as well as man's devastating impact on their populations, mainly due to boating accidents.  Having garnered a novel appreciation for manatee awareness, we set out to meet our new aquatic friends.

By the time we arrived at our watering hole in the Crystal River, the sun had at last risen above the horizon, although it did not seem to diminish the unseasonably cold weather that had blown in overnight.  But these colder-than-usual temperatures would bode well for our manatee adventures, as the warmer natural spring water acted as a magnet for all the gentle giants.  Upon anchoring in the river, dozens of manatees could be seen frolicking in the water, excited to check out this curiosity that had floated in with strange bipedal land mammals.  We put on the last of our gear (snorkels and fins), and quietly slipped into the water to interact with the lovable sea cows.

I was surprised at the sheer number of manatees in the water, and was soon surrounded by these curious creatures.  The best magic spell that worked on these sirens was a simple belly rub -- as soon as you started to pet them, they would roll over to expose their underside and eagerly await a belly rub as if in a trance.  And don't even think about prematurely swimming away to play with another manatee -- on numerous occasions I would find the same manatee nudging me with his flipper as if to say "Hey, I'm not finished yet! Continue with the belly rubs!" for which I was all-too-happy to oblige. One manatee even went as far as to clumsily grab ahold of my leg with both flippers in an effort to prevent my early departure, to which I had to laugh at how childlike these amiable beings were. Never before had I encountered such peaceful creatures that existed in a complete state of harmony. However, the scars of human impingement were all too obvious on most manatees, as they wore permanent reminders of their painful encounters with boat propellers and unconcerned humans. This was a glaringly indisputable lesson on the importance of conservation and the urgency of protecting this endangered species.

After 90 minutes of interaction with the playful manatees, I sadly had to say my farewells and swim reluctantly back to the waiting boat.  With one final wave goodbye to the last of the manatees bobbing on the surface, we pulled anchor and slowly headed back to land.  Despite shivering on the boat from being thoroughly wet and enduring the cold air, I knew this was an unforgettable adventure that would stick with me for the rest of my life. My foray into the world of the manatees had changed me forever, all from a simple belly rub and a gentle pull on my heartstrings.

Gentle giant swimming gracefully

Fun video of our manatee excursion

Arbeit Macht Frei

I believe that one of the greatest lessons we can learn is that of our humble species' history.  Starting from childhood, we are taught about our great nation's history and the piece it plays in the complicated puzzle of our world.  Whereas once the world was seemingly endless and disconnected, today our nations are so entwined with each other that we have become one large melting pot of diverse cultures and interconnected histories forming a single entity. And while the unity of the present world is beautiful, and the possibilities of the future world are exponentially limitless, we must never turn our back on the progressive chain of events that has led to the direction of our world today. We must study our past to understand who we are today. And thus, I feel that it is a necessity of life to unabashedly study and learn our history, lest we become doomed to repeat it, as the old adage goes. And what better way to be taught history than to be immersed in it and experience it firsthand?

During the summer of 2008, I had just recently graduated from pharmacy school and was in the transition period between the ending of my formal schooling and the beginning of my professional career. With such drastic changes occurring in my life, it was the perfect opportunity to embark on a life-changing trip.  I laboriously debated over the myriad destinations from which to choose, and finally settled upon Eastern Europe, eager to pass through the dissolved iron curtain and see what had been hidden from the rest of the world for several generations.

The trip started out in Berlin, the capital of former East Germany.  From the onset of the trip, I noticed a feature that would continue to be a constant reminder throughout every city I visited -- the scars of war.  While some cities have attempted to disguise these painful reminders and erase the hurt, the scars will forever remain and the hurt can never be forgotten. From pockmarked facades to shells of buildings that remain destroyed even today, there were snapshots of history that could be viewed at every turn. Seeing the Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, the Brandenburg Gate, and numerous holocaust memorials in person was like walking through the worst pages of history and gently experiencing the atrocities firsthand.  Never has a history book been able to express its contents and capture the essence of a generation as walking through the actual locations and treading where their shoes have previously walked in fear.

The pinnacle of these history lessons occurred on a dreadfully cold and rainy day -- the first and only such blustery day of the trip with an otherwise unblemished record for perfect weather.  We had crossed the Slovakian border and arrived in Poland on the way to Krakow. But first, we had a date with one of the worst crimes of humanity -- Auschwitz. Everybody felt like they had thoroughly studied for this history lesson after having seen so many of the ravages of WWII already, but we were caught completely unaware, and found to be ill-prepared for this lesson.  Upon arriving at the entrance to the museum full of naivety, we gathered to watch a film that succinctly explained what had transpired on this site many years ago, and what we were about to now witness.  After reliving the history and viewing so many horrors of war that could now never be forgotten by us, the film concluded, leaving us in darkness and silence. Our hearts were broken, and our eyes wept for what we had seen. And we hadn't even stepped through the infamous iron gate to venture into the concentration camp yet.

