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HITCHHIKING AROUND THE

WORLD

GUNS, KNIVES, AND POISON

By Adam Cochran

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Copyright 2009 by Adam Cochran

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INTRODUCTION

he following journal is completely true and I

have made every attempt to avoid exaggeration.

As my original tattered and stained journal is

quite sparse, I have added many details to my original

notes as best as I can remember them. All the people are

real people. The only changes made have been to edit out

days or periods of time that I felt were not eventful

enough to leave in.

T

I want to thank my lovely wife, Laura, for proofing this

book and pointing out many of my grammatical errors.

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Any errors that still exist are a result of changes I made

later. I don’t claim to be a great writer, but I feel it is

important to make sure that my adventure isn’t lost when

I die. I simply want people to know that this took place.

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2:35PM, APRIL 26, 1991

top!” yells Mike from the back seat. Toby

snaps out of his driver’s haze, and

instantly clutches the wheel at the ten and

two position. His speed slows but he doesn’t stop the car.

“S

I look up from my map to see a not-too-attractive woman,

with her thumb out, standing on the entrance ramp

wearing nothing but a vest and shorts. With some

prompting from Mike, she grabs her vest and throws it

open, revealing her bare breasts. I assume that this show

is to tempt us into giving her a ride, and while we

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appreciate the effort, there’s no possible way we can cram

another body, even a naked one, into Toby’s little car.

“Stop!” insists Mike.

Toby slowly drives past the woman as we enter the

highway. I give her a consolatory wave, and Mike

continues to be outraged.

“You guys are assholes!” he says.

Toby doesn’t bother with an explanation. We just

continue on our journey. All I can think is that I wish my

life were always this entertaining.

I know that in a couple of hours I’m going to be dropped

off with nothing but my backpack, made out of my best-

friend Adrian’s football duffel bag, and $350 hidden

underneath the insole of my right shoe. I don’t get

nervous very often, but I am a little nervous now.

Actually, I am very nervous.

As Toby’s driving, he glances over, “You’re a freak,

Adam.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye,

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trying to gauge whether his comment has annoyed me or

not.

I nod, but really all I can think right now is, “Has anyone

ever even tried this before?” Maybe I am crazy. I’ve

never heard of anyone hitchhiking around the world, not

to mention on only $350. I guess it doesn’t matter now.

I’m too bored with my life not to try.

Soon we switch drivers.

“You know, Toby, I’m surprised that you even let me

drive your car after I tried to jump your Impala.”

“I know, but there’s no way that I want to drive all the

way from Idaho to San Diego by myself…just don’t try

and jump anything or I’m going to be crazy pissed”

“Turn in here,” Mike says.

I pull in to the ferry dock and Mike hops out. I get his

bag out and hand it to him.

“Have a great time on Catalina Island, Mike.”

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Mike has managed to line up a job for the summer

hooking up tourists’ harnesses at a parasailing business.

“Ya, good luck to you, Adam. I hope you make it back.”

I smile and wave as I climb back into the car. As we are

driving away I’m thinking that I’ll probably never see

Mike again.

I have this grand vision of hitchhiking around the world.

I use the word “Vision” rather than “Plan,” because the

only planning I have done is to spend about 20 minutes

looking at a National Geographic map of the world. I will

attempt to hitchhike south through Mexico, Central

America, and South America. I’d love to go to Europe

and Africa, as well, but that would require a plane ticket,

and with only $350 to my name, it looks like I’m headed

to Mexico.

Without a doubt, this is a poorly conceived, half-cocked

idea…but it’s my idea, and if I die attempting it, I hope

that people will remember me as adventurous and not just

stupid. The whole thing is a little like the high dive. The

scariest part is standing at the top looking down. At least

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that’s what I keep telling myself. I figure if I don’t

attempt this now, it will never happen. I don’t have a

girlfriend, a job, or any bills to hold me back. What I do

have, however, is a strong desire to escape this boredom

that has plagued me my entire life.

A couple hours have gone by and we are now on the

outskirts of San Diego. “Let me buy you your last meal,”

Toby says, as he hands me a burrito. Considering that I

have eaten nothing but Top Ramen for the past three days,

this burrito is a little piece of heaven.

Before Toby leaves, he helps me rustle up a piece of

cardboard that he has torn off a box from behind the

burrito shack. I write “El Centro” on it, which I know is

near the Mexican border, and then hand Toby back his

marker.

“Thank you, Toby. I feel like I am jumping off a ship in

the middle of the ocean.”

“You are…you can keep the marker.”

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As Toby drives away, I notice a scraggly man with a

backpack and his dog approaching me. “Need a drink?”

he asks as he shoves his can of Hamm’s beer in front of

me. “I’m a witness to a murder and I’ve been running

from the subpoena for two years now but they ain’t

caught me yet. You can sleep with me in these bushes

tonight if you want.”

I contemplate the meaning of “with me” for a moment.

“Thanks, but I need to catch a ride,” I tell him.

“You won’t catch anything this late. It’s a six-hour trip,

ya know.”

Considering the sign in front of me says that El Centro is

120 miles away, I’m a bit suspicious. I nod, and five

minutes later get picked up by a guy and his two kids in a

station wagon. As I’m putting my bag in the back, the

driver says to me, “Let’s get out of here before that bum

gets here.” I hop in and thank him for picking me up.

“No prob! I like the conversation. My wife’s leaving me,

but I don’t care! Where you going, anyway?”

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“South America.”

I’m not so sure that he believes me, but it probably

doesn’t matter. Two hours later we reach El Centro and

he drops me off.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say.

“Hey, good luck, man! Don’t get killed!”

I see a McDonald’s up ahead and it looks like a good

place to wash up and brush my teeth. I think that I’ll wait

until morning before I cross into Mexico. I don’t know

where I’m going to sleep tonight, but I see a haggard-

looking homeless man on a picnic table up ahead that I

might be able to talk to. Maybe I’ll sleep near him if he

seems alright.

“How’s it going? I’m Adam.”

“Ok,” he grunts.

“What’s your name?”

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“I don’t have a name anymore.”

It looks like I’m not going to get very far with this guy

and my mind begins to wander. How did this guy end up

looking the way he does? Why are there ugly people at

all? I mean, if evolution is true, then why isn’t everyone

beautiful? If being beautiful would cause you to be more

desirable and, therefore, have more offspring, then why

aren’t there more beautiful people today than, say, 100

years ago. Even homeless, this guy should be really hot.

Suddenly, I snap back into reality.

I guess I will just sleep behind those trees up ahead. A

moment later, I’m pulling my sleeping bag out. I also

reach for a piece of string to tie my pack to my belt loop;

a safety precaution that I adopt for the rest of my World

Adventure, as I’ve begun calling it. Tomorrow will be

June 1, 1991. I am 19 years old and am about to

hitchhike into Mexico with just over $300 to my

name…what could go wrong?

I have lots of time to think as I am lying here, thinking

about why I’m not happy. Is sleeping in some weeds 300

feet from a bum going to change anything? I’ve never

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heard of that making anyone happier…but what else can I

do? I thought that when I turned 18 and went off to

college, everything would change; that I would be more

fulfilled and these feelings of constant boredom would go

away. Why can’t I be more like my friends, happy going

to parties, hitting on girls, puking off balconies. Maybe

my expectations of life were too high, but I really feel like

I am wired differently. I just wish a UFO would land and

take me back to their planet. Let me experience

something completely different from anything that I have

ever known. Being scared is a poor substitute for being

bored, but I suppose desperate times require desperate

measures.

In some ways this whole trip is a bizarre experiment in

my search for whatever is missing inside me. Sometimes

I wish I could just take a time machine and travel to

another place and time. I begin to ponder this. What if I

traveled back to, say, Jesus’ Last Supper? How exciting

would that be? The more I think about it, though, the

more I realize that time travel will never be possible. If it

were possible, I certainly wouldn’t be the only person

with a time machine at the Last Supper. Imagine how

many people between now and the end of time will want

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to witness the Last Supper. There will be millions of

people there with their time machines waiting to witness

the historic event. The bible would certainly mention

these millions of time machines circled around the table.

I can’t decide whether pondering this means I’m smart or

an idiot. I know which way I’m leaning, though, and it’s

not a pleasant conclusion. Either way, it’s beginning to

look like I’m going to be stuck in 1991 for a while, so I

better try and get some rest.

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6:03AM, JUNE 1, 1991

he sun is already shining on my face when I

wake up. My feelings have now moved from

unease to anticipation. I feel good. Right away

I catch a ride with a guy to Calexico, a border town that is

split in half by a fence. The American side is called

Calexico and the Mexican side is Mexicali…although,

both sides seem pretty Mexican.

T

“I’m headed down to Calexico to give blood. They only

let me do it twice a week, but I get $17.50 and free

doughnuts every time!”

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“That’s pretty cool,” I say.

“Damn right it is! You want to come with me? It’s easy

as shit and you get all the free doughnuts you want.”

“I would, but I’ve got to get going. Thanks, though.”

“Suit yourself.”

It’s starting to appear that the people I meet may end up

being the best part of my journey. He drops me off at a

one-way revolving door along the fence line, which I

walk through. I think that I’m in Mexico, but I’m not

sure. I don’t even see a border patrolman. After

wandering around Mexicali and its outskirts for a couple

hours, I think that I’ve finally confirmed that I’m in

Mexico and have located the Pan American Highway. I

have to tell people that I’m headed to Mexico City,

because it is one of the few places that I can pronounce to

their understanding, let alone one of the only words I

know in Spanish.

It is hot! Really hot! I’ve drunk so much water today that

this piece of corn I bought for a buck is as much as I want

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to eat. I’m hoping that I don’t get sick from the water.

I’ve heard horror stories, so I’m taking precautions. I’m

using an old cranberry juice container as a water jug and

inserting Army Surplus water purification tablets. Now

would not be a good time for me to get sick.

When I show people on my National Geographic map of

the world where I am going, which is basically just south,

they say that I’m “loco.” They say I’m other things, too,

but without any knowledge of Spanish, I can only guess at

their meanings. Frequently, I check my compass to make

sure that I’m still going south.

Not knowing where to sleep, I bang on the door of a local

church. To my surprise, they are letting me sleep in a

room connected to the back of the church. There is

nothing in the room but a light and some trash on the

floor, but it’s free, and I’m thankful that the lady from the

church is letting me stay here. I think I’m about 200

miles into Mexico. No turning back now.

The church here is the most gorgeous that I have ever

seen. Completely white with marble floors. Statues of

Jesus and Mary laced with gold decorate the inside. It is

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lonely here, though. Especially, not being able to speak

Spanish, but I’m working on it, trying to memorize a few

words here and there.

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3:15PM, JUNE 3, 1991

A

hundred miles between towns and nothing in

between except cactuses and sand. Mostly just

big trucks on the road, but trucks are good

when you’re hitchhiking because they cover a lot of

distance. Ernie says that he is taking his load of tomatoes

all the way to Mexico City. It’s going to be a long trip,

but at least I know I’m going to make it that far. He lets

me sleep up in the tomatoes, which is much better than on

the dirt with the cockroaches. We don’t have cockroaches

back in Idaho. It’s too cold for them there, so these are

the first ones I have ever seen. The one that I’m looking

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at now is nearly four inches in length. It took me a

moment to realize that it wasn’t simply a large mouse.

Ernie laughed at my surprise and told me, via charades,

that they are over five inches long in Guatemala and some

people eat them. I’m not sure that that’s true, but he

seems pretty convinced of it.

Little by little, Ernie and I move through Mexico.

Culiacán, Mazatlan, and so on, continuing south on the

Pan Am. The highway is in terrible condition and the

trucks on it are even worse, so it takes a long time to

cover much ground. We stop occasionally and beat on

the tires with a wooden rod to make sure that they are not

flat. The truck has double tires, so it is hard to tell if we

have a flat or not. When struck with the rod, a flat tire

makes a different sound then a full tire, and having a flat

tire in the middle of the desert is a disaster. We drive for

hours on end without much to look at. Ernie takes speed

in his coffee to stay awake. It seems to be legal here,

although he says he used to do pot, cocaine, and freebase

four vials of crack a day.

We are starting to get into some valleys and ravines,

which are a nice change. It’s easy to tell when we are on

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a dangerous stretch of road by all the white crosses placed

along the shoulder of the road for every person that has

died by going off the edge and into the ravine. Usually,

when there are a large number of crosses, there will also

be a little temple at which Ernie, and most all drivers, will

stop to light a candle for their prayers. The little temples

are probably no larger than an average sized bathroom,

but contain hundreds of lit candles. It’s actually a pretty

amazing sight.

Truck drivers make a pretty good living here, so Ernie

buys me dinner quite a bit of the time. Meals usually

consist of tortillas and refried beans and cost about $2.

We generally eat at roadside food stands, where I always

seem to draw a crowd. Sometimes to hear my English,

sometimes to meet a gringo, and sometimes just to see my

contact lenses that Ernie loves to point out. It’s 1991.

Contact lenses have been around for a long time. I’m

pretty amazed that there are still people who have never

heard of them.

I don’t smell too great, but they must not either, because

no one ever seems to mind. I haven’t seen a toilet,

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shower, sink, or telephone since I left San Diego, but I

haven’t really searched for them either.

I see two cars up ahead swerving back-and-forth, and I

give Ernie a confused look. “Toros,” he says and smiles.

He punches the gas and gets up beside the cars. Now I

see the two bulls running down the road. Ernie drives

right up to them and nudges them off the road. He is

literally pushing the bulls with the side of his truck.

“Muy Bien, Ernie.” The people in the cars honk and

wave. They seem to have the attitude of “Good, now we

can continue,” as opposed to my response of, “Wow,

that’s kind of strange.”

We have been on the road for a long time now. Things

that were once odd are quickly becoming normal, like

wild burros running along side the truck, using used

notebook paper to wipe your ass with, and spending a half

hour draping the huge tarp over the truck of tomatoes

every time it rains.

We are getting in to Mexico City now and I don’t feel like

I am in the middle of nowhere anymore. This city is so

incredibly huge, it’s amazing. Our truck moves about a

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foot every five minutes, through the traffic, trying to get

to the market where we can unload his tomatoes. A car

bumps into our truck, so Ernie turns and yells out the

window at the guy. This is of little concern now, though,

because a police officer is at my window yelling

something in Spanish at Ernie. I wish I could understand

it. Ernie reaches down to grab something. He slips some

wadded-up cash into the officer’s hand as he is looking

around. The officer tucks it into his palm and walks away

as if nothing had happened. All I can think now is how

corrupt this place is. I’m a little concerned that I could

end up in some Mexican jail for the next twenty years.

