Tripwolf Blog

The satisfaction and silliness of leaving New England in November…in flip flops.

I’m of to Savusavu, Fiji – Tom Robbins says something like everything on an island needs to be said twice – to join the Tui Tai crew for the month of November.

The Museo de la Policia Federal has got to be one of the strangest places in the world. Often ignored by guidebooks and maps, its contents are a dream for anyone who is obsessed with CSI:Whatever. I spent a few hours here and can attest to the outright creepiness that the museum delivers.

The building that houses the museum looks like any other in downtown; half-hotel, half-office and all business – hardly the locale for a museum. I took the elevator up a few flights, not sure what I would see as the ding dinged. The woman in the ticket office was downright startled to see a patron. Entering the museum, I could see why. Nobody was there – not a soul. I’d spend the next two hours taking it all in and would not witness one other customer.

The first section of the museum was straight out of a B horror flick. The curator used mannequins to display uniforms that were worn through various eras of Argentine history. The effect was eerie. There were glassy-eyed mannequins at every turn, all seemingly about to come to life. The uniforms were interesting – but not interesting enough to keep my pansy ass from scadoodling through to the next section.

Around the corner was another treat, the long-since-dead bones of a police dog called “Chonino” . Proudly displayed, the sizeable skeleton was flanked with information about his active duty.

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Two international moves in three years; I must be crazy. Yet, I can’t tell you how many times a friend has sighed, “You’re so lucky. I wish I could run off and live overseas, too.”

I enjoy the admiration. For some, starting over in a foreign land is the ultimate fantasy. And I won’t lie; I love it out here. But “running off”? Hardly. Some things to consider before you commit to moving abroad:

Focus – Get Legal

Envisioning a “time out” or something longer-term? Regardless, you must get legal unless you like having your coconut milk soured by the fear of deportation. Volunteering, studying, or working are great ways to add structure to your adventure. An organization will often sponsor your Visa and help you get settled.

If you’re after a sabbatical, volunteer programs also exist for shorter time periods. Alternatively, many countries grant a Visitor Visa upon entry. Make sure you’re familiar with which countries do and how long the Visas last.

Money

There’s the plane ticket. Then there’s start up costs, which varies by country. My company in Japan suggested we arrive with at least 2000 USD. That seemed unnecessary since I had a job. Overall, I’m glad I worked overtime the year before I moved. Save up: there are lots of unexpected items you’ll need and newbies often get fleeced.

Job

Find a job before or after you arrive? It’s your choice – just be honest about how much stability you need. A Working Holiday Visa can be your golden ticket if your country participates in the program. Also research internet job forums; they’ll feature job listings and accounts from veteran expatriates. If you’re moving to a country where you don’t speak the language, be aware that you might have to do something outside of your field, like teaching English or working in the service industry.

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New York City, USA

I left Kingston as soon as possible after narrowly surviving the biggest shake down attempt of my life at Anchor Studios.  In the five days since my arrival in the Jamaican capital, I had used the guesthouse as my home base; conversing, interviewing, playing my guitar and waiting for appointments that I hoped would provide information. It was here that I met Selaissie, a Rastafarian from Robin’s Bay who was down in the city escorting a lady friend to the airport for her flight home.  Our rooms were stifling and cell-like, so we spent the afternoon of his departure hanging out together—me resting after my trip in from Puerto Rico, and him waiting for the hotel staff to enforce their 12:00 checkout policy.  As we got to know each other, Selaissie began to tell me his story.

He grew up poor on the streets of Kingston, never knowing his father, but had managed to escape, and now lived a quiet life out in the countryside.  He told me about his place up in St. Mary Province, that he had built with his own hands, and it sounded perfect to my weary nerves: no electricity, no traffic, no tourists.  According to his descriptions, there was just ocean, peaceful green landscapes and the occasional thunderstorm.   He invited me up as soon as my business in town was finished, and I told him I would be there before the weekend.

I had been traveling for five weeks when I met Selaissie, and during that entire time, this documentary project dominated the course of my thinking, almost like a mantra.  “The project,” as I repeated to myself hundreds of times, was all that mattered.  Even when pondering the most mundane details or errands, I would habitually ask myself which option would yield the greater benefit for my endeavor (white shirt or brown shirt; still camera or camcorder; both?).  I can’t say why my negative experience with the Kingston musicians finally made me see the folly in this line of reasoning, but somewhere along the line, the project had become like a mirage. Every time somebody asked me what I was doing down in the Caribbean, I would give a different answer.  Usually it was something about “research for a documentary on the region’s culture and history,” but the words were now ringing hollow.

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In Thailand, the sea life is suspicious. It is guarded by environmentalists, worshiped in documentaries … and unable to relax in the presence of clumsy human intruders. My fellow Koh Phagnan day trippers – their flesh shredded by lurking coral – can attest to the suspicion, as can my fish-bitten legs and my friend Ginger’s foot; the recipient of a surprise attack.

We’d traveled through Bangkok – two days of fighting our way through Khao San Road and choking on tuk tuk dust. In contrast, Koh Phagnan sparkled with white sand and aquamarine seas; a paradise film reel jarred only by the creep of tourists.

