March 29, 2013 | Leave a Comment
Out of the Wild West called Belen a thug with a cap pulled low over the brow grabbed and began shaking Maria the ´purse´ of Yellow Rose of Texas. He picked on the wrong person at 8am on March 14, 2013 at the early waterfront market. Buttons popped as the two slugged and shook allowing citizens and vendors along the crime ridden waterfront to get a make on the youth´s face. The thief tore loose the purse and ran down a long stair with Maria tumbling end for end after to gain speed.
He escaped onto the plank maze of sidewalks on stilts above waterworld Belen but he had victimized the wrong girl connected to the right bunch. The Yellow Rose of Texas Rangers was born to serve the Belen and Iquitos territory and stop crime against tourists and Peruvians.
The next day I was Maria´s bodyguard. With a bruised and scraped leg having had medical attention and another sizeable purse under a fresh blouse bouncing like a heartbeat, I shadowed her like a father. The crime scene is at the foot of Palcazu Street with one hundred concrete steps descending to the Rio Itaya. Smoked fish wafts into our nostrils at the first fish table where a senora explained past a gold tooth what happened.
´Maria has been my good client for four years. Her first daily stop when the purse is full is where you are standing to get the morning catch. Would you like to try it, senor? The youth has been watching her day after day knowing her purse would be heavy with cafe money at the first stop, and he attacked as she pulled it. Maria fought, but the youth was stronger and he ran down the stairs with the purse and Maria on his heels. She slipped and slid down the stairs.´
´Do you know the robber?´ I asked. ´I do,´ she answered.
´I know him better!´ bellowed Omar the vendor at the adjacent stall. ´He has terrorized our clients and pickpocked the tourists for years. He´s been in and out of jail, but he keeps coming back for more. The police can do nothing but raise the iron bar over his head and release him because the courts are crowded.´
I offered a reward for the bad man: 10 Soles ($US4) for the name and 20 Soles for the capture- a small fortune. And I returned to the Yellow rose outdoor tables where the day before over a gordo omelet I had seen her return bleeding and empty handed.
´May I be her bodyguard?´ I asked restaurant owner Gerald Mayauex.
´You´ll need backup,´ he agreed wisely.
I put the word out on the grapevine to Richard Aku Fowler, a legendary figure in Iquitos, who ambled up with the sun at his back even as I took the last bite of the omelet.
We explained the crime, the threat to tourism, the apparent shy law enforcement to enter the lower market, and the need for a solution. He pulled a sheet of paper out his pocket, revealing handcuffs dangling on a belt loop, and other bulges under the pants.
´DON´T MOLLEST THE TOURISTS IN BELEN. THE LONE RANGER.´ the wanted poster read.
The Lone Ranger is a fictional hero, an ex-Texas Ranger who with his faithful Native American companion Tonto, fights for law and order in the American old west. The character is an enduring icon in American culture. Departing on his white stallion after righting a wrong, the stranger would shout, ´Hi Ho Silver!´ leaving behind one silver bullet, and someone always asked, ´Who was that masked man, anyway?´
We grabbed a motokaro taxi with a surrey fringe to the Belen market. Thousands of tourists from around the world visit the seamy, flea hopping market each year, and one asks, why? It is a ten block study of fascination of food and human odors, shouts by vendors, wonderful people, action around each bend, and you can get everything you want- even pickpockets- at the Belen market. About one tourist per week is shorn, hardly ever harmed, of his valuables. The young hoods also pick off Peruvians riding by on motorbikes with a fat wallet sticking out a back pocket. The sting is always the same: The ragamuffins hangs at the top of one of five stairwells, lying in wait like little lions panting in the heat with the Jones of a drug habit, until a prey comes, strike boldly, and scamper down a hundred steps to the river. I have been robbed of a camera, watch, and seen five other tourists fleeced. The thief is faster and rarely collared, leaving behind tourists with shrugs and scowling citizens. The Belen police are vigilant and somewhat brave, but haven´t figured out the scheme, overburdened with Billy clubs, tear gas and pistols, nor do they care even with that to enter the lower bowls of the waterfront.
Aku and I staked out the crime scene standing ten yards apart and ostensibly minding our own affairs, him examining cabbage, I feeling tomatoes, and waited. After thirty minutes the flies began to bite, but thirty minutes later a reticent fish vendor whispered in passing in my ear, ´The Rato is eating at a table one hundred meters away, follow me…´ and we tailed him there. A National Policeman in brown stood behind the eater watching every move of the knife and fork. Aku cooed, ´The perpetrator will be high as a kite from the money, but he´ll have just a few Soles to pay for the meal. Officer Vela ordered the man, ´Stand up, you´re under arrest!´ and Aku was on him in a flash, and snapped handcuffs on surprised wrists and shoved them into the small of his back. Another policeman joined us, and they marched as if Aku was their Captain for three blocks to the Sixth Street Belen police station.
´My job is done,´ he said at the entrance handing me the silver key to the handcuffs, and vanished into the market.
´Who was that stranger?´ asked Officer Vela.
´Why, that´s the Lone Ranger.´
Left alone on the station step. I trundled the hombre into the lobby past a beefy policeman with a shotgun and a keen eyed cop with an automatic rifle. The police chief´s face over the counter registered shock as he waved us upstairs. Around a corner and up a flight of stairs I met head detective Fernando Rios ´Sherlock Holmes ´ Zarate of the criminal investigation department of two.
Their office is one small room that catches the heat from downstairs with two desks, one modern computer, a shelf of documents, and the perp was roughly seated on a long hard bench. ´Senor Rato, Sherlock asked gruffly. ´What do you have to say for yourself?´
´I didn't do it.´
´What didn't you do?´
´Whatever the gringo says I did.´
Officer A. Vela S., twenty years old and lithe from what he calls ´eighteen months of very hard and valuable training at the National Police Academy on the Nauta highway, joined and explained what had happened and punctuated, ´And then a tall stranger took over, left a silver key, and disappeared.´
´Who was he?´ asked Sherlock.
´Why, that was the Lone Ranger´ said Vela.
He dissected my face with his eyes, and I began almost to fathom the profound intellect and memory of Sherlock Holmes, a trouper for 28 years. As the perp writhed on the bench in withdrawal, begging the cuffs be loosened, I explained the tourist and expat view of the Belen marketplace.
´Peru tourism has risen like a meteor that will peak in early May when 100 travel agencies land in Iquitos from around the world for a Peru Tourism Conference. They will arrive on Copa Air on one of the first international flights and be greeted by a new airport immigration agency. With the addition of a 5-Star hotel Iquitos will become the gem of Peru. The one sore spot in Shangri-La is Belen. Most tourists go there, about one in forty is robbed, and the strategy is usually the same.´ I explained the stairway escape hatches that the robbers use.
He leaned forward, and stared thoughtfully into my face. ´Thank you for bringing in Senor Rato. We will begin a police report now.´ The man gave his name as Elvis Gafica Reategui, 30-years old, height 5´7¨, weight 70 kg., pocked face, no document, with no particular address and nothing in his pockets. The gold tooth senora was brought in to identify him and sign an eye-witness statement, and left.
'He didn't resist arrest and was amicable,´' I piped, 'So there´s no need to hit him.' ´ Vela,´ ordered the boss without glancing up from the report. ´Take Senor Rato to his cell.´ A few minutes of paperwork later a burly cop entered and informed, ´His real name is Eliseo Baos Aneulo, age 30, domicile Penjamo, he´s been in and out our jail three or four times on the same charge, and admitted today´s crime.´
´How did you find out?´ I wondered. The head detective smiled as the officer retorted, ´I raised an iron bar over his body and he squealed.´ He did not say he hit him.
Two hours later, Sherlock put the last punishing period on the handwritten one- page report, and pushed it across the desk for my signature. I signed, with a flourish an addendum swearing, ´I do not speak Spanish,´ and shoved the document back. Then I handed the detective the poster ´Don't molest the tourists in Belen. The Lone Ranger' that he beamed over for a full minute after I snapped a photo.
There was one more thing to do before leaving the station. The silver key. I went downstairs alone to the rear building and surveyed the Sixth Street holding tank. There are two 10´x10´ block cells connected by a narrow alley where a ragtag youth slept but arose as I stepped over him. He tried to pickpocket me, but I pushed him down and asked, ´Where is your bed?´ and he curled up like a pup and slept. In one cell a misfit awaiting an interrogation or eyewitness gawked through the slats as if he was seeing a ghost. The heavy bar doors are unlocked and can be opened from the inside… but then there are the shotguns and rifles. I opened the door to view Eliseo Aneulo crashed on the bare concrete and gently prodded his shoulder. ´Ohh,´he groaned, and rolled away. I removed the cuffs, he rubbed circulation back into the wrists and hands, and indicated he was hungry. I nodded and slammed shut the door.
The sun was setting on another market day as I exited the building, when suddenly I was sided by a hefty uniform filled with self-importance and multiple stripes on the sleeves. He cordially introduced himself as the new shift ´Sherriff´, adding, ´Word is going around on the case, and I wish to thank you, and especially the Lone Ranger.´ I gave him some change to buy our thief a meal, and left.
The next morning Maria the Purse was the hero of Belen and did not need a bodyguard any more. They cheered
and showered her with spinach, bananas and greens for her own kitchen as she made the hour round of 80 kilos for the restaurant. For the first time a policeman stood watch over each Belen staircase as one patrolled the stem on a motorcycle. The case was closed and Belen is safer for a time.
Sherlock has forecast the fate of the thief in the legal procedure. He will be held for about four hours and released. Since the robbery was for 300 soles ($US120) it is a misdemeanor, far less than the 1400 soles required for a felony to send him to the Brazil Street carcel. Assault is not taken into account unless it causes a serious injury. There must be a testimony to make a police report from either the victim or, as today, the eye witness senora Gold Tooth. Since the thief has a record and address he will be sent a notice to appear in court. ´It will be ignored,´ guesses Sherlock. In another week a second notice will go out, a third, and then ´We will start looking for him. If I didn´t release the mugger today I'd lose my job. We do about five reports daily at the Belen station alone. The courts simply do not have the time or money to process cases that do not at least pay for themselves.´
Tourism is on the rise outside Iquitos too, in Lima, up at Machu Pichu, around the Amazon and throughout this national paradise. The Texas Rangers of the old American West had a saying, ´One riot, one ranger.´ Now two centuries and half way around the globe in Iquitos their aims are to help the police, update the antiquated laws, change the revolving door court system that puts Senor Ratos back on the streets in four hours, and to make Peru a safe tourist haven.
March 25, 2013 | Leave a Comment
Ayahuasca in my Blood by Peter Gorman
I first met Peter Gorman in 1999 after being stranded with Iquitos guide Carlos Grande with the Mayoruna ´Cat People´ Indians deep in the Amazon. Carlos split, and I ´rented´ at machete point a child´s hand hewn canoe and paddled like Indiana Jones to the Brazil border and was medevac´d to Iquitos for the hospital, but decided to drop into Peter Gorman´s waterfront Cold Beer Blues Bar to tip some medicine. ´They´re my friends!´ he shouted of the Mayorunias. ´Next time just tell them Peter sent you.´ I did, and would discover that Peter knows and is known throughout the Amazon as ´Ground Zero´ of Ayahuasca, the first to introduce it and other medicines from the green pharmacy to North America in the June, 1986 High Times cover story ´Mindbending drug of the Amazon´. It initiated Ayahuasca Tourism to Peru, and Peter´s friend Alan Shoemaker read the piece and followed him down to Peru and struck out alone around the globe as the Johnny Appleseed of ahahuasca.
Three years ago, I was able to repay Gorman for nursing me back to health in the Cold Beer Blues Bar by advising him to write up his ayahuasca adventures. In fact, I importuned him over the course of a year, as he had me to heal my jungle injuries, to keep churning out the colorful and educational shaman, plant medicine and jungle lore sketches and putting them into a book he finally titled Ayahuasca in my Blood: 25 Years of Medicine Dreaming. The books came off the self-publish press in 2010 two months before the annual July Iquitos International Shaman Conference where he had totted and sold the first copies to the conventioneers.
The narrative weaves wonderful, honest and horrifying anecdotes in and out an educational journey through the personal and public evolutional of ayahuasca tourism, and much more. During the last 25 years, Peter Gorman has had a torrid love affair with Peru's Amazon jungle, and has been lucky enough to score artifacts for the American Museum of Natural History in New York, medicinal plants for Shaman Pharmaceuticals, herpetological specimens for the FIDIA Research Institute of the University of Rome, and of course hundreds of tales in the book.
At Amazon.com Ayahuasca in My Blood ranks the highest Five Stars with an awesome endorsement of one of the rare books at Amazon to appreciate in value.
March 20, 2013 | 3 Comments
I´ve been hoboing cargo boats around the Amazon for three weeks, and the other morning found me on another jungle riverbank with my thumb out in a light rainstorm flagging a ride. Sunrise is the prime time to hitch rides because Peruvians, including fishermen and captains, are early risers to beat the heat of the day on everything from motorized canoes to fat old tugs and triple deck launches. This morning the rain quits after two hours, I tear off the rain jacket to greet another gorgeous sun blazed day, and a 20´ canoe swings from mid-stream on the Rio Huallaga right up to my waterproof boots.
´Ahoy!´ hails the stout captain grasping my hand in an iron fist to pull in closer.
I climb aboard with my ´house´, a 30lb backpack that I tell the captain contains a wife and dog to break the ice of seeing a white face.
He laughs, and it´s that simple… I´m bobbing downriver to destination unknown.
But this is a special ride in duration and clientele for the sole paying passenger is an architect who has contracted the captain at the expense of the Peruvian government to convey us on the Huallaga to the mouth of the Rio Nucaya, and up it to the high jungle pueblo called Progresso to put the finishing touches on a new schoolhouse. Virtually every Amazon pueblo is built on a river, as most of the early American frontier boom towns were set on railroads to transport settlers and goods.
The slim hand hewn canoe slices the water powered by a 13.5hp Mercury motor with an 8´´ blade mounted at the end of a 10´shaft on a pivot that is effortlessly lifted out the water every ten minutes above plant and log jettison of a recent storm. The river is at peak crest some ten vertical feet higher than will be seen in the coming summer months of low water.
The pecapeca putts down the Huallaga, and veers up the lesser Rio Nucaya until sunset with little river traffic except monkeys and storks on the banks, and, at dusk, alligator eyes pop out like red cigarette lights where one judges their lengths- one to six meters- by the distance between the dots. There are also unseen 250lb jaguars and 10-meter boas that won´t bother the boat at 5mph up the narrowing stream any more than a billions skeeters who can´t be bothered.
An hour before the following sunrise the canoe rams the mud bank of upriver Progresso and we wrap in tarps on the boat bottom against mosquito clouds to nap until the village wakes up. Malaria is rampant deep in the jungle but is endured- a few weak die young- and dismissed as lightly as the American common cold. Our snores are cut short by a rooster´s crow and the rasp of brushing teeth around the canoe. A smiling native explains that only the men brush before breakfast, ´To wash the fish taste out of our mouths.´
The captain and architect climb off to visit the new primary school that is color coded blue to identify the river Nucaya to lost Peruvian Air Force pilots to land on pontoons. Each of thousands of like pueblos with their government provided schoolhouses and generators is laid out in a town square that is always a soccer field with one side on the water. Games start after school and when it gets hot a good kick into the river is the excuse to swim. Every Amazon child has fins, and some of the fish have feet. At one end in Progresso the rickety stick soccer goal is incorporated into the town outdoor church platform with a few folding chairs and pulpit carved from a tree stump.
One of the villagers invites me into his thatched home on stilts that his wife sweeps clean of chickens, piglets and children for an adult conversation, and breakfast of fish and platanos. Peru is rich in four resources: gold seen in the teeth of city dwellers, yucca in the swollen stomachs of kids, fish from the rivers, and platano bananas on virtually every high jungle farm. I have been eating fish, platano and yucca for breakfast, lunch and dinner for three weeks, and can´t complain. In thirty minutes another villager knocks, and yokes me to his adjacent hut for coffee, and later another villager until I have completed the infield. They mostly like to talk mostly about Obama, Hollywood and automobiles. The town generator provides electricity four hours nightly to a TV in every hut, and the natives know more about Mickey Mouse and US politics than Americans.
The average family has ten children, and the smallest I was invited into had a young wife of six years marriage with eight children. The sex ratio is about 3:2 girls to boys, and on asking mothers why, the stock answer is; ‘Of course!´ I am convinced these children have never smelled flatulence, heard a sneeze, or seen white skin except on TV. They seem amazed in their colorful world at my pigmentless bark and approach singly or in pairs, stop just short of my shoes, stare thoughtfully into my eyes for long moments, and run off tittering to show and tell their playmates. Bold ones practice their English, ‘What are you from?’, and one tyke eyed my bloomer shorts hung on suspenders like a barrel around a cartoon hobo´s midriff, and asked, ‘What is your name, Mr. Shorts?’ Soon a small troop followed me around the soccer field like the Piper practicing their multiplication tables.
Amazonians are among the world´s most hardy people from centuries of geographic isolation, as well as the selective breeding practices of infanticide of the sickly, raiding villages for female breeding stock, killing males of the neighbor tribes except the strongest young to adopt as their own, and malaria with other jungle ravages. The genetics of self-sufficiency have evolved solidly over the centuries. As one hobos further and further away from the major waterways and up distant tributaries, the people grow wilder looking, own their own dialects, their clothes grow rattier with hand-me-down hand-me-downs from the lower reaches, the women shed tops, the kids turn naked, and the apus or shamans look like they drink blood. I always turn around at this point rather than risk verifying reports of Peruvian soldiers roasted and eaten on the spit.
The jungle children love school- I’ve asked hundreds-because they say they like to study. All can read, write and do math on a par with USA kids, but a Peruvian´s education stops after primary school to work the family field or business, for all but the rare parents who can afford to send their privileged kids days away to a city secondary school.
However their schooling begins at home. They are put through early rigors that rival a monastery with a years´ long rite of passage from the birth canal into the sticky, mosquito infested forest. While American children are dropped into cribs with all the bells and whistles to stimulate their attention, jungle babies take the opposite turn. For one year the Amazon babe is at mother’s breast; about year two he is placed on the hut platform lip over swirling piranha infested water and if he falls in the gene pool strengthens; the next year he watches it rain; and the fourth observes the rise and fall of the river. Next he watches the bananas grow and bunch for a year on the family farm, and finally about year six he is handed a sharp machete and learns the rhythmic swing left and right of the jungle. He is an automation with a physical mind pulsing low on the brain stem, and his rock body is impervious to mosquitoes, rain, cold and sun. Nothing ruptures his daily trance… except each evening at 6pm the shout, ‘Lights!’ raises the roofs and an old man somewhere cranks each town generator and millions of household TVs burst to life and are tuned to cartoons, news and American movies. The trances are destroyed like the earth pathogens did in the Martians in H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds. They sleep it off, and are reborn robots the next morning. The bumper stickers on their canoes and boats would cut to the chase of three jungle philosophies: There is no meaning in life except what you invent; it´s a dog-eat-dog world; and death is nothing.
Everywhere I arrive in the Amazon the first few hours my name is ´Gringo´ as Blondie in The Good, Bad and Ugly; a few hours later the more respectful ´Senor´; then the more familiar ´Mister´; and finally by the last hut in Progresso I am called ´Hobo´. Yet it´s whispered always in Latin America behind the back, ´Gringo´, the Ugly American that must be lived with.
All around the soccer field/town square a procession is taking place. This is the harvest season! From Britain to Canada and USA, China to India, the Caribbean, Russia and wherever people plant and eat crops the harvest festivals are celebrated by assorted work and rituals. In America it is called Thanksgiving. However, nowhere in the world is the land so fecund and harvest as bountiful as in the upriver pueblos of the Amazon. The organically rich black water of Rio Nucaya has promised for one year many and large fish, animals and the cash crop food staple bananas to Progresso.
Today in Progresso from the vantage of nearly every hut on town square I have witnessed a parade of men, women and youth carrying banana bunches from the jungle edge to the river bank, and stack carefully into a 20-meter canoe that sags lower into the water. At noon, it is stuffed beam to beam and six-feet high with bananas. A middle-age man who has been keeping a ledger of dozens of contributors to the load stuffs the sheet in his pocket, dons a white baseball cap, and as two sons struggle with five gallon gasoline containers, I leap off a wooden stool, out the window and jog a few meters to ask for a ride. He hands me a funnel, we fill the pecapeca tank, and as the engine kicks and warms we scale to the top of banana mountain. High on the boat center he points down a 4´ diameter hole at my berth on the floorboards. I skinny down the well with a gallon pail and became a working hobo on a banana boat.
Deep in the well I ponder bananas. There is the banana and platano, with no biological distinction between the two, both known by the botanical name Musa. The banana has yellow skin and is sweeter, a desert, while the green skinned starchier platano, a cooking banana, was today´s chips with fish. Each Progresso family owns a 100-meter banana garden that he has hacked from the jungle, a private square hemmed from others in an agricultural checkerboard by a narrow fence of uncut trees. The farm trails double as wood gathering and hunting paths, and in the summer months (July through September) a walking hobo may adventure in Jurassic Park for weeks connecting villages and rivers and relying on the natives for food, shelter and guides.
The biography or a platano patch is that a young family heads out to the jungle and judges a fertile spot by the resident fauna. The forest is cleared for a 100-meter square, seedling platano trees planted, weekly weeding trips, and nature fertilizes and waters. Each tree after one year produces one bunch of 60-100 bananas that weighs 25- 50lbs. One tree produces annually for three years before running out of steam, and then is burned to ashes to fertilize new seedlings. Unlike other world harvests, the banana season runs all year so, like staggered certificates of deposit, the bank of trees may be harvested anytime. Earlier today the three-inch stems were cut, hundreds of bunches caught, and carried to town. Each bunch sells at a big city market for about $10, so a plot of a ten trees affords a family $100. This banana canoe is a $2000 load.
The captain shouts, ´See you in a week!´ as we pull from Progresso. My head pops out the well like Kllroy at a dozen investors cheering a safe journey, the captain waves the ledger with gravity, and as if by afterthought someone tosses a cardboard box to me that I catch and feel a scratching within. The captain yells, ´If you like it, you can buy it for $40 to pay for gas.´
A minute later as the boat stalls around the first bend, I hear, ´$20…´ and open the box. A month old animal blinks in the sunlight, and crawls up my arm to sniff the platanos. ´Hello, Uncle Sam,´ I say.
The Sacha Vaca or Amazon Cow looks like a runt deer with an anteater´s long snout and the keen mind of Arnold the pig of Green Acres. It is a proper tapir and frequent household pet eating when young like the dickens, and growing to 250lbs. This baby at 15lbs. is the size of a small cat with tawny fur and yellow lightning bolts down the sides of the neck. Fantastic swimmers, Sam loves splashing in the water well and looks up quizzically when I bail it dry. Today the Amazon tapir is considered endangered.
The bottom board seams leak water around my feet at the rate of five gallons every thirty minutes, and if I fall asleep for an hour the captain knows by the sway at the keel that I’m slack and screams, ´Heave to, gringo!´
It rains, the sun shines, I urinate on my feet to keep them from freezing, and dive deep into the well to escape the equator elements. We pause once to cut giant 5´x2´ tree leaves to umbrella the roasting bananas. To kill time between bails I rub Sam´s chin and he nudges back, and as he nibbles them I estimated the number of banana bunches aboard at 200 for a total three ton cargo.