Ernie has been a great companion and I appreciate all that

he has done for me, but it is time for me to say goodbye

and try to get out of Mexico City. I am able to mooch a

free ride on a trolley headed to the bus station. The ride is

essentially a music war between three guitar players in the

back of the trolley and the driver with his radio. Every

time the mariachi singers sing louder, the driver turns up

the radio.

Once I reach the bus station, I catch a bus which takes me

just outside of Mexico City. The reason for this is that I

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was told it would be a two-day walk to get out of the city

if I tried to do it on foot. There is a creek, so I guess that

this is as good of a place as any to sleep. I pull out my

sleeping bag and climb inside for the night.

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6:11AM, JUNE 6, 1991

C

lump! Clump! Clump! I jump up and try to

squirm out of my sleeping bag. All I can see

are animal legs around me. Finally, I’m able to

stand up and avoid being trampled by this train of burros

running past me on all sides. I think that the only thing

that kept me from being seriously injured is that the

burros purposely avoided stepping on me. In this one

moment, I am transformed into a light sleeper. All of my

life I have been a heavy sleeper, but from this moment

forward and for the rest of my life, I become a very light

sleeper. I would not have thought a transformation like

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this was even possible, but clearly it is. I run out of the

burros’ way, leaving my sleeping bag to fend for itself. I

intend to leave my bag, as well, but forgetting that I have

tied it to my waist, it drags behind me like an anchor

exasperating the situation. Finally, the burros pass and I

just stand there for a moment trying to figure out what

just happened. Eventually, I pack up my dusty sleeping

bag and work my way back to the road.

After about three hours with my thumb out, I’ve decided

to pay the 25,000 pesos ($8) for a bus ticket to Oaxaca.

The towns around here are full of street vendors trying to

sell food and handmade crafts. It is a real score for them

when the bus driver lets them on the bus. They walk up

and down the aisle trying to sell their goods. They don’t

have plastic cups down here and the bottles are too

valuable for them to give away, so when people buy a

Coke, they have to drink it out of a plastic sandwich bag

with a straw. It’s a bit awkward at first to keep the bag

from spilling, but with a little practice I’m starting to get

the hang of it. Maybe I’ll take buses for a while, if I can

afford it.

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I think it has been ten days since I took a shower and my

feet smell it. I’m getting “trench foot” from not letting

my feet dry out. I have heard about soldiers getting this

during World War I, but never understood exactly what it

was. Looking at my feet now, I know exactly what it is.

Having my shoes and socks on 24 hours a day for days on

end has caused my feet to become soft and white. They

are prune-like, as if I had been in a bathtub for hours. The

skin is so soft and fragile that any rubbing in my boots

causes pieces of skin to fall off or rub away. I’m going to

have to let my feet dry out at any cost. If my skin doesn’t

firm up, I will be in serious trouble. I have also begun

rubbing deodorant on my socks and the tops of my boots

to keep the scent down, but it hasn’t worked overly well.

They just smell like shampoo and bologna.

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12:30PM, JUNE 7, 1991

I

guess the major purpose for my trip is to make sure

that there is nothing better out there, see how other

people live and whether they are more or less happy

than I am, to learn a little, and to keep from being bored.

Boredom is a big problem with me, and much of what I

do is because of it. I’m afraid that I’m not going to be

happy doing anything, but I am looking, seeing what else

is out there, and hoping that I get a better understanding

of myself. I’m not sure how I ended up with these needs,

though. I don’t think that my growing-up was all that

atypical. My mother had me when she was 17 years old.

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It’s hard to believe that she was two years younger than I

am now. My birth father left us when I was three. He

actually moved out while my mother was in the hospital

giving birth to my brother. He did visit me and my

brother a few more times, but after age five, I never saw

him again. My mom remarried shortly after that and she

and my new father had two more children. I joined the

Boy Scouts, played basketball, served as Student Body

President, told a lot of jokes, basically did a lot of the

things that kids growing up in a small town do.

I’m sleeping in the Oaxaca open-air bus station. There is

a guy sitting in a desk in front of the bathroom. He is

selling toilet paper, one square at a time. A lady just

dropped her square and is chasing it around the station.

The crazy part is that I’m the only one laughing…or

maybe I should say trying not to laugh. This appears to

be a pretty regular occurrence for these folks. If nothing

else, it will at least help kill the time while I wait for my

bus to arrive.

The bus does finally arrives and I ride it all night and

morning. I’ve learned that “second class” means “Old

American school bus – three to a seat.” I’m 6’5”! 6’5”

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people don’t fit into school bus seats with two other

people…especially when they are all trying to drink Coke

from sandwich bags. All the sudden, passengers start

boarding the bus with chickens, some in cages, some not.

I don’t really mind the smell, but the chickens are loud

and just walking up and down the aisle. Clearly, I have

accidentally gotten on the third class bus, even though I

have a second class ticket. I walk up to the bus driver and

complain. In perfect English he says, “Third class has

pigs.” I’m not sure whether he speaks English or just gets

this question a lot. I go back to my seat and prepare for

the rest of the journey. We eventually arrive in Tapachula

where I spend about ten minutes trying to hitch a ride to

the border. I see a very small man walking up to me.

“Where are you going?” he asks in English.

“Guatemala.”

“You can go with me. My name is Louis.”

Louis is about my age, dark complexion and very thin.

We walk through Tapachula, which is basically a town

full of Guatemalans selling goods. Louis’ English is very

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poor, but better than my Spanish. We walk into a

bookstore so he can get some medical text books. Most

everyone stares at me. “They like your height,” Louis

says.

We are getting on a school bus now headed for

Guatemala. At the border, I am told that it will cost me

$10 for a visa. If I have to pay this at every country, I

will be broke in no time. I pull out my $100 bill, but they

have no change.

“I could cross into Guatemala, exchange my $100 bill at

that bank, and then return with the money for a visa.”

They reluctantly agree. The Border Patrolman once again

holds up ten fingers and says, “diez.” It occurs to me that

the reason our number system is in increments of ten is

probably because we have ten fingers. I wonder if there is

an eight-fingered tribe somewhere out in these jungles

using a number system that is in increments of eight.

Once I walk across the border, I bypass the bank, hop

back onto the bus and announce “Let’s go.” Probably not

one of my best ideas, but an idea nonetheless. Soon the

bus arrives in Louis’ village.

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“Louis, I need a bathroom…bad.” He takes me over to

his friend Pedro’s house and shows me the outdoor

shower. Clearly there is some miscommunication. I

proceed to act out the use of a toilet. He then shows me

to the toilet, which is also outside. As the toilet does not

appear to be connected to anything, I’m a bit confused.

After asking for some clarification, I discover that the

used notebook laying on the ground, which appears to

have homework written in it, is to be used as toilet paper.

“But DO NOT put it in the toilet!” Apparently I’m to

throw it on to the ground when I’m done. I am also

shown that to “flush” I am to fill this bucket with water

and then pour it into the toilet and everything will go

down into the “hole.” Having seen the “shower” I ask

Louis and Pedro if I can use it. I desperately need to

clean myself off. The shower is cold, but at this point, not

a concern. Pedro’s house is tiny; basically, two ten-foot

rooms; one for sleeping, one for everything else;

bathroom is outside.

The three of us go out for bite to eat and then Louis and I

hop on a bus that will take us closer to Louis’ house. It is

a very bumpy and crowded bus ride on dirt roads.

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“I think I’m going to puke, Louis!”

He looks at me confused, so I try again. “Agua es no

bueno por Americanos!” Then I make puking gestures.

He hands me his backpack so that I don’t puke on the bus.

Fortunately, I’m able to contain myself. Soon, after a bus

ride and half-hour hike up to his house, he finds me a bed

and in seconds I am fast asleep.

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7:28AM, JUNE 9, 1991

“A

dam! Adam! Wake up!” It’s about

7:30am and his family is excited to see

me. They have made me a huge

breakfast. I can’t identify any of it, though. They place a

large bowl in front of me with what appears to be an

avocado-shaped vegetable floating in milk. I take a bite

and am surprised to find that the milk is hot…and odd-

tasting. I look around, but it quickly becomes evident that

they do not own a cow…just a goat. I gag down the

unknown vegetable in hot goat’s milk with a smile on my

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face while they stand around watching me, waiting for my

approval.

“Gracias.”

The sun is finally starting to come up and I can see how

beautiful it is up here in the rainforest; a thousand

different shades of green. Louis’ family is very intrigued

by me. I pull out my camera, and they are in a panic,

running around, trying to put on their best clothes and

braiding their hair. Getting their picture taken is a big

thrill and they are making it a big deal. Everyone lines up

in a row in front of their house for the photo. The whole

family is here except for Louis’ father. He and all the

men of the village are carving a road along the side of the

mountain with nothing but gardening hoes. It almost

seems impossible, but they’re doing it. They are on the

side of the hill opposite us and I can see a big cloud of

dust rising from where they are working. Everyone seems

to be excited by the prospect of having a road that goes all

the way up to their little village.

Louis walks me down to the nearest road where we are

able to flag down a bus that says

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“La Chicata” as its destination.

“Thanks for everything, Louis! It was great to meet you

and your family.”

“Goodbye, Adam!”

Soon, I am traveling through the mountains of Guatemala.

No one speaks English so I am just enjoying the scenery.

This is truly one of the most beautiful places that I have

been in my entire life…then we round a tight corner.

“Oh my God!”

There’s a bus ripped in half across the road with bloody

bodies strewn for about 100 feet! It looks like about half

the people are dead and the other half are either injured or

taking care of the injured. Some of the people have

articles of clothing layed over top of them. Our bus

begins swerving around the bodies. It appears that we are

not going to stop. I can’t believe that we’re not stopping!

There’s about 30 dead and injured people on the road and

we’re not even stopping! We simply weave in and out to

39

avoid the bodies and then continue on our way. I am just

shocked and disturbed by it all.

For the next couple hours, I just stare out the window

thinking about the accident, when suddenly, our bus

finally stops. This isn’t La Chicata, though, this isn’t

even a town! We’re all switching on to a school bus

while a couple guys throw our bags on the top of the bus.

They are in a big hurry. Within minutes, our school bus is

pulling away, and I don’t see my bag anywhere. I’m

hanging out of the window to look on top of the bus, but

I’m pretty certain that my bag is not up there.

“Bus driver, my bag is not on this bus!”

I’m doing a little “my bag’s-not-on-this-bus” motioning

now, but I guess he’s never played charades before.

“Hey! Stop the damn bus! Alto!”

Finally, he stops. I jump out and jog back to the switch-

point. Upon arrival, I do my “bag-not-on-the-bus” routine

for the taxi driver. He nods and points at his taxi.

40

“No taxi!” I say, and do my little routine again. This time

he holds up two fingers and then points at his taxi.

“Thanks, that explains everything.”

This goes on for about twenty minutes before I am finally

able to ascertain that my bag was found and put on the

roof of another taxi, which is now chasing down the bus.

Finally, I get him to give me a ride to La Chicata. On the

way we pass a taxi coming from the opposite direction

with what appears to be my bag on the top. I nearly have

a heart attack, pointing, hanging out the window, and

yelling.

We flag down the other taxi and I am so relieved that I’m

just standing here with a giant smile on my face. I’m

never letting go of this bag again. I would have been

screwed without my sleeping bag, my contact lens

solution, and the $150 I have in there.

41

42

1:18PM, JUNE 10, 1991

I

t’s still very hot and, bag-in-hand, I’m just sitting at

the Guatemala/Honduras border now trying to figure

out what to do. I know the Guatemalans won’t

stamp my passport because I don’t have an entrance

stamp. I also know that the Hondurans won’t let me in

without an exit stamp from Guatemala. Besides this

predicament, I really don’t have any money to spare for a

visa, either. There is nothing here except the border

patrol station and I don’t even see any place where I can

sneak across. This looks very bad. I’m going to sit here

in front of the border patrol office and try to inch my way

43

over to the other side where the tourists that have already

been stamped are standing. I’m scooting inch-by-inch

and I don’t think that anyone is noticing. Slowly, ever so

slowly, inching. Okay, after about 20 minutes I have

worked my way to the other side. I hope no one has

noticed. I’m trying to keep my face down, but I’m so tall

that it makes it difficult for me to blend in. So far, so

good. I don’t think anyone is following me, but I’m not

looking back to see. Eventually, I slowly peak behind

me. No one! I’m safe.

Honduras is a very small country and, for me, consists

mostly of Mayan ruins, like Copán (which I have enjoyed

exploring), and hitchhiking, which has become more of an

art than anything. The road here is long, straight, and

desolate. I am the only thing that I can see in any

direction. I’ve grown to love hearing nothing but the

sound of gravel under my feet. It makes me feel like I’m

the only person on Earth. While I’m waiting for cars to

come, I’m kicking field goals with a Tacaté beer can. It’s

actually kind of fun, especially when I score. It gives me

a lot of time to think. Everyone tells me how the best

things in life are free, but I don’t think they give the bad

things equal time. What I mean is, I don’t see anyone

44

paying for the really bad things, either. Sure the best

things in life are free, but malaria is pretty cheap, too.

Suddenly it occurs to me…“I’m standing here talking to

an empty can of beer!”

What the hell am I doing in the middle of Central

America with only $250 and a jug of water? Maybe this

was a mistake. Maybe this was a BIG mistake.

Regardless, I can’t stay here, so I’ve got to put on an

Oscar-winning performance when a car actually does

come by. The first routine consists of making my hands

into fists with only my thumbs sticking out. At this point,

I swing my arms up and down in a sort of “disco-

hitchhike” dance routine as I move back-and-forth across

the road singing “Karma Chameleon.” The dance ends

with me pointing my direction of travel with my thumb.

In hindsight this was idiotic and probably delayed my

catching a ride.

After I try this a while and obtain nothing but a beer can

being hurled at me, I move on to “routine #2.” This one

consists of me standing in the road with my arms sticking

straight out to the sides at shoulder height. When the car

45

is within viewing distance, I make a wave go through my

arms starting at one arm’s fingertips and ending with a

thumb in the other hand pointing out the direction I want

to go. This “breakdancing-hitchhiking” is, of course,

accompanied with a little moonwalking routine I have

worked out. I’m sure I look ridiculous, but if I can make

people laugh, they just might stop. And if I can get a ride,

who cares what I look like? Hell, I could die out here!