Millennia from our lives as ESL teachers, we snorkeled between forest-capped cliffs, flanked by wooden longboats.

Our guide delighted in sprinkling breadcrumbs onto us to lure writhing swarms of black-and-yellow striped fish. This is how I was bitten and how I was able to leap back into the boat, my churning legs touching only air…

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So here I am … again. I’ve just uprooted myself from New York, four months after uprooting myself from Japan. Now I’m in Ireland. Another new place, another new life … another new language? Don’t they speak English here? Ah, they do, sure. Ireland’s native language – Irish – was eclipsed by English in the 19th century due to the economic pressures of the Famine; it’s spoken mainly as a second language today. While Irish-English uses much British-English vocabulary – cookie = biscuit, trash = rubbish, etc. – its colorful twists can leave an American gal feeling daft. For ye, a mini Irish-English survival guide:

Greetings

Expecting a hearty “top o’ the mornin’” ? You’d be wrong there, b’hoy. The phrase might be popular in Hollywood, but nobody actually says it in Ireland. Instead, you’ll hear:

American-English: How are you?
Irish-English: How’s the form?

American-English: What’s up?
Irish-English: What’s the craic?

Irish-English often incorporates Irish words or grammar. Craic – pronounced “crack” – is an Irish word loosely translated as “liveliness.”

Common Courtesy

I’ve noticed a vein of cynicism running through Irish society. Maybe that’s why I get sniggers when I’m overexcited by Sunday roast or when I wish someone a nice day. Take it down a notch and you’ll be grand.

After agreeable transactions:

American-English: Awesome; thanks, dude!
Irish-English: Grand. Cheers.

After pleasant encounters:

American-English: Have a nice day!
Irish-English: Good luck to ya.

But upon entering a home:

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Robin’s Bay, St. Mary Parish, Jamaica

I arrived at Kingston’s Edna Manley College the next day around 12:30 p.m., which gave me enough time to meet my contact, Derrick Johnston, before making my way to nearby Anchor Studios for a 2:00 appointment with Bongos Herman. Derrick is the cousin of a colleague of mine in New York, and I figured that his experience as the college’s Senior Library Assistant would provide me with the resources I needed to better understand the conditions from which Reggae emerged.  The literature he gave me included industry publications, government surveys and music genealogy texts, and they all pointed in one direction: Mento.
The topic of this little-known traditional Jamaican music came up several times during my conversation with artist/producer Robert Ffrench the previous evening. After he stressed that Rastafarians like himself viewed Reggae as the world’s most highly “evolved” form of music, I asked him what role previous genres like Mento had played in this evolution. The response I got was that each was a necessary, divinely ordained step towards the creation of a musical force that would spread around the world to deliver its message of revolutionary self-empowerment.

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Like Guatemala itself – a country nicknamed “Land of Eternal Spring” – Guatemala City has experienced constant rebirth. Since replacing Antigua as Guatemala’s seat of power in 1773, it has weathered earthquakes, political scandals, and daunting crime rates to become one of the largest and most cosmopolitan cities in Central America and the Caribbean. Troubles aside, Guatemala City’s architectural beauty and rich history make it an intriguing place to visit.

Guatemala City is located in a mountain valley, its borders dotted by four volcanoes. For thrill seekers, the active 2552m high Volcan Pacaya is 50 km Southwest of the city. Guides are available for hire and make the hike look simple, though some might prefer renting a burro. The terrain, streaked with dried lava, turns to rocky ash and, finally, to craters of glowing lava and a breathtaking valley view.

Back on Earth, the capital hums with activity. Traffic seems ceaseless as commuters flood the streets, often en route to beautiful colonial Antigua. Urbanites are busy but laid back. Few walk – public transport includes taxis and the new Transmetro bus system, though the colorfully tricked out “chicken buses” are perhaps better known. The military presence is strong in the capital; armed troops are a common sight.

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I guess this is how they play football in Antequera, Spain.  More info on the Twilight Games winners coming soon!

Much to my surprise (and contrary to what living in New York had led me to expect), Puerto Rico was not an easy place to find authentic live music. One reason for this is that public transportation on the island is of little use, unless you’re commuting between major tourist areas. As a result, I elected to rent a car in order to maximize my time during the brief five days before my flight to Kingston, Jamaica. Arriving around ten, I left the airport and headed southwest, to the mountainous region of Adjuntas, and the heartland of Puerto Rico’s Jibaro Music. This genre, I was to learn, originated among Spanish-born settlers who migrated from Europe in the hopes of finding cheap land that wasn’t suitable for plantations. They represented the rugged ideal of the Puerto Rican frontiersman: independent, tough-minded and strong, not unlike their counterparts in the American west. Jibaro is unique among the island’s predominant musical forms in that it emerged independent of the West African rhythms and rituals that were brought by imported slaves. However, like most Spanish music of the time, its strum patterns and mournful, chant-like singing take their roots from Spain’s centuries of Moorish occupation and acculturation. Read More »