The captain receives no commission except a week´s paid vacation from his own platano farm, and is chosen because as a youth he visited and remembers the Iquitos marketplace, plus the $500 new motor is his. He will guide the load, sell at the market, and return in a week to disperse the community bank. The business is being repeated now a thousand times over with crop varieties such as yucca, corn, agave and mangos, that makes an American hobo´s life sweet in the Amazon.
The motor is another 13.5hp pecapeca mounted at the end of a 12´ shaft which on a pivot is easily lifted to swing 360-degrees to propel and steer the craft. The pilot´s view of the river is blocked by bunches, but two young sons are his eyes, one perched on the stack directly in front of him to relay hand signals from the other sitting on the bow looking out for floating vines and logs that might choke the motor. They are learning the ropes and, one day will step into Captain Bananas´ boots as the trusted town bankers.
They live in a water world. The spare five-gallon gas containers are sufficient at two downriver hours per gallon for the fifteen hour voyage, and my gallon pail enough except when it rains buckets. To this moment when the captain cursed, ´Gringo!´ I believe the motor runs out of gas rather than myself as the engine sputters out and the 5mph current carries us crashing a hundred meters into the flooded plain tugging vines and knocking over saplings until perhaps by sheer weight of a carpet of insects the bow comes to rest on in the crotch of a four-story tree. The sheepish captain stains bugs out of the gas and fills the tank, swivels the rotor into reverse, and we pull vines and push trees back onto the main stream.
The water world has special physics, and you first hear the whistle of wind at the top of the well, and like a thousand drums the patter of raindrops sweeps from behind and catches the canoe. Someone yells ´Here she blows!´ but by now everyone has stripped to his underwear to weather the storm. While the well offers protection from all but the vertical drops, Sam does an ankle deep jig and I bail around him like crazy as the rate of leak climbs to 10 gallons every thirty minutes. Three lags in this strange world occur. Behind the boat, miles away, a tsunami slowly builds as the feeders of the Nucaya hurry and raise the water five feet in an hour. If you walk in the jungle the raindrops don´t touch you for thirty minutes until the canopy begins to drip. Finally, in fifteen minutes the bananas that have caught the brunt of the rain begin to drip and the boat is in danger of capsizing with the water near the inner lip of the canoe as well as reflecting waves off the bank battering the outer rim.
The downpour lasts an hour, sunlight follows for a few hours, before a new check of cumulonimbus covers us and the pattern repeats. By some meteorological quirk it doesn’t rain much at night. The tapir being mainly nocturnal has buried its head in the palm of my hand during sunshine, and at night wades around my feet and cocks its young ears at the calls of friends and enemies of the jungle- the howl of the cougar, love croak of a dozen species of frogs, and chorus of millions of insects as deafening as Times Square at midnight. The bow mate swings a AA flashlight back and forth signaling the banana beleaguered captain of snags ahead, while the second mate sleeps. A full moon helps with glimpses of the Southern Cross through the shore canopy.
The occasional yellow kerosene lights in windows of riverbank huts vanish at once signaling a curious transition of river elevation. The entire Amazon is divided into high jungle that is dry except for storms, and low jungle that is flooded all year from winter rains and spring Andes snowmelt (except three short summer months). In traveling up a river to the Andes foothills, at a certain point the land wins over the water and finally offers a purchase for life. However, on the lower reaches of the same river there is no ground to build houses, plant gardens and hike trails to hunt because for about nine months of the year a nearly 30’ vertical river rise overruns the banks into a floodplain that extends a few hundred meters to a mile of inland swamps and lakes. Already the stream beneath our banana boat is widening to a hundred meters and the current diminishes to 3mph in approaching the river mouth.
High and low land expounds the human history of the jungle. The earliest settlers paddled up rivers until they found land to walk, build and plant on. It was fertile and attracted more pioneers for resource and company. The town grew to a point of mutual diminishing return at about twenty huts, and the more enterprising families struck out inland or upriver to start new lives at fresh sites. As the towns spread and grew across the Amazon, a communal field on the waterline became the blueprint around which the huts were constructed in a U with the river completing the fourth side of the square. Goals were thrown up when soccer arrived, but the fields still double as the market and gathering place. If, by a long shot, the pueblo grew into a city then the town square became a plaza around which lovers court and the elderly sit and think whatever Peruvians ponder.
At the mouth, the pueblo called simply Mouth, Peru has experienced growing pains because it lies in a nearly constant state of flood. A half-dozen ramshackle huts on ten feet stilts where the Nucaya slams into the Marinon glance a half-mile across the mouth at each other. If there is a soccer field it is an underwater game. We land at dawn over the flooded front yard at the front steps of the town store. I climb out the well with Sam snuggly in a pocket, and we walk into the doorless shop hailing, ´ Buenas Dias!´ The wood walled, thatched hut on a ten-meter bamboo slat platform is sectioned by palm dividers into a tiny bedroom for the owner, a wire mesh cubicle off the living room stacked with evaporated milk, biscuits, soap, funnels, pails, mosquito and fish nets, string, and a few bottles of soda, and a kitchen with a 5´-square 2´ deep sandbox with at the center a firepit, and already water a-boil for coffee. A narrow plank surrounds the island hut with a bucket on a rope that is cast five feet down to backyard water. Laundry and bathroom are performed from the same roost making the backyard coffee ´strong´.
´Buenas Dias!´ announces an ancient senora swaying out the kitchen. She pours coffee all around and exits to the perimeter plank to pull up a 4´ wide, 30´ long fishnet that is used for volleyball at land´s end. A dozen fish in various stages of dying are caught by the gills and fins in the net, and she nimbly detaches and dispatches them with a conk on the hut side, except an Amazon delicacy, the Carahama, which she releases live into a bucket of water, and removes two with the jab of a fork for the breakfast skillet. The 1´-2´ Carahama looks like a cross between a Catfish and Tyrannosaurus Rex with an exoskeleton armor and sucker mouth making it a vegetarian. It has gills but also breathes atmospheric oxygen and can walk days between water holes. When served nearly boneless, as it has three meals running a day for three weeks, it tastes and has the texture of good American beef.
It is determined during breakfast that our canoe is too small to negotiate the brimming Marinon, so I am freed to hobo another boat. I stand on the front steps under the rising sun trying to flag distant crafts. In an hour, I sit with my feet dangling in the water with the ducks and read the final chapter of Leonard Moseley´s marvelous Disney´s World. On the last page I look up over the floodplain and feel as if I know and so thank Walt for introducing me as a nine-year old to JungleLand in Anaheim, California. Who would have thought…
A senora my age paddles up for sugar and asks my country, job and marital status. Satisfied, she presents her teen daughter, asking, ‘Would you like a wife?’ The pretty bewildered girl blushes at the prospect, and a younger man could do worse in this world than marry, settle and raise a baker’s dozen Peruvians teaching them the word of the book and edge of a machete.
In a while, a 10-meter balsa raft with a full family and load of yucca and corn for the Iquitos market drifts by. It is constructed of thirty balsas laid side-by-side with a half dozen cross logs to secure them, and a bamboo slat platform with a tarp lean-to, cooking fire, family of six, barking dog and jumping monkey. At 1mph and steered by 3´-wide paddles on either side, it will reach Iquitos in about a week, but the family will return in style from the sales up the Rio Nucaya in a used pecapeca canoe which will secure their future.
Soon, a ten year old build like Lou Ferrigno who smells like chlorophyll paddles to the store for salt and asks if I am lost. I require him to name the nearest species of trees, birds and insects, and he looks around in one breath and names about twenty. So I hire him for a dollar an hour on a guided tour into the floodplain. Colored saucer butterflies flit for an hour through mangrove roots to a cocha, or lake, where a pink dolphin jumps and he avows it is safe to swim because the 6-meter crocodiles are sleeping in subsurface burrows through the heat of the day.
Back at the store, Sam is crawling beneath the bug nets and licking the toes of the giggling banana crew. Pleased at my smile, they say, ´Your ship has arrived!´ In the Peruvian mind there is now, not then or the future. Word is out via the water grapevine that a downriver launch will arrive quickly, and a celebration feast is planned with the senora already banging pots and pans.
I return to a post back on the front steps awaiting dinner or the boat, whichever comes first. The strategy of hoboing river craft is the same as the American hobo on the freights except in the Amazon you try to be seen rather than duck out of sight. The pulsing motion and flow of scenery is similar, with adventures and escape around each bend, where on rock ballast or muddy shore the only downside is waiting between rides. On shore, the standard signal is to bellow, which is heard up to a quarter-mile over a small engine. Splashing water such as jumping jacks is seen from a half-mile. The universal flapping white shirt, or in my case the light side of a reversible windbreaker, draws a boat from the far bank of a three-quarter mile river such as the Marinon, or a mile if standing in front of a dark backdrop such as a copse of bushes or dark wooden hut. As the craft closes in you may switch to wave a dollar bill. At night you waggle a flashlight.
I consider Sam, and the kittens in pockets and dogs on leashes I have known as an American hobo along the steel roads. For $20 I could have a road chum, and ride him to boats like Flipper when he gets older. But ´Supper!´ is the call. It is rare and savory, honest to god rice and a chunk of meat on a shared plate. The Banana Captain delicately puts a piece of meat on my rice, as the two lads toast, ´A rich piece of meat for the Gringo.´ The skull bone is so thin it crunches like a chip and the fat oozes between my teeth and down the chin.
I think to offer some to my pal. ´Where is Sam.´ I ask.
The captain blanches, ´He died.´
´How?´ The captain rubs his thin belly.
I gag, and rush from the table out the door to the steps, and stand for hours splitting and flagging until the fat old tug Vargas laden with yucca and mangos chugs up and bottoms out on the front yard. A gangplank nearly catches my temple. I stroll aboard taking a piece of Sam with me, grinning, and breaking wind on the bow of another riverboat wondering where I’ll land.
What do you think of the new way of serving a la Kane where they serve from the right, leaning all the way to the right side wall, and then move the left foot to the middle like a dance step and get the torque from the lateral motion as well as the hips?
Bo Keely replies:
Of course a righty does it from the left side, but the purpose I think is two: lateral movement confuses the receiver because the eyes are moving side to side and suddenly the ball comes at a straight on. And, from the server´s standpoint, when he starts the move he begins the second law that an object in motion tends to stay in motion, and moving across the service box allows a longer travel before the hit compared to stepping toward the front service line. An analogy is the high jump technique of trotting parallel to the bar for a few steps and suddenly springing 90-degrees at it to leap. These laws of motion work all the time. I just came from bodyguarding a mug victim at the waterfront. We needed backup a few minutes ago, so I called a friend. He showed up with a syringe and vial of dessicated diamondback rattlesnake venom that was "enough to kill everyone in iquitos". What´s this for, I asked. In a move quicker than my eye could follow, his hand raised vertically 6¨ and whipped around horizontally to strike my left jugular, but fortunately he didn't load the syringe. I told him, that would kill the guy– instead load it with frog sappo to paralyze him, and he´ll lay in the gutter as an example where he robbed the victim with a sign on his chest, that I just printed out from the computer, ´Do not molest the tourists!´- the lone ranger´.
1. Genetic gift without which no one gets to a competitive #1.
2. Inclination and time to practice long hours.
3. An organized, analytical chess playing mind.
4. A strong coach or role model is helpful but not necessary.
5. The patience to walk away from drugs, alcohol, romance and secondary influences.
6. A weak peer competition helps but isn't always available.
7. The secret to being #1 in a strong filed is an edge, a tiny advantage repeated over and over to make everyone else below #1.
I was born with superior but not great genes. However, three things happened to this entity thrown into the world that formed a colossal step outside the bell curve, in whatever direction. By a quirk of sleeping in the right place, with the sun on the correct side, noise in one ear, memory of school location on the other side, and mind's eye on my baby brother, with parents above the basement bed, at about age eight the body became bismyetrical and ambidextrous. Then, at age eight, I began modeling body parts and movements after animals instead of humans, taking as an example the hand of a cat, kick of a mule, and neck of a giraffe, following only the human eyes. I became a Mr. Potato boy with various parts. Finally, at age ten at a high jump sand pit that I dug in the back yard with a rising bamboo bar, I developed a technique of using the smallest muscle groups and nearest their attachments and insertions, for kinesthetics.
March 5, 2013 | Leave a Comment
People don't venture after dark onto the Iquitos waterfront because of the rats with two or four legs. So, three years ago when a shadow cast by a yellow lamplight danced over my shoulder I reflected that it belonged to someone who wanted me to know his approach.
´Excuse, mate!´ hailed a cheery tenor. I whirled to peer down on a wiry man with a crooked grin and blue eyes that sparkled in the night. ´Tourists shouldn't come here, ya know.´
I laughed, and thrust my hand; as he withdrew and hid his behind his back. With his left he grasped the outside of my fingers and shook, saying, ´Let me explain.´
´I was just robbed! Two blocks away two teen Peruvian thugs flashed a broken fluorescent light in my face. ´I'm a Brit!´ I retorted, and the next instant we were rolling on the ground. One pinned me, the other stuck the bulb in my hand, and as I swooned from pain they stole every Dollar, Pound and Sole I own.´
Slowly, he brought around the right that was bleeding with the little finger stuck out at an awkward angle.
´What are you going to do?´
´That´s the pity. I make my living playing the saxophone, and unless I get 100 Soles ($40) to fix the hand…´ he nearly shed tears.
´Look,´ I advised. I wouldn't be down here looking for a hostel if I had a lot of money. Here’s ten Soles to get you in a doctor's door, and then just plead your case.´
´Thanks!´ he gushed. ´If you see any more tourists out tonight, tell ém Byron the Brit is still searching…´
´I hope I haven't heard the end of your saxophone playing…´ and he vaporized along the wharf.
The next morning I stopped by the Yellow Rose of Texas Café for a macho omelette, and related the incident to Gerald Mayeaux, the expat owner and living record of Iquitos, whom I’ve known for thirteen years. He shook his head, and filled in a remarkable backdrop.
Byron is the most prolific con man in the history of Iquitos…´ He hunts for unsuspecting tourists along the streets of downriver Iquitos telling sob stories and tall tales for a few Soles to support his drug habit. He used to be an upstanding young man playing beautiful saxophone at La Noche and along the malecon for a few years until he gradually grew disheveled and strung out. Now hornless, he is the only gringo tough enough to live in the Belen waterfront where he crashes in crack houses, and prowls the streets at night for tourists. He has conned his way into the souls of old ladies and exclusive hotels where he smokes pasta with the air conditioning running, flicking cable channels. His face is on wanted posters around town and he’s been beaten up by robbed victims, but always rebounds as charming as ever.
´But his bleeding hand…´
´The prey was no doubt the predator,´ Gerald insisted. ´I’m truly sorry since it was a great sax hand. I listened to his music for years, and loaned him money… until my heart strings wore out. One day my wife gave him $100, and a week later he showed up desperate for more and ready to cut a deal. I wanted our money back, and so loaned him another $300 and took his hock ticket for the sax at a local pawn shop. After two years the deal wasn't closed, and I took the ticket to the pawn shop and paid $60 to get it out of hock. I didn't know its worth, except that for once I had out-con the Con Man of his saxophone.´
She was a diamond in the rough. The Selmer Mark VI is considered Henri Selmer´s finest saxophone. It is universally regarded as one of the best saxophone models ever produced by any manufacturer and was preferred by the most famous jazz musicians. The first models came out of France in 1954 with the Selmer engraving on the bell and serial numbers. It is called the most famous horn on the planet.
Gerald in the telling brought up Kaleb Whitaker, another expat businessman and musician I've known who would write an account of the sax in his blog Jungle Love. ´I offered Gerald a thousand dollars cash, on the spot, for the sax,´ says Kaleb. He never did take me up on my offer… Yes,the sax is Gerald´s now and, with a broken pinkie, will Byron be able to play like Charlie Parker?´
Charlie who? Jazz may be defined in the four words Charlie Parker and Louis Armstrong. Parker was a jazz soloist and leading developer of Bebop with fast tempos, virtuosic technique and improvisation. His tone ranged from clean penetration to cherry sweet through jazz and on into Blues, Latin and Classical. He was an ideal in the hipster and later Beat Generation subcultures. He blew many saxophones over the years, and toward the end of his life on March 12, 1955 he blew the earliest Mark VI´s.
She was stolen from a display case at the Hard Rock Café in Hong Kong by Byron and his Brit sidekick whom I’ll call Noel. Noel testified to Gerald and Kaleb that one year he and Byron broke a display case at the Hard Rock Cafe which claimed it was Charlie Parker’s horn. It wasn't their first globetrotting nick. Byron simply wanted to play it.
I haven't seen Byron since the night he conned me, but he’s reported still running around the streets of Iquitos trying to kick the habit, buy his horn back, and get his life in shape. He is called by the poor under the dim lamplight the Robin Hood of Iquitos who prefers to give away everything he doesn´t need at the end of the day, and starting out fresh each morning without a dime in his pocket. So who conned whom?
He’s crushed the sax is gone but is unaware the Selmer Mark VI was just appraised and refurbished by a New Orleans virtuoso. It is a vintage 1954 Selmer Mark VI with a serial number that dates the production in Paris on April 27, 1954, one of the first Mark VI´s ever produced. A Selmer Mark VI sells at Ebay and auction houses in the $8-20,000 range. Did Charlie Parker blow on it ´Ýardbird Suite´and ´What Price Love´?
Likely, and the most a Charlie Parker saxophone has brought is $267,000.
February 13, 2013 | Leave a Comment
The bent handle racquetball racquet of the early 80’s reminds me of a one month experiment with every type of adhesive on the market, about thirty in all from Elmer’s to Superglue, using various styles of gloves and racquet grips to stop grip slippage. I recognized with the onslaught of the fast ball and tightly strung racquets of the early 80's that the primary problem of most players in their entire games was ball deflection on contact due to grip slip.
It started moments after the coin toss in tournaments when the glove, hand and handle got sweaty. Everything in the strokes and strategies of millions of advanced players across the nation was right except the angle the ball came off the strings. Given a good eye or fast camera, the handle rolled about two degrees within the strongest palm. Even power racquetball’s inventor Marty Hogan screamed at the injustice. I needed a glue to stop it. Over the course of a month in my secret 'laboratory' of a Michigan garage via tedious daily hours of applying adhesives to gloves, my palm and handle, I gripped and formed opinions of the best glues… and went to the courts to test them. The best was Barge Cement and to this day I keep a quart on my desert property for all purpose contact.
The result of the glue experiment was conclusive for cement type, but over a period of ten minutes of hard play though the grip didn't slip twixt the glove and handle, it started to rotate between the hand and glove for the same misdirection. Gluing the hand to the racquet was the logical next step which I did for a new one grip system for forehand and backhand. Yet I couldn't let go during timeouts, plus the heating glue felt unhealthy climbing my circulation from palm to armpit, so I abandoned the idea of gluing the hand to handle.
The nationwide grip slippage of the early 80's due to the advent of superballs, tight strings, Tarzans hands, and double ball speeds I believe to this day is the prime reason for the concurrent historic introduction of the one-grip system that previously was all but unknown in racquetball.
I've never met anyone with more diet experience than I, simply stating the fact. On the American skid rows I sup elbow to elbow with the bums with little indigestion, and dine among smiling peers on the back streets of Calcutta. This is a short history of why.
In the first twenty years of my life there was a full belly four times from age 10 to 14 when the family had enough money to go on mother's birthday to go to the Swedish Smorgasbord. The other 364 days of the year at the family tables in California, Idaho, Pennsylvania and Michigan we did not starve but there was never seconds, and I was active and got the same meager portions as my smaller brother and parents. To this day I don't understand why they chose to keep the family slim; perhaps a hangover from the Depression.
With little to compare hunger to I assumed it was a way of life. So the four trips to Swedish Smorgasbord began a revelation to have the stomach full and feel the food surge in the blood. Then for four years from age 12 to 16 there were annual four months during wrestling season of starving to make weight while working out heavily daily. Plus, I had became the Forrest Gump of running– not fast but steady– and the topic of ridicule for it. Besides wrestlers, other sports who know little food and much workout are boxers and horse jockeys; read Laura Hillenbrand's excellent Seabiscuit where down the backstretch appears a three page analysis of weight loss among jockeys before stepping on the feared scales. The methods include spitting for hours to reduce ounces, jogging in a sauna for 30 minutes in a rubber suit to sweat off precious ounces, laxatives for an extra boost, and a dozen other techniques we employed in high school wrestling. Then you stepped off the scale, took the first drink of water in two days, and wrestled. The feeling was extraordinary and exhilarating.
Continuing in veterinary school I became interested in the scientific end of food in nutrition class and observed animal diets, sampling dozens of feeds from dogs, cats, horses, cows, chickens and geese, and studying their teeth. There is no better way to get to know the runt of a litter than getting down on all fours with them around the communal bowl.
I began diet experiments and once ate McDonald's hamburgers for one week for breakfast, lunch and dinner when they were 15 cents and two million sold. Then I gained as much weight as I could drinking eight instant breakfasts daily plus as many meals as I could stuff, and more than once was asked the price of milk by grocery shoppers, $.25 a gallon, who assumed I was the stocker. I wrote the Carnation Company to endorse an early weight gain program but they sent gift certificates and hand claps for more instant breakfasts to climb from a fighting 175 lbs. to 200… and absolutely could put on no more weight.
After university I read James Clavell's epic Shogun and was so taken by the starvation black pits that I fasted for one week on water. In another experiment in a two month period I reduced from 175 to the goal 150 lbs on a daily fare of 1500 calories while working out six hours as a professional racquetball player and accomplished it, and then ate a single long carrot that I will never forget.
I vowed at the tip of that carrot never to go hungry again, but have, and always to treat myself to seconds and more when I like, which I do. Yesterday in Yurimaguas, Peru, I went to the ice cream parlor and bought four cones for $1 each. Then down the street another store scooped four in new flavors at $.75 each. I stepped outside to a street vendor who dished five for $.50 each. On comparison, the first store had the best ice cream and I returned for three more cones.
Today there is the ultimate satisfaction of continuing to get to know food.
Few historians of any sport endure long enough to actually see in live action the legendary competitors they write about. Having started my racquetball journey well over forty years ago, when Leach and Ektelon were California backyard industries pumping out a racquet a day, when the handfuls of players at YMCA’s strewn across the USA used wood clunkers in but two national tournaments per year that we hitchhiked to and lived on hospitality room grub and couches to try to win a T-shirt and little cup… in the sport of racquetball that is just over fifty years old, I can honestly say I have seen all the greatest players play with my own four eyes.
That doesn't mean with certainty that I can pick out the greatest of them all. The problem in making this determination is an inconvenient truth that the fifty year old game has evolved so much over the last four decades that it's next to impossible to compare one era to the next.
The racquets have grown to double head size, much lighter and better made. The strings are strung with 400% more tension than when I hit the court. The doubly faster ball moves like a hummingbird instead of a sponge, the scoring system today is different with shorter games, and many rules changes have obliterated early strategies and given rise to new ones. The sport was and is called racquetball but the greatest players throughout the four eras really played different games.