When all other attempts fail, I find a big piece of

cardboard and write the name of the next country that I’m

headed to on it. In this case, “Nicaragua.” I am here with

my sign and no ride. I’m beginning to get desperate.

Maybe I’ll try “routine #1” again.

In this manner, I hitch my way through Nicaragua, Costa

Rica, over the Panama Canal, and finally make my way to

the south of Panama. I run into some trouble trying to

leave Nicaragua, though. The border is completely

fenced with no way to sneak across. The border is made

up of two chain link fences with a two-mile gap between

them. The two-mile space is a no-man’s land in which

anyone crossing can be easily seen. I walk up to the gate

and try to enter. The soldier sees that I have no entrance

46

stamp and takes me into a building to speak to his

commanding officer. Another man who speaks English

helps translate for me. The translator, who is simply a

traveler like myself, and the officer argue for about 45

minutes. At one point, the translator says to me, “I think

they’re going to send you back to Managua.” I simply

keep saying that they failed to give me an entrance stamp

and that I do not know why. Finally, the officer leans

back in his chair and says, “Okay, fine,” and then stamps

my passport. I am allowed to continue on.

47

48

12:51PM, JUNE 19, 1991

have managed to travel through Costa Rica and now

Panama. Here, just south of Panama City, the Pan-

American Highway peters-out into a muddy goat

trail. I trudge along, through the mud for a couple of

hours until finally I come across a river. I see a man with

a dugout canoe. He is clearly not Hispanic. Judging by

the beads he is wearing and his small stature he must be a

native Indian.

I

“Can you give me a ride in your canoe?”

49

He doesn’t respond, so I make a rowing motion with my

arms and point to myself and his canoe, but he does not

understand what I am asking. I then pull out two

American dollars. Low-and-behold he has no problem

understanding my request and informs me that,

coincidentally, canoe rides cost two American dollars.

What luck.

For the next couple of hours I ride with the Indian down

the river until we reach the mouth of the river where it

meets the Pacific Ocean. The entire journey, not a word

is said between us. I could blame it on the language

barrier, but the truth is that I am an extroverted hermit. I

can be relatively social, but I can’t say I really enjoy

talking to a lot of people. I’ve never understood the need

to talk simply to fill the silence. As we float down the

river, I begin trying to guess how long we’ve been

paddling. The silence gets me to thinking about time

itself. It seems like time could be considered a sixth

sense. Even if I couldn’t hear, see, touch, etc., I think I

could still tell whether three seconds or three hours had

gone by. Wouldn’t this make it a sixth sense? We finally

arrive. Here I meet up with a man taking a boat full of

rice further south. It is just a small rowboat, but it does

50

have a motor on it. I ride up front while the other three

passengers ride in the back. We spend the rest of the day

traveling along the coast. Each wave flies over the bow

completely soaking me. Everything I own is drenched.

My passport becomes so wet that the blue cover

completely separates from the other pages. I continue to

shiver for hours on end until we finally arrive at our

destination: the Colombian jungle. He drops me and

another individual off at a remote village called Jurado. It

looks exactly like Gilligan’s Island, except the castaways

are black. Upon arriving, a large woman known as

“Momma” and her three sons take me, and the other guy

that got off the boat, to her shack. “You can stay with

us,” she says in Spanish. At least that is what I

understand, but I’m half guessing.

“Thank you, this is very nice of you,” I respond in broken

Spanish, “But how can I continue traveling south?” I

have difficulty understanding her Spanish, but with the

addition of some charades I can make out the basic

meaning of what she is telling me, which is basically,

“It’s a four-day walk if you know the way and walk very

fast until you reach the nearest road, but even once you’re

there, I doubt you will find any cars on it. It’s too muddy

51

this time of year. Also, you’ll probably get killed by the

drug-runners that take this route into Panama.”

“Is there another boat that I can take?”

“Yes, a boat comes every Saturday. You can catch it in a

week.”

“It’s not the boat I was just on, is it?”

“No, it’s bigger.”

This place is really the jungle. No cars. No bathrooms.

No jobs. This village could be straight out of National

Geographic. I spend the next week with Momma and her

three boys. Momma is a large, kind woman. She and her

oldest son, Benny, sleep on a mattress while the rest of us

sleep on the floor. There is no other furniture in the

house, not even a chair. Every meal here consists of a

fish (with the head still on it), rice, and a fried banana, or

maybe it’s a plantain, I’m not sure. The bananas are not

like any I have ever had before, though. They are picked

right off the tree; green, crunchy and could easily be

mistaken for a cucumber. I have no idea why they don’t

52

let these bananas sit for a few days to ripen up. It’s

difficult to believe that they prefer them like this, but I

guess they must.

Momma’s oldest son, Benny, goes fishing every morning

for us. Benny has a very large physique, which is obvious

since he never wears a shirt. He is very quiet and

generally only talks to Momma. Benny fishes with some

old fishing line that he has probably had for years. The

fishing line is rolled around an old dried out mushroom

that’s about eight inches across and has a notch carved

into it to roll the fishing line around. Every few days we

have to help Benny un-kink the fishing line by stretching

it between two trees.

It is amazing how plentiful fruit is here. Literally, within

500 feet of the village you can pick bananas, oranges,

mangos, pineapples, coconuts, and small green ping-

pong-ball-sized fruit that I have never seen before. On

one particular day, one of Momma’s neighbors even

caught a jaguar and cooked it over a fire. They walked

into the village with the jaguar tied to a pole being carried

over their shoulders.

53

Everyone is pretty laid-back here in Jurado, except for the

freak, Carlos, that got off the boat with me. He’s really

starting to annoy me. He’s scared to death of me because

I’m American.

Earlier today I found my bag on the floor with its contents

strewn about. My toothpaste, Clearasil, and broken

mirror were all missing. Carlos then ran in and picked up

something that belonged to him.

“We’ve been robbed!” he exclaimed.

Carlos is a terrible actor and it is obvious that he has

stolen the objects from my bag that he considers either

weapons or poisons so that I won’t use them against him.

Since he can’t read English, I’m sure that he assumes the

toothpaste and Clearasil are poisons. When the sun goes

down, we lay down to sleep. I punch my fist against my

hand and say “En la Mañana!” A couple hours later,

Carlos wakes up from a nightmare screaming. He grabs

me and yells “Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” I

demand the return of my belongings and he gives them to

me. I might have to kill him.

54

At the moment, Carlos is chomping on a coconut. We all

are. He takes a bite and then spits out the shell.

“Hey, you just lost your tooth!” I yell at him. He spit it

out with the coconut shell.

“You lost your tooth!” I repeat.

“Oh, shit! Where is it?”

I can see that it’s right in front of Momma’s chicken, but

before he can grab it, the chicken pecks it up and

swallows it.

“Ah, shit! That was my tooth!”

I’m standing here, astonished by what I have just seen.

He wants the tooth back so that a dentist can put it back

in, but since it is a couple weeks until he can get to a

dentist, that’s clearly not going to happen.

I pick up a small white object off the ground.

“Wait, here’s your tooth!”

55

He takes it from me and puts it in the hole left by his

missing tooth, but then quickly pulls it out.

“Hey, this is a stone!” he exclaims.

Momma, her sons, and I start laughing. Everyone gets a

good laugh out of it but Carlos.

“You still look good,” is all I can think to say.

I’m starting to pick up a few words of Spanish here and

there. There is an older man in the village that owns a

Spanish/English dictionary. This has helped us

communicate on several occasions. The first time he

pulled it out I noticed that he was looking for a particular

word one page at time, looking at each and every word

until he found it. Neither he, nor his son, had any concept

that dictionaries are alphabetized and that you can just flip

to the word that you are looking for. The first time I did

this, they nearly passed out with amazement. I found a

word in five seconds, a task that would have taken them

five hours. Little things like this constantly surprise me.

56

Finally, Saturday arrives. Today is the day that the boat

will arrive to take me to a larger city in Colombia. I want

to make sure that I don’t miss it, so I get up early, pack

my bag, and say my goodbyes. I wait down on the beach.

A few hours go by and still no boat. Then its mid-day,

the arrival of the boat can’t be too much longer now. Still

no boat. I stand on the beach all day long from sun-up to

sun-down, not even leaving to get food, 12 hours, but still

no boat. Part of the reason I left on this adventure was to

escape boredom and here I am just standing alone on the

beach for hours on end watching wave after wave hit the

shore. Finally, I walk back to Momma’s hut in the dark.

When I arrive, I inform Momma that there was “No boat.”

In Spanish she responds, “Maybe next Saturday.”

Another week goes by of picking bananas, untangling

fishing line, and not understanding what anyone is talking

about. Finally, the day I’ve been waiting for. Momma

informs me that the boat has arrived. It’s only been two

weeks, but I’ve grown attached to these people. This

family has been very good to me. Just yesterday a village

kid tried to steal money from my bag and Momma’s 14-

year-old kid chased him through the village with a

machete. That’s a good host!

57

I hand Momma an American five dollar bill as a thank

you for letting me stay with them for two weeks, but she

flips out and tells me that it is way too much money. She

finally agrees to accept $2. I say goodbye to everyone

and head down to the beach. Upon catching my first view

of the boat, I am shocked. It is a 20-foot diesel-engine

boat with an enormous carousel sitting on top of it, the

type of carousel you might find at a carnival, complete

with wooden horses and benches. So large is this

carousel that it hangs over each side of the boat by a good

eight feet and the front of the boat appears to be in serious

danger of being pushed below the water line. I seriously

think we have about a 50% chance of staying afloat. The

captain shows me my cot in the engine room, also the

only room. It is about 130 degrees in here and absolutely

miserable. So hot in fact, that my bar of soap and small

deodorant melt inside my bag. The diesel fumes have

given me an awful headache. There is standing room

only on the deck, so for the next three days I survive on

no food and about 30 minutes of sleep. My clothes are

completely soaked from all the sweating and reek of

diesel. Needless to say, I am pretty happy when we pull

in to port in Buenaventura, Colombia.

58

Buenaventura is Colombia’s largest port on the Pacific.

There are a lot of enormous ships lined up here; so big

that it takes about 10 minutes to walk the length of each

one. Most of the ships are here to transport coffee beans

to other countries, and it takes about five days just to load

each of them.

I’m down to my last $100 bill. Upon trying to use the bill

in a store, the clerk accidentally tears it in half while

trying to check its authenticity. $100 is so much money

down here that they want to make absolutely sure that

they’re getting the real thing. I’ve often wondered why

the Treasury Department doesn’t just put barcodes on

money. That way stores, banks, etc. could scan it to make

sure that it’s not stolen or counterfeit. Maybe Americans

don’t really care, but they sure seem to care down here. I

have taped it back together, but no one will accept a torn

bill. They think that it is no good since it has been torn.

Even the bank won’t take it. The only person that accepts

it is a shady guy in the back of a store who gives me $50

for it (as long as I buy him and his buddy a Coke). So

now I’m down to my last $49. This town seems a bit

dangerous, so I think I better try to find a cheap hotel. I

would probably try to just sleep in my sleeping bag

59

somewhere, but I’m still a little shaken up from when I

tried to do this in Panama City. I had been walking

around Panama City at dark trying to find a place to lay

my sleeping bag for the night, when three guys started

following me. They were arguing amongst themselves

and grew louder and louder. I became concerned and ran

into a shop I spotted that was just about to close. The

owner says to me, “What are you doing in this part of

town?”

“Looking for a place to sleep.”

“Do you know what those men are arguing about?”

“No.”

“They’re arguing over who gets to rob you! You need to

run as fast as you can until you are far from here.”

I thanked him and did as he instructed. And I have to say,

Buenaventura doesn’t seem any safer than Panama City.

At least a handful of foreigners travel to Panama. Here in

Colombia it is pretty much just me. The only other

foreigners are the sailors on the ships, and they rarely

60

venture out of the port. People are very surprised to see

me here. Women in the streets yell, “I love you!” or

“Marry me!” simply because I am American. If anyone

wants to know what it feels like to be famous, just walk

through the streets of Colombia. It is a dangerous, wild

place.

I ask where I can find a cheap hotel and am pointed

towards “Hotel El Faro.” It means The Lighthouse Hotel,

which sounds nice, but isn’t. At $3 a night, though, I’m

not complaining. The only things in the room are a light

bulb, a bed, and an old whore. It takes me a while to

figure out why these women keep walking into my room,

one at a time, but I eventually figure it out. In time, I

actually become friends with these women, especially

Nelly, who wants to marry me and move to America. For

multiple reasons I think this is a bad idea.

After laying my bag down, I walk into the front room of

the hotel, which is not really nice enough to be called a

lobby, and sit down in front of the TV. There are two

other guys watching TV. One of them has his hand over

his head making the sign of the devil by holding up his

pinky and index finger.

61

“Why do you make that symbol with you hand?” I ask.

“Because the news is on.”

“Because the news is on?” I ask to the other guy.

“Forget him, he’s crazy,” says Felix, “You from

California or the United States?”

“United States.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Traveling,” I tell him, “Do you know how I can get on a

ship going to Europe?”

“I’m not sure, but I know a few of the guys down at the

port. We can see if they’ll put you on a ship if you want.”

“Ya, if you don’t mind.”

A little later, once it has grown dark, Felix wakes me up

by knocking on my door. He is wearing a black t-shirt

and a grubby pair of jeans.

62

“I think I have a ship lined up for you, but it’s leaving

tonight, so we have to go now.”

“That’s great, Felix!”

“We’ll have to take a taxi down to the port.”

We drive for a while until Felix says, “Stop here!”

Felix doesn’t have any money for the taxi, so I have to

pay for it. I take my shoe off and pull the money out to

pay the driver. We walk through the darkness towards the

port. We pass a gate with a security guard and keep

walking along the cement wall. It seems quite desolate

here. Felix is walking closer and closer to me. When I

move over, so does he. Suddenly, Felix lunges out and

grabs me by the shirt. He pulls out what appears to be a

homemade knife and sticks it up to my stomach. My

heart is pounding like mad. I am about as scared as a

person can be.

“Give me your money!” he shouts angrily, “Give it to

me!”

63

I punch his hand that is holding my shirt to break his grip.

But instead of breaking his grip, it just stretches out my

shirt. He lets go of my shirt and thrusts his hand into my

front pants pocket, but pulling out only my passport. No

longer gripping me, I jump backwards. I’m walking

backwards, keeping about 10 feet between us.

“Come on, I need that,” I complain, scared-to-death.

“Give me your money!”

“I need my passport.”

“Give me your money!”