Arbeit Macht Frei. Work Shall Set You Free. Perhaps the greatest lie ever told, unless they were referring to the chains of miserable life that had been imposed upon the prisoners. While shivering from the cold, we were guided through the camp-turned-museum and made our way from building to building, never knowing what was in store for us.  One building was full of luggage, from all the misguided souls who thought they were merely being relocated and would start life over in a new destination.  Another building was full of toiletries -- mildewing toothbrushes and hairbrushes that quickly outlived their owners.  Yet another building was stacked to the roof with shoes, ranging from all sizes and colors, previously belonging to men, women, boys, girls, and even infants. And finally, the most gut-wrenching building was saved for last.  This building was filled with just one object -- hair.  All of the camp occupants had their hair unceremoniously shaved from their heads upon arrival.  Lovingly maintained locks and perfectly coiffed hair, shorn from these human sheep only to be discarded in a refuse heap. The sheer quantity of hair was unfathomable, and restarted the flow of tears from everyone's eyes.

How could humans have performed such seemingly impossible travesties? How did evil become so prevalent during this timeframe of recent history? Will we ever understand?  So many unanswered questions raced through our minds, leaving us feeling numb and broken. Everything was a daze, yet so distinctly etched on our minds forever with indelible clarity.  I will never forget next stepping into the bitter interior of the gas chambers where so many ghosts of the past still exist.  I will never forget the impact this visceral experience had on me, and how resolved I was to never let the atrocities of the past be repeated. I promised that I would be a better person, and never let hate gain a foothold within my being. So many of us were changed for the better that day, all because of one thing whose value can not be overstated -- a history lesson.

The gate to Auschwitz I

The borders of hell

The entrance to Auschwitz II-Birkenau

Redemption

Have you ever suffered through a traumatic event that has forever altered your life?  It may be the untimely death of a loved one, a permanent injury or disease that changes your perspective on life, or a crippling regret or embarrassment that forever haunts you afterwards.  While I have fortunately never experienced any of the above traumatic experiences, I will elaborate on one such event that scarred my psyche, and how I overcame the agonizing ordeal.

Close your eyes, and envision a different time -- an era of legwarmers, crimped hair, acid wash jeans, and fluorescent shirts, all accompanied by the sounds of synthetic pop and rock ballads.  This, dear readers, was the heart of the eighties, and this story takes place in the heart of America -- New York City.  On summer vacations to visit relatives in New England, we would drive the entire distance of the eastern U.S. coast from Florida all the way up to Massachusetts and New Hampshire. In order to make the drive less painful, we would occasionally stop at major tourist destinations along the way for educational experiences to learn about our nation's proud history.  On this particular trip, we just so happened to stop in the major metropolis of New York City for several days to see what all the buzz was about.

I experienced my first subway ride as we hurtled underground to our different destinations: looking out across the city from atop the World Trade Center, walking through the busy hub of Grand Central Terminal, and gawking at dinosaur bones in the American Museum of Natural History. During this carefree decade, we were able to hop onto a boat without prior reservations in order to cross the harbor toward the indomitable symbol of freedom -- the Statue of Liberty -- much like our immigrant descendants had done several generations before.

While I was only eight or nine years old at the time, certain details stand out in my memory from this fateful day.  I remember standing in line to gain access to the statue's pedestal, from which there was a looooong winding stairwell to reach the crown.  Ascending the death-defying staircase during the sweltering summer afternoon, and trying not to get dizzy while looking down at the ground hundreds of feet below was not my idea of fun.  We were all being herded along like cattle, each of us yearning for our 10 seconds of freedom in the crown, where we could gaze at the greatness of Manhattan from one of the city's best vantage points. While stuck in the unending line, I started to reevaluate my current situation.  There I was, on a narrow staircase high above the ground, crushed amongst the crowd of pushy tourists, and it suddenly became clear to me -- this trap was going to be the death of me, so I started panicking and crying for safety.  My mother finally relented and dragged me to the opposite stairwell where we made our hasty retreat back to solid ground, patiently waiting for my father who dutifully continued upward for his singular taste of Liberty's freedom, not about to let some blubbering fool steal his view.

And there you have it: one of the biggest failures of my life.

Flash forward 20+ years to my first repeat visit to NYC.  In this post 9/11 era, getting tickets to go inside the Statue of Liberty takes an act of congress, and none were available in advance at such short notice for this mini-vacation. Tickets sell out months in advance, and after Hurricane Sandy and the recent government shutdown have both indefinitely closed the statue again, it's a miracle that the statue was ever reopened in the first place. On my first morning in New York, I happened to pull up the online ticketing website on a whim, and a holiday miracle occurred -- there was ONE lone ticket for that morning that was available!  I have no idea how or why this single golden ticket became available, but I grabbed the opportunity with such exuberance that I would have made even Charlie Bucket jealous at my good fortune.  I threw on some clothes and briskly walked the 10 blocks to board the ferry in time for my appointed 9:00am timeslot (while passing a prominently placed sign telling tourists that there were absolutely no more crown tickets available - suckers!).

I boarded the ferry, sailed on past Ellis Island, and landed at Lady Liberty's feet, looking for solace within her copper dressfolds to house my poor, tired, and huddled mass.  I was eager to seek redemption for my past follies as a child, and I proudly climbed each step of the winding staircase with poised determination.  After countless steps ascending within the bowels of the statue, I eventually reached the summit and peered out at a spectacular view of Manhattan, knowing that I had managed to redeem myself and close a terrible chapter in my life.  Proud of such a feat, I basked in the glory as long as possible, content with my accomplishment.  When my coveted time in the crown had expired, I reluctantly took one last look back before heading down, and promptly banged my head into the crown's ceiling, leaving me dazed and confused, but with an unabashed sense of victory.

Approaching the Statue of Liberty

Manhattan from Liberty's crown