Matador Network's Blog, page 2221

11 truths about hiking the AT

Photo: Mr McSquishyface

THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL is the longest hiking-only footpath in America — and with 2,187 miles of trail, more than 250 shelters, and an overall elevation gain equivalent to climbing Mount Everest 16 times, it earns that title.

Every year, a couple thousand people try to hike the AT from beginning to end in one season, and a few hundred manage to accomplish it. These people are known as thru-hikers, and these are the warnings I wish I’d received before attempting to become one.

1. Mistakes make great trail names.

A popular tradition of Appalachian Trail culture is to give thoughtful nicknames to your co-hikers, such as MonkeyButt, Golden Shower, or DangerPants. If you point your headlamp down while you pee in the dark, you’ll be called Flash; if you dig up someone else’s cat-hole while making your own, you’ll be called Divining Rod.

These trail names are what you go by in lieu of your real name — so don’t do something dumb early on, or it’ll follow you for 2,000 miles.

2. Sunscreen is a good idea.

Being of a darker complexion, I expected to gradually bronze up like a shiny leather lion, but after the first week my skin was closer to the red sheen of a baboon butt. The truth is I wanted to save weight by not bringing sunscreen. The Appalachian Trail has a reputation for being a “green tunnel,” with lots of tree cover, but in the early spring you can’t depend on that foliage to have your back.

Walking under naked tree limbs in Georgia and North Carolina for eight to ten hours a day can leave you fried to a crisp, so don’t listen to the ounce-counters who tell you sunscreen is more weight — so is your skin.

3. You should rain-test your gear.

Our new tent, which we hadn’t learned to properly stake out, stood up boldly to the first sprinkles we encountered. Then we got hit with a real storm. We spent the night bailing water like a sinking ship and the next day drying out our sleeping bags.

So when I say “rain-test your gear,” I don’t mean “camp in the rain.” I mean go to your local YMCA, set up your tent in the locker room, turn every shower head towards it, and play solitaire inside for an hour while you establish which seams need to be resealed.

4. Food should be hung when you’re in bear country.

Fortunately for us, we got this warning. Our food was blissfully undisturbed while our tent neighbor lost everything but his instant mashed potatoes. This followed a nocturnal encounter with a particularly nefarious bear in Georgia. Every other bear on the AT is a big, dull-witted raccoon compared with this ursine MacGyver.

Georgia was the only area we encountered bears of unusual intelligence, but you should still hang your food, especially if there are bear cables or bear poles available. We regrettably witnessed a bear removal in the Smoky Mountains due to hiker negligence. Don’t be the person who loses their food bag.

5. Rain pants are awesome.

As a previous bike tourist, I thought I’d sweat inside rain pants and get wet anyways. But when you’re hiking, rain pants can make the monumental difference between a good day and chafed thighs. And in April those pants are more likely to prevent hypothermia than create sweat. I envied the hikers who wore them over their shorts for the cold, misty mornings.

6. Diaper cream will save your ass.

Honestly. Chafing is less of a problem for people with slender builds, but for most people, and especially for women, it’s a common problem in hiking. You can laugh now, but when you feel the forgiving kiss of Desitin on that burning monkey butt, it’s like a choir of angels has blessed your posterior.

7. Larger tents save relationships.

My personal nickname for a 6x4ft enclosure is a divorce tent. I’ve seen people break up over dirty dishes. Try spraying frigid water droplets on each other while you struggle into greasy long johns. This experience brings a dark reality to the phrase “for better or for worse.”

I finished the Appalachian Trail with my significant other despite our tiny enclosure. So it can be done. If we were to do it again, though, I think we’d upgrade a few ounces for the comfort. About 50% of our arguments began with an accidental knee to the temple.

8. Traffic happens.

One of the reasons I switched from cycling to hiking was my dislike of traffic. On those long bike rides uphill, inhaling exhaust, I pictured myself on the AT, walking through pristine forests unblemished by modernity. I was conveniently overlooking the fact that in order to make a 2,000-mile linear trek across the US, there are a lot of roads to cross.

Cars are a big part of life on the AT. Whether you’re catching a ride from a kind passerby or running across the Palisades Parkway in a terrifying imitation of Frogger, you’re interacting with these steely beasts on a near-daily basis. Even in the middle of Maine’s Hundred Mile Wilderness, our lunches were interrupted by the distinctive sound of logging trucks.

Eventually, I learned to appreciate the symbiotic relationship between hikers and drivers on the trail. After all, at the end of a long, rainy walk to a road, there were people with magical machines who were willing to transport me to hot food for the price of a good story.

9. “Thru-hiker” can mean different things in different places.

Being from New Hampshire’s White Mountains area, the section of the AT notoriously known for testing the mettle of hikers, I defined a thru-hiker as a brave-spirited Adonis who sweats pure accomplishment. This is slightly different than the more populous Mid-Atlantic areas of the country, where thru-hikers are often mistaken for something else called “homeless1.”

We learned we couldn’t always depend on our thru-hiker label to protect us or explain our circumstances. Many people don’t know about the Appalachian Trail. Once we explained ourselves people were friendly, but until then they were reasonably wary of smelly, unkempt strangers in the woods. Don’t let basic misunderstandings color your impressions of some places when an explanation can go a long way.

1I would distinguish these groups by saying that hikers actually smell much worse than homeless people…and also that they choose to.

10. Moonshine is trail ambrosia.

To me, moonshine always conjured images of pigpens adjacent to dirty bathtubs and old clay jugs marked with triple Xs. I assumed drinking grain alcohol would be like swallowing a flaming hellcat, so I avoided the glass jars with their mysterious floating fruit for several hundred miles before my (usually self-injurious) curiosity compelled me to try a sip.