“Help!” I scream to one of the port guards that we have

backed-up enough to see now, “Help me!”

“What are you talking about?” Felix says, “He’s crazy!”

Felix hands me back my passport, says something in

Spanish to the port guard, and then quickly walks away.

64

“What happened?” the guard asks, still careful not to open

the gate.

“That guy had a knife up to me!” I say, trembling.

“Are you okay?”

“Ya, just a little shaken up.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Hotel El Faro.”

“That’s a whorehouse!” he exclaims.

“I know, but I just sleep there.”

“That bus will take you there,” he says pointing, “You be

careful!”

Finally, I arrive back at the hotel and lay down on my

bed, wide awake. I never saw Felix again.

65

66

2:40PM, JUNE 27, 1991

heard about your mishap the other night,

Adam. You okay?” asks Sergio, the young

guy that lives next to my hotel.

“I“Ya, it was a close one.”

“You have to be careful around here, everyone thinks that

Americans are rich.”

“So I’ve seen.”

67

“Say, do you want to come to my sister’s birthday party

today?” Sergio asks me.

“Sure, that sounds like fun.”

After a 20-minute bus ride, we start walking down a dirt

road until we reach a little wooden shack. Sergio knocks

on the door. A fat man with greasy hair answers the door.

I can see that he doesn’t know any English because he is

wearing a tight white T-shirt that reads “Hunk Watcher,”

but I don’t think that’s as bad as the old man I saw at a

funeral the other day wearing a mesh baseball cap that

read, “Party ‘til ya puke.”

“Hunk Watcher” gives some money to Sergio and now

we are continuing our walk down the dirt road. I can see

a strange person to our left.

“Sergio, I think that guy is following us,” I say, but Sergio

doesn’t hear me because we have just come upon another

guy in the street that owes Sergio money. I’m starting to

suspect that Sergio sells drugs. At this moment, the

strange guy I had seen following us comes out of the

darkness, walking towards me.

68

“Hey, what do you want?” he asks me.

“Nothing,” I respond.

“What do you want? You want some cocaine?” he asks

me in English.

“No.”

“You want a gun?” he yells as he pulls a silver pistol out

of his pants and points it at my head. “You want a gun?

I’ve got a gun!” he repeats.

At this point, Sergio, still oblivious to what is going on,

pulls a wad of money out of his pocket to make change

with the guy that owes him money. Once the dark-haired

stranger sees Sergio’s money, he starts waving the gun

back-and-forth between Sergio and me.

“Give me the money!” he yells.

Sergio and his friend dive through the nearest doorway

and slam the door shut. The stranger runs up to the door

and starts banging his pistol against the window.

69

“Let me in or I’ll kill your friend!” he yells.

With the stranger’s back facing me, I start sprinting the

opposite direction, through all the people who have come

out to see what all the commotion is. I keep running for

about ten minutes until I find a taxi.

“Go, go, go!” I yell to the driver.

“What’s going on?” he asks

“Some guy’s waving a pistol back there!”

“Damn! You have to be careful around here.”

“I know.”

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Hotel El Faro.”

“That’s a whorehouse!” he exclaims.

“I know.”

70

11:08AM, JULY 5, 1991

I

spend most of my days down at the docks trying to

persuade ships to take me with them. I’m happy to

cook and clean to cover my passage. Many of the

ship captains have been quite helpful, but the final answer

is always no. Either the ship’s insurance agency won’t

allow me to travel with them, or the ship’s owner is afraid

that I will bring cocaine on board, or they simply don’t

want to take me. I have tried everything I can think of. I

obtained a letter from the Federal Building here in

Buenaventura officially asking ships to provide me

passage. Even this has not helped. Many of the ships do

71

allow me to eat on board, though. This has been greatly

appreciated as I am running very low on money.

I have been trying to stow-away on a ship in the cargo

hold, but this has also proven to be impossible. The ships

are guarded 24 hours a day and before they leave the port,

20 police officers comb the entire ship for stow-aways

and drugs. Drug smuggling is a huge problem here. I

have been approached several times by people asking me

to smuggle large quantities of cocaine for them. Literally,

suitcases full that they will give me for free to sell in the

U.S. and send half the profits back to them. They talk

about cocaine openly here because, although it is illegal,

the police only go after the huge cartels. I have no

interest in spending the rest of my life in a foreign prison,

so I kindly reject their offers.

Today, while checking for new ships at the port, I met a

security guard named Herman. He seems quite nice and

has offered to let me stay at his house. I don’t know

anything about Herman, but I am almost out of money

and, at this point, have few other options. I pack up my

belongings from Hotel El Faro, say my goodbyes to Nelly

and the other prostitutes, and then head over to Herman’s

72

place. Herman’s house turns out not to be much of a

house. It is a room in a concrete apartment building.

There are no windows. Just open holes where windows

should be, so rats and bugs come and go as they please.

There are two cots for beds and a portable camp stove set

up for cooking. The shower/toilet is simply a hole in the

floor and a bucket full of water that needs to be re-filled

outside. Basically, it’s a dump.

For the next month, Herman and I plot how we can stow

away on a ship. Everyone in Colombia wants to get out

of here. If you are lucky enough to find a job here, the

average pay is only $4 a day, so sneaking into America is

very appealing to them. We have elaborate plans of

smuggling food and water on board and bribing police,

but time after time, it never works out. I chip in my last

$25 dollars to help Herman pay for food. I am completely

broke now and relying on Herman to feed me.

73

74

2:15PM, July 8, 1991

T

oday the leg fell off my pants. My only pair of

pants. It had started as a hole in the knee, but

the hole gradually widened into a larger tear that

eventually resulted in the leg falling off from the knee

down. I look ridiculous with one pant leg, even by

Colombian standards. I tear the other pant leg off at the

knee to turn them into shorts. I have two shirts. Neither

has been washed in months, so I borrow a washboard and

begin to scrub them. They are just regular long-sleeved

cotton t-shirts, but because I have not washed them in so

long, they have become very oily from my skin. So oily,

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in fact, that I can’t get them wet. When I pull them out of

the water, they are still completely dry, the water just

beads up on them and then runs off. It takes 30 minutes

for me to scrub them clean, and in the process, I nearly

destroy the shirts.

As I lay here in bed, I take a good look at my feet.

They’ve held up pretty well and the trench foot has

completely gone away. It’s a big relief. Suddenly, I’m

distracted by the sound of rats running above me in the

ceiling. The ceiling is simply brown paper nailed to some

joists, so I can actually see the indentations of the rats

running above it. Then, I notice a creature come out from

the edge of the paper. It’s not a rat at all. It’s the biggest

spider I have seen in my entire life. It’s an enormous

tarantula, probably five or six inches across and it is

directly above my bed. I try to sleep, but all I can think

about is this enormous spider. Is it going to crawl on me?

Is it going to bite me? The spider is now crawling down

the wall and is standing next to my bed. Finally, I get out

of bed and find a twig to scare the spider off with. To my

surprise, when I try to shoo it away, it simply rises up on

its back legs and tries to fight the stick, waving its front

legs in the air and trying to grab it out of my hand. I wake

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Herman and show him the spider. Herman simply says,

“Bueno suerte” and then goes back to bed. I find out later

that this means “good luck” in Spanish. Finally, I just

give up and spend the rest of the night staring at the

ceiling waiting to be attacked. Of course, the attack never

comes and the next morning the spider is no where to be

found. I hope he has decided to leave the apartment, but I

am convinced that he is still in here somewhere.

“The eclipse is at 2:30,” an old man says to me in the

street.

“What?”

“Are you here for the eclipse?” he asks.

“I didn’t know there was an eclipse?”

“It’s at 2:30…I’m Willy, the son of Jesus.”

Jesus is a common name down here, so I’m not sure if he

is referring to himself as someone named Jesus or the son

of God.

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“I’m waiting for my people to come get me…they’re in

Miami,” he continues, “I was the translator for Nixon,

Carter, and Kennedy.”

“Did you say that you were the son of Jesus?”

“Yes, when Jesus came back in 1962, he adopted me…do

you have $5?”

“No.”

To my surprise, about two hours later, it gets completely

dark. Not only was there an eclipse, but it turns out that

this is one of the only places in the world where you can

see this total solar eclipse. Once the moon completely

blocks out the sun, it becomes so dark that all the ships in

the harbor have to turn on their lights and begin blowing

their horns in celebration. It is truly one of those

serendipitous moments where I happen to be at the right

place at the right time. The solar eclipse lasts about 20

minutes, and then everything goes back to normal.

Maybe Jesus really did adopt Willie in 1962.

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8:08AM, JULY 17, 1991

wo months have passed now since I left Idaho

and I think I may finally have a way to get

home. An American ship has pulled into the

port. It is the first American ship I have seen.

T

“Permission to come aboard?” I ask, “I’d like to speak to

your captain.”

“You can talk to whoever the hell you want,” is the reply

from the American sailor. It is very refreshing to hear an

American voice. It occurs to me now that in the places

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you go, you see the places you’re from. He is the first

American that I have seen in over two months. He’s

about 50 years old, wearing a sleeveless white t-shirt

stretched out by his large belly. He takes the cigarette out

of his mouth, “What, did you get a wild hair up your ass

and decide to come down here?”

“Ya, something like that. Now I’m kind of stuck.”

“I don’t see why we can’t take ya, hell, we used to take

dozens of people back during the Vietnam War.”

He lets me speak to the Captain. I explain my

predicament to him and offer to work on the ship for

passage.

“What made you leave America in the first place?” he

asks.

“I guess I was just really bored.”

“You know, a lot of people worked for a long time to

make America a boring place…anyway…we do need

some help in the kitchen. I think we can work it out. I’ll

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tell you what, you go get your stuff together and meet

back here at 4:00.”

“Oh, thank you, that is fantastic news!”

I inform Herman of the good news and thank him for all

his help. I spend the next couple of hours saying goodbye

to people I have met. Finally, I return to Herman’s

apartment to gather my belongings. Herman is not there.

As I’m packing things up, I notice that my camera and my

fishing reel are missing. I look around the apartment and

find them hidden in the pockets of Herman’s jacket. I am

so disappointed. I really considered Herman a friend. We

have spent every day together for the last couple of

weeks. I would have given him the items had he asked.

Sadly, I gather my things and head down to the port. I am

greeted at the ship by the captain. “Bad news, Adam, the

owners of the ship have told me that we cannot take on a

passenger. I’m very sorry. You can go down to the mess

hall and take whatever you’d like to eat, though.”

I am hugely disappointed. I have no money, no way to

get home, and I can’t even go back to Herman’s

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apartment now that he has turned on me. I fight back the

tears as I make myself five peanut butter and jelly

sandwiches. As I’m putting them in my bag, the fat sailor

that I met earlier walks in. “I’m sorry to hear the bad

news.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Me and the guys took up a collection for you.”

I look up and see him holding out M&M’s, soda, $117

American dollars, $38 Colombian, and a pack of

Marlboros. I am overwhelmed. Never has a person been

in more need of this than I am right now. I thank him

over and over again. I’ll never meet these people again. I

don’t even know their names, but I wish I did so that I

could pay them back and let them know how thankful I

am for their gifts. Even years later, knowing that I can

never re-pay the kindness I received from these sailors, I

sometimes try to do kind things for other people I find in

need. It’s the closest I can come to paying those sailors

back.

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As I’m walking away, staring down at my feet, it becomes

apparent how everything affects everything else. I guess

if I think about it, that’s Newton’s third law: for every

action there is an opposite and equal reaction. Staring

down at my feet, it occurs to me that as I’m walking, the

friction between the earth and my feet pushes me forward,

yet, in the same way, the earth is ever-so-slightly being

pushed in the opposite direction. It’s probably too small

of an amount to even measure, but if I walk east, I slow

down the revolution of the earth. If I walk west, I speed it

up. It is impossible for me not to have an effect on the

things around me.

I spend the rest of the night with port guards, waiting for

the sun to come up; when I know it will be safer to travel.

Finally, at about 5:30am, I give one of the guards my

cigarettes and head for the bus station. Once there, I buy

a bus ticket to Bogotá. I’m told that there is an American

Embassy there that can help me get home.

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84

4:22PM, JULY 18, 1991

finally arrive at the American Embassy in Bogotá.

The line out front is about a block long and full of

Colombians trying to get visas to enter the United

States. I can see that one-by-one they are all getting

turned down. I have not seen a single person get accepted

for a visa. Just when I am resigned to the fact that I will

be in this line all day, one of the American Marines that is

guarding the front gate yells out to me, “Hey, are you

American?”

I

“Yes!” I show him my damaged passport.

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“Well you don’t need to wait in that line. You can just go

right in.” He opens up a separate gate and lets me enter

the embassy. Once inside, I am greeted by an American

in a suit. “Hello, Adam. We received your letter last

month stating that you were stranded, but had no way of

contacting you. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any money?”

“About $100.”

“You are going to need a lot more than that to fly home.

Here is what we can do for you. We will purchase you a

ticket for a flight tomorrow. We will need to call ALL of

your family and relatives and ask them to send you money

to pay for this. If they all refuse, then we will loan the

money to you. To ensure that you do indeed pay us back,

we will need to take your passport and stamp it as NO

LONGER VALID. You will then be declared a

DESTITUTE CITIZEN and will not be allowed to leave

the United States until all your debts have been paid.”

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“Wow, how much will all this cost?”

“It’s going to be expensive, but it’s the only way that we

can get you home.”

I thanked him and told him that I wanted to think about it

first. I keep thinking about all my family and relatives

getting this call about how I was in trouble and asking

them for money. I really don’t want that. Plus, I still

want to travel to Europe and Africa. If I accept the

embassy’s offer, that definitely won’t happen in the near

future. Screw it, I’m going to take this $100 and

somehow get back to the U.S. where I can get a job and

continue my journey.

I am able to get a bus to a small Atlantic port called

Turbo, near Cartagena. Once there, I am approached by a

police officer. “Pay me,” he says. Clearly he wants a

bribe. I am so sick of this corruption and so desperate to

get out of here that I just say “No,” and walk off. I

entirely expect him to grab me, but fortunately, he just

stands there. I think he is a bit surprised. Finally, I locate

a small boat that can get me to Panama. It costs $24, but

it’s my only option. After several hours, we come upon a

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remote cove with a gorgeous mansion. It seems

completely out of place in this remote coastal jungle. The

owner of the boat points to it and simply says, “Pablo

Escobar.” I instantly recognize the name from the

newspapers as the biggest cocaine lord in all of Colombia.