What I can objectively deliver is a comparison of the very best, and the best of the rest, of each era… and maybe you can decide who was the greatest of them all.
We can divide racquetball in to four distinct eras since the first national tournament in 1968. Each with its own version of the game, personalities, strategies, equipment, rules, and one great champion. The Pioneers competed from the first National event until the mid-seventies. The players of the Golden Era vied from the mid-seventies through the eighties. The Modern Era of the sport consisted of the nineties to the mid-two thousands. The Current Era is the last five years through the present 2013.
We will examine the champion and top ten contenders of each era of racquetball. Of course, some long-lived players crossed eras, but I have listed each in the era he most identified with, and no player is listed in more than one era for this exercise. Once we journey through racquetball history and its best competitors, you will have as much information as any authority on the sport to form an opinion on who is the Greatest of All Time. It will be an informed opinion based on decades of history, and I believe your truth is your truth and you’re entitled to it.
The Pioneer Era
The pioneers of championship racquetball were more often described as Docs than Jocks! We played sweaty chess, a slow strategic contests won by the smarter player and not the best athlete. We played with an extremely slow ball with wood frame and new-fangled medal racquets strung at less than fifteen pounds tension in two out of three games to twenty-one point marathons. The ball only moved 90mph and typical rallies went six or eight shots before a point ended. How accurate was the Doc moniker? Well, five of the top ten of the era and numerous contenders just off the list had Doctoral level degrees in medicine, dentistry, law, psychology, and in my case veterinary medicine.
The hands down Champion of the Pioneer Era was Charlie Brumfield. Bill Schmidtke's forehand was slightly better than Charlie’s, my backhand was superior, Steve Serot ran circles around the bearded wonder, and in a nutshell Brum wasn't especially graceful. However, the one thing he did as much as the rest of us combined was to win. Charlie Brumfield was the most intelligent, determined competitor in the history of our sport, and would and did do anything and everything to win. He invented the Sword and Shield method of play to protect a weak backhand, the donkey kick to clear central court, the crack ace with Carl Loveday’s, ushered in the ceiling and around the wall balls, utilized referee bullying, crowd management and sending soiled doves to upcoming finalists’ rooms at the midnight hour. Charlie was known as The Holder of All Titles which was accurate. He won multiple IRA National Singles and Doubles Championships, multiple National Invitational titles in doubles and singles, and when pro tournaments rolled around in 1973 three Pro National titles on tour, and a pair of Outdoor National singles and doubles championships. He beat all of the best in the biggest competitions of our era including a twenty consecutive tournaments streak. That’s saying something among the Docs.
Just behind him, the Top Ten Contenders of the Pioneer Era in no particular order: Bud Muleheisen, Bill Schultz, Bill Schmidtke, Craig Finger, Paul Lawrence, Steve Keeley, Steve Serot, Mike Zeitman, Steve Strandemo and Ron Rubenstein.
The Golden Era
The Golden Era was aptly named at the highest point in the history of our sport. The game was evolving in the Golden State California and burgeoning across the nation with the first pure racquetball court clubs, female tournaments, the first pro tours, and Hollywood stepped into the courts. Many of the top players sported in imitation my golden afro and mismatched colorful Chuck’s tennis shoes. The game was being played by as many as fifteen million players worldwide. A couple of top professionals made as much as a million dollars in endorsements in one year, Sports Illustrated covered tournaments, and some events were nationally televised during prime viewing hours.
The Golden Era game was played with racquets the same head size as the original sticks but much lighter, strung with more tension, and hitting a much faster ball. A plethora of new manufacturers jumped into the sport, and larger racquets were introduced toward the end of the era. The Golden Era game saw shorter rallies with balls blazing at 130mph where the Docs, having little time to think, were supplanted by the pure Jocks. An accurate term was coined that sticks to this moment- Power Racquetball! You see, the new equipment, bulldog player physiotypes and erupting mentalities spawned new strategies and rules. The 21-point games switched to 15-points, the 11-point tiebreaker added, the screen serve was invented and combat by a side wall server line, ceiling shots became vague memories, and legions of thrilled fans urged ‘Serve and shoot!’ to break the front wall bottom board.
The Champion of the Golden Era, Marty Hogan, was the best athlete of the day and in my opinion the best natural athlete to ever hold reins on the sport. A physical dynamo sporting a golden afro and using the same and sometimes inferior old equipment, he regularly smacked the ball 20mph faster than the next biggest hitter. He hit shots at such speeds as never before that two new ones evolved- the jam serve and splat kill. Marty's unprecedented pendulum power swing smashed with equal power backhands and forehands. His drive serve was the most potent and copied weapon of the day. Hogan was number one of fifteen million players and a dominant personality with the most endorsement contracts in history. He won the Leach NRC Nationals five consecutive times when it was the biggest event in racquetball, plus more total events per annum than any other player for ten consecutive years. At his peak, Hogan went over a year without losing a single match in singles, doubles and outdoors. He even took the paddleball Nationals from me, the reputed legend of wood, to prove he was the second Holder of All Titles and the best of the era.
Just short of him, the Top Ten Contenders of the Golden Era in no specific order were: Mike Yellen, Dave Peck, Jerry Hilecher, Davey Bledsoe, Bret Harnett, Rich Wagner, Craig McCoy, Gregg Peck, Ruben Gonzales and Ed Andrews.
The Modern Era
The Modern Era was played with big racquets that were both light and powerful, almost identical to the ones used today. The Tarzan players with driving type A personalities vied in three out of five games to eleven with the fast Pro Penn Green ball and a new one serve rule to elongate the serve and shoot rallies. Most of the top players of the Modern Era started in junior competitions during the Golden Era, and many were the offspring of noteworthy racquetball players. The second generation players with their super-sized racquets took the game to a new level with 170mph shots the norm in a pro contest. The swing of the era became less pendulum and flatter with extreme body torque and explosive contact. The fast furious pace demanded early swing preparation using fast twitch fibers and mesmeric alertness. The US Open replaced the Leach Pro Nationals as the gala event of the year.
The Champion of the Modern Era was Cliff Swain who to me resembled a praying mantis stalking and blowing the ball to kingdom come. Swain was a jock like Hogan with less bulk and a half-step quicker, with a fierce will like pioneer Brumfield. In addition to sharing these sports traits of the earlier champions, he was a lefty with a serve that was eclipsed by an eyeblink. Television cameras couldn’t follow the ball, much less the service returner. Cliff introduced the flat back-swing, and early swing preparation that is popular today. He won more professional titles than any other player in history, and was the number one ranked player for six years in a testy competitive era. Swain never went a single year without losing a match as Hogan had, and never won twenty in a row like Brumfield, but he was equally impressive in reigning for nearly twenty years from 1985 to 2005 at or near the top of the sport.
The Top Ten Contenders of the Modern Era again not listed in any particular order were: Sudsy Monchik, Jason Mannino, John Ellis, Mike Ray, Drew Kachtik, Andy Roberts, Jack Huczek, Mike Guidry, Tim Doyle and Tim Sweeney.
The Current Era
The Current Era is played almost exactly like the Modern with a couple of improvements. The racquets are still big and getting better every year. The ball frequently travels over 175mph, matches are still the best three of five game. The new Purple Pro ball is a tad slower than the Green of the Modern Era, and the two serves allowed in the original game have replaced the one serve rule. In addition, line judges in big matches watch the serve line and the overall officiating is improved. Jason Mannino, a champion of his own right from the Modern Era, now heads the IRT, and the pro stops have gone international including Canada, Mexico and all over South America.
The Champion of the Current Era is Kane Waselenchuck. Kane is a lefty with a power serve, flat back-swing and early swing prep, and a crushing competitiveness. At the same time he pleases the juniors with trick shots on his knees and behind the back. He seems capable of doing anything on a racquetball court except loosing. Kane has lost only once in the last five years, before recently retiring after a match injury. He is by far the most dominant champion within one era in history, and the gap between him and everyone else is vast.
The Current Top Ten Contenders in order after Kane are: Rocky Carson, Alavaro Beltran, Jose Rojas, Chris Crowther, Shane Vanderson, Ben Croft, Tony Carson, Javier Moreno and Charlie Pratt.
Four Eras and Four Champions
So, among the four eras and champs who is the best? Ask yourself: Who holds the mythical Crown of the Greatest of All Time? A simple query may give you the answer to the mystery of the GOAT. Would Kane be just as dominant and rack up undefeated seasons with a prime Cliff Swain, Marty Hogan and Charlie Brumfield? If you believe the answer is yes, then you've answered the question and Kane is clearly the greatest. If you believe the answer is no, the debate is open and your opinion is probably stronger and more informed than ever.
My trip to the ophthalmologist began ten days ago with a variety of transportations including three days on a triple-deck launch up the Rio Marion, a collective water taxi for a day, motorized canoe for another along the Rio Huallaga, a day hitchhike in a pickup truck to Tarapoto, and a final ten hours by bus from the Amazon jungle up to Piura, Peru in the Andes.
The nation is divided into four sections geographically for medical treatments. If you want kidneys go to Trujillo, for legs to Aeroquip, I travelled to Piura for eyes, and you get your heart in Lima.
Dr. Luna, after a thirty minute exam for $40, said my eyes were fine for jungle walking, and tried writing and reading in mirror image from right-to-left as an eye strengthener. He commented that ‘Vision is like any exercise that may be trained in the gymnasium of a book’,
I don’t need laser or lens surgery, but he wondered why I didn’t wait for him to make his quarterly rounds to Iquitos. All of the geographic specialists make airplane rounds about the country performing examinations in their local colleagues´ offices to ferret patients who need to travel for operations in the specialty cities.
The geographic division of Peru with swinging doctor rounds makes sense because each specialty– kidneys, orthopedic, eyes and heart- requires expensive equipment that individual doctors and hospitals can’t afford. So, for example, with eyes there is one laser machine and a dozen ophthalmologist offices huddled in the same building or block
So, I’m returning to square one in Iquitos by launch, boat, canoe, truck and bus, you see, and awaiting the quarterly arrivals of the other specialists, though it’s likely the honest doctors will find nothing to operate on.
A shout went up on the Rio Marañon bank at Sanamariza, Peru, this morning and an elderly man took off his hat and passed it among the citizens milling on the muddy bank. When the hat got to me I asked why, and it was explained as the Peruvian version of a speedboat zipped around the bend and rammed the shore in the standard docking. This was a medevac of a sick child.
I had been stranded awaiting the weekly Launch to escape this high jungle town down to the lower Amazon, and the sick boy was my ticket out. I passed the hat without dropping a coin, but approached the captain climbing out the boat and asked if he was going downriver to San Lorenzo to which he brightened at the prospect of a paying fare and told me to sit tight for thirty minutes.
He returned gingerly hoisting an IV drip of Suero fluid above the head of a teen in a white smock, the town nurse, who cradled an eight-year old boy as the fluid dripped at a drop a second through the clear IV tube and well-taped needle into a vein on the top of his wrist. They picked a way down the ten-foot bank into the waiting rapido boot, followed by the bedraggled mother and fathered, and then by me, and then a mysterious senorita with the best legs in the Amazon who forgot to put on her underpants.
The rapido is the size of a tin rowboat with a sizeable 40hp Johnson outboard motor and a white shade canopy. The nurse inserted a needle into the IV tube and slowly injected about three CC's over one minute of a drug he wouldn't identify, though he said the patient had weathered a high fever for four days and very sore throat. I could see no other symptoms and the first thought was tonsillitis, an English word that no one recognized. The youth's eyes rolled in the sockets with nearly zero consciousness.
The drug must have been a sedative to have waited until the second before departure to inject… and so slowly. It got a boost when the captain tugged the motor start cord prematurely and the last third of the medicine jerked into the child's vein. The nurse climbed out the boat instructing no one in particular to keep the IV at a drop a second, and scampered up the bank.
The patient had no jacket, no blanket to cover his feverish body. I sat in front to break the wind and looked over everyone. The strikingly handsome people of this region are Peru's former head hunters and the only tribe in the nation to remain unconquered through history. Five percent have single thumbs on one hand or the other that is an apparent genetic recessive display looking more like a big toe than a big toe looks like a big toe, while their other thumbs are normal.
The mother dropped her blouse and began to breast feed her other child who twisted the dark nipple hungrily, the long-legged senorita stared at me, likely the first Caucasian she had seen except on TV, and I took the sick boy's pulse at 80 beats a minute, but strong, and only his fevered brow was a worry.
The 20' boat accelerated to 25mph down the quarter-mile wide Rio Marañon as the white tarp bobbed up and down on the captains' hair where a foot dark halo was rubbed into the fabric. To this day I cannot explain why a few minutes later he chose to veer off the wide river into a shortcut stream. In seconds weeds grabbed the propeller, the boat scrapped stream bottom, the motor conked and we were set adrift in the 5mph current. The rowboat spun like a pinwheel, and everyone looked perplexed but stared vacantly.
'Where are the life jackets?' I hollered over the passengers to the captain, who shrugged.
'Where is the paddle?' I yelled. He stooped and ripped a slat out the boat bottom and began paddling to straighten the boat. The father did the same, and so did I, as the mother continued to breast feed her baby to keep it from crying during the dizzying spin, and the long-legged girl shut her eyes.
Thunder clapped. It began to drizzle. The boat struck a bank sharply and the IV quart bottle cap twisted open and spilled onto the patient. Mother pulled a red-and-white checkered tablecloth and covered her sick child just before nature´s storm hit hard.
We needed the motor to escape the twirl. I yanked a 5' long floorboard and a bit river wise from the past two weeks along Amazon tributaries stood on the bow as I had observed and plunged the slat repeatedly into the water on either side of the boat until it struck bottom, lifted it out and pointed the captain the deep water. The propeller needed 16'' clearance to miss the river bottom, and the plummet found it.
The boat spun for fifteen minutes, but now the captain cranked the motor and we emptied back into the greater Marañon.
In an hour the storm abated, and an hour later the boy's fever broke likely due to the rehydration and sedative. In one hour more we docked at San Lorenzo near the hospital and the mother and father sped their now conscious boy away. He smiled at me, I nodded and paid the captain $50 for my fare, and stepped into the new town.
An archaeologist looking through my house in the future would come across a purple post it stuck on p.322 of Paul Johnson's "A History of the American People". It's over the quote "all serious visitors such as Dickens, Trollope, and Thackeray who intended to write books about their travels visited one or more prisons as well as workhouses, homes for fallen women, and similar dismal but worthy places". Now who would have placed such a post-it. Ha, only one person. The Hobo. And it would lead the archaeologist to conclude that Hobo was living here in the attic in 1997 when the book was published before his trip to Thailand.
The Hobo (Bo Keely) responds:
Victor Niederhoffer replies:
One wishes it were true.
T.K Marks adds:
To your credit, let it be said that anybody who has never had a hobo living in their attic has led an unfulfilled life.
I was in Sand Valley about five years ago. It was the hottest on record in 40 years, about 135 F in the shade daily for a week. But no one keeps official records in Sand Valley. It´s 10F hotter on mean daily than Neeles and Blythe, CA that used to get the Snoopy weather reports as the hottest places in USA. 130 didn't seem that different than 120 to me and I wore 20 lbs of ankle weights and a small knapsack and walked 1.3 mi. to my nearest neighbor where the kittens and chicks were dropping like flies. We lost 20% of the Sand Valley human population that summer related to the heat. I think part of the reason I wasn't affected is I trained for eight previous summers with the windows closed and heater on full blast whenever driving, besides the walking. That was the summer the pair of 16¨ white iguanas camped under an Ironwood outside my burrow and hopped on my bare feet whenever I climbed out the burrow.
Temperature Record Is Cast Out
By THE NEW YORK TIMES
A team of meteorologists casts serious doubt on a world temperature record of 136.4 degrees recorded on Sept. 13, 1922 in El Azizia, Libya. They cite the antiquated instrument used, the likelihood that the observer was inexperienced and the wide disparity with subsequent temperatures recorded at the site. That means that officially, the "new" record surface temperature is 134 degrees, recorded on July 10, 1913 at Greenland Ranch in Death Valley, Calif. [Arizona State University]
Here´s my secret writing style after reading thousands of books and standing on the shoulders of my favorite masters: Steinback, L´Amour, Ayn Rand and Art Shay. This is for longer stories. The piece is shaped as the process of an individual walking down the street. There is a sequence of five events though not always in this order:
1. what the senses see, taste, hear
2. the thoughts
3. the feeling/emotion
5. interspersed with factual material about the stage
Generally, each of the five has a paragraph before moving to the next.
It´s pure formula writing, and a computer could almost do it.
If you think about it, this is what happens when walking down the street. The sequence of five varies with individuals, and a good story teller can train a person to react in a stronger sequence to events of his life.
I don’t know enough about finance to comment on bears and bulls without making a fool of myself, however as a mobile and keen observer and with the help of the top expat businessmen of Iquitos, Peru will describe the characteristics of a boom in a jungle town.
Iquitos is the largest city in the Peruvian rainforest with a population of 500,000 and is landlocked by jungle with only water and air entries. It is the capital of Loreto region located on the Amazon River. The level of the river varies with snowmelt from the Andes to the west by 15 or 20 vertical feet annually. This year was the highest water in forty years at 30 feet above the low mark, which cancelled my plan to write a guidebook of the local hikes and instead wait out the water fall as a bystander studying the local conditions. The high level water mark of four months ago is above the door handles a hundred yards toward the river from where I type, and the residents paddled canoes in and out their front doors and slept with their belongings on the kitchen tables. Now they can walk to town.
As you probably know, nearly all of the developed world has been printing currency at a furious pace. This has increased demand for gold, a store of value that can't be printed at will by politicians. Peru was first described by Antonio Raimondi in the 1860´s as ´A bum sitting on a bench of gold´. There it sat in the world market until the past few years. A recent shift in government rules to attract foreign investors has opened the gold pits to outside companies and on their tide the country floats with an annual 7% economic gain since I left three years ago.
Today the city's economy is based on government (civil and the military), service industries including ayahuasca and excursion tourism, oil and gas exploitation, lumber extraction and fishing. Most of the goods and services are readily available, cyber cafes abound, and ATMs are easy to access. Peru as of 2011, according to Wikipedia and other news stories, is an emerging, market oriented economy characterized by a high level of foreign trade.
One expat speculator offers a contrasting view from the textbook description of Peru´s economy. He claims and trades on the country second and third Top Three exports, two of which are illegal. In order:
2. Illicit gold.
3. Legal gold
It is also common knowledge that these are the Top Three. Another expat who was the first gringo offered the job as town mayor claims that new national laws weigh heavily to favor foreign investors, and China, Japan, Europe, USA and other companies are pouring millions into the country. It is commonly said, as ever, that the lion´s share of the investments goes into the Peru government and company officials´ pockets, and for these reasons an expat investor either must be connected or on his toes.
The cost of living in Iquitos is 1950´s America. Soda is $.16 and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice $.35. Meals run $1.50 for breakfast or lunch and $2 for supper. While Wal-Mart USA sets nationwide prices sizzling for choice beef the Peruvian hamburger with everything goes for $.80. A 24-oz protein fruit shake costs $1 and a dozen donut holes 30cents. Restaurants are ten times busier. A family internet on every corner at $.60/hour and expats track their bank accounts online and use ATM cards to dispense dollars or Soles from a half-dozen banks. My picture post card hotel with a swimming pool, fruit trees and I could walk out the door into Jurassic Park, used to cost the same, $3.50/day, to send the card to USA. I took a path for fifteen minutes through the jungle to the only golf course in the Amazon with piranhas in the water traps that the groundskeeper feeds on weekends. Two months ago I moved to an apartment above an internet that would go for $1000 per month in LA or NYC but here is $70 including utilities. Starting a new test Life of Riley in the Amazon is a money saving endeavor few can afford to pass up.
You would bring a first world wallet to a third world economy. The minimum wage has risen to $280/months times 16, which means that additional monthly bonuses are provided by the employer at Christmas, New Years, one vacation, and in the case of services for tips. In fact, only about 70% of Iquitos full time workers receive the extra months´ benefit because it´s located so far from the Lima regulation. Actually temporary and full-time workers from street cleaners to store clerks make $8/day for their usual ten hour a day six day work week. There are far more available jobs. A mechanic will work on your car for $1/hour or an electrician wire the house for $1.25/hour. I pay a 15% self-imposed gratuity to any Peruvian who serves well because my American dollar buying power is about 10x for housing, 3x for food, and 8x for services. A 3-wheel Moto-taxi ride for ten minutes cross town costs $.70 or a bus ride thirty minutes to the edge of town for $.40. The first ever female Moto-car driver is on the road in a pony tail rubbing elbows with the competition.
The evidence of good times is everywhere. Thousands of dirt piles drift the streets that for a year are methodically being dug up for a new sewage system. About one in every twenty houses is under some sort of renovation with homeowners tacking new thatches or tin on the roofs, painting walls, and installing patricians within for a new baby boom. The hardware and lumber yards bustle, and front yard industries such as ´dollar´ stores, internets and grills prosper because there´s more money to buy things. The ability to make change for a transaction is a hint of a firm economy, however an inability to make change is always a tipoff of a poor economy. Three years ago one was obligated to pay exact change for the Moto-taxi, meals and everything else, or expect a fifteen minute delay while the receiver went door to door searching for change.
Beauty parlors and spas are cropping between fallow soccer fields as the children flock to the internets for games in a new computer rage. The kids like their American counterparts would rather give up their TV´s and dinner than part with their computers. While the number of personal computers is at least 100x, TV´s have only quadrupled. TV´s don´t add and computers show movies, play music and games. The viewing themes have altered dramatically where cartoons once played on half the TV´s watched even by adults, who now view videos and sit-coms. The four-screen theater is seating five times the audience at elevated $2.50 tickets. American movies and music deliver themes of freedom, innocence, and power that appeal to the new computer generation. The new music that has supplanted Michael Jackson and Christmas carols all year long is soothing soft rock, classical, and I am floored to hear opera in some neighborhoods.
There are surprisingly few cell phones, and virtually no one smokes. In four months I have seen one Peruvian light up a cigarette, so there are no butts to study the length to gauge the economy. However, many of the laborers, some middle class, and a few professionals, along with a strong ayahuasca tourism industry, swallow a couple ounces ayahuasca regularly as a tonic in the same way that Americans get monthly vitamin shots.
The burgeoning middle class gives rise to a number of signs of good economic times. The first streaked hair, more eyeliner, and 10x as many ladies getting their nails painted in new salons. More eye glasses and early risers stride with purpose to appointments with more calculating eyes. At churches there is greater evangelistic clap and sing, furniture and appliance stores brim with goods and buyers, the first sold home septic tanks in history, and there´s a baby boom with public breast feeding and all bouncing down the street on the family motor scooters. Toy stores are proliferate. Radio Shack opened three years ago and one year ago moved to a larger store. There are three times as many satellite dishes, little refrigerators in the kitchens, beds instead of floor mats, and a new block long high school of glass that must be the most beautiful in the world.