It was the best thing I ever tasted.

Don’t be like me. When presented with something new on the AT, embrace it with an open mind. You might get a mouthful of hellcat, or you might find yourself sipping the nectar of the gods.

11. You can and will finish.

We were so wrapped up in the question, “What if I don’t make it?” that we were almost afraid to have fun. The AT isn’t your job, and no one can say anything to change that.

There’s a petty side to human nature that seeks to tear down strong people because we interpret their success as an offense to our own inadequacy. The words of the people who succumb to this have no bearing on you, so don’t let anyone’s arbitrary benchmarks determine your actions. It doesn’t matter if you begin the trail out of shape or without hiking experience. You’re the only person who can say whether or not you’re going to finish.

If you believed what people said, you wouldn’t be standing on Springer.

A version of this post was originally published at Appalachian Trials and was reworked through MatadorU with permission.

Oman: Oceans, sand, and the Daymaniyat Islands [vid]

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OMAN IS A PLACE that I really don’t know much about. I don’t know where it falls within the spectrum of Middle Eastern countries (between the Vegas-like cities of the United Arab Emirates, and Yemen’s “FOR GOD’S SAKE, DO NOT TRAVEL HERE” consulate warnings). It’s always best to discover a place for yourself, which is why I like this video by Vincent Urban and Mario Clement. It takes away any possible political commentary, and just shows the country for what it is — a place with interesting architecture, vibrant local culture, camels, sand dunes, and excellent scuba diving.

Tracing Rwanda's human narrative

Photo: Poland MFA

It’s Saturday, and two women are dusting the skulls. Sun streams through afternoon clouds. Rain patters on the red dirt road. The sky is at once bright prisms and dark stratus swirls, and the duality is raw and promising. The women bend over shelves of bones inside the tin-roofed memorial site, pausing occasionally to look out over Rwanda’s rolling hills.

Down the road, the church choir is rehearsing, a gospel harmony streaming out of a brick-walled house. I pause on the roadway to listen.

“Keza?” an old man asks me, stopping alongside to adjust his knee-high rubber boots. Beautiful, no?

“Keza,” I agree. Beautiful.

We stand for a minute longer, the man and I, and he begins to murmur along with the hymn. As the music concludes, he extends his hand.

“Amahoro. Murakaza neza Kibeho,” he offers. Peace. Welcome to Kibeho.

* * *

I have lived here, in Kibeho, a rural town in southern Rwanda, for the past ten months. In some ways I belong. In many, I remain an outsider. I am a guest in a beautiful and layered community, one that I have come to very much admire.

Signs just outside Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, begin directing you to Kibeho, “The Holy Land.” As you get off the bus in town, a signpost orients you to the memorial site where victims of Rwanda’s 1994 genocide rest. Small painted markers point down to the valley spring where visions of the Virgin Mary occurred. Hand-lettered notices advertise cell phone credit, bus ticket sales, and chapatti at the local canteen. Up the hill, a banner declares the opening of a Catholic hotel, where portraits of Jesus, and, a little higher up, Rwanda’s President Kagame, decorate the walls.

Kibeho is a place of spiritual visions, of genocide memorial, of fields of cabbage, and a new bus line, and home to a little girl that, yesterday, learned to walk. It is also the site of a massacre, the Kibeho Massacre, which occurred in April 1995. Here, soldiers of the Royal Patriotic Front, the army President Kagame commanded and which brought a celebrated end to the 1994 genocide amidst international inaction, killed a contested 330 to 4,000 people.

I am an outsider, and as such my job is often first to listen and to learn. Each time I am told a new story, I realize how much I don’t know. I couldn’t possibly know.

There are no signs for that.

Walking about Kibeho, I often am reminded about the selectivity we use in recounting our stories and pasts. Where I am from, in the United States, dialogue on race and religion is often punctuated by conspicuous quiet. While events may pass concretely, their legacies stretch into the present, malleable by the language — and silence — with which we pass them on.

* * *

This past April, Rwanda paused in memorial: the commemoration of the 20th anniversary of prolonged civil war and violence that culminated in the genocide of 1994. On Monday, April 7th, I joined the crowd shuffling from the Genocide Memorial Site to the National Stadium in Kigali. Women in sashes of silver fabric led the procession, holding torches high with the flame of remembrance. “Twibuka Twiyibaka,” (Remember, Unite, Renew) stood out solemnly on banners and billboards. The navy shadows of police and trauma assistants stood at the entrance to the stadium.

As I took my seat on the concrete bleachers I looked around, searching for a word to describe my surroundings. More than any one emotion, the plurality hit home. Swaddled toddlers yammered at their mothers for a bite of mandazi, a fried bread treat. Schoolchildren sought out their friends.

A wiry teenaged boy tried to steal a kiss; not here, the girl elbowed him. Grey-haired men sat straight-backed. In the soccer field below, a half dozen heads-of-state waited to speak.

The ceremony centered on a dramatic performance depicting the persecution of Tutsis during the 1994 genocide and the resurrection of Rwanda by the Rwandan Patriotic Front. Soldiers touched fallen actors, and their silver sashes flowing, spirit-like, they rose, uniting in the center of the field. The score from the army band soared: one Rwanda.

As I watched the performance, the story’s choreography stood out. It was so linear, so tidy. I admire pieces of educational drama for their ability to reach wide audiences and to begin difficult conversations, and acknowledge that the purpose of the performance was not to sketch a complete account of events.