Soon we arrive in the small jungle town of Olbadia,

Panama. There are no cars and no roads, but there is an

airstrip. For $41 a small Cesna airplane will fly me to

Panama City. This will nearly deplete my funds, but I

know that if I can get to Panama City, I can hitchhike

back up the Pan American Highway all the way back to

the U.S., so I accept. It is a very small plane, just the

pilot, myself, and one other passenger.

Our plane touches down in Panama City, but I notice that

it’s not the main airport. It is a very small landing strip

and we are met by soldiers with machine guns. The other

passenger and I are escorted into a building. The soldiers

spend the next hour going through our belongings. So

extensive are they that they actually taste my tube of

toothpaste. The soldier then takes out my tube of

Clearasil, unscrews the cap, squirts out a big blob of

cream onto his finger and then sticks it into his mouth.

Suddenly, his face takes on a sour/disgusted look and I

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look back at him like, “What did you think was going to

happen?” They finish searching my belongings and then

begin to search the other passengers’ items. All he has

with him is a big cast-iron dutch oven with the lid taped

down. One of the soldiers pulls the tape off and lifts the

lid. Inside is a large Zip-Lock bag full of white powder.

The three soldiers all stare at it with mouths agape. The

passenger begins frantically repeating, “Sugar, sugar,

sugar, it’s sugar.” One of the soldiers sticks his finger

into the bag and tastes the powder. “Sugar,” he says, and

all three of the soldiers begin laughing. Clearly, they see

this as a mistaken identification, but it seems more likely

to me that this bag of sugar is a test-run for bringing a bag

of cocaine into the country.

At this point, they order me to take off all my clothes,

which I reluctantly do. At this point, standing in only my

underwear, the soldier in charge says something in

Spanish and then leaves the room. The soldier she spoke

to then turns to me and, in English, says, “She told me to

frisk you.” The soldier then begins patting my

underwear, I assume, feeling for drugs. He is certain not

to miss any cracks or hiding places. Upon completion he

says, “Okay, you can go.” I dress, gather my belongings,

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and start walking toward the nearest road. I am down to

$34, but I have finally reached the Pan American

Highway. It’s starting to look like I might actually make

it back.

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6:18PM, JULY 22, 1991

I

am sitting along the desolate highway in the

Mountains of northern Nicaragua. My face and

hands are completely sun burnt because I spent the

last five hours on top of a semi loaded with bags of

cement. The driver picked me up in Managua, but he

already had three people in the cab, so I climbed up on the

back of the truck and laid on the bags of powdered

cement. The cement bags are stacked in a pyramid shape,

for stability, which means that I have to lay on the top

single row of bags. It is very narrow and quite dangerous.

Several times, I almost roll off, but alas, the driver drops

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me off here at the Nicaragua/Honduras border. It is

already getting dark, so I think that I will try to sleep

somewhere nearby and then cross in the morning.

I walk down off the highway and through the woods until

I come to a creek. It is completely dark now, so I pull out

my sleeping bag and prepare to sleep. It is too cold to

sleep, though, so I pull out my only book, a travel guide,

and begin burning pages of it to keep warm. This helps

warm me a little, but after about 20 minutes, the fire has

consumed the entire book and starts to peter out. As I

stare into the dying flame, I begin to ponder why this fire

wouldn’t be considered a living organism. It breathes

oxygen, eats wood, and reproduces…and now it’s dying.

I would contemplate it further, but the more it becomes

comprehensible, the more it seems pointless. Finally, I

climb into my sleeping bag and go to sleep. I sleep for a

couple of hours, but then am awoken by sounds of men

walking. I look up and see soldiers with machine guns in

the moonlight. They are washing themselves in the creek.

I am guessing that they are freedom fighters that have

sneaked across the border. The nearest of them is only

about 40 feet from me, but still has not spotted me. I am

very concerned that they will shoot me if they see me. I

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suddenly realize my error in purchasing a light-blue

sleeping bag. Although it is dark out, you can still make

out my sleeping bag in the moonlight. As the men splash

water on themselves, I slowly crawl out of my sleeping

bag and inch my way deeper into the woods. At one

point, I freeze because they go completely silent. Did

they hear me? Do they see me? Finally, they resume

their splashing and I slip off into the woods where I curl

up under some bushes until daybreak. I wake once the

sun peaks out. It takes me a moment to remember where

I am.

“Oh, shit, I’m in Nicaragua!”

Many times in my life I have woken up in unfamiliar

surroundings and not recalled where I am for a moment,

but once I do remember where I am, I am always relieved.

Well, that is exactly the opposite of what is happening

now.

I return to my sleeping bag. Both it and my belongings

are still there, completely untouched. I gather my things

and head for the border.

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94

2:41PM, JULY 23, 1991

B

ecause I do not have enough money for visas,

when I reach a border, I sneak into the woods,

cross the border, walk about a half-mile, and

then walk back out to the Pan American Highway. Up

until now this has worked pretty well. I am trying to

cross into Guatemala. It is mostly farmland in this area

and there are not a lot of places to hide. I wind my way

through the farm land, but as I am crossing the border I

hear a woman yell “Donde va? Donde va?” which I know

means “Where are you going?” I don’t even turn around.

I just keep walking. She is just a farmer and I’m hoping

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that she will give up. A few minutes later I see a

helicopter appear. It is slowly hovering about 200 feet off

the ground and is clearly looking for me. I have nowhere

to hide. I walk the last 30 feet out to the highway and

notice about eight people sitting on the side of the road

waiting to be picked up by someone. They are all sitting

on there large white bags that appear to be full of freshly

dug potatoes. They must be waiting to take the potatoes

into town. In a moment of shear luck, I realize that their

white bags look almost identical to the bag that I am

carrying. I quickly plop my bag down next to them, sit on

it, and stare at the ground, as if I, too, am waiting with my

sack of potatoes. I think that they are a little confused,

but say nothing to me. As I stare at the ground, I can hear

the helicopter hovering directly over my head. The sound

is deafening. Still, I do not look up.

“Oh, fuck me! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Oh, shit! Fuck me!

Oh, no. What the fuck am I doing? Fuck me!”

Am I caught? Are they going to land? Finally, the

helicopter moves away and continues its search for me

along the farmland. All the sudden I look up and see a

large semi; the same semi that had given me a ride in

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Honduras. He recognizes me and stops. I motion to him

that I want to sleep and climb in the back. He slams the

large doors closed, climbs back in the cab and takes off. I

can hear the sound of the helicopter growing quieter and

quieter. Once again, I’m headed north.

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98

12:08PM, JULY 30, 1991

I

spend the next week hitchhiking through Guatemala

and Mexico, often going a day or two between

meals. I meet lots of interesting people and see lots

of beautiful land, from the green mountains of Guatemala

through the vast desert of Mexico. I am now finally

within 150 miles of the Texas border. After about three

hours without any luck hitchhiking, a car finally stops to

pick me up; three young guys from Mexico City. They

speak English very well and two of the three have visas to

enter the U.S. Apparently, the driver’s brother owns a

restaurant in Michigan and they are going up to visit him.

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Still 20 miles from Texas, we are stopped by the Mexican

Border Patrol.

“I need to see your permit,” he says to me.

“What permit?” I ask.

“Your visitor’s permit.”

“I didn’t think Americans needed permits to enter

Mexico.”

“If you travel more than 35 kilometers into Mexico, you

need a permit.”

“Well, I don’t have one.”

“Well, you need one.”

“I don’t have one.”

He doesn’t say anything. After about five minutes of him

just standing there looking at us, the driver asks him,

“Can we go?” Still he doesn’t say anything, so I say,

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“Ya, let’s go.” We then drive off towards the U.S. border.

The border patrolman makes no effort to stop us.

Once we are near the border, we stop at a gas station to

drop off the guy that does not have a visa. The man at the

gas station has offered to “swim him” across the river and

into Texas for $100. We agree to meet at a house on the

other side and then the other three of us drive up to the

border.

The border patrol officer says to me, “You can walk on

in. You two come with me.” After about an hour, they

re-emerge from the building. “Your friends can’t enter!”

the Border Patrol officer informs me. Apparently, the

officer had spent the last hour trying to get them to admit

that they were going to work in his brother’s restaurant.

Finally, after saying “No” many, many times, one of them

answered “Maybe a little.” That was all the officer

needed to hear to send them back.

I then had to walk into the U.S., find their friend and

inform him that they were not coming. They were very

upset, and one of them clearly had tears running down his

cheeks. I felt bad for them, but there was really nothing

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that I could do, so I just started walking and walked right

into Laredo.

Laredo is on the American side of the border, but you

wouldn’t know it walking through. Everyone speaks

Spanish, the signs are in Spanish, but it is definitely Texas

and I have finally made it back to the U.S.

It looks like the nearest city is San Antonio. If I can get

to San Antonio I can probably find a job, save some

money and continue on with my world adventure. I find a

good place to hitch a ride, near an entrance ramp and

having a big shoulder so that a car can pull off and pick

me up. At last, a car stops.

“Where you headed?” he asks.

“San Antonio.”

“I’m headed to San Antonio in a couple hours if you want

a lift.”

“Great!”

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“I’m José. I actually live San Antonio. I work for Sony

Records, and I’m visiting all the radio stations and

bookstores here in Loredo promoting our new releases. I

just have two more stops to make.”

I take a look at the records. They’re all Latino groups that

I’ve never heard of. José pulls into a radio station, but

because it’s a few minutes after 5pm, they’re already

closed for the day.

“Damn, looks like I’m going to have to spend the night

here and then head to San Antonio in the morning.

Sony’s paying for the hotel room, so, if you have a

sleeping bag or something you can just sleep on the floor

and then I’ll give you a ride to San Antonio in the

morning.”

Knowing I have no better options, I agree. We stop at the

motel and José pulls out a pink tank top.

“Here, put this on.”

“No, I’m fine.”

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“No, put it on! I’m going to buy you dinner.”

Reluctantly, I agree. True to his word, José does indeed

buy me dinner at Denny’s and then takes me to Kmart to

buy me a t-shirt of my choosing. It’s getting late, so we

head back to the motel. Once there, I pull out my

sleeping bag, spread out on the floor and quickly fall

asleep. A couple hours pass, and I feel something in my

hair. I open my eyes to find José leaning over me,

running his hands through my hair. All I can think to say

is, “That’s okay, you don’t need to do that.” José jumps

back into bed and goes to sleep…or at least pretends to. I

spend the next couple of hours just laying there

wondering what he has planned next. Finally, I nod off

again.

About 7:00am I wake up. José is already up. Nothing is

said. I quickly gather my things together. It’s going to be

a long ride to San Antonio, but I really need a ride. We

hop in the car and head off. Soon, we pull into the

Greyhound Bus Station.

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

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“I think it’s better if you take the bus to San Antonio.”

“I don’t have money for a bus ticket. That’s why I was

hitchhiking.”

“I’m buying the ticket for you.”

“Okay.”

We are both glad to be rid of each other and I get a bus

ticket and a new t-shirt out of the deal. Separating is

definitely for the best, as I was starting to feel like his

bitch.

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106

3:04PM, JULY 31, 1991

oon I am in San Antonio. Within two days, I am

able to get a job waiting tables. I’m also able to

make a deal with an apartment manager. I give

him my last $25 and agree to paint an apartment. In

return, he gives me the first month free in one of his

efficiencies. It looks like I’m finally back on my feet.

S

Sadly, things do not turn out as well as I had hoped. The

apartment is FILLED with cockroaches and my job is

barely a job. On my first day I mess up an order and am

told that I can only open. No one comes to this restaurant

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in the mornings. I don’t even know why they are open in

the mornings. I work about five hours every morning and

am averaging just a couple of dollars an hour; well below

minimum wage. Soon I cannot make payments on the

apartment and am told to leave. I stop showing up to

work and am officially homeless in San Antonio.

My plans are slowly falling apart. As I’m leaving the

apartment, my neighbor says I can crash on his floor if I

want, which I do, only to wake to him masturbating in

front of me. Why does this keep happening to me? Even

though it is the middle of the night, I grab my things and

walk out into the street. Soon I find an abandoned

building to sleep in. I stay here for a couple of nights, but

this really can’t continue. I’m going to end up getting

killed.

I learn of a company in nearby Austin called Pharmico

where they test new drugs on people. I give them a call

and am informed that I can take part in their upcoming

cholesterol-reducing drug test. I will be given $1000 and

free room and board in their luxury facility, which has

ping pong and pool. This is very exciting. The only

prerequisite is that I must have a cholesterol level of 250

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or higher. As I am very skinny, this may be a problem. I

have one week to get my cholesterol up. For the next

week my diet consists largely of eating raw sticks of

butter and fried eggs. When I finally arrive at Pharmico

for testing, I am convinced that my cholesterol level will

set some kind of record. Sadly, I am surprised to find out

that my cholesterol level only reaches 133. The lowest of

anyone tested that day. It’s a sad trip back to San

Antonio, and I’m starting to realize that things are no

better for me here than they were in Central America.

I can’t seem to get any work. No one wants to hire a

person that they suspect of being homeless, and the fact

that I don’t have a phone number to give out doesn’t help

things, either. I’ve been walking all day, so I decide to sit

on a small concrete wall where I see some people eating

their lunches. A few minutes later, a man walks up with a

box of Gideon bibles and hands one to me. I open up the

small red book and start thumbing through it. I recall an

obscure bible verse about strangers being angels and I

begin randomly flipping through the pages hoping to

blindly come across it. I know that I probably won’t,

though, because I can’t even remember what book of the

bible it’s in.

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There is a man sitting next to me eating his lunch. He

appears to be a 35 year old white man with dark curly

hair. He’s dressed in business attire and speaking to a

woman that is sitting next to him. To my surprise, mid-

sentence he turns to me and says, “Hebrews 13:2.” He

then turns back to the woman and continues with his

conversation. “That was odd,” I think, but I begin

looking up the verse anyway, uncertain what to expect. I

find the verse and begin reading it to myself, “Do not

forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have

unwittingly entertained angels.” I am certain that I have

not said the verse aloud or even mouthed it as I continue

looking. Suddenly, again breaking mid-sentence with the

woman, the man turns to me and says, “Pretty cool, huh?”

and then turns back to the woman. What just happened

here? How in the hell did he know what verse I was

thinking about? Is this guy an angel? Of course he’s not

an angel…angels don’t eat salad and wear ties…and

DON’T EXIST…but, wow, this is freaky!