I have never seen a more obvious indicator of fat times than the obesity in Iquitos. Three years ago there was hardly an ounce of flab on any one of 500,000 citizens. All about the city was only one fat person, an obese attorney who paid for two seats on buses. Today 40% of the population is overweight, and another 10% obese. No one is trim. The closer to city center you go, the more gain per body. Standing in crowded buses used to mean getting banged about by cement bodies, but now it´s like bouncing off hot sponges. The girls are no longer the prettiest in the world. The waitresses have love handles and the gas pump girls who used to be Miss Peru´s are plump and seem to smell like petro. The tarp bordello at $1.25 a throw on a grassy meadow next to the Yacht Club with tripled members has been torn up for a motocross track. Down the block in the streets of Iquitos the girls have turned the other cheek and must be chased for dates, but not far since the ratio is about 3:1.
The crimeless downtown streets that for years were patrolled by armed lady officers fresh off the cover of Cosmopolitan magazine have been replaced by about 500 beefy patrolmen for every corner who twiddle their trigger fingers all day but are quick to smile. The government must store its excess wealth somewhere and apparently what better place than a standing army.
Nocturnal city sweepers brush the streets the cleanest in the world. One I asked if it was hard work raised her shirt to wipe a sweaty face and show ample breasts, dropped it and spat in the gutter, replied ´Not at all´, and swept on. A new fleet of garbage trucks cruises neighborhoods weekly as all shriek ´Garbage´ and rush theirs to the curb. The military also has new vehicles and uniforms. You may still go to the suburb where I saw an eight-foot anaconda swim down a flooded street, and later a lost black-and-red false coral snake at a bus stop slid over my boot.? A man was burning plastic bottles on the end of a stick letting the hot plastic drip onto biting red ants to embalm and seal the cracks around his house.
One of the best signals of economic flux is the traffic. There are three times as many cars for a total of maybe one hundred in the entire city. However, the number of 125cc motorcycles is x20 of the popular Asian manufacturers like Honda, Yamaha and Suzuki at a cost of $700, or for a 250cc $1100. At least six motorcycle sales lots have popped up in converted warehouses. This has slightly reduced the number of quaint 3-wheel 125cc surrey Moto-karos that are two wheel trailer frames welded to the hacked front end of a 125cc motorcycle. Thousands jiggle down the avenues. The Easy Rider dream for many teen males arriving from the outlying jungle penniless to town is to rent one for $10 per day to transport, sleep and squirrel his daily fares for years in order to buy his own Moto-karo taxi for $2000 that will ensure a marriage and family.
Traffic has the right of way, and stand on a curb and get clipped. Jaywalking is the rule even in thick traffic, but is executed opposite the US style and more like a child, old man or duck. You must cross the road trustingly with the head down, taking a steady course and without peeking up as the traffic weaves around you.
A driver´s license is required to operate a vehicle, and here´s what Peruvians and gringos alike face at the local version of Department of Motor Vehicles. Two expats went to stand in the first of two days of long lines. Then there are four parts to the test: A physical exam which requires a small bribe $3 to pass, a rote written test, and then an oral interview with the director in which my friend was required to explain the steering system of a car, how the brakes work, and finally what to do if stalled late at night on a remote highway. He made it to the fourth stage, a driving test in which he asked the examiner if he wanted to drive to a ceviche restaurant, picked up the bill and passed with flying colors. He got a license, but his American friend failed and was forced into a short cut of going directly to the director and paying $100 on the spot for the license.
Corrupt or not, one month ago in affirmation of the progress Copa Airline flew the inaugural flight into Iquitos making it an international airport. The new immigration is privately contracted by the government. A five-star hotel will transform Iquitos into a hotspot jungle resort. Of the 100+ visited countries I´ve visited around the world looking for Shangri-la this is the only town I return to regularly.
It´s all about gold in Peru and many other places. Ever since I was a child gold as a coin or flake from the family rock collection was given as a gift and we´d be told, ´Put it aside.´ In the past months in Portugal, Italy and other countries suffering from economic crisis, buying gold off desperate citizens is become a strong industry. People are being forced to sell their gold teeth in order to eat. This explains the good times in Peru, and why Iquitos in particular is smiling.
Graham Greene wrote in The Quiet American, "Innocence is like a dumb leper who has lost his bell, wandering the world, meaning no harm."
For me at ten years the loss of innocence was trying to look out the Idaho living room window one evening with a light on inside and snow outside and I was surprised to see my reflection. For an instant there was confusion to who I was: the reflection or what it saw. I moved slightly to feel my body and determined thereon to be the person inside it.
A second mindful decision occurred twenty years later in a Michigan kitchen alone reading and a sentence from Carl Jung´s Memories, Dreams and Reflections. I looked up abruptly from archetypes as universal thoughts, symbols, or images having a large amount of unconscious power, and are shared… and it popped into my head from that point on to control my own thoughts. With willful effort I practiced the multiplication tables for ten minutes until the answer to 2 x 2 did not arrive until I caused it.
The third grave verdict that has shaped my life took place in a Michigan basement while reading Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass where the page turned to the hideous monster poem ´Jabberwocky´. It´s written in mirror text, and it doesn't matter that I was reading in a coffin lined with electric blankets against the icy wind whooshing through the wall cracks, or that I was reading with an Edmond Scientific top grade mirror to reverse the text so the Jabberwocky came alive from left to right. Suddenly it dawned on me that I could turn the book upside down to cause the print to flow right to left and dispense with the mirror and monster. That´s how I´ve read hundreds of book to date, and the reason is to balance the body, eyes and brain to a more perfect symmetry to think better critically.
The fourth waypoint on the road to objective thinking was learning the chessmen and their moves that is as much a model as computers for the thought process.
The fifth rest stop is quotations that has become a lifelong study, and one of the best on critical thinking (that is attributed to no one) is "Critical thinking is thinking about your thinking while you're thinking in order to make your thinking better."
So in a long march to discovery of self along the best road I know how, in the first step I determined the body manufactures the thoughts; in the second that I could control the thoughts, on the third that the body must remain healthy and symmetrical to think better; on the fourth to use models to understand how the mind functions, and at the fifth to stand on other´s shoulders and pass along their advice.
Howard Zinn said, "History can come in handy. If you were born yesterday, with no knowledge of the past, you might easily accept whatever the government tells you. But knowing a bit of history- while it would not absolutely prove the government was lying in a given instance- might make you skeptical, lead you to ask questions, make it more likely that you would find out the truth." I might add this is not only true of government but of medicine, business, sports and anything else worth thinking about. The trick is to balance being skeptical and open. If you are only skeptical then no new ideas filter through to you and nothing new is learned. On the other hand, if you are open to the stretch of gullibility without an ounce of skepticism, then you won´t be able to distinguish the useful from the worthless.
The one skill everyone on the planet needs is the ability to think with objectivity. If we are prepared to think for ourselves, and learn how to do it well, there is little danger of becoming slaves to the ideas and values of others that is taking the earth and limiting self-potential. The list of core critical thinking skills includes observation, interpretation, analysis, comparison, evaluation and explanation
There are some training workouts: math, read Sherlock Holmes, logic riddles, and conversing with other critical thinkers. The number and direction of steps up from fuzzy thinking to a height of acute awareness varies from person to person. The ultimate step a quantum leap because no problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it.
The adventure of critical thinking is the finding of self. You develop insights into what is and can be. I´ve found as much as possible, and the chase goes on.
Economic high times in Peru during three short years since my last visit in 1999 has put 100 times as many keyboards under the fingers of the citizens who have blossomed a fresh consciousness about town. The changes are sharp in the minds of 500,000 of this largest city in the Peruvian Rainforest. In with the computers, out with the old jungle charm that has defaulted to a new middle class efficiency.
Cheerfulness has always been endemic in Iquitos and it is the most relaxing place in the world to take a walk. The children grin and gawk- they used to gawk and grin- and the dogs run out to play. I have never been bitten and there is virtually no violence in the town history. If you smile at a person the he´ll say buenos dais every morning after.
The difference now compared to three years ago is in people´s faces registering what they see followed by a flicker of calculation. There used to be no past or future tense in the minds of the natives, and they remembered only the last thought until jolted into the next. Now it´s smooth mental sailing.
The dominos of awareness on the streets, in shops, homes, on waterways and in the people's minds are amazing. Whether they access computers or not, by speech, newspapers and non-verbal cues, critical thinking is sweeping the town. This enables inspiration in an individual by a great purpose, some extraordinary project, and all of his thoughts break their bounds. He is able to hold not one but two or three thoughts at once, and others see it. I think a new, great and wonderful world has opened in Iquitos. Dominant forces, faculties and currents have come alive in the discovery of self.
What´s more curious is that instead of adults teaching children the art of consciousness in the traditional style throughout world history, in this computer revolution the machines are teaching the kids first and they then their parents. The kids flock to fifty internet cafes- nearly all new- before and after school, at lunch, and just before bedtime. Thousands swarm the internets that in the first month I was here in June slow them from a usable USA 2010 pace to a near standstill at prime hours. One expat here was accustomed to winning six simultaneous games of computer chess at a USCF 1850 rating until last year when he started losing one in six when his clock flag falls as the computer is slow, and his rating fell so drastically that he quit. I pay a daily advance for ten hours at $.60 per hour to hold the highly prized chair through the busy times including a 7- 9pm night session for ´computer romance´ that has replaced strolling the town plaza for amour.
What do the kids do? They don't care if the systems are up or down; they´re addicted to the noise and game hunger. When the computers are up they cruise Facebook and play online games. When down they switch to canned hard drive games. It´s a musical chairs of gleefully shouting children, and often I give mine up to go hike, eat, read or nap in a private booth with a nonworking computer.
As the kids jam the cyber cafes the adjacent soccer fields that used to be busy with anaerobic games lie barren for the first time in history. In parallel the children are growing little hunchbacks with enormous hands and delicate fingers to resemble Edward Scissorhands. Romances bloom in the cafes and especially in private booths that rent for an extra dime an hour. The teens hold hands and visit their friends on Facebook or Skype double date.
The daily ratio of computer use across the city is: Facebook 45%, Games 45%, and 10% schoolwork, surfing or other. Yet it doesn't matter where their fingers walk because one way or the other computers teach users to think like them in raising their consciousnesses. Children computer schools are popping up everywhere, and a chain called CompuKids offers twelve station rooms for primary and grade school children at $.30 per hour for group lessons three times a week from an itinerant professor. In turn, the kids run the family cyber businesses outside of school and commonly a ten-year-old installs programs, fixes glitches and takes money, while the parents sweep and mop.
The children are the vanguard of a wave of critical thinking obviously due to the computers as the only strong variable, aside from boom money, introduced to Iquitos in the last three years. For every computer then there are about one hundred today, children learn them in primary school, and the more affluent university students use laptops. Many businesses have installed systems to record books, and along Putumayo Street where the established line of one dozen self-appointed notaries for decades have for set up sidewalk typewriter tables to hunt-and-peck at $.50 a page for letters or legal forms to the partially illiterate society, now two use laptops and printers.
Critical thinking has been described as reasonable reflection focused on deciding what to believe or do. It is the predecessor of self-regulatory judgment. It is the ability to chew up and spit out what you don´t believe in this story, and swallow the rest.
What of innocence in a computer revolution? Here was a place, a time, like a dream a rule of subconscious in the most remote thickly populated region on earth. Nevermore. For me this means the citizens look me directly in the eye rather than from a haze of unconsciousness and fear of the persistent Pela Cara, or face peeler. Every child for a century used to be told that one night a gringo called a Pela Cara was going to snatch him from a river bank and peel the skin off his face and body, squeeze out the oil, and… then this variation of the legend… send it back to the USA to be used as missile fuel for rockets with nuclear bombs. Many adults also feared the Pela Cara. Once I was introduced to a group of mechanics as a visiting Pela Cara who instantly vacated the shop. A few years ago a father-in-law of an expat was sent to prison for two years for aiding a gringo who was doing this to an aunt.
It is believable that computers may alter individual and world consciousness from a stronghold of centuries, but for it to happen in one place in three short years is incredible.
9. Cold Freight
Mountains loom to the icy left, snowy foothills to the right, and dead ahead an appointment with cold doom. If the conductor doesn´t let me board the caboose this may be my ´last southbound´.
´It ain't the cushions!´ he shouts thrusting a fist off the caboose back porch that instantly covers with snowflakes. ´Ye should have thought twice before boarding.´ He shakes it, yanks a timepiece from his heart watch fob, and adds more kindly, ´Get back on your car or you´ll miss the train.´
I did think three times back in Denver before boarding, you fool. My sleeping bag was stolen from under a pile of ties. I scavenged a black garbage bag, hunkered under a RR bridge, and looked two directions. The downtown lights beckoned, while the rails sliding out and up the Rockies forbade. When the first snow flies each year I inch south with the other hobo snowbirds, but unless the first storm hits Colorado tonight it should be safe enough to catch to Pueblo, warm in the morning sunshine, closer mile by mile to the sun, and pull a chair up in Dallas to Thanksgiving supper with my folks.
Yonder comes a freight, pausing in mid-train at my feet for a switchman to throw a switch frog, and I’m stuck on the spot to make a decision. "Frisking a drag", or choosing a car by walking through the train before it pulls away has a pitch of excitement as it may jump at any moment. This one does. I pat the garbage bag lovingly in my Pendleton pocket and grab iron. Three locomotives huff and the rung jerks one speculating hobo sixty cars back clinging the ladder and then ducking under the belly of a semi-van on a flatcar to the rubber tires for a wind shield.
Denver´s a memory, and an airstream whistles around the fat tires per Bernoulli´s principal. It´s a fast freeze in a 40mph rail gale on the Beaufort scale that strikes the nervous system with shivering and fuzzy thoughts. I was born in Buffalo, grew up in Idaho and northern Michigan, and know the cold. The firm upper lip icicles will melt if I exercise. So I stoop walk under the four-foot belly of the piggyback van to the rear and slap jumping jacks and run in place until the marrows warm, and then sit and lean against the tires unbuttoning the Pendleton pocket. Slit arm and neck holes in the garbage bag make a poor man´s windbreaker, but it is weather weakened, rips into tatters and blows overboard.
If the first snowstorm of the season hits the mountains tonight, I´ll deal with it. Called to bluff, the air thickens with cold and in two hours the initial big flakes float in and swirl around the tires. Small patches of snow begin to quilt the right-of-way and a blizzard engulfs the mechanical snake winding through Colorado.
I grow drowsy but to sleep is to die. The train stops perhaps to turn on the locomotive sanders to add friction to the track. I think of the caboose, rise stiffly, work down the ladder with popsicle fingers, and stagger the line of cars back to the caboose for a devil of a conversation, am refused entry, and lurch back to the flatcar just before the train pulls away.
In an indeterminate time the freight goes ´in the hole´ siding for an Amtrak of passengers with pleasantly warm brains whooshing by and rocking the stationary flatcar. I elbow crawl to the lip of the flatcar as the Amtrak clears and with nonworking hands and legs roll and drop five feet onto the ballast like a sack of potatoes. The freight jerks forward with three-foot steel wheels rolling inches from my neck, the lighted square of the conductor´s window, and the red taillight wobbles and becomes a pinpoint in the night. ´You devil! ´ I whisper into a mouthful of cinders, and the trundle reflects about the valley for five minutes.
Now there is total silence. I look up and about at a pastoral scene like the glass snow spheres shaken upside down and turned upright. A six-inch white carpet undulates along the ground onto pine boughs and up mountainsides to the stars. I kick the rail, feel nothing, and scrape with forearms along the cinders for ten yards, pause, another twenty yards, rest, and fifty more until blood surges the frozen limbs. Then a hands and knees crawl for ten minutes to bring circulation to the fingers, toes and nose. I snort fresh air, use a RR switch to stand upright, and teeter from the right-of-way toward a mountain pass.
Hours later a white manger of hay crystallizes on a snowy meadow. I´m a little surprised to awaken the next morning with straw in the mouth and sunshine on my face, and walk out the Rockies laughing at the conductor.
11. Hand from a Boxcar
Labored puffing outside the boxcar’s open door, the rasp of long, rapid footsteps on ballast. A hobo hangs from the door’s latch and can’t pull himself in, can’t let loose or will be minced by the rolling wheels. I reach down my hand and he grasps it firmly.
Washington is apple country and in season a northbound hobo is likely an apple knocker- picker. I'm on a southbound boxcar and there's a crunch, crunch, outside the moving door. It doesn't make sense and maybe I've gone soft in the head. I just chased and hopped aboard two minutes ago. Listen. A bo sleeps with his boots on and his ear near the track, can roll his bed in a minute, trot alongside his ride, toss in the roll and then raise himself. My rule of thumb after having tripped and fallen dangerously close to 3-foot cookie cutter wheels is to catch a freight on the fly only if I can run as fast as it.
Crunch!!…crunch…crunch!! The steps are further spaced as the train accelerates. A burlap sack sails through the door and bangs the far wall. Suddenly there is a scrape on the wooden floor next to me and a foot disappears out the door. Again a shoed foot enters the door, scuffs the deck and exits. A hobo is trying to catch at 20 mph.
I peek out the door and there hangs a bo on the latch. He's graying, strong and in tattered clothes, no doubt an apple knocker in trouble. The metal latch of a boxcar hangs like a 2-foot stem and bo's in days of old would grab it on steam trains and swing aboard. It required sharp timing and I've never seen the technique utilized on modern faster moving diesels freights.
A pace is reached at which it becomes perilous to let go the latch and face the ballast, and that's the fate of my peer. His strides are fifty feet long, his lungs heaving and his foot thrusts into the door shortening. In seconds he could grease the rail. He doesn't realize my presence and to pop my mug out the door might frighten him, so I make a decision.
From his perspective, a hand descends from the sky. The skin is tanned, fingers willowy and it beckons. I feel a meaty grasp as his takes mine in a death-lock. The train picks up speed.
I've traveled most the gridiron west of the Mississippi, camped the jungles. Been around the world in a boxcar, I tell folks, since that's the estimated rail mileage in some 300 rides. Though I'm just a boxcar tourist out for summer scenery and adventure, it's ironed the body.
Now a man is dangling like a scarecrow from the side of a fast freight, attached only by my hand. He's my size and I pull hard, but it's a tug-of-war as the rail joints click by. Seated, I skid along the floor toward the edge and waiting space. Then my trouser seat meets an oil spot and suddenly I slide at once.
BAM. My foot hits the door frame and braces for the final pull. Tenaciously I lift. He has blue eyes, like mine. With a heave he's in the boxcar and safe.
There are a number of unwritten rules of the steel road. First, don't steal anyone's boots. Second, look after yourself first. Third, if you're okay then give a hand to peers. Fourth, no need to speak of the obvious. Fifth, partings come easily.
The fellow crawls panting to a far corner, dragging the burlap, then sits on it in silence. We jiggle along for miles without a word. The sun sinks and still nothing, as the train passes from Washington to Oregon. Somewhere in California the freight stops and he slides out the door, shaking my hand.
I've never picked an apple, but I've picked a hobo.
12. Out of the Blue
At high noon on a clear summer day a mile above the Arizona desert a single engine Cesena drones, suddenly stalls and goes into a nose dive.
To my left my racquetball partner pilot operates the pedals and levers like a mad drummer as the G-force turns his face into a squirrel. The destination is the gamblers capital Las Vegas for a professional stop but in my heart I don’t think we´ll make the service line.
For the first time in my colorblind life I see external red, a splotch on the white desert floor. Engine out in silence except the rustle of wind over wings, and we plummet. Racquetballs, paper cups, pencils and papers fly in our faces and I am so trained that by sheer force of will the balls could fly into the cups and the pens write our fate.
My buddy´s hands and feet shake on the controls and in the flash of a tremendous exertion the flesh and steel bodies act as one. The plane flips on its back and free falls upside down toward the earth. Now the debris rains from the floor as I duck in the seatbelt to keep from hitting my head on the ceiling.
I recheck the pilot, a dentist, physician and anesthesiologist who appears unconsciousness with eyes popping out the sockets like goggles from the same G´s that pop mine. The plane free falls for twenty seconds, and then suddenly the cough of the engine, it catches, and the controls shift and the plane turns right-side up.
We fly directly forward as if nothing happened except at 1000´ lower.
The pilot glances over at me and utters, ´Everyone should face his death before it happens.´
A few years after the won tournament, the pilot in the same Cesena crashes head first at terminal velocity with propeller churning into the San Francisco bay and the cause remains a mystery to this day.
13. Bone Dry
Given last year´s last record summer daily highs of 120F or greater in the shade that dropped chickens, dogs, the great-great blind grandson of Secretariat, and killed 20% of the humans in Sand Valley, Ca., I made two little moves. Neighbor Fred had fallen out of bed with heatstroke and died of a heart attack in what California paramedics call a ´trailer wedge´ between the bed and close wall, Big Jon evaporated one day into the desert and is rumored to have buried his head unsuccessfully in the sand, and the good Reverend two months after passing to his hereafter frankly drew our noses at four miles distant. So first, I dug a cool ten-foot burrow lined with blankets and a solar panel atop to communicate with the outside world. And second, the following hot August since experiments must be conducted under the most realistic conditions I explore a pedestrian route out of Sand Valley to the nearest whistle stop Palo Verde.
I take off in reverse from Palo Verde one bright morn at 80F with a gallon jug of water in each hand, loaf of raisin bread, compass and penlight. The 30 miles overland route as the vulture flies covers animal trails, sand tracks, arroyos, and bushwhacking the Sonora. A bird mile is 1.5 walking miles in the desert. The water is rationed to the last drop on the ring of hills beneath a pink sunset where I cannot spot the trailer. I take an educated bearing toward the ring center and start downhill. Stars twinkle one-by-one into being and creatures emerge from hole homes to scamper the boulevard arroyos. My rule is that under a full moon you may see western diamondbacks and sidewinders, under a half-moon you miss the sidewinders, and under tonight´s new moon they see you first.
The night grows fascinating. A sidewinder rattles ´Hello´ on raised ‘black pavement’ above the washes where I shine the penlight only. Up and down the washes I climb for hours wishing to urinate to wet a dry tongue that threatens to clog my airway and suffocate. A stone sucked for an hour depletes the last saliva and the mouth dries like a mouse curled up and died. I collapse in oxygen debt with a wrist pulse race to 100 and little twitches take the limbs, before it occurs to me to distill water in the mouth from the air. The ambient air of about 110F is higher with more moisture than the oral cavity at 98.6F, so via a temperature gradient of fitted breathing, every fifteen minutes or so a dollop of thick saliva grows to swallow once, get up and walk for fifteen minutes, and repeat the routine. I don’t want to sleep for fear of a desert crib death.
The moon arcs and drops below the horizon, and it´s starlight reckoning until the North Star falls behind a mountain, and then the penlight batteries fail. The fear of rattlesnakes overcomes a death sleep, so I recline in a wash under an Ironwood and after distilling a swallow of saliva let myself doze. A kit fox sniffs my boot and alerts me, won´t leave for five minutes. Later a four-point buck snorts and stares down into my surprised eyes, pawing the sand. Inspired, I rise on hind legs and wander the dark in a cramped, heated shuffle for water before sunrise or I may die.
One hope centers in a rock cistern of a Louis L´Amour short story ´The Strong Shall Live´. Following an hour march up a rocky slope kit fox, deer, coyote and bird tracks circle a pothole of water from last week´s storm. I slurp a pint on all fours, pollywogs and all, and in thirty minutes feel stronger. I fill a gallon jug and descend drinking a pint every fifteen minutes until the jug empties at sunrise that reveals a familiar outcrop to point the way home. The best adventures often come from bad decisions, and the quicker we can laugh off our own folly the better we will be to face the next.