Yet, I couldn’t escape the feeling that the presentation narrowed Rwanda’s history to such a finite and fine-tuned narrative that it forwent much of the complexity that offers powerful learning. As people we’re not tidy, and our histories, like us, are human, sometimes grotesquely so.

Riding back to Kibeho from Kigali on the bus afterwards, I sat next to a young man who struck up a conversation. “We remember in Rwanda,” he said. “But this week we, Rwandans, remember in other places, too. My family is in Uganda; they are refugees. They are waiting to come home. They were not mentioned in the speech.” I nodded.

I am an outsider, and as such my job is often first to listen and to learn. Each time I am told a new story, I realize how much I don’t know. I couldn’t possibly know. I don’t know how you construct a lasting external peace when many continue to endure emotional and violent inner turmoil.

I have been wholly impressed by the reconstruction and emergence of a new national identity, much of which requires perseverance beyond my own experience or comprehension. I am often in awe.

When the young man stopped speaking, I settled back in my chair. Many genocide perpetrators fled to refugee camps, I knew; yet many who also lived there were victims, or had fled in a long series of previous violent eruptions. Did this man’s family flee in fear of their lives? Of prosecution? I didn’t know. What I did know was that today he felt his story was not included in the national narrative presented.

Reflecting on the stadium performance, I wondered at the number of voices muted, like this young man’s, in the tidy fanfare of the united army band. What pieces — necessarily, dangerously? — had been edited out of the history commemorated and passed forward?

* * *

In Kibeho, I survey the roadway one last time before continuing. The rain has moved on, and I watch the sun and storm mix on the horizon, the sight more powerful for the layers it contains.

Hostel recipe: Fancy grilled cheese

Photo: Jeffrey W

What you’ll need:

2 slices of thick, multigrain bread
1 block of soft and creamy cheese, preferably double, or even triple, cream brie
1 tomato, sliced thin
½ avocado, guacamole’d
2 mushrooms, sliced thin
¼ onion, diced
1 strip of bacon
Butter
Chives
Basil
1 can of tomato soup
¼ cup milk
¼ cup water
salt/pepper
1 tbsp. olive oil


What you’ll have:

2 slices of supermarket dollar loaf. What’s the difference between wholegrain and multigrain?
4 slices of cheese singles, the kind that lists “cheese” as one of the actual ingredients
1 tomato, slightly crushed by that French dude who dropped his groceries on yours in the fridge. Thank God for GMO sturdiness.
1 avocado, secretly and shamefully rung up as brown onions at the self-checkout.
2 mushrooms, but you’ve got three and what the hell are you gonna do with one mushroom? So, 3 mushrooms.
¼ onions, diced (there ya go!)
1 strip of bacon (we’re on a roll!)
Butter (wait, what is that black stuff stuck in it?)
Chives (brownish because you never think to use your chives)
1 can of tomato soup
½ cup water
salt/pepper
I dunno, just dump some olive oil on it

Step 1: Go to the kitchen. This really shouldn’t warrant a step of its own, but hitting the kitchen at the perfect time in a hostel is an art. This is your third time checking already, and for once, it’s not completely crowded. There’s nobody there but you and that one couple in the corner, the one that looks so cute cooking a restaurant-quality meal together. Silently hate their happiness. Luckily, the dude using six pans and all of the counter space just to burn a single hamburger has finally left, so take his spot before the couple decides to spread out.

Step 2: Choose your utensils. For this exercise, we’ll need a chef’s knife, two skillets, a small pot, a spatula, wooden spoon, tongs, and a cutting board. You’ll find these easily enough, though none of them will be clean. You can wash them in the sink, but all the sponges and steel wool have — what is that, cheese and egg? — stuck to them. Wipe everything down as best you can.

Step 3: Drizzle the 1 tbsp. olive oil (read: just dump some) into one of the skillets and begin heating both on medium flames. There are several burners to choose from, but because everybody forgets to turn them off, only one of them works at any given time. It’s like whack-a-mole with potential gas explosions. Watch as the oil retreats to the sides of the badly warped pans, completely defeating the purpose of putting it in there.

Step 4: While the oil and skillet is heating, wash and cut the vegetables. You’ll be much less stressed later if all the prep work is done at the beginning. Of course, the hostel knife is so dull that you’ll end up smashing the tomato to mush without even breaking the skin, so maybe the stress is just part-and-parcel. Cut using the very back heel of the knife — it’s not ideal, but it will still be sharp there. Nobody knows how to really use knives. Remember, rocking motions.

Step 5: When the oil is hot, add the diced onion. Season lightly — you’ll be salting the rest of the vegetables as you add them and you don’t want to overdo it on the first layer. Add the bacon to the second skillet. While the onions start to caramelize and the bacon starts to sizzle, put the pot on another burner (if you can find one), and add the tomato soup. If you managed to find some milk, add ¼ cup of water to the soup. If not (probably not), add a full ½ cup of water. Keep it on a low flame.

Step 6: After a few minutes, the onions should turn a nice golden color. This means it’s time to add the mushrooms. Remember that layer of seasoning. Continue to flip the bacon, and begin constructing the sandwich. At this point, it’s just a layer of cheese on the bottom bread, but when the bacon reaches your preferred crispiness, add that as well. It will begin to melt the cheese a bit — we want that. Add the tomato slices, then one more layer of cheese.

Step 7: At this point, inevitably, somebody will come up to you, point to something in your area, and ask, “Hey man, are you using that?” You think he’s referring to your cutting board, but honestly, he could very well mean your actual sandwich. Regardless, you’re still using both, so just say yes and he’ll leave. Backpackers are vultures and will grab anything in the kitchen if you let them. Cutting Board Guy will eye you for the rest of your meal.