Eventually, he stands up and walks off, leaving me sitting

there with a little red bible and a strange look on my face.

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4:08PM, AUGUST 3, 1991

s I’m walking through the city, looking for

anyone who will hire me, I come across a

homeless man. I ask him where a homeless

shelter is and he gives me directions to SAM’s Shelter.

It’s in a bad neighborhood, but it’s got to be better than

where I’ve been sleeping. I show up at the shelter and

join the line to enter. The other homeless people are

actually quite nice and welcome me. The first person I

meet is John.

A

“How did you find this place?” John asks.

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“That guy told me how to get here,” I say as I point to the

homeless man who gave me directions earlier.

John looks at me strangely. “Him?”

“Ya.”

“He doesn’t speak. I’ve been staying here four years and

he’s never said a word.”

I wave my hand to get the homeless guy’s attention.

“Thanks for the directions,” I say.

He looks right through me as if I don’t even exist. John

then looks at me as if to say that I am either confused or

lying, but I’m certain it is the same guy. The whole time

I’m at SAM’s Shelter he never says another word.

“You know,” John continues, “I’ve got $1,000 in a safe

up in Phoenix, but I forgot the combination to it, so that’s

why I’m staying here.”

Clearly John has some problems, but, he and his friends

seem to be the most normal ones here. Soon we are

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eating in the food hall and sleeping in our bunk beds. The

security guard is pretty mean to us, but other than that,

this place isn’t half bad.

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114

Author (center) showing father and sister proposed

route.

115

Raft of bananas in Jurado, Colombia.

116

Momma’s son behind shack in Jurado, Colombia.

117

Momma and son, Benny, in front of shack in Jurado,

Colombia.

118

Momma’s son watching author wait for boat in

Jurado, Colombia.

119

Village children playing in Jurado, Colombia.

120

Young girl sweeping in Jurado, Colombia.

121

Author (second from left) and Nelly (second from

right) at Hotel El Faro in Buenaventura, Colombia.

122

Creek where author was nearly discovered by

Nicaraguan rebels.

123

Author (right) working at Stop n’ Go in San Antonio,

Texas.

124

Author with fellow cold travelers Caroline and Kelly

on Greek ferry.

125

Author on ruins in Greece.

126

Author posing with nude mannequins in Athens,

Greece.

127

Author playing army in Fulda, Germany.

128

Mike and Eli in van driving to Spain.

129

Author in van shortly after running out of gas.

130

Author (front) with Jeremy (in van) arriving in

Pamplona, Spain.

131

Author self-portrait in Pamplona, Spain.

132

Laura (second from left) with friends in Pamplona,

Spain.

133

Author at the running-of-the-bulls, Pamplona, Spain.

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4:29AM, AUGUST 4, 1991

B

am! Bam! Bam! At about 4:30am, the

security guard starts rapping on all the beds

with a large flashlight. We are quickly rushed

outside to “look for a job.” It is completely dark and I am

reasonably certain that no one is taking applications at

5am, so I start walking up the street to stay warm. All of

a sudden a car pulls up and the lady driving hands me an

entire box of day-old donuts. I later learn that the “donut-

lady” has convinced the local grocery stores to give her

their day-old donuts, which she then distributes amongst

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the homeless. I am touched by her kindness and thrilled

by the gift.

As I continue walking, while finishing my donuts, I hear a

banging sound. I look up to see John and his friends in

the second floor window of McDonalds, the only place

open at this hour. John is rapping on the glass and

motions for me to come up. When I arrive, I find the

three of them sitting at a table sipping coffee.

“The trick is to sneak in with a McDonald’s coffee cup

and get a free refill. Then we just sit up here for a couple

hours waiting for the sun to come up,” says John. Soon

this becomes my ritual, too. The idea of being homeless

sounds very scary, but once you actually live the life for a

while, you get pretty accustomed to it. It’s not fun, but

it’s not scary any more, either. When you are homeless,

many people yell at you for no reason. “Get a job!” “Get

out of my way!” Other people, like the doughnut-lady, are

overly kind. You definitely get a different view of

humanity when you’re homeless. This goes on for several

weeks, before I am finally able to get a job as the night

clerk at Stop n’ Go, a convenience store in a bad part of

town. I soon learn that everyone calls it “Stop n’ Rob.”

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The employees are very kind, and one of them, Brian,

even lets me move into his apartment with him. Brian is

about the biggest nerd you have ever met, but a hell of a

nice guy. Brian works the day shift and then I work the

night shift. I work alone at night. Stop n’ Go pays its

employees $4.25 an hour, but is paying me $5.25 an hour.

I’m getting an extra dollar an hour for working the more

“dangerous” night shift.

I spend the next seven months working at the convenience

store, saving every cent I make. I don’t go to bars, I don’t

go dancing, I don’t go to movies, I just work 12 hour

shifts at Stop n’ Go. In those seven months, I end up

getting robbed five times; the first time being the scariest.

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138

2:04AM, SEPTEMBER 8, 1991

I

have been at Stop n’ Go for about a month. The

manager loves me, and things have really been going

well. It’s about 2am, and I am straightening the

shelves. A fat white man wearing a white t-shirt and red

sweatpants walks in. I step behind the cash register, and

to my surprise, he follows me behind the counter. He

pulls out a knife and thrusts it at me before I can even

react. I am convinced that this is the end for me and

cringe as the knife is about to enter my stomach, but it

doesn’t. I look down and he is holding the point of the

large Rambo knife up to my stomach. At this moment, I

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realize that I am peeing my pants. Not metaphorically. I

am actually peeing my pants. I didn’t think people really

did that. I thought that was something that people said in

a joking manner, but I am definitely peeing my pants. I

think to myself, “I need to stop peeing my pants,” and

quickly cut if off mid-stream.

“Open the register!” He yells.

I push the “No Sale” button on the register.

“Open it!” he yells again and pushes the knife tighter

against my stomach.

“It’s opening! It’s opening!” I say.

Finally, the drawer opens. He grabs all the cash out of the

drawer and then takes off out of the store. Immediately, I

call the police. They soon arrive and begin taking down

the details. Within a couple minutes of the police

arriving, “Wino” a regular customer and now friend of

mine, comes busting through the front door.

“Is Little Buddy okay?” Wino asks.

140

I have no idea why Wino calls me “Little Buddy,” let

alone why he wants me to call him “Wino,” but it works.

Wino is an ex-biker who lives in a house next door with

all his ex-biker buddies. They still consider themselves

bikers, but have long ago had to sell their bikes for

money. They drink a lot, don’t work, and are really nice

guys. Wino is about 45 years old, overweight, and always

wears a leather jacket and a moustache. He is also

genuinely concerned about me. I even ended up spending

Thanksgiving with him and his gang.

Over the next six months, I am robbed four more times.

Once with a Ruger handgun, two more times with knives,

and on one occasion with a metal crowbar. I had begun

locking the door at 2am for protection. Most of the sales

are before 2am anyway, and the manager was okay with

me doing this; but on this particular night, the criminal

busted down the glass door with a crowbar, walked

inside, grabbed as much beer as he could carry, and

walked back out.

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142

2:23AM, MARCH 5, 1992

fter seven months of working at Stop n’ Go, I

have finally become paranoid that I am going

to get killed if I continue working here. The

final straw is an incident in which I lock the door at 2am,

as I always do. Shortly after I lock the door, a man in a

black trench coat starts banging on the door.

A

“We’re closed!” I yell.

“Let me in!”

143

“We’re closed!”

“Open this fucking door!” he yells and starts jerking on

the handle.

I pick up the phone as if to call the police. He

immediately leaves and I set the phone back down.

About 10 minutes later I get a phone call from the Circle

K convenience store two blocks away.

“Lock your doors!” the manager yells frantically, “A man

in a black trench coat just shot my clerk in the head!” For

just a moment, an image flashes over my mind of the bus

accident I witnessed in Guatemala.

This convenience store incident ends up haunting me for

years. What if I had just called the police? Would the

clerk still be alive? What if I hadn’t locked the door to

my store? Should I have called Circle K as soon as this

guy had left? I never saw a gun, so I really had no idea

that this would happen…but still. As soon as my

manager got in later that morning I told him what had

happened. I also gave him my two-weeks notice. He was

sad to see me go, but completely understood.

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8:09AM, MARCH 7, 1992

’ve finally saved enough money to continue my

journey around the world. I pack my bag up, say my

goodbyes to Brian and Wino, and then have “Boxcar

Ray,” a regular at the convenience store, show me how to

hop a train.

I

“Ya, I take trains all over the place to collect food stamps

and welfare in different states,” Boxcar Ray informs me.

He takes me down to the train yard, “See that? That’s the

Yard Dog. He’ll usually tell you which trains are going

out. That white Blazer there, that’s the Bull. He’s the

145

train cop. If he sees you hopping, he’ll arrest you. You

don’t want to get arrested. You want to find a train with

four or five engines. That means it’s a hotshot and it’ll be

going a long distance. You don’t want a train with empty

boxcars because it won’t be going very far.”

“I’m trying to get to Phoenix, to visit my Grandmother,

and from there I’ll continue on with my journey,” I

inform him.

“Then you want to catch a full train. You’ll have to run

beside it and jump on the ladder,” he says. This

immediately reminds me of a guy I met in SAM’s Shelter

named “Stub.” As his name implies, Stub lost half of his

foot when he tried to jump on a boxcar’s ladder. His foot

slipped off the bottom rung and got run over by the train

wheel. Stub was also the only person I have ever known

to have a legitimate prescription for marijuana.

“If it starts raining,” Boxcar Ray continues, “Then you’re

going to want to do some Cadillac-ing.”

“You mean hitchhiking?”

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“No, I mean Cadillac-ing. If it’s raining you want to

work your way up to the rear engine. There’s never

anyone in the rear engine and the door will be unlocked.

Once inside, just flip on the heater and you’re good to

go.”

This all sounded good, so Boxcar Ray wished me good

luck and left me to catch a train. I hide in the bushes,

waiting for a “hotshot” to come by. I wait in the bushes

for 3 ½ hours, but no “hotshots” come by. No trains

come by at all. Finally a train pulls in, but it only has one

engine on it. Fuck it! I’ll be here all night if I keep

waiting for a hotshot that may never come. As the train

starts to slowly leave the rail yard, I jump out of the

bushes and chase it down. It is hard to run with my big

bag, but I eventually catch up to the train and, again

thinking of Stub, jump onto one of the ladders. I grab

hold and climb onto the back of the boxcar.

There is a little area at the front and rear of each car

where there is enough room to sit. It’s exposed, though,

and this turns out to be a problem once it starts raining. I

ride the train for about 6 hours, hoping I’m going the right

general direction. It’s dark now and still raining. All I

147

can see in any direction is mud. No roads or buildings,

just mud. Even the tracks are under a foot of mud.

We pull up near some metal structures that appear to be

silos for filling train cars, but with what, I’m not sure.

Suddenly the train stops. I look around the side of the car

to see the engineer unhook the engine from the rest of the

train and then take off. He drives away stranding me in

the middle of nowhere. It looks as if I am on the

moon…if the moon were covered in mud. I can’t even

get off the car because I’ll sink down into the mud. I am

literally, stranded. Suddenly, I see a light way up ahead.

Slowly, it gets closer and closer. After about 10 minutes I

can see that it is a large plow scooping the mud off the

train tracks. I wave to him and he pulls up beside me.

“Son, you caught the wrong train!”

“I know.”

“Hop on. I’ll give you a ride out to the highway.”

I jump onto the plow and he gives me a ride to where his

truck is parked, which is about a mile away. We hop in

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his truck and he drives me another mile to the Interstate. I

thank him and start trying to hitch a ride. This late, no

one is stopping, so I finally just lay down on the shoulder

of the road and fall asleep.

A couple hours later the sun comes up and quickly I catch

a ride with Joel and his brown Camaro. Joel has to stop

every fifteen miles to add water to his radiator. At least

until, his engine blows. At this point, I am picked up by a

church van. The passengers have a private meeting

without me and then announce that they have decided that

I can join them in their mission to “spread the word.”

While they are having their little meeting about me, it

occurs to me how more accommodating and less

judgmental Satan is than God. I have trouble imagining a

van full of Satanists having to hold a meeting to decide

whether I should be included. It seems to me that Satan

lets anyone into hell and welcomes all. I thank them, but

inform them that I need to visit my Grandmother.

The church van lets me out along the freeway in Arizona.

The freeway is not busy and has a big shoulder, so it

shouldn’t be too difficult to get someone to stop for me. I

can’t stop thinking about the church van, God, and Satan.

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If Satan tempts me to do bad things, does God do the

opposite? Does God “tempt” me to do good things? Is

God more passive about the whole thing? If so, isn’t God

being a bit lazier than Satan? I see a car off in the

distance and stick out my thumb. What if I stick my arm

out too far and this car takes it off? Will I lose part of my

soul? Where does the soul reside? Is it in my body? Is

any of it in my arm? What if I was cut in half and both

halves remained alive for a few seconds? Would my soul

be in BOTH halves? As the car approaches, I realize that

it is a State Trooper. I immediately put my thumb down,

but too late. The police car slows down and pulls up

along side of me. The window rolls down and I am

greeted with a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

“Son, you got a death wish or something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you hitchhiking on the freeway?”

“Because I need a ride.”

“No, what you need is a ticket.”

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The Trooper proceeds to write me a ticket and soon I’m

back on the road hitchhiking. After a long series of rides,

I finally arrive at my Grandmother’s trailer in Phoenix. I

love my grandmother. She is a great person. I am finally

able to get some home-cooked food and a real bed to

sleep in. I take the money I have saved and make some

purchases. I buy a bus ticket to New York City, a bargain

plane ticket from New York City to London on Kuwait

Airlines, and a two-month unlimited Eurorail train pass.

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152

10:13PM, MARCH 14, 1992

A

fter a few days of recuperation, I give my

grandmother a big hug and hop on the bus for

NYC. It is a long 2 ½ days to New York. It’s

late when we arrive at the Port Authority bus station, so I

make my way to the only set of benches I can find. There

is not a lot of room because about 20 homeless people are

already sitting or sleeping on the benches. I find an open

spot and sit down. I figure that I will stay here until

sunrise. At about midnight some drag queens come in

and start flirting with one of the homeless guys. When

the homeless guy catches me laughing at him, he becomes

153

irate. “What the fuck are you laughing at!” he yells. I

don’t say anything. I just sit there like a deer caught in

the headlights. To my surprise, he then leans his head

back and either falls asleep or passes out. Either way, I

am very relieved. I then hear the two guys next to me

conspiring, “Hey, I just saw a white guy over there all

alone.” They both stand up and walk around the corner.