One early March I set the left boot on the Pacific Crest Trail at the Mexican border. This path runs the Sierra Nevadas for 2600 miles through California, Oregon and Washington to touch the Canadian border. The aim to hike border-to-border in one season requires starting in spring and risking snow in the Sierras. Mountain trail miles translate to bird miles at a 6:1 ratio and mid-June finds me tramping the first snowflakes outside Tahoe.
The trail has been fantastic for three months. There was a western diamondback the size of a Louisville Slugger every other day, lightning storm on a peak with a pot for a pillow, lost cowboy aboard a snow mired horse to dig out, many waterless and foodless days, and run-in with a green sheriff with an itchy trigger finger in a crossroad town who was called by a TV citizen who identified me from America´s Most Wanted as a serial killer. He saw me buy and eat Puss ´N Boots Liver and Chicken because I needed a stake, and the Sheriff ran me off with a tip to watch out for big cats, although there were only bears on trail.
I meet one hiker every other day on the PCT staggering under towering backpacks who refuse to believe I´m a through hiker lightly carrying a fanny pack. The custom waist pack is wreathed by four one-quart water bottles with a down sleeping bag slung beneath, tube tent, maps torn from an early guidebook and can opener. The gross weight sans supplies of eight pounds enables me to outdistance the classic mountain strategy of toting a 50lb pack eight mountain miles a day instead of my flying along the trail at 30 miles a day to connect extended supply and water points. My gear and the weather hold out until a June climb up Tahoe into a freak snowstorm blocks the sunset. A pine at ten paces disappears and the trail vanishes under a snow carpet. The horizon dissolves and without reference points for the compass and I am lost.
I know how To Build a Fire from Jack London´s short story, and the lost cowboy advised me of a snowstorm where he curled up like a C note with a hot cup of coffee in a blanket and waited it out. So on stumbling over a fallen tree I roll with it and make a pine bough bed and overhang. However, popsicle fingers fumble matches into the wet kindling, and as the blizzards rages the weight of snow collapses the boughs and awakens me sputtering white. The sole recourse is a prayer position in the snowstorm with sleet melting off the body and freezes into an exclamation point.
At first light I unfold into a world of white and drape the ice crisped sleeping bag over a shoulder, and aim along an easterly flank to face the sun and thread the mountains. For hours no signs protrude the fresh foot of snow, but in late afternoon a distant hum of cars draws me to a road where I hitchhike out to that hot cup of coffee.
A decade later I return to Tahoe to continue the Pacific Crest Trail and now ultra-light packing that I independently invented is the rage with trailside lodge caretakers shunning me as a weekend warrior under a 20lb knapsack, until I tell them through a crooked grin of the whiteout.
15. Mexico Scrap
A lifelong passion for hard times and scrap led me to a sunrise hunt in San Felipe Baja. A Mexican partner and I slalom a banged-up pickup past a hundred scrappers puffing behind wheelbarrows and shopping carts half-empty with knickknacks. A three-mile thick dump ring around San Felipe is picked clean by the penniless men and women except for sifted nails and bolts n fire cinders dug out on warm knees. They look up with ashen faces and would injure or steal to get what we will find.
The jalopy brims with a sunset load of two refrigerators, stove, washer, two auto gas tanks, brass fixtures, lawn chair frames, four 12v batteries, engine parts, nuts, nails and bolts, and a pail of copper wire. It waddles low on the springs through the night sifters fallen on hard times in the big dump ring, and back into town to my partner´s house. He advises me to defend the booty against thieves, waves goodnight, and goes drinking.
The spare trailer sits on an arroyo near the old cemetery where a 1972 cloudburst filled this very arroyo and floated several corpses down Main Street past the window into the ocean. I tumble into an exhausted sleep from the day´s work until… In the window, nose pressed flat, eyes ranging over my modest pad, a black face opens and shuts its mouth. I spring from bed to window, bang the glass and shout, ´Get out of here!´ The lockless trailer door creaks opens and the intruder, showing teeth, barges in rasping ´Hsst!´
I shoulder him, at once wondering at a boldness that would permit a Mexican into an alien American trailer. He either has a knife, or a cohort waiting outside. I grab his wrists to prevent reaching for the pocket, and slam him against a 2×3-foot mirror that swings open on hinges projecting dingy streetlight on his eye-popped face. He looks 25, 5'8", crew cut with black moustache, and muscled.
We struggle until he glances down at my nude body, and smiles at my lack of … shoes! I shove him out the door, and jump into Bermuda shorts. After one shoe, a thump outside and I know he is nabbing the Mag spare tire. Before the second shoe is on he vanishes into the night.
I trail the deep footsteps by penlight along the arroyo road until miraculously a police car pulls aside. ´Americano,´ I yell, ´And a moment ago a thief battled me and stole a wheel.´ ´Where is?´ asks the officer, and I point along the footprints. ´Too dark,´ asserts the officer, and leaves me to sit all night on guard the truckload with a scavenged pitchfork.
The next morning the 1200lb scrap brings a whopping $160, and my little one a few bruises.
16. King Cobra
On a deserted Sira Lanka beach a flute charmer slowly plays his 12´black king cobra out a wicker basket, its tongue flicking until it reaches my sternum. I am fatigued from the long walk in soft sand, and stroke its brow to which it nudges me affectionately like a puppy that I pet repeatedly. So, I was the first to strike and lived to walk the day.
17. Deadly Mickey
There isn´t much to this story, actually. I am slipped a Mickey or food laced with poison in a skid row room at the Los Angeles Rainbow Hotel and minutes after the person leaves descend into an abyss. It proves nothing to detail the pain and awareness. However, I am found by a housekeeper and rushed to an emergency room where a persistent fibrillator jump starts my heart 42 times before it catches and beats on its own. The doctor claims I have been brain dead for four minutes. The recovery alone makes the story warming to bystanders. There is absolute amnesia for one day, unable to remember my parents´ last name. On day two I walk into a room and cannot remember where the door is. For one month I can remember one read sentence only and gaze longingly at a book shelf. I am physically capable, and walk miles daily for three months until adding columns of numbers comes naturally. One year after the Mickey over a self-prescribed course of exercise, healthy food and good water, the recovery is complete and I adventure out again and again.
18. Six Miles of Smoke
´Railroad bulls drag hobos like you out long past lookin´ blue!’ a Grand Junction, Co. brakeman cautions gesturing grandly along the transcontinental rail toward the 6.2 mile Moffat tunnel that pierces the west flank of the Rockies. But I´m green and eager to chew up and spit out challenges, if need be, and climb aboard the only available flatcar ten stock behind six locomotives that rumble like beasts at the bit of a mile long freight.
The jiggling platform I hold down is a piggyback van mounted on a flatcar, leaning against the fat wheel, 330-degree view of life, sunshine smack in the face, thinkin´ how far, how long, and the number of ways to skin a road cat. Suddenly a mountain opens a dark mouth and swallows the piggyback at 25mph. The bore engulfs the tail of a smoke whip and reflects sparks everywhere. I yank a bandana to mask the face, choking.
Mile one into the tunnel: Smoke and noise ricochet along the shaft. Air burns. Dizzy. Mile
two: Flashbacks!- A road partner Iron Horse and I ride a boxcar into St. Louis as a white Bronco with a CB antenna keeps pace with a pistol pointing at my heart and a bull behind it yelling, ´If you have a weapon I will shoot you!´ Mile two: I slip to the rolling platform for cooler breaths but inhale only rank gas, and another memory takes hold- On a Christmas Southern Pacific from California to Texas I reach to catch a moving ladder in a rainstorm outside Yuma. The rung slips and I crash against the grain car, ricochet to the cinders and watch the cookie cutter wheels roll by my nose. Mile four: Beside myself with suffocation, I must remember or pass out. A bull tangle leads to a court date in Salt Lake City. Gizmo Kid, the founder of Linux-Care, and Colorado Casey, a gold speculator, face time in the cross-bar hotel for breaking into an automobile carrier that we didn’t enter. Gizmo, having once caught the Encyclopedia Britannica in his head, eyes the judge with his gray pate, leftover smile and a Freemason ring with a raised gavel. He flashes his honor the secret fraternal sign, and the judge pounds the gavel, ´Dismissed with Prejudice!´. Five miles: I'm a poisoned bug on a mechanical worm. Smoke balls the stomach and limbs twitch until, with the Sixth mile to go, I pass out.
The light at the end of the tunnel hold´s a sharp blast of sweet air in sunlight. I made it!
19. Lions in Camp
The Kenya Serengeti hosts the largest terrestrial mammal migration in the world that is a smorgasbord for the king of beasts. Tonight I am on the menu. The high diversity of animals relates to the diverse habitats that our 8-person safari truck has bumped about for a week ranging from grassy plains where we see hundreds of migrating zebras, thousands of antelope and tens of thousands wildebeests. Dozens of 12´ crocodiles and hulking Cape buffalo battle in shrinking puddles until the last drops. An aardvark parades as big as a Volkswagen and elephant tusks jut two-stories over the truck. Herds of wide-eyed ostriches bob heads as the English ladies break upper brows to the crush and scream of ´I got you bast…!´ in opening the meat cleaver wings of Tsetse flies on their fair skins before the clouds put them to sleep. We run into a crash of four rhinoceros who are as blind as Magoos but with strong noses for French perfume chase the girls and me to musical trees where I gallantly am the last one pushing them up on the hinnies to the lowest limb to hang like fruit. One midnight the Dutch lasses shriek ´Bo!´ on hearing Chomp at the foot of their tent, and I fling open my door to the 5´ wide smile of a grazing hippopotamus. We follow a pride of lions taking down wildebeest in a bloody lunch, and none of the others have the intellect and curiosity of the king of beasts to study our truck windows trying to figure out how to get in. This evening the unfed lions tail the fat tired, high sprung Mercedes Fire truck converted to safari vehicle up a stony hill to an open camp above the Serengeti.
It seems crazy to camp in Wild Kingdom without a shotgun, and yet we clients dutifully set the little pup tents in a neat row, mine a single as the only male. Baboons strut about as if owning the place and I open the outhouse in a malaria fit to vomit and bats flit out as a 160lb spotted Hyena laughs, ´Excuse me!´ before stepping out.
The night creatures are a worry and the malaria more so as I stagger to the tent, half zip the door and fall recumbent on the blanket. Catalepsy sets in with a muscular rigidity, fixity of posture and paralysis while remaining alert. In vet school a pharmacology instructor gave a mouse a cataleptic drug, stood him on hind legs, stuck a cigarette in his mouth and it smoked without moving as I cried.
I hear them padding and sniffing at the tent flat. Lions in Camp! A male likely longer than the 7´ pup tent rubs the canvas and roars like a freight train. Paralyzed, it is the first time in my life to faint.
If parallel universes exist, I fall into one and awaken the next morning when the guide tugs my toe and yells to rise and shine or miss the truck. Then he eyes the waxen hands, feels the fevered brow and shouts, ´Malaria!´ ordering the gaggle to dismantle the tent and heap me on the safari truck floor. It rocks a half-day to a Red Cross on a white house on a green riverbank and the women deposit me in the sole hospital bed before leaving down the track.
The graying nurse declares cerebral malaria, and adds that though out of quinine tomorrow a boat connects to a road with Nairobi bound vehicles. Overnight a leaden headache and dry heaves break blood vessels in my eyes until the following midday I squint into the sun and am piled on the boat deck. A few hours later on docking the near corpse in my clothes is loaded onto the floor of a taxi and rushed to the Nairobi General Hospital where I vaguely recall a Caucasian tropical medicine specialist diagnoses cerebral malaria and holds out a tiny white tablet saying, ´You may take this and probably live, or not and surely die.´ I nod, and after several attempts a nurse forces the pill past vomit and rubs it down my throat.
One of the greatest instant reliefs in medicine is quinine, so the next morning I feel stable, swallow another pill, and in the afternoon feel good, and by evening just want to flee the attendants´ hourly pulse probes, blood pressure cuffs, and pricks in my veins. The nurses and assistants think this is necessary for recovery but the doctors and administration know it is to cover the hospital liabilities.
In the wee hours, unable to rest, I rise and tiptoe past the other patients to the clothes chest, dress, out the room and slither a darkened hall to the cashier at the front door. I don a bright face, introduce myself as a visiting medical philanthropist and hand the sleepy clerk a $100 bill. Turning on a question mark, I escape into a quiet street to a hostel to self-treat with quinine, and after the eight count get up for the next round.
20. Hit and Run
The motorcycle is scarcely warm between my legs approaching the signal, rolls through green, into the intersection and out of the San Diego night an old Caddy accelerates along University Drive trying to make the light. It broadsides the sidecar hack and the attached Honda 450 tumbles over twice while I hover above it having jumped on the toe pegs to avoid the brunt of the 30mph blow. I bounce once on the street in the middle of circulation, see oncoming lights and leap just in time to take a glancing blow from another car that doesn´t stop either.
In a two second window I am the victim of two hit and runs!!
Minutes early I had downed a hot chocolate at 7-11 to brace for the cold night, nodded to two policemen on the way out, heard a dog bark, hopped on the bike and pulled into the intersection.
On hearing brakes squeal the cops rush out and one helps me to my elbows while the other sprints for the patrol car. ´I´m fine,´ I assure him, though I´m not but don’t want the trauma and bill of the Paramedics. He jumps in the police car that lays a patch. ´Justice will be done.´ quips a bearded homeless man and trundles a shopping cart by watching the high speed chase.
Unable to get to my feet on the road shoulder, I roll to a speed limit sign and scratch up the post to stand and think through a daze. The dispatcher has been radioed for about a five minutes response to leave the premise or face a third assault by big hearted bureaucrats. Unable to walk ahead because of the crush of the left leg between cycle and hack, I begin a backward shuffle for one minute to flush the adrenalin along the system, and to appraise myself medically. Possible internal abdominal injury, lungs okay, mild shock with a shallow rapid pulse, and a few abrasions. Now I can walk forward with a gimp and respiratory pain against the right ribs from the glancing blow.
The bike and sidecar have miraculously somersaulted upright, and except for broken windshields, a bent fork and flooded engine that won´t turn over, I can push it. Shaking in pain, I shove the crippled bike to my Hillcrest basement home and feel the better for having walked off murderous cramps. Doubtless the Paramedics and sheriff are surveying the broken glass and blood wondering what became of the ghost biker.
I shudder into unconsciousness on the cellar bed, and unable to get up on the second day the upstairs tenant comes knocking with food. On the third day I walk with the help of a 2×4 crutch to a corner payphone, and skid through an insurance claim despite California no-fault if I obtain a police report. I hang up, dial, and the SDPD voice on the other end intones there is no police report which makes sense because the victim escaped after the drivers. Recalling the helpful policeman’s chest nametag ended in ´…ski´, the voice replies, ´That could be any number of our officers.´ I describe him to no avail, and since there is no record of anything the sympathetic Sergeant loses patience and mumbles hoax warning of a trace on the line. Then I recall a peculiar muffled dog bark and guess it might be a Canine Unit. ´Bingo!´ the detective shouts. ´That´s officer ´Z…ski´ and hold on… he just verified and is writing a tardy police report, and despite not being to apprehend the two hit and runners, Officer Z wishes you well.´ An hour later I pick up the report, receive an insurance check, and no I didn’t get post-traumatic stress on this or any of the other survivals.
I refuse to capitalize it. It is an empty coin by psychologists to keep themselves in work. You walk in the path of death daily, doesn’t matter if you´re a jet pilot or an Avon lady, and if you crash, miscarriage, get robbed, chased by a bull, or hit by a car a couple times, just deal with it and get back on your feet, shake hands and come out fighting.
Flames lick the window of a skid road room in San Francisco as I try to save the date in a bucket brigade from the shower and relate as rapidly as the hands fly how the curtain rose over my sex life in veterinary school so long ago, chasing a female intern to and from the anatomy lab with a dog´s penis. She is impressed enough to ask me to the Michigan State cow barn having a newsworthy cow with a glass side, for a roll in the hay. I spoon out the plastic sleeves in anticipation of cold feet only to palpate the cow to gauge her estrus and then watch the fodder roll around through the glass. She leaves me in the barn but there are two girls left in the 50-man vet class.
Thinking rapport is the key to romance. I memorize the days of every date in the upcoming decade with a simple mnemonic, and prove it to the woman throwing water on the wall that on a Friday thirty years ago I spewed logic riddles to entice the next-to-last girl in vet school, spending a small sum on a watch that reflects on her forehead each hour, ´Time to Copulate´ so I´d know when to stop the jokes. She flees to an equine pathology text. I take the last girl in class to the Tin Lizzy bar in Lansing, Michigan with a little magic up my sleeve and as the band cranks Inagadadavida, I pull fire out of my fist that backfires up into the lovely face of the second smartest girl I've ever known and burns off her eyebrows and lashes. She screams past the bouncer, I beg the date in the burning room, at once realizing in the smoke of my past romances that they must escalate into a burning ring of fire.
I travel for two years on hard times with a small flask with a tapered neck that functions as a Genie´s lamp with a recipe of 1:4 alcohol to water that covers the bottom two-inches. On sloshing three times the surface emits a vapor that can throw a lighted match into a mini Northern Lights as the ignited vapor burns and evaporates at an equal rate rising and falling in a 3¨ thick ring up and down the inside of the flask. If the pre-shake is less than three not enough vapor generates for a show, and if too many times…
I don´t dare until I finally find the girl of my dreams and math major in her nail-biting final exams at San Francisco College and take her out for a couple extra shakes. On throwing in a match, the fire ring magically rises up and down much thicker and more rapidly than normal, until it begins thumping and jumping out the neck and above the flask. The glass bowl shatters and a ring of fire leaps out and crawls up a curtain setting it in bright flames. The old walls are flame retardant and only blacken to stop the romance as we hurry the bucket brigade of trash baskets from the shower, telling her, ´The lesson is in the heat of the moment is don´t lose your head to dangerous romance´, and after the fire´s out she loves me for it.
The Sapo green tree frog offers predator snakes, crocs and birds the most poisonous secretion in the world used by the Matses to poison darts, US special forces in Peru to enhance bullet tips, and burned into the biceps of Iquitos tourists as a death rehearsal. However tonight´s batch goes to scientists worldwide to analyze the ingredients of the most biochemically active substance known to man whose medical benefits are hardly imaginable. Last night I helped hunt and tend the 'waiting room' of thirteen Sapo frogs in a jungle operation in the Loreto state of Peruvian.
Picture captions tell the story of the Frog Hunt.
1. The Sapo Frog is plucked like green fruit from trees at night. (pic1 )
2. The frog is splayed between four sticks. (pic2 )
3. Toes are pinched all around to aggravate a flow of mucus secretion. (pic3 )
4. Venom is scraped off the back and legs. (pic4 )
5. And transferred to a stick where it crystallizes overnight. (pic5 )
6. The frog is released back into the trees. (pic6 )
Full story of the Frog Hunt is coming.
August 7, 2012 | 8 Comments
My earliest fond memory of being trapped in our Idaho basement and constructing a ladder of chairs to escape through the clothes hamper was a rebirth to adventure. I read Bomba the Jungle Boy, Tarzan and graduated to the non-fiction Kon-Tiki and Endurance before taking a Doctorate of Veterinary Medicine. This education of an adventurer and self-treatment for wounds in the jungles, mountains, deserts, skid roads and oceans of 100+ countries beneath a backpack full of dreams with a few nightmares led to multiple survivals.
The nearer to death is not always the better story, yet the survival techniques offer broadening principles for everyday life. Here are my Top 10 adventures with a death element and how I lived to tell them.
1. Lost in the Amazon
The jungle is the most inhospitable region on earth with the Amazon rainforest the largest and most remote. I had thought to make the jungle my friend by first interviewing at Aires Burger in Iquitos, Peru veteran guide Juan Maldenado who instructed not to eat before a rainstorm or you´ll get hypothermia, and if lost to follow the small tributaries to larger rivers that will flow to civilization. Then I hired Carlos Grande, a pot-bellied guide who on the eleventh day of a 21-day expedition from the headwaters of the Amazon abandoned me in the chlorophyll.
Everything is green when you´re lost in the Amazon. Carlos Grande left me in a Mayoruna Indian hut on stilts over the Rio Javari because of rumored cocaine narcoterrorist flanks on our overland trek. The Mayoruna, called Cat People for whisker tattoos sprouting from beneath the noses to ears, are a scattered population of about 2000 in the most inaccessible areas. The farther from civilization the quicker the tribesmen appear to drink blood, the naked children touch never having seen white skin, bare breasted women grin shyly, and pink dolphins with reputed ESP jump in the rivers.
As if in silent alarm the village suddenly empties to the river bank, and a fierce faced chief thrusts a paddle out one hand, an outstretched palm the other, and because of a dialect barrier nods at a 6´ child´s canoe down the muddy shore. The rest of the thirty adult villagers bob up and down behind him holding machetes overhead. Thrown into confusion I try the magic of biting off my thumb and swallowing it that draws giggles from children but the chief wiggles his whiskers shaking the oar in my face. So, I dance a jig in a circle like Richard Chamberlain in Shogan to convince him I am too silly to cast off, but he looks sternly past my ears.
Not crazy, I dig in a pocket and hand over the equivalent of $6 for the broken oar and canoe, step in and shove off… in a child´s canoe on an unknown river with no destination other than the courage of early explorer Percy Fawcett and Maldenado´s advice to follow the small rivers to larger ones to civilization.
Day one: No food, sunburnt, plate sized colorful butterflies, water sipped from the river induces fever, a green snake off the bow, more pink dolphins, mosquitoes at dusk, howler monkeys in the trees, and drifting under starlight. Day two: The canoe centerline is one foot and with the least teeter water pours over the lip. I must urinate where I sit, but defecation is out of the question from an empty bowel. Day three: Lost on an oxbow, I rudder into a stick dock and fall overboard into the helping arms of an old gent with fading tattoo whiskers who shares his yucca. Day four: A motorized pecapeca canoe sides mine and takes the child´s in trade for a half-day´s passage to the Brazil border. At the border two barefoot teen soldiers in tattered fatigues wade out bearing down with AK-47s and raised sights on my three-week beard, ripped clothes, sunburned skin hanging with leeches, and enormously swollen feet.
I don´t have the Spanish to tell them, ´My philosophy is when you think things can't get any worse, it will, so stop griping and deal with it.´ ´Venga!´ they order, ushering me up the bank to the commandant saying that only narcoterrorists look like Indiana Jones on a bad day.
´Welcome to Colonia Angamos on the Yavari River,´ greets the Colonel pumping my raw paddle palm. We hunker on wood crates in his thatch roof, dirt floor office and are joined by the non-military town chief. They politely ask me to prove that I am not hustling cocaine from Peru to Brazil, and satisfied after a ten minute explanation of the abandonment order me carted on the two barefoot soldier´s shoulders to the town hospital where a nurse injects tetracycline and morphine. I fall onto a clean sheet in a provided bed of a thatched hut with chickens and hogs rooting beneath, rats skittering the walls, cats on deck, and parrots flitting in the air. For two, three, I don't remember how many days I drift in and out this surrealism until jolted upright by a powerful thwak-thwak over the roof. A youth helps me stagger across a swinging bridge onto a grassy military airfield where a General is stepping out a chopper.