Step 8: If you’ve timed it right, the mushrooms should start to shrink and sweat right around the time the onions finish caramelizing into a nice brown color. Scoop them onto the sandwich, then spread the mashed avocado on top. Follow it up with another layer of cheese, then the last bit of bread.

So let’s recap. Our sandwich is ready, and, if you’ve followed the instructions, should look a little something like this:

Bread

Cheese

Avocado

Mushroom/Onion

Cheese

Tomato

Bacon

Cheese

Bread

We’re ready to cook it. Before you do, suddenly remember that you’re also making tomato soup. Check it and you’ll see that you’ve reduced it too much, so add a bit of water and act like you meant to do that. Cutting Board Guy isn’t buying it.

Step 9: Add a bit of butter to the bacon skillet, which should still be on medium heat. As a poor backpacker, you may be tempted to used margarine as a substitute. It’s all most people will lend you. Don’t do it. Margarine will burn and smoke, while butter will brown into deliciousness. Once it has, toss in a bit of chives and plop that sammich right on top of them. Use the spatula to push it around and ensure even coverage (and that the chives are pushed into the bread), then put a small amount of butter on top of the sandwich as well. You’re gonna need to flip it in about two minutes, depending on how melted the cheese is and how toasted you like the outsides.

Step 10: Oh God. It’s about time to flip the sandwich. That couple is sitting over there fucking julienning carrots and getting ready to sous-vide a salmon fillet, Cutting Board Guy is watching your every move, and you have to somehow flip this big son of a bitch over in its pan without everything flying around the room like a grilled tornado. If everything has gone perfectly according to plan, the cheese will have melted sufficiently to hold the whole thing together on its glorious arc through the air. But come on. You’ve been living in hostels for a few months now. You know better than to think something’s gone according to plan.

This is it. Slide the spatula under the bread. The top slice shifts a bit, daring you. Come on, do it. Maybe if you grab another spatula, you could try to flip it over while holding it together, and then just put it back down on the other side. Try it. This is so awkward with your wrists. It’s gonna come apart if you do it this way. People are watching. People are holding their breaths. Fuck it, you’re going for it.

Flip. Plop.

Exhale. It…kinda worked. The tomato is slipping out the side a bit. Some of the cheese is now burning on the pan. But hey, it could have been worse. The world resumes turning.

Step 11: While you wait for the other side to cook, add the milk and basil (if you found any) to the tomato soup. Take it off the heat and pour it in your bowl. Of course, you’ve made entirely too much, so leave the rest in the pot. Take everything else (tongs, cutting board, etc) to the sink — you’re not going to want to clean them up after you eat, so do it while you have a bit of time. Leave the pans. Putting them in water right after using them will cause them to warp, and while they’re shitty enough as is, you can do your part to make them last a little longer.

Step 12: And you’re done! That sandwich should now be golden and delicious, crust just barely glistening with toasted grease, insides gooingly becoming outsides. Plate that beautiful bastard and carry it and your tomato soup to the table. The pan needs time to cool, so enjoy your sandwich first by dipping it into that creamy tomato soup and taking your first, big bite.

Cutting Board Guy will soon point to your pan and shout that your mother doesn’t live here. Leave your amazing meal and take your still-smoking skillet to the sink. Cringe as the water hisses against its cruelly twisting metal husk, almost as if it’s in agony.

Whatever. It was worth it.

19 surprising facts about Thailand

1

Next time someone giggles at the name “Bangkok,” inform them that the full name of the city is Krungthepmahanakhon Amonrattanakosin Mahintharayutthaya Mahadilokphop Noppharatratchathaniburirom Udomratchaniwetmahasathan Amonphimanawatansathit Sakkathattiyawitsanukamprasit. That’ll teach ‘em. FYI, that’s the longest city name in the world.

Photo: Justin Vidamo

2

Speaking of traditional names, Thailand, in Thai, is Prathet Thai, meaning "Land of the Free." Before it adopted this name, the nation was called Siam, which is Sanskrit for “dark” or “brown.”

Photo: Vinoth Chandar

3

"Land of the Free" is appropriate, because Thailand is the only country in Southeast Asia never to have been colonized by a foreign power.

Photo: Darren Johnson

See more: 33 photos that will make you want to visit Thailand NOW




4

Thailand has over 1,400 islands within its territory. Arguably the most famous—thanks to the movie The Beach—is Koh Phi Phi near Phuket.

Photo: NASA Goddard Space Flight Center

5

Another famous beach is Koh Phangan, birthplace of the Full Moon Party, a debauched concept that's now spread throughout the region. Be warned: It comes with risks of physical harm (perhaps diving through a flaming hoop?) and arrest (if caught purchasing illicit substances), among other serious consequences. In the morning, all that remains is the trash of the masses, unconscious, over-yolo’d 20-somethings, and most people’s dignity.

Photo: Thomas sauzedde

6

Never leave home without it.

Photo: shira gal

7

Whether you're wearing underwear or not, you could still get nabbed for stepping on the local currency, the Thai Baht.

Photo: Peter Hellberg

8

Feet are considered spiritually and symbolically dirty, and so a person should never point their feet at another person, or at a temple. (This is mostly a concern when sitting, especially if cross-legged in a chair—your crossed foot should not dangle in someone’s direction.)

Photo: Caitlin Regan

9

On the flip side, the head is the holiest part of the body. Thus, you should never touch someone’s head—even a child's.