About 30 seconds later, on the other side of the windows,

I see a white man in a business suit running at top speed

while carrying a briefcase. About 30 seconds after that

the two homeless guys come back and sit down next to

me. “Damn!” one of them remarks.

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7:03AM, MARCH 17, 1992

he next day I start working my way towards the

airport. I first stop at a small shop in Manhattan

to get some food. As I’m waiting to pay for my

items, the man in front of me orders “two loosies” from

the clerk. Apparently, “loosies” are single cigarettes that

can be purchased rather than having to buy the whole

pack. “Twenty cents,” the clerk says as he hands the man

the cigarettes.

T

“You shouldn’t touch the ends of the loosies,” the man

says.

155

“Well, then you shouldn’t order loosies.”

“What!”

“Then you shouldn’t order loosies!”

The man then throws the two loose cigarettes back into

the clerk’s face and storms out of the store. New York is

a world away from Idaho. I pay for my items and head to

the subway. I walk down the steps and attempt to walk

through the turnstile. I can see no place to enter money,

so I get in line to speak to the man in the little booth.

Finally, it’s my turn at the window.

“How do I enter the subway?”

“Dial 25,” he says.

I walk back up to the turnstile and attempt to “Dial 25,”

but I can’t seem to find a place to dial any numbers at all.

I walk back up to the booth.

“I can’t find any place to dial 25.”

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“No, dollar twenty-five,” he says slowly.

I feel stupid as I pay the man $1.25 for a subway token.

157

158

4:40PM, MARCH 17, 1992

am glad to be getting on a plane. After I arrive at

the airport and go through security, I head to my

gate. I hand my ticket to the Kuwait Airlines flight

attendant and begin walking through the accordion that

connects the terminal to the plane. I am surprised to find

a table set up in the accordion. All the passengers are

required to have their bags searched by the Kuwait

Airlines pilots and flight attendants. This, of course,

slows things down greatly and I’m starting to feel like I’m

back in Panama.

I

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Eventually, we are all on board and seated. They close

the doors. The flight attendants and pilots then line up

against the inside wall of the plane and begin to frisk each

other. Clearly this airline has had some problems in the

past. Finally, we take off. The movie turns out to be a

man with a beard singing verses from the Koran for two

hours. We eventually touch down in London and I am

ready to begin the next leg of my world adventure.

I take the ferry to France and find my way to the nearest

train station. I have a two-month unlimited Eurail train

pass, which means I can go wherever I want and I plan to

make the best of it.

I spend the next two months traveling around Europe. I

have some money, but certainly not enough to be staying

in hotels. So, the method of travel I adopt is to spend my

days walking around various cities in Europe, then

catching a night train to a different European City. This

allows me to sleep on the train and wake up in a new

country every morning. I don’t have a sleeper car,

though, so it makes for some uncomfortable nights in my

seat. In this manner, I criss-cross Europe visiting nearly

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every corner of the continent, from Portugal to Hungary;

from Italy to the Arctic circle in Sweden.

My European journey starts with a trip to Belgium where

I am walking through the streets of Brussels taking in all

the beautiful architecture. As I walk, I notice the

architecture becoming less and less beautiful. Soon it is

not beautiful at all, and there are red lights in the

windows. It doesn’t take me long to realize that Brussels

must have a red light district, and I’m in it.

The large windows of the buildings have women sitting in

them, waving to the men outside. Some of the women are

beautiful, some used to be beautiful, but they are all

waving to the men below. They are waving to me, as

well. I seize the opportunity to snap a photograph of

them. As soon as I do this, I see the women talking

amongst themselves and motioning to me.

Within about 30 seconds, I see a large group of the

women come out of the building and begin chasing after

me. Apparently, I shouldn’t have taken their photograph.

I begin running, but am greatly slowed down by my large

bag. The women have taken off their high heels for better

161

running. I make it about a block before a dozen whores

tackle me. They drag me to the ground. I am trying to

shake them loose and push them off of me, but there are

just too many of them. They motion that they want my

camera, but I refuse. I don’t want to lose it, nor, more

importantly, do I want to lose the roll of film that is in it

as, as it is one of only two rolls that I have taken on my

entire adventure.

Some of the prostitutes are now kicking and hitting me,

but most are beating me with the spiked heels of their

shoes. It is very painful and I have to cover my head with

my arms for protection. The prostitutes continue beating

me, ripping my rain jacket that I have on in many places.

Soon a large man comes to my rescue. He works his way

through the prostitutes and helps me up. Apparently, he

had been eyeing the prostitutes in the window when he

saw the incident take place. The large man takes my

camera from me, opens up the back, and pulls the film

out, exposing it to the light and ruining my photographs.

This pacifies the women and they begin getting their

things together and walking back to their building. Once

they walk off, the man helps me up.

162

“Are you okay?”

“Those heels hurt!” I respond.

“They can get arrested if someone gives the police a

photograph of them in the window. That’s why they

attacked you.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Your clothes are all ripped.”

“I’ll be alright.”

I have never heard of someone getting attacked by a

whore house before. I didn’t know it could happen. I just

wouldn’t have believed it, but here I am, half beaten,

staggering through the streets of Brussels. Again, I have

somehow managed to make a poor decision.

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164

11:41AM, APRIL 2, 1992

T

he restaurants in Europe are far too expensive

for my dwindling funds, so I mostly eat out of

my backpack. Every couple of days I find a

grocery store and buy whatever cheap food I can find.

This works well until I arrive in Paris. I find a small

grocery store, but am surprised to find how high the

prices are for even the most basic of staples. I leave the

store empty-handed and instead decide to walk around

Paris and take in some of the beautiful architecture. Even

hungry, it is hard not to be amazed by the grandeur of

Paris. As I walk along the Seine River, I notice large

165

piles of birdseed that have been left on the pedestals on

the end of the bridge. I wait until no one seems to be

looking my direction; I walk up to the pile of birdseed and

sweep it into my hat. After I walk a block, I find a bench

to sit on and begin eating the birdseed. It’s really not that

bad. It just takes like wheat germ or something. I feel a

little embarrassed about it, though. I’m sure other people

find it a lot more disgusting than I do, but those people

have the luxury of not having to eat birdseed.

I work my way back to the train station and catch a night

train to Hungary. Maybe my pangs have subliminally

chosen my country of destination, but I can’t help but

think that food will be much cheaper there.

Upon arrival in Budapest, I am disappointed to find that

today is a national holiday here and the banks are all

closed. A man in the street offers to exchange $20 into

Hungarian money for me. I am a little apprehensive,

especially after having just dealt with a group of gypsy

children who pretended to show me a newspaper while

they reached underneath it and slipped their hands into

my pockets in an attempt to steal money.

166

“$20 is more money than I need. Can you exchange $5

worth?”

“Are you sure you don’t want exchange $20?” he asks.

“Ya, $5 will be fine.”

He begins to count out the money and then folds it up.

“Hey, what’s going on here!” another person yells.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Is there a problem here?” he continues.

“No,” I say as I take the money and walk off.

Once I’ve walked off, I unfold the money to find that it is

one real bill folded around some blank pieces of paper.

It’s clear that I’ve just been had. I guess I should be

thankful that I only gave him $5, but I can’t help feeling

like an idiot. Eventually, I find a little food shop that will

accept American dollars and I fill my bag with bananas,

bread, yogurt, and cookies.

167

I spend the next few weeks traveling through Greece,

Italy and Spain. I work my way to the south of Spain,

near Gibraltar. Here, in the town of Algaciris, I catch a

ferry going to Morocco. I ask for the cheapest ticket, and

with it, the ferry takes me across the Straight to a small

town called Ceuta. Here, I try to exchange some money

and am surprised when they give me Spanish Pesetas.

“I thought I was in Morocco,” I say.

“Not yet.”

Apparently this little coastal town is owned my Spain,

even though I’m in Africa. I walk out of the building and

find a man that appears to be waiting for a bus. He

clearly looks Moroccan from his clothing.

“Excuse me, do you know how I can get to Morocco?” I

ask.

“The nearest city is Tetouan. That is where I am going,

so I will show you.”

168

Soon the bus arrives and we get on. It costs about 50

cents and soon we are dropped off at the Moroccan

border. We go through customs and soon the man who

gave me directions and I are in a taxi headed for Tetouan.

The driver does not speak English, so I ask the Moroccan

man that I am with to drop me off at a cheap hotel.

“The old part of the city is the cheapest,” he says. “We

can find you a cheap hotel there.”

“Thanks.”

The taxi takes us into the old part of the city. Eventually,

the streets become so narrow that the car can no longer fit,

so the driver lets us out. The Moroccan man and I walk

through the narrow winding streets. The city is very, very

old and the buildings are several stories high and appear

to be made of clay and stone. Because the streets are so

narrow, not much light gets down to the street and they

are always dimly lit. So far, I have not seen any tourists

besides myself.

Soon the Moroccan man leads me into a rug store.

169

“No, I don’t want a rug. I just want a cheap hotel,” I

protest.

“I’ll take you to the hotel next. I just thought that you

may want to buy a Moroccan carpet to take home.”

I don’t want to be rude, and I do want him to show me

where this hotel is, so I oblige him and look around. The

shop has a large table in the center displaying smaller

carpets and pieces of clothing. The large open windows

are all obscured by light flowing curtains which cause the

light to constantly dance around the room. The salesman,

who is wearing a red fez, leather slippers, and a white

djellaba (a long, loose, hooded garment) greets me.

“Hello, can I show you some beautiful Moroccan

carpets?”

“I’m just looking.”

“Please,” he persists, “Our most beautiful carpets are

upstairs. Let me show you.”

170

Finally, I agree. The salesman, the Moroccan man I am

with, and I walk up a set of wooden stairs to an upper

room that is filled with large beautiful carpets.

“Please sit down here,” the salesman motions to a bench

with a coffee table.

The Moroccan man and I sit down on the multi-colored

pillows and a very large man, in what I can only describe

as “Genie” clothing, appears with two drinks for the

Moroccan man and me. The drinks have some type of

green herb in them and look a little like a mint julep.

What concerns me, however, is that I see a small white

fizzing pill in the bottom of my drink and not in the

Moroccan man’s drink.

“Please excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” the

Moroccan man says and walks down the stairs. At this

point, the large man that brought us the drinks stands in

the doorway. It appears as if he is purposely blocking the

doorway, so that I cannot leave. I am very concerned

now and am sitting on the bench with my backpack

clutched in my arms.

171

“Please, drink the tea,” the salesman says.

I don’t drink the tea. Instead, I just sit there trying to

decide what to do. The salesman turns around, pulls a

carpet off the wall and holds it up for me.

“Would you like to buy this one? Look how beautiful it

is, and handmade…Only $500!”

“No thanks. I don’t have $500.”

He turns and reaches for another carpet. This one is a

little larger and I can see that he is having difficulty

pulling it down.

“This one is most beautiful. Only $600.”

“No thanks. I don’t have any money.”

“Please drink your tea. It is VERY rude not to!” he says

angrily.

My heart is racing. Am I going to die right here? Is this

how it ends for Adam Cochran…killed in a Moroccan

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carpet shop? What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

It doesn’t take much for a great adventure to turn into an

obituary. I am not going to get killed in a Moroccan

carpet shop by a guy wearing a fucking fez!

He then turns to pull down another carpet. At this point I

am scared shitless, and, having recently seen Raiders of

the Lost Ark, am inspired to get out of here alive. With

his back to me, I quickly switch my drink with the

Moroccan man’s drink, as he is still “In the bathroom.” I

glance up at the large man blocking the doorway, but I

don’t think he saw me make the switch. The salesman

turns back around holding a large carpet.

“This beautiful carpet is only $1000.”

“No thank you, I don’t have any money.”

“Drink your tea! It is VERY rude not to drink your tea!”

I reach down and take a sip from the glass that I have

exchanged mine for. This seems to calm the salesman

and I set the glass back down, still trying to find a way out

of this mess. At this point, the salesman sets down the

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carpet and walks up to me. He grabs a hold of my

backpack and says, “Please let me take your bag so that

you are more comfortable.”

“No, I’ve got it,” I say.

He begins yanking on my backpack to get it out of my

hands. I am hanging on tight, jerking it back and forth.

Finally, I free it from his grip. I jump up, with my

backpack in hand, and run for the door. The large man is

still in the doorway. For lack of a better idea, I put my

head down like a football player and charge him. My

head rams into his fat belly and he stumbles backwards

giving me just enough room to get down the stairs. I run

down them at full sprint. As I am racing down the stairs,

I hear a voice say, “Your friend is not coming back.” I

run out of the store and down the street. I continue

running for about seven or eight blocks. They are not

following me, so I decide it is finally safe to walk. Again,

I have to ask myself, “How do I keep getting into these

messes?”

After I calm down a bit, I ask a man in the street where a

cheap hotel is.

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“There is a good carpet store down this way.”

Is everyone in this town on the carpet store’s payroll?

“No, I don’t want a carpet store! I want a hotel,” I say.

He finally gives me directions and when I lay eyes on the

hotel, and verify that it is not a carpet store, I am very

relieved. It is a small, clean, room for $3.80 a night.

I spend the next few days walking around Tetouan. There

is a strange scent that wafts through the streets of incense

and wet earth. It is a beautiful, mysterious, dangerous

city. And has a bustling market with vegetables, animals,

and snake charmers. There are bars where people are

smoking hashish from Hookahs. And five times a day,

everyone kneels down on small mats to pray in the

direction of Mecca. Also five times a day, someone asks

me if I want to go to the “carpet shop.”

I enter one of the bars and sit down.

“Do you have beer?” I ask.

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“No, Muslims do not drink beer. We drink tea and smoke

hashish. Would you like some hashish?”

“Isn’t hashish illegal?”

“If the police come, you just pay them 10 dirham ($1.15)

and they will leave you alone.”

“Do you have any food?”

“Today is Ramadan. We do not eat until sundown.”

“Oh, I guess I’ll just have some tea then.”

The waiter brings me a glass of tea. It looks exactly like

the tea at the carpet store, which at first, alarms me, but I

soon decide that it is safe.

After a few days in Morocco, I decide that it is time to

return to Spain. I work my way to the border where I spot

some other westerners. The first I’ve seen since leaving

Spain. I see a young guy wiping tears from his eyes. He

has a large backpack with a Canadian flag patch on it and

a Moroccan carpet tied to the top.