´Sir, I address him in Spanish. Do you speak English?.´
The kindly man who looks like Walter Cronkite replies, ´Yes, but Spanish is better.´
´I am sick.´
´I can see that.´
´Can you medevac me to Iquitos?´
´We shall see,´
In three hours after meetings with the commandant and officers, the General returns and helps me by the elbow into the copter. It rises into a checkerboard of sunshine and clouds and two hours later drops me at the Iquitos military airport.
´What do I owe, General?´ I ask hopping out and feeling better.
´Your good health!´ he laughs, and the chopper takes off into the sun.
2. Bear Attack!
My little encounter occurs five years ago at a New Mexico mountain streamside. Hiking along the river, suddenly a black blur bursts out the bushes and I know in an instant it can make two moves for every one of mine, that one throws everything out he has read unless he has mentally or physically rehearsed it, and that I had better hurry up and react. The 350lb black bear looks up at me as it has been tracking, sands on it hind legs eight feet away and peers into my eyes. The afternoon sun glistens beautifully on its fur like a lover. She is a foot shorter than me, so I raise my hands to the height of my earlobes. The bear raises its paws to the same. Then I raise my hands six inches higher with the elbows crooked, and the bear stretches its paws overhead as high as it can to equal mine. I shoot my hands straight up in the air to make myself appear taller or in surrender- let her decide- and the bear drops to the ground, dashes to a nearby pine, and leaps up scratching marks in the bark that I would have to stand on tiptoes to reach. Then she drops, gives me a bear grin, and scampers into the bush. A peak experience at 3500´.
The first freight I caught was in a VW van on the cowcatcher of a 25mph locomotive that scooped and carried me 300 yards down the track on the cowcatcher. The brakes scream and my life including these survivals passes before my eyes glued out the tilted window at the advancing rail. My hands grasp the bent steering wheel as the VW crushed in a V slides slowly down the catcher toward the sparking wheels as the locomotive decelerates to a stop. I escape out the window with sprained thumbs, and the vow to live life full tilt.
4. Tin Leg
I gaze down the long barrel of a .45 leveled at my chest.´You have the wrong man.´
´You may not be the guy I'm lookin' for, but you're close enough.´
The old codger on the Los Angeles sidewalk takes a step up and spews cheap wine breath, ´I was a bank robber. Red and me was the best east of the Mississippi.´.
The pistol sight hangs a yard from my heart, just out of reach. I follow it to the hand, and into the deep sorrowful eyes of the beholder. ´Did I tell you I was a bank robber? Me and red was the best west of the Mississippi.´
Passersby weave about like current around stumps, and it´s the first time I´ve been the center of attention of bystander apathy.
´Tell me more,´ urging him to get it out.
´Well?´ he demands, expecting an answer.
´I still say you have the wrong man.´
´Son, my gun is still a-pointin' at you.´
My mind races for words. The right ones can save me; the wrong ones end in a puff of smoke.
He doesn't appear drunk. We've never met. This is real. I was just a regular citizen strolling a sidewalk a minute ago. More passersby flow around us. He is too alert to sidestep.
´You handle that gun like you know how to use it, I'll make no bones about it. Nothing to fear from me, Mister. Say where did you get your gun skill? ´
´You're damn right. Where? I was squeezin´ trigger in Shy Town (Chicago) before you were at mamma's nipple. Red and me knocked 'em down from Memphis to San Francisco and a lot of spots between."
´Better believe it, sweet Jesus! It was a fine life until one caper on the getaway I didn't outrun a bullet."
´That's right, son. Slowed me down and put an end to my career. Life ain't been so good since.´
His eyes lower and mine water. Now he drops the end of the pistol, lets it fall to his side and suddenly raps smartly the barrel on his right leg. A metallic THWANG sends the foot traffic in a wide arc. As quickly the big .45 swings up to my breast.
´Tin, young man.´
´Don't doze off on me, fella. You say you ain't the one that shot me and I say you are. Why'd you come back for more?´
´You are a patient man, Mister. Anyone can tell you that. So tell me about the old days when the gun was necessary.´
´I'm ancient but I ain't no fool. Why I oughta …´
A gravel voice booms behind me. I fear to turn that it will be my last because when a man with a tin leg and long barrel orders me stay still, I listen.
´Nick! old friend. The voice roars. Put that pea-shooter away. ´You know how thick the heat is around here. Put the gun in your pocket,´ he commands. Could this be Red? Suddenly there is no chance to find out because I´m shoved between the shoulder blades past the gunman and down the sidewalk.
´Aw, all right, just for you,´ sniffs the old man behind me. ´I'm just old. Did I ever tell you about when Red and me were the best bank robbers between Mexico and Canada?"
´A dozen times if you told me once, but tell me again.´
THWANG I lose the rest of their conversation in a metallic ring that reverberates in my ears to this day.
5. Florida Trail
The Florida Trail stretches 500 miles the length of the state from the Everglades to Georgia border. It begins near Alligator Alley that traverses the everglades east-west where motorists currently pay a $3.00 toll for game wardens to remove or sheriffs to shoot up to 13´ gators from State Road 84. I crawl via a gator path under a tremendous 10´ chain link fence built to contain the reptiles, look up and down the road at a couple five-footers sunning on the asphalt, and climb the fence on the other side.My romance with the Alley began years earlier with the mysterious arrival of a package addressed to Philmore Hare, my 7´stuffed rabbit who rode shotgun next to me in a ´74 Chevy van waving down via an invisible fish line attached to its hand passersby in a search for intellectuality. The return address was Linda Smith in Orlando, and the package opened to a sprig of hand-sewn stuffed carrots and a note, ´I read about your owner in Sports Illustrated ( Nov. 19, 1979), and as the Sea World seal handler would like to train him to bark. If interested, meet me at midnight at mile marker #99 of Alligator Alley on New Year´s eve.´ I met and fell in lust with Linda and then her Everglades, and long after an owl came into her camp I returned to near the marker in a sort of memorial hike to her.
The trail proves more dangerous as the days progress to weeks and then after a month´s march north along an unmarked footpath with a sketchy guidebook on the day before reaching the George line I step into a bog that oozes like dark mashed potatoes with no plate. The conventional method to extract from a soft spot is to fall forward into a crawl and swim out, however my boots are entwined below in vines or roots and the pull of the pack straps prevents it. Next the manuals advise scream ´HEEEELP!´ but I haven´t seen anyone ever on trail, and instead while sinking to my navel scan about and think it queer to be missing the lower body half. The vicissitudes of the past month flash before my tearing eyes…
Sleeping with tarantulas in trees above snapping turtles, stepping over 5´ Cottonmouths, monkeying over log bridges, getting shot at by deer hunters, hiking a 20´ wide two-mile levee of a gauntlet of hundreds of alligators 30´away and up to 13 feet long that can sprint faster than a racehorse, hungry and lost dozens of times, and a water experiment designed after John Muir who fell ill with ´swamp fever´ in Florida on a walk down from Ohio…
Unable to afford a water filter, I tested each source with a series of pint plastic bottles from rivers to saw grass marshes by sipping mouthfuls, rolling each around my tongue, drinking a pint from any savory source, and thirty minutes later taking my body temperature with an oral thermometer and recording them in a Francis Galtonian chart. Normal temp is 98.6F, and over the course of a month the generalities proved that flowing streams and saw grass swamps were clean and without a fever; large lakes brought about a degree increase to 99.5F that I easily continue hiking; stagnant ponds or standing water raised to 101F for which I had to stop to let a gutache or headache pass, and only once at 102F did I pass out for a few hours. Fever isn't a disease but a fighting style, so by the time I sink in the bog on the last day there is probably immunity to everything in it but death.
It is inglorious that after enduring a hundred water tests that I would drown in this bayou. I kick the bottomless mire, give up, shake hands with the phantom of Philmore, sink to the chest, kiss the spirit of Linda goodbye, and open wide for the last gag.
The descent stops, and I look about. Empty water bottles strapped to the outside of the pack are acting as ballast to keep me afloat. With them I´m able to breaststroke to shore and crawl out caked with muck and Spanish moss. A swamp monster appears lost and shambling along a fence line for some hours until the crack of a whip like Rawhide and ´He Haa!´ breaks the air, with the sound of advancing hoof beats. A burly cowboy in a white hat on a black stallion waving a whip above his head gallops along the fence and hard reins the horse that rears pawing the sky like Silver missing my chin by scant inches.
´Mister, I just walked 500 miles and crawled out of a bog or I´d give you a hug.´
´Bud, grouses the cowboy, I smelt you comin´ through the heifers a half-mile back. Follow the horse´s tail to my ranch and we´ll fix you up.´ After a warm meal and bed, the next morning I leave with springs in my feet for the Georgia line thinking anything else will be anticlimactic.
The drone of autos sounds along State Road 301 that parallels Alligator Alley 500 walking miles over my shoulder. A battered Ford sways onto the shoulder and a white gloved thumb jerks me into the back seat, I slam the door, and the driver turns around to show a white beard and red stocking cap. ´Merry Christmas!´ yells the driver swinging the wheeled sleigh onto the road and I Ho Ho Ho into the next county.
6. Dollar an Inch of Skin
I draw an assignment to seed capitalism around the globe. One of the early stops is Caracas, Venezuela where an applecart salesman who is writing an English teaching manual is to be handed $2000. My capitalist benefactor will take a receipt for 15% off the annual gross, and then it´s on to the next stop like the 1950´s TV series ´The Millionaire´ appearing on peoples´ doorsteps in surprise. I pause first in Caracas for a meal."May I change twenty American dollars if I eat?" I ask in Spanish.
The dish steams in my face in three minutes. The café is elongated like a French fry with a dozen tables and a tiny bar; just a place to get a meal before the next stop. There are two occupied tables, a husband-wife pair at dessert and two males drinking tall beers with their meals. I study the drinking men with their backs to me. Clean ebony skin, cropped hair, pressed shirts, and grace in bearing the bottles to their mouth. Inexplicably, one built like a cheetah raises the beer in salute. I nod, and at first bite see his dark face blush. Francis Galton observed in Africa that this betrays shame rather than embarrassment. The waiter clears the table, I order another plate and pay with an American Jackson, and in five minutes she returns with Venezuelan Bolivars change and the piping hot plate. The waitress leaves, the two drinkers exit, the cashier disappears, the cook is unseen, the floor sweep locks herself in the bathroom, and the married couple rises for the door.
The cheetah and his partner brush in past them with raised machetes. The split to stand to either side of the chair, the table's in front, and my back to the wall.
"Tranquillo," orders the cheetah jabbing me in the ribs with the machete point just hard enough to hurt. He holds the knife low and expertly. The blade is fourteen inches long, plus another six in the wood handle. The other knifeman hold his lower and stabs my thigh.
´Su dinero!!´ (Give us your money!)
´I spent it all.´ Everything in Spanish.
Jab. Jab. They double team me with the knives, one below the left floating rib and the other on the right thigh, bruising but not breaking the skin. If I move I´ll impale myself.
I try to stay way ahead of these bad guys. The first step is to secret stashes around the body with the idea of sequentially losing only one or two. The most obvious spot to a thug is a money pouch around the waist or neck, where I now carry a thick wad of small bills to raise the saliva of a hooligan. I struggle to pull my neck pouch but a sharp blow by the knife point in the ribs knocks the wind out of me. There´s another wad in my back pocket, I beg them to let me pull it and throw over their heads to greedily claw the green shower allowing an escape, but a sharp stab below the pocket prevents it. The cheetah slashes the neck pouch, and the other slices the pocket and the monies fall into their hands. Now all that´s left is the big store, the seed capital for all of South America, sewn inside my right pant calf. Inadvertently one of the jabs hits the thick pouch of hundreds. The knife slices out the secret pocket, they take the three purses, and flee.
´Silencio!´ the cheetah barks at the front door, and then they're gone. On cue, the sweep girl emerges from the bathroom and shakes her head sympathetically, the cook starts banging pots, and the waitress asks if I want another dish on the house. I'm cleaned out but alive with a full stomach and this is no place to linger. Today I bucked odds without spilling blood, learned about myself and, at the price of a dollar a square inch of skin, walk out on lighter feet.
7. Silverback Gorilla
The 500-pound mountain Silverback Gorilla stands five paces away drumming his chest. The arms can bench press 1000lb. and bend the 2¨ tempered steel bar. Yet the thin Rwandan guide behind me whispers, ´He will charge only if you are afraid.´
The male at 5´ 11¨ is big for the largest gorillas in the world. A harem of four females half his weight gather leaves behind him for the nest. He gazes at the four European girls behind me, and then locks my eyes. It´s taboo for wild animals to stare down but he must defend his honor. There is no need as I would trade my group for his for the education. You don't have to call them. You don't have to send them flowers…
He displaces, grabbing limbs and breaking them, racing up a 15-meter palm in two seconds and raining coconuts down on everyone, and then returns to the ground and stands chin to chin with me at the same distance.
´Bo, he likes you!' giggles a French girl behind me. The gorilla´s face twists in amusement. His shaggy neck is a stump and erect penis shorter than mine.
He beat his chest, and I open my shirt and do the same lightly. The girls and guide back off in my peripheral vision. It´s a respectful stare down of one man and one beast, and today there is no winner because the gorilla glances away bored.
The brute edges forward; It´s a bluff. He climbs a tree like a ballerina and roosts in a crotch twenty meters high in the last stronghold of the remaining 1800 Silverback gorillas on earth.
8. White Mountain Crash
Clomp, clomp across the Golden Gate bridge in a Bay Area 10k race that began one week ago with a crash on White Mountain. I am bicycling 1500 miles from Canada to Mexico along highways #101 and #1 on a Peugeot PX-10. ´Bikeman!´ is relayed for two weeks up and down the Pacific coast to ward off logger trucks on narrow mountain highways. Bikeman is my CB handle, a grasshopper on wheels in bug Walkman earphones with a 5´ Radio Shack antenna stretched ahead off the handlebar.
In the shank of a golden California evening churning the cranks through the Redwoods along bike pathless Highway 101 the road climbs, zeniths in a roadside splash of wildflowers, and I coast down the other side with the wind whistling in my ears and feeler. The grips tighten, and as the speedometer dials to 35mph a rabbit in the meadow catches my eye so the fraction arch of the brow starts a wobble that on trying to correct intensifies into a violent frame shudder that the brakes amplify. The front tire catches the soft dirt shoulder, stops, and I shoot over the handlebars as if shot out a cannon. A tumble skid back and forth across the asphalt and earth leaves a bloody ten yard exclamation!
At the dot I find my feet but it is difficult to walk. Blood streams everywhere on bare skin except the tennis shoes, shorts and curly hair. The bike front wheel is bent at 30-degrees like a flapjack that made only three-quarters the flip, and the remainder is in standard post-wreck condition of gimped stem, twisted seat, luggage strewn in a line, and paint chips everywhere. I sit by the bicycle along the roadside like a faithful dog. I don't know what to do. There is little money. I am far from anyone I know. My body hurts all over. The sun is setting. A siren sounds in the distance…
A fire engine, patrol car, ambulance and sheriff arrive in a fifteen minute window from a 911 call by a good Samaritan passerby and suddenly I´m surrounded by multi-color flashing lights and concerned uniformed men. The cool sheriff takes charge and on learning that I have no wherewithal for the hospital or hotel, advises all to leave except the fire truck to which the bike is strapped to the bumper, and he allows me on a blanket into the front seat of his patrol car. We cruise down White Mountain to the nearest little burg where he pays for a room for which I´m grateful to this day.
The room offers a wall mirror in which I play doctor – patient. You feel fine, just look bad. I shine a light in the right eye of the mirror and determine there is no concussion. The pulse is stringy with shock but evens to 60. Blood covers 80% of the skin with dirt and grime stuck like flies on good flypaper. I release the patient to the shower and it must be cold to wash off the blood and seal the bleeders. On emerging there is a clearer picture. Scrapes and scratches cover 30% of the skin, so I take the first aid kit consisting of a one-ounce bottle of Methiolate and dab all the raw spots I can reach, lay a towel on the bed, and collapse.
The next morning I pick up a couple bottles of Methiolate and one large of pink Calamine lotion for poison ivy from the roadside tumble. The bike won´t be fixed for another day, however the sports page announces a marathon at the Golden Gate Bridge, so I board a bus to watch. Yet on arriving on the north side a number is pinned on my chest and the race director ushers me to the frontrunners saying it will be good publicity to have a Pink Runner in the lead for a few seconds.
We´re off and in the first minute a hundred runners breeze by shouting ´Go Bikeman!´ I am 70% pink in black tennis shoes, a running advertisement for Methiolate and Calamine in a 10k race. I lose ground on downhills where the skin is stretched and jars with each step, and gain on uphills where the bubblegum scabs don't bounce. Bikeman!´ chant hundreds of spectators four-deep along the south ramp of the Bridge as runners sprint and slap my back until the blood flows to the tape.
After the finish there is another, as I hitch a ride back to the repaired Peugeot, and another on the bike to Mexico, and then another… wherever the last one lands me.
10. My Old Man and the Sea
The Indian Ocean surf on the white sand beach of Bali is cold between my south of the equator toes after a sunrise jog, and the unpeopled shore slopes sharply to the breakers. I backward walk through the rollers, dive through higher ones, and the first blow of a powerful offshore current carries me a quarter mile out to sea. With a patience breaststroke I fight the current for a minute without making headway. I shift to a strategy of floating and am carried another 200 yards out to sea.
Swells glide over the withdrawing layer of water, springing high and cresting with foam when the lip becomes too thin. An underwater tug-of-war for my body takes place with the waves beating me beachward and the undertoad pulling me outward until I grow dazed and thrust out the water like a porpoise for a view over the rollers of swell and break, swell and break on the island Bali.
What does it mean to fight for one's life? There is a position, a goal, a plan, struggle, and the outcome. I try a modest front crawl, make headway to the beach, then stop, rest and drift back out to sea. Then it´s an all-out swim kicking hard and extending my toes in hope, stop to survey, and am swept to sea. The difficulty of rest there is that I am an Ironwood human with a body fat of 7.8% compared to the floating average of 17%. Following another adrenalin pumped leaden legged battle with the current I reckon that for lack of body fat I´ll fall to Neptune and this afternoon´s tourist attraction washed up on the shore of Kuta beach may be a bloated man with a half-smile on wrinkled lips.
The breakdown of the emotions when caught in a rip tide is: Panic with hope; hope disappears and willpower takes hold; truth replaces will, and in horror I believe I will drown. But it is countered by a flashback of water memories of my old man and the sea. At five years he took me by the hand into the Santa Cruz Pacific, and let go saying, ´Look out for the under toad´ that I thought was a rare water frog and spent several gleeful hours chasing. Red Cross swim lessons followed at the Idaho Falls YMCA pool. He built a submarine in a basement. Body surfing on vacation off Coco Beach I swam headfirst into a Portuguese Man of War narrowly escaping the 6´ dreadful tentacles, and he pacified it. One day Pa showed up like Jacques Cousteau on our front yard dock over Browns Lake, Michigan lugging a bell helmet to which an umbilicus ran to an air compressor like a fish bowl to a bike pump. He yelled at me to stop riding off the dock on my bicycle to make way for my first diving lesson. It was extraordinary looking from inside an aquarium glass at the fish and snapping turtles, and opened a life to scuba diving. A peak underwater moment was having a mouthpiece torn from my lips and breaking bubbles with my teeth to take in oxygen mixed with water, separate it in the oral cavity with a chewing motion, spit out the water and breathe the air for three minutes. The snowdrifts piled to the windows of our Charlevoix, Mi. home and father walked out the front door every Saturday in a black wet suit, the neighbors chattered, ´There goes Galloping Gil´, and he jumped off the ice into half-frozen Lake Michigan to scuba for an hour. One Spring we pulled a 19th century anchor from the bottom using a 55-gallon drum sunk, tied, water displaced by tank air from the mouthpiece, and raised the 5´ anchor and leaned it against out front yard Maple tree.The flash of incidents was like holding a dance partner for his strength and caring. Then the watery history moved swiftly full circle to a mouthful of saltwater in the Indian Ocean. I flip onto my back. Many fish take or rejects air from its swimbladder, a carrot shaped sac off the gut in the upper body, by swallowing or burping air. The amount of air inside the bladder controls buoyancy and an average fish must be occupied with about five percent air by volume to float. With a body density that approximates the specific gravity of water, I use my lungs as a swimbladder, taking in half a lungful when I desire to hoover just beneath the surface, or a full lungful when I want to float, or exhale to sink like a tombstone. I take a big gulp, rest on my back and think. Buddhists believe their dying thoughts influence their next life but that presupposes the next life which i do not believe in. I refuse to go out kicking like a berserk fish.
I remember I learned to make water my friend. In this recovery a textbook solution comes to mind to swim parallel to the shore to escape the grasp of the rip, and I turn on my right side and begin the transverse. After five minutes onto the left side for five minutes more. In twenty minutes I pivot with an energy saving breast stroke toward Bali. The distance closes until my feet touch the bottom only to bob away. Finally I stand upright in waist deep and gratefully feel the push of rollers. I stagger heaving lungs through the breakers, crawl up the beach and flop in my earlier footprints. Our home should not be called Earth but Ocean for it is seven-tenths water. One body, dynamic under the sun's heat, over the planet's rotation, beneath the lunar tides and countless breezes and currents that shape our lives. I would have met Neptune today but was buoyed by a flash of memories owed to my father. It will be nice to see him again on what others say is his deathbed, tell the story, and thank him.
The lessonfrom these ten survivals is don't believe anyone who tells you, ´You're gonna DIE!´. But I had to put myself in the coffin after the Cold Freight trip. That winter I returned to my alma matter MSU seeking two things: warmth and money. I spent my last $50 on a simple pine coffin constructed by the woodwork instructor, who introduced me to the sociology dean at Lansing Community College who hired me to teach a sociology course ´Hobo Life in America´ You bet I took the first check and lined the coffin with electric blankets to sleep like a baby through the Michigan winter in a Lansing basement. The first night in the coffin was risky because I shut the door tight in the unheated basement and mentally calculated its cubic volume, my tidal respiration, and using a factor of 80% exhaled oxygen per breath determined there was enough to last eight hours, but set an alarm clock for seven hours as a failsafe.
The coffin from which I popped the next morning like a Jack-in-Box illustrates the formula for survivals: You venture beyond where most go, there´s a jam, you calculate the risk factors, and use a store of knowledge and experience to escape. I obviously have no death wish, but purely a strong will to calculate survival.
So it was with surprise last November I read of my recent death in Mexico hopping freight trains in dozens of Emails and Facebook posts. My family on not hearing from me for three months had filed a missing person report with the El Centro, Ca. police department, and assumed the worst on not hearing back from them. They appealed online. The death spiral was finally clipped by an a post-obituary in Chicagoist ´From the Vault of Art Shay: The Legend of Bo Keeley Grows´ (12-14-11) which explained simply that I had retreated to my Sand Valley home to feed the animals and write.
The mind is the best all-purpose survival tool, and it is honed by experiences. The first test venture is the only difficult one, so head out as I am in the Amazon encountering fer de lance, tarantulas and Sapo frogs, and live to tell the stories.
