Thai Café: A Photo Essay

Nikko, Japan: A Photo Essay

New Hampshire Winter

The Kimchi Chronicles (Volume IV: The End of The Beginning)

(New Readers: Start at Volume I)

By about 10:30 the bar begins to fill up.  As patrons file in and gather with their friends I’m reminded of how cliquey the expatriate community is in Korea.  Upon my arrival here I expected all foreigners would share instant rapport because of our common experience.  Rather, I found many of them went out of their way to avoid looking at me when we passed on the street.  Even on a Friday night with the liquor flowing freely, not many stray from their small group of friends.  There are two reasons for this.  

The Kimchi Chronicles (Volume III: Happy Hour in Hades)

The smell on the 63-1 bus is a distinctly Korean blend of booze, garlic breath, fresh ginger and grooming products. I get a text message from Seth asking where I am. As I type my reply the old woman sitting next to me looks on out of the corner of her eye with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. To her, it must be strange enough to witness the advent of hand- held electronics. That a foreigner is using one next to her on the bus in a post Hermit Kingdom Korea must indeed hearken the dawn of a 21st century Bizarro world.

The Kimchi Chronicles (Volume II: A Speech Contest Day Miracle)

As the first period bell rings Dave sets down his bible and gathers his textbooks. Joe does a quick hair-check in a small mirror he keeps on his desk. Betty Anne slips the rest of a piece of bread in her mouth and glances around guiltily, as if she doesn’t want anybody to see her eating. Seth picks his head up, looking as if he’s just received bad news.

The Kimchi Chronicles (Volume I: A Stranger Arrives in a Strange Land)

“Welcome to Seoul.” announces the flight attendant. As she says these words I momentarily panic. This is the furthest I’ve ever been from home. The unknown is always met with equal parts fear and excitement.

The Lighter Side of Desolation

Pofadder is a well-known town in arid, sparsely populated NW South Africa. However, its particular distinction is not one that draws many visitors.   To South Africans, Pofadder is the local equivalent of Timbuktu or Kalamazoo.  That is, it represents a place that is remote and out of touch with the civilized world.  The place is in fact so desolate that I drive through without realizing it.
The only signs of a town are a reduction in speed for about 1000 meters, a few shacks and a petrol station. In this part of the world, though, a petrol station is as good as a town.
As the speed limit return to 120 I’m so puzzled by the almost complete lack of anything that I decide to go back to make sure it was actually Pofadder.

A White Magician in Africa

The first time I spotted him I was lounging on the lawn, writing in my journal.  He wore the same clothes as the plumbers who worked for my girlfriend’s parents, so I assumed he was one.  I walked up to him and introduced myself.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“James” he replied in a thick accent.

Namibia

Hondeklipbaai: A Photo Essay

The Guy With The Eye Broke My Heart

I was aboard a bullet train to Kyoto when he lurched down the aisle and temporarily into my life.  ‘The Eye’ was the first thing I noticed about him.  His left one was rolled back in his head to the extent that only a fraction of the iris was visible.

The Jackson Hole Diaries

2/2 The Road to Jackson Hole

The roar of the V-8 under my feet feels very American as we climb through the foothills of the Northern Rockies, yellow/green grass, red/pink rock plateaus like specialty cakes crafted by time and erosion, off to the left deeper foothills, browner, dotted with conifers, the path we drive through treeless, only scrubby brush and hearty grasses, a perfect cross between prairie and western plateaus.

Namaqualand

The Hakata Bums

At times life seems no more than a series of undertakings endured only so they can be gloated about after. It was Saturday night and I’d just arrived in Fukuoka, Japan, after a soggy seven hour bus ride. I’d come from Yakoshima, an island off the southern coast, where I’d been stuck in the mountains during a typhoon. After being drenched for three straight days all I wanted was a cold beer and a dry hotel.