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“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I guess,” he says.

“What happened?”

“I was taken to a rug store. They tried to sell me a rug,

but I didn’t want one. I drank some tea that they gave me.

The next thing I remember is waking up the next day on

the floor of someone’s house. Three men were standing

over me with knives. The $400 cash I had was gone. The

weird thing is that there was this rug tied to my backpack

that I didn’t buy. The men told me to go cash my

traveler’s checks and give them the money. I walked over

to the bank. Once inside the bank, I didn’t see the men

anywhere, so I just ran out of the bank and kept running,

and now I just want to go home.”

I really feel sorry for this guy. That would have been me.

I want to ask him what he’s going to do with that carpet.

I can’t imagine that he is going to put it in his house. I

don’t, though. Instead, I tell him what had happened to

me.

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“We were in that carpet store, too.”

We look up to see a middle-aged American couple with

two suitcases and a large carpet rolled up.

“We paid $1400 for these two carpets that we didn’t even

want because we were afraid that something bad would

happen to us if we didn’t.”

At this point, the shuttle arrives and we board it. I am

feeling very lucky to have escaped the carpet shop. It

takes us to the ferry and soon I am back in Spain.

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10:17AM, MAY 4, 1992

I

continue my journey on the trains, through

Switzerland, Austria and Germany. Finally in

Germany, my Eurorail pass expires. With my funds

now nearly depleted, I decide to find Eli. Eli is an old

high school friend of mine who is stationed on a U.S.

Army base here in Fulda, Germany. Once I finally track

him down, he invites me to sleep on his couch, which I

gladly accept. The next day, I get a job on base at the

Shoppette, the Army’s version of a convenience store.

For the next couple months I live and work on the base.

Almost everyone here is my age, so I have made a lot of

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friends. Eli, Jeremy, Mike and John show me all over

Germany. We visit dance clubs in Frankfurt, visit the last

quarter mile of the Berlin wall, and even go bungee

jumping near Stuttgart.

“You know what I really want to do, though?...go running

with the bulls!” I say.

“We should do that!” says Eli.

“The running of the bulls is July 7-14 in Pamplona, Spain.

I’ve wanted to do it all my life.”

“If we can get leave, we could rent a van and drive there.”

“Ya, let’s do it!”

It doesn’t take much convincing from Eli and me to get

Jeremy, Mike and John to agree, and within three days I

have quit my job, and am now sitting in a van headed to

Spain. It ends up being a much longer drive than I

expected. We drive through Germany and France,

sleeping on and off. Jeremy does most of the driving

since the car is rented under his name.

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11:35AM, JULY 10, 1992

e are now somewhere in the French

countryside when I notice us rolling to a

stop.

W“Uh, the gas ran out guys,” says Jeremy from the front

seat.

I sit up and see that we are pulled over to the shoulder of

the road.

“You dumb ass, Jeremy!” says Mike.

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Within a few minutes, Jeremy is handed an empty juice

bottle and told to look for gas. The rest of us lie back

down in the seats and await his return.

About an hour later, Jeremy returns with the filled bottle.

We pour it into the gas tank and try to start the van.

Nothing. The van won’t start. I guess one bottle isn’t

enough gas.

“Where’s the gas station, Jeremy?” I ask.

“About a mile up the road.”

“Let’s just push the van there,” says Eli.

We begin pushing the van, while Jeremy sits in the

passenger seat and steers. Everyone is pretty pissed at

Jeremy. After about 45 minutes of pushing, we arrive at

the gas station, fill the tank, and thankfully, the engine

starts right up. We should be in Pamplona by tomorrow.

The road leading into Pamplona is a winding, difficult

drive. Everyone looks at the gas gauge about every 10

minutes. Except for John, who’s in the back seat and just

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keeps yelling, “How much gas do we have Jeremy?” We

finally arrive at the beautiful little Basque town of

Pamplona. We park the van and start walking toward the

town center. The Festival of San Fermín is already

underway and it doesn’t take us long to join in. There are

thousands of people marching through the streets with

cups of wine in their hands. Many people are wearing the

traditional red and white clothing. People are cheering

and dancing in the streets as it starts to become evening.

As we are standing in the town center, Eli points. I look

up and see a group of attractive girls that look American.

They are smiling. At first, one of them walks over to us

and introduces herself. Then the others join her. The

prettiest of them is a dark-haired Mediterranean-looking

girl wearing jeans and a black shirt. She is clearly out of

my league, so I just stand there. She approaches me and

says, “You have the most gorgeous body that I have ever

seen.” No one has ever said this to me before because it

isn’t true. I am tall and gangly. Either she is making fun

of me, or I’m going to marry this woman.

“Thanks, you’re pretty good looking, too!” is all I can

think to say. As it comes out of my mouth, I realize how

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stupid it sounds, but judging from her smile, I don’t think

she minds.

“I’m Laura.”

“Hello, Laura. I’m Adam.”

“You think he has the best body? What about me?” Eli

butts in.

Then Jeremy grabs her hand and pulls her away.

“Let me buy you a drink!”

I am still convinced that she is out of my league, so I

don’t put up a fight. But then it occurs to me that if she is

out of my league, then she’s definitely out of Jeremy’s

league. Soon, I am back with beautiful Laura. We spend

the rest of the night together, walking through the streets,

talking about music and pretending that we are married.

When it really starts getting late, Laura and her friend

take John and me to their hotel where we spend the rest of

the evening talking and kissing. All too soon, the sun

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comes up and I know that the bulls will be running at

8am. As much as I don’t want to leave Laura, running

with the bulls is the entire purpose of coming here. Laura

and I exchange phone numbers. She goes to college in

Virginia, but is currently taking Spanish classes in

Madrid. “Promise you’ll call,” I say, and she agrees. I

need to leave before I change my mind, so I grab John

and we head towards the van. I’m not even sure that the

other guys will be there, but I don’t know where else they

would sleep.

John and I arrive at the van at about 7am and find Eli and

Mike there.

“Hey, we didn’t think you guys were going to show!”

says Eli.

“We wouldn’t miss this!” I respond, “Where’s Jeremy?”

“We thought he was with you,” Eli says.

“Uh oh.”

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We all know how drunken Jeremy was. We open up the

van and change into our bull-running clothes. I decide to

go shirtless and just wear boots and shorts. I find some

finger paints and paint a sloppy American flag on my

chest. Eli grabs his camera and we start walking to the

street where the bulls run. It is a half-mile road that leads

from the corral to the arena. The sides of the street are

lined with large wooden fences to keep the bulls from

escaping. There are thousands of people both standing in

the street and along the fence, except for one person we

see, still passed out in the middle of the street. The bulls

are about to be released. If he does not get up within the

next 10 minutes, he will almost certainly be trampled. I

walk up to the guy lying in the street.

“Jeremy?”

“Huh?”

“Jeremy, what are you doing passed out in the middle of

the street?”

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“Oh…ya…I was so drunk that I knew I was going to pass

out big time. So I decided to just sleep in the street…so

that I don’t miss it.”

“Well, you better get up because it’s like five minutes ‘til

8:00.”

As I’m helping him up, two Spaniards walk up to us and

announce that they want to fight us. I sense that the

American flag painted on my chest has somehow pissed

them off. At that moment, Mike steps up and starts

yelling at them, “Get the fuck out of here!” Instead of

leaving, though, they just stand there, speechless. After a

minute or two pass, Eli says, “I’m afraid that these

jackasses are going to push us in front of a bull or

something.” We agree to walk up the road a bit further to

get away from them. As we start pushing our way

through the crowd a policeman spots Eli with his camera

and shouts, “No cameras in the path of the bulls!” There

is nothing the policeman can do about it, so Eli just hides

the camera in his shirt.

Suddenly, we hear a loud bang. It is 8am and the bulls

have been released. John reaches into Eli’s shirt and

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grabs his camera, “Alright, Jesus Christ! I’ll take the

camera!” Pretending to be a martyr and clearly looking

for an excuse, John takes the camera and climbs over the

fence. A few moments later we see the bulls coming;

seven huge bulls with big horns charging at an incredible

speed. Everyone is panicking and running as fast as they

can. Jeremy tries to climb up the fence to escape, but a

police officer kicks him in the chest and knocks him back

on to the street. I start running as fast as I can, but I can

hear the bulls quickly gaining on me. Suddenly, I come

to a jog in the road. The road runs directly into a wall and

then goes 15 feet to the left before continuing forward

again. I am about to dead end into the wall. I turn back

and see a bull right on my ass, about 10 feet behind me.

He’s going to plow me into the wall. Suddenly, the bull

sees the wall and tries to stop. His hooves slide on the

wet cobblestones and he falls on to his side, his

momentum still carrying him towards the wall. With just

a few feet between me and the wall, I change directions

and run straight at the bull, still sliding on his side. Not

knowing what else to do, I leap into the air and the bull

slides underneath me. I land back on the street and start

running again before the bull has a chance to get up.

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We run through the streets. It’s a complete madhouse;

bulls passing by us; people pushing, falling, and getting

stepped on. There are injured people laying along side

the wall. We run into the arena. Just as we enter, they

close the doors. We are now locked inside. The bulls are

all let through a gate and it is only people in the arena

now.

I soon realize that they are going to let bulls back out of

the gate, into the arena and people are starting to sit on the

ground in front of the gate to show their bravery. I decide

that I can’t be outdone, so I walk all the way to the front

of the group and sit down in front of them. Suddenly, the

gate swings open. The gate is so close to me that I

actually have to tuck my legs in so that it doesn’t hit me.

Out of the darkness, a huge bull appears, charging straight

at me. I try to jump up, but the person behind me is

holding onto to me for dear life. I quickly turn, take a

swing at the guy to break his grip, and then jump up. I

run as fast as I can, but the bull is right on my ass! I jump

for the railing and just as I grab it…WHAM! The bull

hits me and I fly through the air. I land on the ground and

immediately jump up. Fortunately, the bull hit me with

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his head and not his horns. His horns went on each side

of me, saving me from a bad goring.

I begin running around the arena. First they let out one

bull, then two, then three. On the other side of the arena I

notice some type of commotion going on. As I get closer,

I am surprised to see Eli holding on to the tail of a bull

and being dragged while about a dozen Spaniards are

smacking Eli with rolled up newspapers. I immediately

run to Eli’s aid, as I think it is going to turn into a big

brawl. Then Eli lets go of the bull’s tail and all the

Spaniards stop smacking him.

“It is disrespectful to grab the bull,” one of them explains.

Eli nods.

After about 30 minutes the bulls are let out of the arena

and the arena doors are opened. We walk out, battered

and exhausted. This has been the best 24 hours of my

life! I’ve run with the bulls, joined one of the largest

celebrations in the world, and met an incredible woman.

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4:50PM, JULY 21, 1992

he flight home is uneventful, and soon I am on a

Greyhound bus headed back home to Idaho. I

end up sitting next to a guy with wild-looking

hair. One of the boots I’m wearing has a cross on it.

When he sees this, he says, “You are the one who is to

give me the omen.”

T

“What omen,” I ask.

“The omen of what I’m to do.”

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“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I am the prophet Elijah. I have just sent 17,000 bottles

of perfume to the House of Israel and God has given me

200 million dollars to purchase 500 female slaves…but no

chinks!”

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1:04AM, JULY 26, 1992

M

y whole adventure is finally coming to end.

I’m both sad and happy. The bus drops me

off in Coeur d’Alene, which is about 45

miles from my parents’ house in Sandpoint. Let me

rephrase that: 45 miles from my father’s house, as my

parents have divorced while I’ve been on my world

adventure. It’s late, so I start walking. I try hitchhiking,

but it’s too late to catch a ride, so I just walk. I make it

about half-way to Sandpoint by the time the sun comes

up. I catch a ride for the last 20 miles and get dropped off

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in front of my father’s house. I knock and am greeted

with much surprise and excitement.

I’ve made it home…although, it doesn’t really feel like

home anymore. Something has changed. I don’t feel like

the same person anymore. I don’t think I realized the

change until now. I’m not sure who I’ve become, I just

know that I’m not who I was.

“You left a boy and came back a man,” my dad says. I’m

not convinced, but I hope he’s right.

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11:00AM, AUGUST 9, 1992

T

wo weeks pass and I head back to the University

of Idaho. I’ve been gone well over a year and

it’s a little strange moving back into the

fraternity. I register for Spanish, German, and bowling,

which should make for an interesting semester. It’s hard

to get back into the swing of things, though. Three

months ago, I was getting poisoned by Moroccans and

now I’m just sitting in a lecture hall thinking about

someone else, somewhere else. Needless to say, I ‘m not

doing well in my classes. I date a girl named Nicki for

about two months, but this ends abruptly when she

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announces that she is pregnant with her ex-boyfriend’s

child.

So I go on with my life, semi-detached from it, almost as

if I am pretending to be myself, doing an impression of

myself, and even forging my own signature. I spend my

time sitting through classes, playing basketball, going to

parties…things college people do, but I’m not really here,

I’m somewhere else.

“Phone call, Adam...it’s your wife,” my roommate

announces.

“What?”

“That’s what she said.”

I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Adam? It’s Laura,” she says.

I can’t believe it. After all these months it’s the beautiful

girl I met in Spain.

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“Holy shit, Laura? How are you?”

“Good. I thought I’d give you a call. It’s 1am here, so I

figured you were the only person I know that would still

be up.”

“Ya, it’s only 10:00 here. It’s great to hear from you. I

miss you.”

“When are you going to come visit?”

“Well…school ends in two weeks. Why don’t I come out

then?”

Two weeks later I’m getting off the plane at Dulles

Airport in Virginia. As I walk off the plane I see a

beautiful girl with long black hair and wearing a short

skirt. She looks incredible! Soon my two-week stay gets

extended into a three-week stay and then into a four-week

stay and then finally I just never leave. Laura and I move

back to Spain for a year, teach English, and re-visit the

running-of-the-bulls.

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198

3:18PM, OCTOBER 21, 1995

n the fall of 1995, Laura and I get married. The

reception is at a beautiful mansion in Maryland. The

same location that Martha Washington’s son got

married. Laura’s father, Von, tells the guests how we met

and introduces the two of us as for the first time as

husband and wife. The band plays Spanish Flamenco

music as we walk down the aisle and all I can think about

is how lucky I am and amazing it is that my life came

together the way it did. I feel like I can finally appreciate

how great my life has turned out. For me, it is closure;

I

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closure of a bizarre, unstable part of my life, but a part of

my life that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

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