Photo: Georgie Pauwels

See more: 7 adventures in Thailand you shouldn't miss




10

Thailand has a college just for monkeys. It's called Thani Monkey College, and the students learn all sorts of street-preforming tricks, as well as how to collect coconuts. Speaking of monkeys, Thailand also has a special banquet—a monkey banquet, where thousands of monkeys are served platters of fruit and vegetables.

Photo: Andy Rennie

11

Thailand is a constitutional monarchy, and most Thais adore their king and queen. Many families display the king's face in their homes, and it’s pretty much illegal to speak ill of him. The Thai royal families have been so revered that, in the past, no one was allowed to even touch them; in fact, in the 1800s, a queen drowned when her boat capsized and no onlookers came her to rescue due to this strict rule.

Photo: Maxence

12

Many Thais have a firm belief in ghosts. For example, after purchasing a house, it’s very common to build a small spirit house for whoever occupied the site in the past, and to give offerings to the spirits. If you were to stay in a Thai home, you might be asked to make a small offering and ask permission from the spirits for your stay. Of course, every family and their degree of belief is different, but walking around after dark just got a little spookier.

Photo: Ray Bodden

13

Thailand is one of the most Buddhist nations on Earth, with 95% of the population identifying as such. It’s common for Thai men to spend a little time in their youths trying out life as a monk, though most do not enter monkhood.

Photo: KX Studio

14

Everyone loves Thai food, right? Next time, try one of these more “authentic” dishes: goong ten (live shrimp salad), larb mote daeng (red ants and their eggs), baak bpet (duck mouths), or mok huak (grown tadpoles in fermented fish sauce).

Photo: J Aaron Farr

15

In Bangkok, it’s normal to see the thermometer soar above 40C (104F), and wintertime temps hang out around 26C (79F).

Photo: Travelbusy.com

See more: 8 ways to get utterly off the beaten track in Thailand




16

The Vivaldi Restaurant in Bangkok served the world’s most expensive cocktail, the “Valentine’s Cocktail.” Coming in at 540,000 baht (that’s more than $15,000 US), it was garnished with a five-karat ruby instead of an olive, and served with a six-course dinner, a night in the adjoining luxury hotel, and a bottle of Dom. Happy Valentine’s Day, millionaires.

Photo: Didriks

17

Thailand is home to one of the world’s largest freshwater fish, the Mekong giant catfish, which can weigh up to 700lbs, as well as the world’s smallest bat, the bumblebee bat (or Kitti’s hog-nosed bat), which grows to a little over an inch and weighs two grams.

Photo: Gilles San Martin

18

Songkran is one of the world’s largest water festivals and takes place in one of the hottest months of the Thai year—April. It's also a time for cleansing (both personally and in the home, similar to spring cleaning) and signals the Thai New Year. By the way, in Thailand, the current year is 2557 (543 years ahead of the Gregorian Calendar).

Photo: John Shedrick

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19

Another famous festival is Loi Krathong, which takes place in November—an excellent month to visit Thailand, weather-wise—and is a celebration that sees thousands of paper lanterns lit and released to the sky. The festival also includes boat races, beauty contests, fireworks, and parades galore.

Photo: John Shedrick

This post is proudly produced in partnership with the Tourism Authority of Thailand and STA Travel, working together to tell stories of the peoples, places, and cultures that make Thailand special.

8 signs you're a tourist in Rio

Photo: Phil Whitehouse

You may spend your days on the sand, listening to samba, thinking you fit right in — but here’s why you’re not truly a carioca.

1. You’re sunburned.

Don’t even think about hitting the beach (or anywhere else) without sunscreen. The Brazilian sun is hot and will annihilate your skin if you’re not careful. Sure, you want to get a tan, but a carioca knows that skin cancer and sunburns aren’t sexy.

Scalding red tan lines show you’ve lost the battle with the sun and make you stick out against the tanned, caramel brown skin around you. You can still get a sexy tan when applying and reapplying sunscreen every few hours.

2. You’re wearing a one-piece or swim trunks.

Less is more on Rio’s beaches. You think your belly pooch is so offensive you can’t wear a bikini? Wrong. Cariocas of ALL shapes and sizes rock minimal beachwear. This standard applies for guys who hide inside baggy swim trunks, too. Time to break out the sunga and let it all hang out. Order a beach caipirinha and leave your body issues at home.

3. You still have body hair.

Ladies, it’s called a Brazilian for a reason. The fellas don’t get a pass, either. Men in Rio have bare chests and manscaping in other areas. If you want to fit in on the soccer field or volleyball court, book an appointment at your nearest waxing salon.

4. You haven’t pledged allegiance to a soccer team yet.

Rio has four major soccer teams: Vasco da Gama, Botafogo, Flamengo, and Fluminense. Cariocas love the national team, but their true devotion lies with their local club. If you plan on spending more than two weeks in Rio, you’d better choose a side. Soccer is a religion here — you don’t want to insult your Brazilian friends by being so oblivious.

Be warned: Picking a team is an instant way to make friends and enemies.

5. You wear nice jewelry.

Wearing nice jewelry is the equivalent of wearing a sign that says, “Hey, I have a lot of money! Rob me!” With the crime rate in Rio, you can’t wear anything expensive unless you want to be targeted. Muggers are known for running by and ripping jewelry right off your neck. You’re better off leaving the real gold at home and embracing knockoffs and plastic. This also applies to flaunting electronics on the street. Put your iPad away and blend in.

6. You pay with big bills.

The one hundred Brazilian real bill is the bane of every cashier. When you hand it to them, they’ll shoot you an annoyed look and ask, “Não tem menor?” (Don’t you have something smaller?)