The Amazon comes alive after sunset with interesting creatures.
These are from one night´s four hour hike:
I grew up running barefoot on paved Michigan county roads, graduated to marathon running in Converse Chucks tennis shoes, and had the honor of jogging with Micah True of Born to Run in Mexico´s Copper Canyon before he ran to exhaustion recently in New Mexico. RIP.
The effects of trotting barefoot as the author points out are obvious to anyone who has tried it both ways. The heel extends farther allowing the calf muscles and Achilles tendon to lengthen. Repeat this tens of thousands of times and there´s a physical change in the legs and gait. One notices the same effects in hiking long distance, say on the soft rather than hard soil of the Vermont Long Trail, or running the beach during low tide, or around that well-trodden track within Central Park. In all places, barefoot or not but better barefoot if the feet hold up, the effects all stem from widening of the unshod foot, and from a longer, more natural stride.
Here´s a story from Micah True´s lips after he threw a playful kick at me about four years ago to demonstrate his world ranking as a kick boxer. Most people knew him as a runner, then as a boxer, but he also had a stint as a full contact pugilist that has a sanguine ending. Micah had terrific reach at maybe 6´4¨ with arms and legs. He got into the boxing ring once and found that years of running barefoot provided the balance and stamina required to kept him in the ring long enough to win fights. He got a small time manager on a two-bit boxing circuit like Louis L´Amour. He also started writing a fictionalized account in the buses and skid row hotels as he traveled, that was his shadow boxer.
He went on a winning streak, as the book reflected, and because he was so tall and Caucasian his agent got him a contract with the 2nd ranked in the world full contact karate champion. The bout was three weeks away on the Pacific Rim, but True had the boxing technique, and the savvy to know that if he threw the required half-dozen or so required kicks per round he could oust the man with his longer reach punches. He won, and for a few weeks was ranked #4 in the world of full contact martial arts.
With the notoriety, he fell in love, as the novel he scribbled between bouts reflected, he told me, with a beautiful masseuse who massaged him before matches and unlimbered him after. As sometimes happens in the sordid boxing world, she ran off with another boxer, and he was so distraught that he lost a pivotal match he should have won. His world ranking fell until it was no longer economically feasible to travel overseas for full contact karate, and he reverted to the second-rate American boxing circuit, riding in buses, sleeping in flophouses…
His novel began to mix up his mind so he could no longer identify between what happened on the pages and in real life. He wrote a happy ending but didn’t know if he could reach it. So he retreated from both to the California redwoods where he built a bonfire, lit a cigarette, and one by one fed the hundreds of pages of the novel into the fire.
Unbridled now, he returned to running distances. He picked out spots 25 miles away in the Copper Canyon that fifteen Grand Canyons can drop into, and ran there, and back, and this is what he was doing when I met him on a hike. Then he died and we are talking about the length of his stride.
The two most salient features on the face of the Peru economic boom are corruption and fat.
The Transparency International is a world index of the corruption of nations you may choose to live or do business in. You may read about it, except between the lines, as Peru businessmen point out, that the index method is the perception of businessmen doing business in the countries. Among corrupt South America, Peru is rank middle-of-road but actually is the most corrupt country on the continent, if not the world. This is because nearly every businessman by default is corrupt in order to do business in Peru. Certainly they are not going to report that to TI.
A fun way to look at fat is on a calculator based on research pulled together by a research team at the London School of Hygiene. Using United Nations data on population size in the world´s nations together with estimates of global weight from WHO and mean height from International Health examinations, the calculator figures an average BMI (body mass index) for human fat. It so happens that Peru is in the midst of one of the largest economic booms due to relaxed foreign trade restrictions and increased gold price since the rubber boom bounced in early 1900s.
Today on the streets of Iquitos I see each person has gained 10 lbs. Under new polyester shirts in a rising middle class since my last visit four years ago. Where are you on the global corruption and fat scales?
Today I watched a child kiss her pregnant mother goodbye on the stomach. Children are that important in Peru.
Being a naturalist means doubling as a mid-wife in the Amazon, as Richard Fowler has found on five occasions. Probing the deepest Amazon he is legend in backwater villages as the Lone Ranger mid-wife where there is no medical facility.
A few days ago, I met the grinning 6-year old godson whom his mother, Lilla, claims has never had a sick day, compared to the siblings with a gauntlet of gripe, malaria, hepatitis and other ailments as common in Amazonia as chicken pox and measles are to American kids. Her smile was as wide as her child's as she hugged Richard with great might.
It was 3-degrees south of the equator, 100km off the tourist grid up the Ampiyacu River where few outsiders venture. Richard was tapped from a deep sleep by scared and panicky villagers of Lilla, a young widow of the chief´s son from Pucarquillo another 100km downriver. It was a surprise as the baby wasn´t expected for another month.
She was stepping off the platform of the hut when he arrived, and grabbed the edge, assuming a squatting position, as is the natural way for a bush birth. No screams, no grimaces, ´Just inhale and exhale,' he told her, and put a towel in the drop zone. He instructed the father into a quarterback position who caught the 3kg baby boy named Jason.
Fowler´s first delivery was in Vietnam as he led his 101st Airborne squad in a search and destroy foray into a tiny village where the Viet Cong couldn´t be distinguished from the natives. A stunned lady fell to the ground in labor.
´We´ve done enough bad today, Now let´s do some good, ´The point man boiled rags, the gunner found gloves, and the lady gasped in the first pang of birth. He caught the baby like Yogi Berra, and handed it to the radio man to hold. The woman started to rise, and he pressed her down gently gesturing, ´Wait for the placenta.´ It passed.
He waited for the umbilicus to turn from blue to white, and then sliced it with a one-foot hunting knife that he carries to this day for such occasions. He pressed the baby to its mother´s chest, smiles all around, and wagged his finger at her, ´Don´t name him Charlie.´
Since that first delivery the Amazon midwife has caught four others leaving behind only a white umbilicus.
The current issue of Outside magazine has an article called "Could You Survive" with 27 tips on how to survive a shark attack, a cougar attack, an avalanche, falling through ice, and a forest fire. The tips seem very relevant to how to survive in markets. But I don't know enough about survival and Hobo is far away I believe in Ecuador or Blythe and not likely to have access to this issue, so I appeal to the survivalists here to relate the good and bad tips to our field.
Jim Sogi writes:
Surviving specific threats is very specific. With a bear, one does not fight back, but plays dead after the attack. However, before the attack one must counter charge and wave hands, yell make noise because the first few charges are bluffs. With a cougar, one must fight back with all you have. Prevention, avoidance and awareness of bears and cougars before an attack are even more important.
It's important to know the context in which the threat occurs and the nature of the threat. In terms of markets, its foolish to fight back aggressively at the top of a rapidly falling market. Its a different story near lows after a big fall in a consolidating bottom. That's one of the problems with a list of general rules. While they can be good rules of thumb, they might not apply in a certain specific situation. Beginners or the inexperienced tend to rely on simple rules and get into trouble by applying the rules in the wrong context. When the "rule" doesn't work then panic sets in, multiple mistakes are made and death ensues. Experts use different and more specific sets of checklists and know the context.
Tom Printon writes:
Deep Survival by Gonzales and Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawade echo Jim's points, both make for good summer reads or re-reads.
Bo Keely writes:
I ran this by bear, gator, snake & cougar wrestler naturalist Richard Fowler and he sent us this:
THE MAIN THING IS NEVER RUN FROM A WILD ANIMAL. THEY WAIT AND WANT THAT. UNLESS YOU HAVE A SHORT SPRINT TO A PLACE OF SAFETY, CAR, HOUSE, ETC. ALWAYS CARRY BEAR GAS. HOWEVER LONG DISTANCE WASP SPRAY IS BEST. BRING A GUN THAT STARTS WITH THE NUMBER 4 OR BIGGER, AND. ALWAYS SHOOT THE SHOULDER AREA OF AN ATTACK TO UPSET THEIR BALANCE IN THE CHARGE. THEN FINISH HIM OFF.
It was a cold night in Baja a month ago when I struggled off the trail into a ghost town with an adobe house, and scraped a hole in the leaves for a nest, and thinking twice pushed them into a corner to start a fire. I fell asleep, but the fire did not, with a view of the stars through the rafters.
In minutes the flames climbed the corner reflecting heat and singing my blanket. They licked the dry rafters that sparked, and ignited the corner that threatened to leap to the next house. There was no water in my canteen, however recall from Jonathan Swift´s Gulliver´s Travels, (thinking quickly, Gulliver chooses to urinate on the fire, putting it out completely and keeping it from spreading to the rest of the palace) I swiftly leaped and dashed out the open door to climb broken bricks on the outside. Standing at the top, I extinguished the blazing rafters with a stream of urine to save the ghost town from certain death.
The 100+ citizen line winds early each morning around the block across from Yellow Rose of Texas where I eat breakfast. There arrive from every two-bit port and jungle hamlet to Iquitos to replace their identity cards, the equivalent of a U.S. driver's license, that is required of each person over the age of 18. They will say their cards were lost to save money, to beat the system. This is the way it works. In Peru each person over the age of 18 must have an identity card at a cost of about $8, or nearly a day's wage. Peruvians are required to vote in the national elections every five years, and for the city mayor, and a sticker is put on the card at each election. If a citizen misses a vote his card is invalidated, and if picked up with an invalid card he is fined $70. It is cheaper to wait in line for hours and pay $10 for a replacement.
A sporting illustration of the nature vs. nurture argument occurred a few years ago when San Diego Horizon high school visited our Blythe, California Yellowjackets on our own playing field. The visiting team was ´naturally´ genetically gifted in one of the top scholastic and beefiest schools in San Diego county, while the Blythe bunch was a ´nurtured´ dirty dozen playing in one of the harshest environment on earth. The visitors outweighed the home team by about 15 pounds per body, but our boys had practiced double-day workouts throughout August with daily highs of never below 120F in preparation for the homecoming game.
I entered on the visitors´ side to go recognized as a teacher by the students and players who had been talking the game up all week. It was a starry night, 9pm and the field thermometer dipped to 100F at the kickoff. The Horizon visitors lined up holding hands along the sideline in front of me swaying gently in silent prayer until the referee´s whistle, as across the field the Yellowjackets piled on each other like a tumbled hive as the student body screamed like banshees.
I heard a ´Putt Putt´ over my shoulder and was started to see the town mosquito fogging machine rolling 10´ behind me on the running track along the sideline. The machine spewed a deadly spray that engulfed and rose above the bleachers and line of Horizon players like a San Francesco fog. Six species of flying insects fell dead on arrival from the field lights into the hair of the visiting team parents, and mothers squealed and left for Starbucks. One cheerleader fell to the ground clicking her heels in spasms and I waved for the nearby ambulance. Two football players went to their knees and vomited piles a short run from my feet.
Nature had been equalized by the heat and haze to give nurture an even chance.
The ref blew the kickoff whistle, and the two teams faced off. Our Yellowjackets ran the kickoff return through their staggering opponents for a touchdown. An early first-quarter three-point field goal put them up 10-0 on the scoreboard. In the second half, the poison wore out of the opposing team´s systems and the heat of the night settled to a tolerable 90F. Horizon battled back to 10-7, Blythe went on the board with a field goal, a safety for Horizon and when the game siren sounded the score stood 13-9 for the nurture boys.
The brute simplification by Francis Galton of the relative influences of heredity and environment on personal, business and social advancement was illuminated on the field that night. A person´s innate qualities will carry him past the masses unless he steps into an arena of greater familiarity by the opposition. Then the contest evens out and the result is unpredictable.
Take a virtual tour of the infamous Lurigancho Lima prison before visiting Peru as a tourist. Watch 50,000 cans of beer tumble off a truck into the prison yard courtesy of the warden who takes a 25 cent commission, try your luck at the casinos, dance shirtless in the disco, pretty girls, drugs, attend church, get a haircut, 12 restaurants run by inmates, a multiple-language library, private rooms and condos, and each of the 300 foreign inmates has a laptop WiFi to run world drug operations on Skype or, as my friend Hank avows, to stay in touch back home.
´I didn't do anything!´ Hank exclaims.
Hank is a Maine, USA ex-pat who before the set-up that put him in luxurious stripes lived in Pucallpa with a Peruvian wife and bouncing baby. We spoke yesterday in a Pucallpa plaza where his ex-pat friends have been wondering where he disappeared to. They say he does no drugs, is an outstanding athlete, 40-year businessman and good father.
"Peru set me up, took some of the best years of my life, made me miss father´s funeral, and the family businesses has fallen behind!¨
Three and a half years ago, Hank was on his way to get a hair transplant in Lima before flying home to spread his father´s ashes over an Atlantic offshore island the family owns. Asking on the sidewalk for a hair salon he was surprised to be answered by a tourist guide he had known in Pucallpa. It seemed strange to run into Pedro in Lima, but since the guide always smiled and spoke perfect English Hank decided to accept his invitation to stop over at his apartment for a beer. Later in the day he knocked, the door opened, and the Peruvian let him in. They cracked a couple beers, and then the Peruvian excused himself to the bathroom, returned with a white powder up the right nostril, and they chatted for about 30 minutes. A knock on the door, and when Pedro opened it and stepped aside two uniformed policemen burst in demanding to know where he got the white powder up his nose. "The gringo gave it to me!" he shouted, pointing at Hank. The cops quickly found a kilo of coke behind the couch, and asked, "Where did you get it?" The nark repeated, pointing at Hank, "From the gringo!"
Hank told them he didn't do cocaine, never had, he had no knowledge of the kilo, and he was a businessman on the way home to his father's funeral with no time for that nonsense. It fell on deaf ears, handcuffs clicked on, he was carted to jail.
Drugs, like prostitution, are legal in Peru but both are illegal to sell. In the case of girls 18 or older, pimps are illegal.
The Peruvian accomplice vanished into the apartment to crank up the mill on Peruvian prison tourism.
A month later, facing a monocle judge between a court provided attorney and mandatory translator, the trial was a farce. The judge scanned the documents for one minute and without glancing up at the defendant, rattled, "Plead guilty and go to jail for three years, or plead not guilty and go for seven!" His attorney advised guilty, Hank agreed, the gavel hammered, and he was taken to Lurigancho.
Lurigancho is Lima´s largest and is called the country´s worst of the worst prisons in the world. Guards armed with machine guns patrolled the gray perimeter wall. Hank shook in his shoes as the front gate creaked opened, a guard shoved him in, and the door slammed. The guards rarely venture in, and inmates control what goes on- who gets food, a place to sleep, who lives, dies, and is sexually molested. The official capacity of Lurigancho is 1600, but it holds more like 6000, with so many inmates that prisoners are hired as in-house guards.
One of these guided him by the elbow through about twenty blocks to the foreign pavilion of 300 inmates, explaining that money talks in jail and if he could afford it he could buy anything except freedom. If you could buy freedom the squeeze on prison tourism inside the walls would stop. Hank quickly made friends with North Americans, Europeans and others, learning how to have his family funds sent to a go between who brought them on visiting days when a guard was paid to look the other way. Hank´s family fishing company money spoke loudly, and he started by renting a room with an Israeli, laptop with Skype, and healthy food.
A Peruvian guard collected 50cents weekly from each foreigner and disappeared outside the wall until the next payday, or till beckoned to accept bribes for nearly anything- TV´s, books, girls, steaks- and Hank found that for $10 he could have his baseball pitching machine delivered, but he kept hoping for a parole that never came.
At about $350 per head per month in the foreign block, it´s estimated that the prison, legal system and cops milk foreign visitors for $1 million a year. The average foreign prisoner stay is three years, but some have been there for seven. Most Hank figures are guilty, usually of drug crimes, but if the cops can´t catch you legitimately they entrap you when they know you have money.
Some Latin countries including Peru and Columbia have been accused of scanning arriving tourists' bank accounts via their passports to tag high rollers for possible kidnapping and prison tourism.
Many of the inmates are conducting world-wide drug deals via Skype, enhanced by connections within in the pavilion. "I watched hundreds of transaction for huge amounts of money, but basically spent ten hours a day every day surfing the web or on Skype, as the weeks turned into months into three and a half years."
"I can take you on a virtual tour via Skype inside the prison to visit a dozen friends who wander up and down the halls with cameras." However, there wasn´t time because my Iquitos boat was leaving. Hank is on probation for four years, but this month will flee across a remote Ecuador border, as others have done and was part of his prison education, and then he´ll send for his baby.
"Not that it made an iota difference, I was innocent. Now the only memory I want of Peru is my child back in USA."
Lurigancho is located in the run-down district of San Juan de Lurigancho district of Lima. There are even a couple dogs in Lurigancho doing prison time. National Geographic featured this prison as one of the worst in the world. No prisoners may leave the closely watched precincts, but once inside the walls they can do whatever they like. In this way the prison authorities do not have to bother about the prison's organization. Most of the Peruvian prisoners in Lurigancho haven't even gone to trial or been convicted of a crime, while others languish in rags for years long after their sentences are served.
That is, unless you have money to buy velvet stripes and a condo in the foreign pavilion.
If someone asked you where the most dangerous tourist resort on earth is, you might start looking behind the bars of Lurigancho.
June 20, 2012 | 3 Comments
Hormonal location is the tropical vagabond method to evaluate factors in new lands to determine his future wife and home. It is an odd twist of scientific location used by individuals and businesses to factor where to set up store. Once the factors are identified and weighed, pack the bags.
The right spot from my observations for thirteen years of ex-pats and personal experiences is Iquitos, Peru with 400,000 natives and the prettiest, most aggressive females on the planet, The average daily wage is $7 and all is nonviolent except the sinister mothers and witches who cast spells on hapless gringos driven by hormonal location.
For centuries the girls have boated up and down rivers from their five to fifty dirt floor or stilted hut towns to Iquitos for work, that puts thousands in the stores, cafes and on the streets at a ratio of three per harangued male. The imbalance leads them to seek companionship as much out of personal as financial need.
The four questions asked of every man, regardless of age, on his day of arrival in sexual Shangri-La and hourly thereafter, are: Where are you from? Do you have a wife? What is your job? And, (if employed or on social security) Where are you staying?
On alighting a month ago in Iquitos, I rode a surrey moto-taxi around to twenty hostels in the $3- 5 range to discover that rooms rent by the hour for sex at the daily rate if you pay a week in advance. So, my Coo´s Hostel fills every room with clients whom I never see in leaving at 7am and returning after midnight, and except for the open doors, rumpled sheets and pretty cleaning lady, I have the place to myself.
A handful of young to retired male tourists step off the daily flights into the chlorophyll scented air, and are swept off their feet if not by the first, then the second or third young, pretty jungle girl. They think they are in heaven swinging from a hammock with wild grapes dropped into their mouths. The girls are not prostitutes but rather predators taught by their mothers in an Iquitos tradition of prey. In other countries throughout Southeast Asia, Africa and South America the girls stop short after attaining the ultimate dream of marriage, while the Amazon girls begin to sharpen their claws.
If their mothers are correct, and statistics bear them out, the dividends begin after marriage in a hot brand of sexual tourism unique to Iquitos. Since first visiting in 1999, I´ve fraternized with a dozen ex-pats and know of another dozen who arrived, quickly married, unwillingly divorced, and now tear hair. There is only one surviving marriage in town belonging to the most successful restraunteur, and I hope it´s for love rather than money.
The mother is the guiding light in the search and seizure of the right man, as was her mother. The first lesson is to ask the four questions. The second lesson seems to be to perform well in bed. The third is to have a baby, and decry the father. The fourth is to marry, the fifth in about two years to divorce. And the sixth is to torment the lover for eighteen years to support mom´s family in the background.
The deepest claw of the jungle girl, as her bloom of beauty fades and mother´s sway comes to fist, is the baby. If the guy takes his newlywed to USA, mom and family follow, he supports them, and in six months his wife moves in with a richer man. However, most ex-pats fall into the local picture and in rapid domino succession beg to divorce, are refused for a couple years, face a stack of charges in a molasses court system, and end up financially strapped and gibbering in a dollar-a-day boarding house.
When the Spanish inquisition arrived in a city they used five steps to confession that are no more effective than the mothers of Iquitos: Step one is ask the citizen to sign a confession, step two is lead him to the door of the torture chamber, step three if there is no confession is open the door, step four he is strapped to the rack, and step five he screams.
Gone not only is the wife but the peculiar Iquitos custom due to the lopsided sex ratio that the newlywed introduces her best girlfriend as a second lover to her husband after the wedding night so that she has someone to talk to in the new neighborhood.
Normally, six months after the nuptial vows the gringo gets shocking news from his best man that he is accused of cheating on his wife. This is a mockery because he is so in love with two girls that the thought of a third never entered his mind. He runs into a wall trying to talk to his wife who insists that so-and-so chica is willing to testify to adultery. Next he is summoned to the police station to respond to a wife beating charge and pictures of her black and blue arms that the officers and court weigh more heavily than evidence that he was elsewhere on the night of the ordeal.
The final hook into the ex-pat is the birth of a baby that he fears getting blood tests for which may prove out rumors of his wife´s infidelity. She forces him out of the house and raises the kid with her girlfriend, while dad is forced by the court to pay $100 monthly child support.
A few months later, ´My mother says, gringo, that if you don´t start paying $100 monthly for mental anguish, things could sour between us.´ If he has the money, he pays on top of child support, but if not, she publishes a deuncio in the newspaper that is the kiss of death for everywhere he goes is under a rain of eye daggers and curses. After being forced to visit a psychiatrist, he returns a denuncio saying she is crazy, and she plays trump with a pin-filled effigy on his doorstep.
Nearly every gringo ends up hating his wife but loving his child and paying until she is 18-years old since his mother-in-law refuses to take a balloon payment for consent to take the child out of the country that would kill the golden goose. He should prefer to go crazy for what awaits him in the legal system as the daughter matures and a stack of charges wind through the slow Peruvian system for his sentencing.
Foreigners do not entirely discount hexes. A 6´1´´ British pilot came to me in tears saying he had just hired a defense witchdoctor to counter the spell of an effigy with pins stuck in the head that was in his mailbox. He wanted to talk, to know that it was ok to get egg yolk poured on his head to break the spell. Then he burst, ´The family has defamed me, the police tail me, everyone in the street stares, and yesterday when I picked up my four-year old daughter there was a rash on her vagina that the family has pictures of to prove that I molested her. I´ll languish in prison to old age, and the mother will continue to extort funds. Please take a look at my daughter´s vagina.´
I stepped back in hesitation as he thrust out the cradled baby. ´You´re a veterinarian, so just pretend she´s a puppy and tell me if it looks like a rash from sleeping on dirty bedding in her mother´s house, or rape.´ A quick look suggested dirty underwear or sheets. He seemed relieved, I left and lost track, but heard that he fled the country.
Once a foreigner tastes jungle romance he often thinks to get married, but when I first tasted the rainforest I sought a business marriage to obtain a residence visa. I was savvy enough to ask an ex-pat to set me up with a girl I´d never met whom he considered physically unattractive, who didn't want sex, just money to sign a few documents in the Peruvian fashion. I met the girl and jumped through the hoops of meeting her family, buying them drinks, and getting cross-examined by the mother who´s first four questions were, ´Where are you from, Are you married, What is your job, and Where are you staying?´ She hardly got the last word off her tongue when I excused myself and left.