Whether it’s a street vendor, supermarket, or giant department store, salespeople rarely have tons of change. Break big bills any time you’re spending more than R$30, then save your small bills for anything under R$20. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait while your under-enthusiastic cashier calls their manager, debates over the money in the register, begrudgingly gets change, then huffily gives it back to you.

7. You think Brazilians eat healthy.

You first imagine a tropical climate where everyone only eats luscious mangoes and freshly caught fish. You think everything is natural and bursting with flavor. Then you realize cariocas will fry anything or smother it with cheese. And for dessert, they’ll pump it full of sugar or cover it in condensed milk.

Don’t be fooled by that “natural” juice you just ordered. Unless you requested sem açúcar, it’ll come loaded with sugar. If you’re expecting to find Whole Foods-type products here, you’re out of luck. Brazilians haven’t gotten the natural-eating memo yet. They still cling to their added sugar, processed foods, and diet products.

And good luck if you’re a vegetarian or vegan…

8. You’re still trying to figure out what farofa is.

It’s toasted manioc flour, folks. Just sprinkle it over your beans and rice and don’t ask questions.

Paddling the free-flowing Amur River

Nobody’s River is a documentary expedition on the Amur, one of the world’s greatest but least known free-flowing (or dam-less) rivers. In the summer of 2013, a team of four women traveled, by a number of crafts and methods, from the Onon River headwaters in Mongolia (and the birthplace of Genghis Khan) all the way to the Pacific Ocean delta in Russia, some 5,000km total.

Travel methods included Russian minivans, horses, trans-Siberian trains, kayaks, paragliders, local taxis, ferries, and their own two feet. They kayaked 1,000km total — 500 in Mongolia and 500 in Russia.

The team was led by Amber Valenti, a physician’s assistant with a background in rescue and wilderness medicine. Krystle Wright was the expedition photographer, DP, and media specialist. Becca Dennis, an expert paddler and all-around adventure athlete, handled Russian logistics and risk mitigation. And, finally, Sabra Purdy, a watershed restoration ecologist and climbing-guide-service owner, led efforts to collect data and document river ecology.

Trailer of upcoming film Nobody’s River. Please check their screenings page for theatrical releases near you.

Amber Valenti answered a few questions about Nobody’s River:

DM: How does this watershed compare with others in the region? / What’s the scenario of hydropower in Russia/Mongolia?

AV: The Amur-Heilong watershed, while widely unknown, has incredible global importance for one major reason: It’s one of the few great free-flowing rivers left on the planet. It has no dams and only two major bridges along its entire length. This makes the Amur a world treasure as well as a crucial baseline for the management of all large rivers. As one of the few rivers with a clean slate, it could become a model for sound management of water resources worldwide.

The Amur River is incredibly unique. As the third-longest free-flowing river in the world, it traverses the vast and widely untamed landscapes of Mongolia, China, and Russia for more than 4,000km. Claimed as the most biodiverse watershed in Asia, it supports enormous taimen (a fish in the salmon family), rare birds, Siberian leopards, tigers, and countless other unique plants and animals. It’s a living reminder of what we’ve lost by damming more than 60% of the world’s rivers, but it also stands as a symbol of the incredible wild places that still exist — and we believe should be celebrated.

Hydropower projects are planned all over the three countries the Amur River flows through (Mongolia, Russia, and China), and there’s very little protection of rivers in these areas. While we’ve dammed the vast majority of our rivers in the US and are in the midst of a dam-removal movement to take out any outdated and destructive dams, these countries still have some incredible free-flowing waterways left. The Amur is one of the most impressive of these.

Why the name “Nobody’s River“?

The name Nobody’s River came out of the fact that this river is a transboundary river — meaning it flows through multiple countries. So, factually, it doesn’t belong to any one nation. This has been both a benefit and a struggle in its management. The name has evolved to signify something deeper for all of us — the concept that our rivers don’t belong to just a country or individuals, they belong to the collective. They’re truly global treasures.

What advantages are there to having an all-female crew in terms of cultural engagement / access to different places?

Communities and individuals we met along the way definitely warmed up to us quickly. I think four rather petite, smiling women are just not very threatening in any culture. So that was a huge benefit as we traveled. When we crossed one border I remember this very stern border guard cracking a smile and laughing. She just couldn’t believe we were really doing what we said. But she let us through without a single search!

On the flip side, in places like Russia and Mongolia, it was sometimes confusing for people that we were a group of women. I really noticed how much fear people experienced for us. It was wild to see the fear our communities — and those we traveled through — felt, largely because we were all women. I remember one man yelling after us as we were pulling away from the shoreline on the Lower Amur in Khabarovsk, “But you have no security!”

All photos by Krystle Wright

1

The team traveled by horseback for three days from a small northern Mongolian village to get to the headwaters of the Onon River, source of the massive free-flowing Amur River. Sabra Purdy, Amber Valenti, and Becca Dennis (left to right) exchange their knowledge of maps for a lesson in intuition with their team of Mongolian guides.

2

Becca Dennis bundles up as an evening storm builds and the team heads deeper and deeper into the wildness of northern Mongolia.

3

Leading the way, Amber Valenti points out a hazard downstream. The team paddled all 500km of the Onon River through northern Mongolia.

Intermission





Redefining sea kayaking
by eric warren



1
Running the US’ longest undammed river
by eric warren



3
Dispatch from Murchison Falls: Guiding one of the most intense rivers in the world
by Chris Korbulic












4

Mongolian border guards detain the team to inspect the kayaks, verify paperwork, and, of course, make sure they're not spies.

5

A local family welcomes the team into their ger, a traditional nomadic home, on the steppe during the journey back to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.

6

Sabra Purdy keeps watch at a Russian train station over a towering pile of gear during a 10-day trans-Siberian train journey that connected their paddles on the headwaters of the Amur River in Mongolia and the Lower Amur River in Russia.

7

The team paddled 500km of the Lower Amur River in Far East Russia, braving a mess of braided channels that stretch as far as the eye can see, ocean-sized swell, and raging monsoon storms.

10 morally questionable travel tales

Photo: yeowatzup

1. Dancing at the election parties of dubious Middle Eastern dictators

In my defence, at the time Bashar al-Assad was relatively benign, and Syria was the safest country in the region. Nobody knew that weak jawline and undefined chin were capable of so much evil.

Bashar’s face was plastered sky-high across every building. The beady eyes that seemed to express timidity rather than malevolence looked out from posters and flags unfurled by enthusiastic young men caught up in Bashar fervour, roaring around Damascus in the backs of trucks blasting out the al-Assad theme song (yes, he really did have one). The whole of Syria was dancing, drinking tea, and voting for the man whose name was the only one on the ballot.

I’ve since destroyed my “We Love You, Bashar” t-shirt.

2. Engaging in dodgy border crossings

I thought I was going to Mexico when I got on a bus in small-town Guatemala. “Si, si, no problema,” the bus driver nodded. I should’ve guessed something was amiss when I saw the first seat was occupied by a clown. Nothing feels right about crossing a border in the company of a clown.

The bus came to a halt soon after. “Mexico?” I asked. The clown got off. “Si, si, no problema.” The bus driver pointed to the opposite bank of a gushing river that stood between me and Mexico, where hundreds of Guatemalans were wading through the rushing water, clutching baskets on their heads. Not having faith in my ability to scramble up Mexican shores with a backpack balanced on my head, I enlisted the help of a boy with a raft. That was a tough one to explain when questioned at Mexican immigration.

3. Bribing your way out of a difficult situation

Slipping some dirty cash to a cop can get you out of many an awkward situation overseas — like when you’ve accidentally overstayed your visa by three months. I got picked up in a train station in Bolivia by a man with a label hand-sewn onto his shirt that said “Interpol.” He dragged me to a stark basement somewhere in the station’s underbelly, whipped out a copy of the Bolivian constitution, and slammed it on the table alongside the Bible and the Evo Morales biography to prove there was no code I wasn’t violating.

Turns out, there was no code he wasn’t willing to violate for a fast 100 bucks. I got him down to 50.

4. Taking advantage of your privileged status

I wish I didn’t have examples of this — but we all do. Like accepting a spot in a ‘special section’ fenced off on the deck of a boat when crossing from Sudan to Egypt so I’d have room to stretch out. Or being waved through the border into Mauritania ahead of all the Mauritanians who’d been waiting for hours to get let into their own country. Or getting paid at least three times the local salary in Morocco. And so on.

5. Working jobs you think are wrong

I was down to my last 20 dollars when I finally found work in New York, so desperation levels were high. My first job involved coaxing unwitting individuals to air their abuses and addictions on a radio show, in the utterly false promise that we’d put them on reality TV. I wrote ads that all began with “Do You Want to Be a STAR?” and lots of poor folk did.

My second job involved coaxing unwitting Amish individuals to be on an actual reality TV show. This proved to be tricky, given that the Amish had zero interest in being STARS. When nothing else worked — and it generally didn’t — we lured them with money. By the time the show aired, I’d already hightailed it to Mexico.

6. Participating in poverty tours

I don’t generally go in for tours, but…sometimes you just really want to go down a Bolivian silver mine. The guide assured us the miners loved the tour groups coming through, as the tourists bring them gifts. So we brought useful gifts of cigarettes and deathly strong alcohol and got in the way of their work as much as possible.

In return, the miners smiled and posed for our expensive cameras, while we gawked at the narrow tunnels where they spend at least 12 hours a day bent double in back-breaking labour amid dangerous conditions and toxic fumes for a paltry salary. They pointed to the most treacherous parts, where the walls had fallen in, so we could take photos of those too.

7. Protesting for a cause you don’t really know anything about

Not so much questionable as downright foolish. I can’t recommend this course of action to anyone. It will end, if not in tears, then at least in tear gas and beatings from the Turkish police. I came home from the May Day demonstrations in Taksim Square only slightly wiser about the secularist movement in Turkey and covered in black bruises.

8. Volunteering for an international organisation

If you disagree, you’ve clearly never seen the international band of do-gooders hanging around the assorted bars of East Jerusalem. They’re in search of an authentic travel experience — even if it comes at the expense of the locals. You can’t just charge into a town on the West Bank picking a fight with Israeli soldiers and expect there not to be consequences for the people who actually live there after you get on your flight back to Arizona.

9. Haggling over prices

I enjoy a good haggle as much as the next traveler. But this usually means spending 15 minutes quibbling over an amount of money that for this man in Senegal comprises a daily salary and for you probably wouldn’t even be worth picking up if you dropped it in the street. You haggle on regardless — mostly because he chased you all the way down the beach and insisted you buy the wooden giraffe you never wanted anyway.

If you’re going to buy the damn thing, you want to make sure you pay next to nothing for it.

10. Upholding the class system

For some years, I funded my travel by stints looking after aging English aristocrats in country estates. I answered to a bell and polished silver plates engraved with “His Lordship” and “Her Ladyship.” “My family used to be poor like yours,” I was told often. “But now we are middle class.” As though cruises and manors and 12-household staff were the mark of the middle class.

“Fancy asking the people of England to choose their own parliament,” one Lady lamented when the House of Lords became democratically elected. “What next — have them elect the national cricket team?” The Lords and Ladies were inevitably drunk on the finest whiskey by 11am to cope with that terrible thought.

NYC is the ultimate survival school

Photo: David Goehring

Despite the common belief that New Yorkers can’t get closer to the wilderness than the reservoir in Central Park, a 24-hour adult survival course at the Bear Grylls Survival Academy taught me otherwise.

As a Southerner by birth but a New Yorker by choice, I worried I was no match for Bear’s intense, urine-drinking, larvae-eating wilderness survival course. Yet I was forced across a freezing river in the Catskills, where amenities and food were minimal, and my socks became cold little sponges from hell. I never felt I wouldn’t make it. Because as we become New Yorkers, the city instills in us a number of vital survival skills, better equipping us to live in the wild than many realize.

1. We’re used to extreme living conditions.

There are no tents at Survival School, so I built a shelter by crosshatching sticks and waterproofed them with pretty ferns. Our fort easily slept four, which is more than I can say for my bedroom in the East Village, where two can’t comfortably stand, even if the door’s open. Some of the more highly trained New Yorkers live in windowless rooms no bigger than jail cells, with rodents, bugs, and two other people.

2. We love farm-to-table cuisine.

I bet if Smorgasburg started selling mealworms wrapped in vitamin C-rich wood sorrel, doused with a little olive oil, New Yorkers would stand in line.

We’re always looking for hot new food trends, like cricket tacos, foie-gras ice cream, and the outrageous balut, which is basically a hard-boiled egg with a partially formed duck fetus inside (served at Maharlika in the East Village). I popped worms into my mouth for breakfast, feeling them tense up before I crunched them in half.

3. We already never sleep.

Nobody moves to New York looking for peace and quiet. How can I sleep when I work long hours and still want to make happy hour, Tinder dates, soul cycle, hot yoga, and brunch? So when I woke shivering in my very cute but very cold shelter in the forest, after about 12 minutes of sleep, to my survival mate claiming something the size of a cat crawled on me in the night, I actually felt refreshed.

4. We work with what we have.

In the forest, we built a fire out of a tampon, steel wool, and batteries. For many, these fire-making tools may seem obscure, but New York’s taught me to utilize everything in order to get by.

The city’s skillfully trained me to spend $34 on cocktails every night, $11 on freshly pressed juice in the morning, and $1,400 on rent every month. I’m not sure how I’m able to swing it all with my shamefully low salary, but I also couldn’t tell you how the hell I cooked a rabbit over a fire made from a AA battery.

5. We’re immune to gross things.

I once watched a guy in Washington Square Park burning his skin with a cigarette lighter. Two days before that, I almost stepped on a rat eating some puke in the subway. So sawing off the leg of a dead bunny and then skewering it over a fire for food wasn’t the worst experience. To catch the critter, we learned to make a simple snare near a burrow and a spring-loaded trap with wire, which I may mimic to catch the mouse in my apartment later.

6. We’re used to feeling lonely.

Despite buzzing with millions of people 24/7 and offering no real personal space, NYC feels so inexplicably lonely. Being solo in the wilderness, away from smelly people and noise, actually felt inviting. Although I’m sure I’d eventually miss the horns and the man living outside my apartment who hides his beer under a traffic cone and yells at me.

7. We’re pros at inclement weather.

The NYC winters had me trekking a painful and non-optional two-mile walk to my office in multiple blizzards, and summers are so hot the only real breeze is the one created by the subway when it whizzes by the platform, but New Yorkers always manage.

In the forest, I padded the ground with ferns to help insulate my body heat against the cold, wet dirt while I slept. It didn’t really work, but neither did the clanky heater in my apartment over the winter. So I’m used to sleeping in the cold.

8. We aren’t coddled.

After jumping into freezing rivers, rationing food, searching for edible plants, rappelling down the side of a mountain, and crawling across a rope bridge, my feet were zonked and pruney, and I was hungry as shit.

I’ve never felt exactly like this in NYC, but the time the subway broke down, I couldn’t get a taxi, and had to slog home in heavy rain through trash-filled puddles lugging four bags of Trader Joe’s groceries without an umbrella was pretty close. There are days when this city is so hard all I want to do is sail away from this toilet of an island and never return.

9. We’re determined.

In the wilderness, I zip-lined over waterfalls, built a shelter from hefty tree branches, and slept in a coyote-infested forest. I searched for water and ate worms, and, if left long enough, I’d maybe have drunk my own pee.

In the concrete jungle, I constantly feel pressure to climb the corporate ladder among some of the most talented and determined individuals fighting for similar goals. It’s survival of the fittest in the city, and only those who really want it will make it work.

The happiest regions of the USA

Photo via The Daily Mail

I’M REALLY NOT SURPRISED that New York City is home to some of the most unhappy Americans, according to a study from the U.S. National Bureau of Economic Research. We are so cold, unfeeling, and jaded, and we never take time to really relax. Our living conditions are on the brink of tenement-style, and even a tube of toothpaste will cost you your first-born.

Then again, it’s easy to be super happy in places like Montana, and Colorado, where outside of the city centers, there isn’t much to stress about. The cost of living is low, there are wide open spaces to explore, and at least in Colorado’s case, you can always get high if you start to get depressed. I’m not sure what the draw is for the Richmond, Virginia area, but maybe it has something to do with Southern hospitality (and the fact that you can get a five-bedroom house for less than $300,000).