Iquitos is the most miserable place in the world to get married and the best to have sex. Or, seeking storybook romance, take a ferry a day or more up or down river, and hike a couple miles into the jungle and through a town game of volleyball played by predominantly nubile girls who develop physically about two years earlier than their American versions. Their mothers-in-law have never seen a white man before, and you may swing happily from a hammock for the rest of your life.
In hormonal location Iquitos offers some of the prettiest, penniless, and happiest girls in the world, however one cannot study long enough before settling with the girl of his dreams.
June 17, 2012 | 2 Comments
One of my greatest regrets outside of death, sickness, of family and friends, and other great losses, is that I have always had a poor backhand in rackets sports. How in the world I won so many championships with that poor backhand I can't imagine. It wasn't quickness or natural ability or any kind or great analytical skill. That I know.
Like most things, the backhand has gone through ever changing cycles of strength and weakness. I started out switching hands the way most handball players did when playing with a paddle or tennis racket. That was very good for a while as it expanded my reach and gave me many angles that the normal backhand couldn't handle. Then I took lessons from a great backhander named John Nogrady and he assured me that I'd have the greatest backhand in two weeks. But it didn't work. And I gravitated to a slice backhand without any torque. But the left, ambidextrous forehand was good enough so I won lots of tournaments, and like an idiot, I decided I could be the best in the world in squash even before I had ever played the game, as I was the best in paddle ball. If I knew how many defects I had relative to the champions, who were so much more athletic than me, and had so much better backhand than I could ever aspire to, I never would have thought that crazy thought. In retrospect, knowing what I do know, I never would have even dared to play squash, considering all the weaknesses, which were soon to be exacerbated by the infernal short slice backhand that all the Harvard guys under Barnaby that hadn't played the game were taught.
That turned out to be bad for my tennis. I never could beat a good 6.0 player, and when we played the tough college matches, where the number 1 and 2 rotated, (I was number 2 throughout. I was ashamed to play the good number 1's on other teams because they were so much better than me, and I was granted the ignominy of playing the number two on the other team twice.) But that cycle was okay for me in squash. Somehow with the hard ball, the slice backhand wasn't that weak. Others, especially all the good Philadelphia payers had infinitely better backhands than me, but somehow I was able to prevail against all except Sharif.
I love Jack Barnaby but I am confident that if I had gone to another college and learned a decent topspin or full swing backhand I would have been able to surmount that one personage who stood in the way of my being best. The slice backhand I picked up at Harvard, was disastrous for me in racketball. I had better stuff than most when I played but I couldn't kill the backhand and other players hit the ball twice or three times as hard as I did. Marty hogan humiliated me with all the torques and backswings and follow-throughs he had on his backhand, as did Steve Keeley. But I was too foolish, and too insensitive to change.
The cycles change again. I've learned a good top backhand in both racketball and squash now, and if I could go back in time, I'm sure I would be 6 or 10 points a game better. But of course it's too late. I can hardly beat Aubrey who's 6 years old now, because I am so much immobile. Anyway, today for the first time in a year, I played tennis. I practice my new backhand playing against myself just dropping the ball. I learned 10 new things I was doing wrong on my backhand, or things I could improve.
1. Take a bigger backswing.
2. End the swing like a baseball player up high on the right side.
3. Get torque from the legs the hips, and the shoulders into the shot.
4. Keep the wrist locked and vertical never dropping it.
5. Tilt the racket into a slight slice face before hitting the ball top so that you get another torque into it
6. Bend the knees so you can get some lower body into it.
7. Extend the left hand at the end of the stroke the way Federer does on his slice.
8. Hit on the outside of the ball when you wish to hit it cross court.
9. Step into the ball like you're going to approach the net on all backhand shots.
10. Get on your toes and keep your head down on the flight of the ball.
All this seems very technical and specialized, but then I realized that the lessons I learned from the backhand today, would also apply to markets, which I'll relate in the next memo.
Bo Keely writes:
A forehand has many similar movements in life– from rattling the crib to grasping a fork and swatting flies– but not so with the backhand. By the time one begins racquet sports even at your tender age of what, five, in the deep end of a swimming pool with your father on the diving board shouting instruction, you had no muscle memories nor neurological models to hit a backhand. I, on the other hand, kept a diary from the same age and developed what others have called the best racquet backhand. Writing is placing an instrument in hand and drawing it across the page in the left to right backhand direction for the righty. By age 16 when I first took a racquet in hand as a senior trying out for the tennis team, I beat the number three and two singles players and so was kicked off by coach Kiley for not going out for the team sooner. The three best ways to develop a backhand, after a decade of teaching racquetball, and for once to fly in the face of a sport's maxim of specificity of training are: write longhand and especially print in order to accustom the fingers and eyes to stop and start, drive golf balls left handed, and throw a frisbee.
Dr. Bud Muehleisen, I called him Mule when we lived together and played countless matches, was a pivot in my racquetball career after moving from Michigan to San Diego from 1972-79. San Diego was the racquetball mecca in this golden era. I was the first racquet moth drawn to the lights of Mule. Charlie Brumfield and Carl Loveday, and hundreds followed. Sooner or later they found themselves on the PPA (Pacific Paddleball Association), Gorhams Sports Center or Browns 70th Street club to be dissected by the mild-mannered dentist. State champs and rising national champions left the court shaking their heads, some in tears, at the trouncings. They had felt so comfortable losing two out of three points. ´I never operate in pain," Dr. Bud told his patients.
Others extoll Dr. Bud´s 70+ national and international championships, however I will list five effects in my career that likely represent hundreds with other players who fell under the White Knight´s spell. The first memory on arrival in San Diego is mentioning that I was looking for a place to live, and I was instantly ushered into his home. The second is him politely suggesting that I buy hair conditioner for my unruly mop that refused a comb, before the blond afro and dual-colored converse shoes became the scream after I started winning tournaments. The third is when he got me a job as perhaps the first teaching pro in the country at the 70th Street club by elbowing me into the front door to simply ask… after he explained in our living room how to teach, step by step the strokes, and progressive lessons from serves to shots to tournaments. After I conditioned and earned pocket change, he introduced me to girls. Finally, when I fell ill with the second worst case of mononucleosis in San Diego county history, Bud carried me into his mother's house to recover for a month.
His forehand, court sense and strategies are among the best the sport has known, and hundreds of trophies still lay unseen in Dr. Bud Muehleisen´s attic after he recently retired after fifty years from dentistry, but not from racquetball.
A traveler or U.S. resident willing to take a junket to a 5-star hotel plus quality hospital care in an exotic land need not have American medical insurance and he'll get quality treatment at a fraction the cost. Third world countries charge cheap rates, the same for locals and visitors, for diagnosis, treatment, operations and hospitalization. Someone has pointed out to me that it is correctly termed medical rather than health insurance because many American doctors poorly promote your health.
In El Centro, Mexico, a month ago a physician told me after I walked cold into his office where he had learned from his father before going to medical school and returning to take over that the difference between Mexican and American doctors is that the patients trust the doctors who are not hampered by AMA protocol such as rote antibiotics, radiographs, blood tests and so forth before getting to the heart of the matter with a simple oral history and physical exam the minute you step in the office.
Then I walked around the block to an American dentist who moved to El Centro where, though his rates for fillings and crowns are a quarter his U.S. peers, no doctor's insurance is required, there are no legal suits, and he does well in dental tourism with the majority of clients from USA.
It's all in finding the right doctor… anywhere. I insist on seasoned docs and sports med physicians, or at least one who does sports. In a dearth, visit a sharp young clinic of a handful of friend docs who in synergy come through with the proper diagnosis and treatment. My luck with physicians in foreign countries has been excellent in Africa, South America and Southeast Asia. Sometimes they kick the price up 20% for ex-pats or visitors, bringing it to maybe 5% of the American rates.
Foreign hospital doctors nearly always run private practices at home, and that's where I get instant professional help. The red carpet rolls out. No appointment, his wife is the secretary, and he's linked to the top local specialists for radiology, lab tests, surgery, etc. You're in and out his doctor's door in 15 minutes, and feeling so much better that you're tempted to toss the prescription to be filled down the block instantly at about 25% USA costs. The doctors and pharmacists generally speak some English. In many countries such as Peru the pharmacists are so versed in medicines that the doctor is bypassed and he diagnoses and prescribes for simple cases.
Foreign docs, while making less than American, often own auxiliary businesses. A physician-owner of a restaurant who gave a tour of his clinic, some excellent off-the-cuff health pointers, and was willing to trade english lessons for future diagnoses. He had worked at three American hospitals for a total of eight years but prefers to practice in Peru. This country offers resident visas to foreigners willing to have their monthly social security deposited in a local bank, and comprehensive medical/hospital insurance for about $50/month.
On the other hand, in Lake Toba, Sumatra, a year ago an elderly restaurant owner tossed a salad explaining that no one in Toba gets sick, there are no dentists– what for?– and in the event of a village accident or emergency a local or foreigner is whisked in one of three town cars to a nearby city where the doctor accepts homemade pies and chickens, just like the old-time American doctors.
Medical tourism is a welcome wave set off by shock American fees, and a seeming U.S. government ploy to shunt citizens into corporate, county, state or federal jobs to be able to afford the one thing you cannot provide for yourself– medical care or health insurance.
Predictably, as medical tourism grows an American backlash should lower medical insurance and care, but until then why not take a vacation for an operation?
My friend recently wrote to my friend Art Shay asking what his secret is. This is what he wrote:
The secret is starting out with good DNA and poor immigrant parents who respected learning and believed that by working diligently, despite the handicaps of poverty, good looks and middling athletic skills, in this country you could amount to something.
In Russia at 23 my father was a political activist working with young Leon Trotsky. When he came to America, which had already suffered its Revolution, he became a tailor like all his 7 siblings who'd taken up the family trade. Although he hated uniforms, because of what they meant in Europe, my father encouraged me to become a Boy Scout and helped me win my 21 merit badges. I became a Life Scout, missing Eagle by being one bird short for the required Bird Study merit badge! (I could have used your help Josh!)
In the Depression I'd sometimes accompany my father looking for work in the needle trade, starting at one of the 8 story factory buildings, top floor, back door, and working our fruitless way down. He was out of work half the time and supported me and my 3 brothers and mom by fabricating dresses at home. He taught me to love reading and respect learning and sometimes played plangent Russian songs on the mandolin (singing the lyrics quietly– my favorite being" Nagyishcka"- the horse whip, which accented the sharp rhythms of the troika horses as they ran through the snow) to put 3 year old me to sleep.)
He took me to Central Park to watch the rich kids sail their boats. He taught me it was OK to sneak a feel of an Arctic sled on display behind "Don't Touch" sign and ropes, but make sure the guard was not looking. (In my career I would make dozens of secret pictures!).
When I enlisted in the Air Force Herman Shay wept, because military service often meant death and absence forever, but he had already taught me the meaning of America, and what a privilege it was to give back something of myself to it. I had a lucky war. I had but 9 months of college, but I educated myself. I've read hundreds and written about 60 books and countless articles. My writing idols are Nabokov, Hemingway, Algren and Chekhov.
I became a photographer when I realized I did not have the DNA spark to be a great writer. To come up to my own ideals. I compensated with the camera. Some of my pictures have been compared by tough critics, to works by Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Dickens, Melville. Algren and even Nabokov. This is flattering and great for the ego. But I don't buy it. One of my Chicago pictures, recently bought by a great university for their new library was sold to them by my gallery for an outlandish amount. My older daughter, who overcame typical teenage difficulties, was recently honored by the LA Bar Association for being a top intellectual property, trade mark and patent attorney in LA. When she was in law school she was the first student in US history to have a case in the US Supreme Court. She won her case with her professor (he had the license) reading her brief. She said, beforehand, knowing I had staked out the Mafia in a dozen cities for Time and Life: "If you come near the Supreme Court with a hidden camera the day I'm there, they'll arrest me for patricide…"
It also helps to have a brave, beautiful, intelligent rare book dealer of a wife for 67 years and counting.
August 21, 2011 | 1 Comment
One month ago in Indonesia, a guide hiked me up a jungle canyon for an hour to search and find a rare Rafflesia, the world's largest flower, in bloom. The plant though large with up to a one-meter flower and weighing forty pounds with no stem or leaves is difficult to find as it blooms for only 2-3 days before decomposing. My guide spoke no English but shrieked at each overhang or cliff en route to the flower causing to knock my head twice and sprain my wrist. We closed in on the plant in muggy jungle air by odor — it looks and smells like rotting flesh and hence the tag 'corpse flower'. The flower burst into view on a sunlit slope where I flung my cap next to the plant for scale and to relieve my swelling head. From the flower my guide led me back down to a farm that grows cat poop coffee (kopi luwak) that is processed in this strange way. The coffee beans are eaten by the civet, a jungle cat, that we tailed into the jungle to pick up the feces which contain the beans that have lost their rancidity while passing through the cat's stomach enzymes. We picked up the droppings and the farmer showed me how he washes, dries in the sun, roasts and brews. I'm not a Starbuck's drinker but might become one if they offer cat poop coffee for this is the only I've tasted without sharpness, a caffeine boost, and bitter aftertaste.
A Monitor Lizard in your home brings bad luck according to Thai superstition, however the 5' specimen that crossed my path this morning rang in a grand day. It raised an eyelid and dashed into the underbrush. A mile down the road a cloud of a hundred Flying Foxes with 5-foot wingspans, the world's largest bats, lumbered like eagles before alighting in trees and staring at me upside down. A mile later, I snapped a picture of a mural of Muslim schoolchildren in robes when a real swarm ran out to practice English. The teacher set up chairs on the lawn beside the mural so the motorbike morning traffic could watch the new sub. The one-room schoolhouse of all grade levels owned an accumulative vocabulary of about 50 words that the kids quickly doubled with the nouns of our dress and surroundings. Each had arisen at 5am for the first of five daily prayers and to my raised eyebrow, 'Why?', a ten-year-old smiled, 'Life is a struggle!' After thirty minutes of English, I continued down the path less traveled.
The Sumatra soccer field on the outskirt of Lake Toba is made of 'Indonesia astroturf' — red brick with ingrown grass and bamboo goal posts. The coliseum has more trees than spectators these days, but i was lucky today to crowd into some ivy and watch a heated match between high school youths. The Batak teams are graceful and strong, larger than Latins and cheer when the other team scores a goal. There was one white tennis shoe on ten bare feet on the brick field- shirts and skins- running, tumbling and kicking a new soccer ball out into the jungle where they exited after the game was over.
The racquetball Big Game is drive serve and shoot, which I call blitz racquetball. The first blitz player in 1974 when we were housemates betting mile runs on the outcome of his blitz vs. my conservative game- the 'year of the pivot' when Marty Hogan, ridiculed for his deep cannon stroke that tended to loosely fly all over the court- was Smokin' Hogan after he honed the powerful stroke and grew facial hair.
The reason Hogan was the Big Game firstborn is he was the first with the physical power and grace to allow it; the previous champs Bill Schmidtke, Bud Muehleisen, Charley Brumfield and I were tennis shod string beans who 'pushed' the ball around the court and a tediously effective strategy of waiting in prey for the opponent to error in 3-10 shot rallies, and then the final stroke.
Hogan was the first to force the error with booming drive serves, or his 142mph service return while the rest of use were clocked in the mid-70's at 110mph.
A cascade of factors enlivened the Big Game in the ensuing decade.
The mid-70's ball got so fast that we judged one acceptable if a ceiling shot didn't bounce over the back wall into the gallery and they started netting the upper decks. It was like substituting a hardball for a softball without moving back the outfield fence, and the result was the fans descended into the courts to imitate the pros blasting serves and shots.
The late 70's fitness craze spawned court clubs with the back racquetball courts filled with gym equipment, and bruisers strutted out the gyms and onto the racquetball courts to explode the Small Game.
In a blink, Power Racquetball of serve and shoot evolved new players and play.
The first Eketelon Contra big-head racquet in 1984 reinforced the power game, squatter players took to the courts, strokes abbreviated to rapid loops, and strong junior players started hitting the ball at 150mph.
It so happened that year the Big Game was locked in forever by a match rule change from 21-points to 15 per game, with an 11-point tiebreaker. This guaranteed national champs to eternity using a big head with serve and shoot strategy, to blitz anyone in streaks without fear of fatigue.
Racquetball as it was invented and intended by Joe Sobek in Connecticut, pioneered by Carl Loveday, Bud Muehleisen and Charley Brumfield at the Pacific Paddleball Association court, and developed at San Diego Mel Gorham's Mecca became a travesty in one season.
The sport shifted from aerobic to anaerobic.
The next alignment for the Big Game was the 1980's side glass and often front glass at tournament courts that guaranteed a seeded bltizer need only breeze through the early rounds on solid wall back courts to make the semi’s aquarium where his his Big Game had a 5-point advantage in games to 15 points.
The One-Serve Rule of 1994 tried to divert the cavalier ace… or did it? The elite players overnight ciphered and experimented in the next tournament to discover that the attacking serves when they were not fatigued was the only winning strategy.
The axe was lengthened by a 1997 USRA rule change to allow the oversized frames to extend to 22'' long.
What mutated sweaty chess to a blitz racquets? The associations and sponsors sped the sport to make it easier for youngsters, seniors and females to play the Big Game like pros. That is the racquetball evolution of ball and racquet, serve and return, forehand and backhand, player physique and psychology, and strategy in a nutshell.
How did the ousted pioneer champs react? All-night hashes at private courts across the country and shared at tournaments produced countless variations of new strokes, serves and strategies, but nothing jibed. The greatest old-timer, Brumfield, hung on for two years with warmed over gamesmanship and a new crack ace. The aging champs' bodies and personalities couldn't bear the Big Game and they curtsied off the courts to the new champs Mike Yellen, Dave Peck, Jerry Hilecher and Bret Harnet.
The first operant serve and shooter I met after Hogan was John Foust, who as a kid had multiple corrective leg surgeries and retains a gimp. His attacking strategy in a match at the Denver Sporting Club, home of early big tourneys, was such a shock that I would have lost at the peak of my career had not a patented backhand wallpaper serve eked a win. Foust wrote to me later to reciprocate for the wallpaper that he added to the arsenal, and to explain his Big Game. I realized he had sketched the perfect instruction that applies to the modern blitz of serve and shoot for all players.
I had a foot in two racquetball worlds, so to speak. One was able-bodied that you’re used to playing, and the other in a wheelchair. In the early 80’s, the wheelchair game was coming on and though I was legally handicapped from polio in youth, I never dreamed of myself as that. I managed the Denver Sporting Club and was a consistent able-bodied winner in A division, and once won the 25+ Open Regional. Luke St. Onge, the USRA executive director, asked me to play in the wheelchair division alongside my normal event, and I replied, ‘I spent time in a wheel chair when young, and may again when I’m old, but I don’t want to in-between.’ However, Luke persevered.
It was bizarre going from the regular events where I was perceived as the ‘good guy’ with the game leg who beat most the field, to the wheelchair division where I was the ‘villain’ because after the match I could rise and walk with a limp from the chair. I grimaced before each match at having to approach another player to beg his chair. I was third and fourth ranked in the world from about ‘85-87 by virtue of my able-bodied racquet skills, but always lost in the finals to one of the top two wheelchair champs (Chip Parmelly or Jim Leatherman) because of their familiarity with the chair- Understand that the chair is equipment, just like the glove, racquet and shoe.
After that, I entered only able bodies tournaments and walking into the court feeling as if I could win until proven otherwise. I practiced and taught myself how to kill the ball from everywhere. Defense wasn't my strong suit. The longer the ball was in play, the better chance I was going to lose the rally on a dope shot of which I simply could not get to. I relied on the drive serve to start the ball low into play to force the shooting game.
The blitzkrieg won the 1983 AARA regional championship in the 25+ division in going through three Open players to the finals. That was my biggest personal racquetball accomplishment- I beat three players who were very good. The closest I came after that to winning anything of substance was the Tournament of the America's in Santa Cruz, Bolivia in 1988. It was the first of five times I was part of the U.S. National Team. At that time, although not originally qualified as part of the team as a true player, I had the ability to score points for the team as a manager /photographer /low level coach. It was clear early on no one from the others teams were going to give me any credit- why should they? Not like anyone in Bolivia knew who I was, or had a resume to stand on. I completely understood. In the long run it worked to my advantage in getting to play. I made it to the semi's before getting beaten by a better player. The U.S. team was gracious enough to vote me to accept the Championship trophy.
Three parts to my game come to mind in any success I've had at racquetball. I felt I could serve with the best of them. That was my great equalizer and something I put a lot of effort into. I had the ball, I knew what I was going to do, and was a master of disguise about where. Drive serves were my forte. I used them on a first and second serve. It wasn't until later in my playing days I learned the value of a lob. I hated lobs.
In the event an opponent was able to retrieve my drive, I did the best I could to put it away quickly. If I couldn't serve 3-4 untouchable serves in a game I was toast. For the most part I did. My able-bodied style is to shoot the ball from everywhere, because the longer the rally the less chance I have to get to the opponent’s shot because of my game leg. I practiced hundreds of hours shooting from every conceivable court position, and to drive serve to earn weak returns.
In the rally anticipation was key. Unlike a Hogan I didn't have all the tools necessary to play a complete game. I was good at the bait and switch. If focused in, I knew before my opponent what he was going to do. They would say, 'You're a lot faster than I thought,' a kind compliment but not true. I was quick in a short space. It appeared I was fast- smoke and mirrors.
My forehead was strong if I had time to set up. However, with a weak left leg, it was difficult to transfer weight. Hogan, as it appeared to me the visual learner, hit a lot of forehands off his back foot. I had no choice but to do the same and was comforted by the fact that's what he did well. On the other hand, a backhand was my natural shot with a stronger than normal right leg, I could step in, transfer weight, hit, and do what needed to be done. And, because of the situation. I moved to the backhand side much more easily. My backhand was something I visualized as being a lot more like it happened in the real world as opposed to my mental world where I was moving like everyone else. I think they call that dreaming.
Based on how Hogan whipped me, Foust had lectured me, and how fresh players came on strong with the Big Game in the late 1980's, I revamped my teaching style. The traditional instruction learned from Bud Muehleisen and expanded in The Complete book of Racquetball taught to aim for the bulls-eye, and later add increments of power. Now I teach first the power killshots from any position on the court, then the drive serve, and slowly hone into the target. The learning curve of blitz is just one year given a strong young body and daily hour's practice and another hour of game time. As the errors are dropped out of the attack, and greased by confidence, by year two a dedicated athlete may become an open player, and in another a pro.
The greatest upsets throughout racquetball history have been blitz serves and shootouts beginning in 1977 with Davy Bledsoe over Hogan, in 1983 Mike Yellen using the big head Contra over Hogan with his contract autograph model, and topples by Sudsy, Cliff Swain and King Kane all owed to the Big Game school.
Today the Big Game is the only game in tournament town.
The Education and History of the Racquetball Swing
by Bo Keeley and Bo Champagne
Let’s begin with individuality. There are no exact championship motions for everyone. Ax-wielding Abraham Lincoln has the first and last word on strokes, ‘You can please some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not please all of the people all of the time.’
There are no model strokes, only model players.
The more you watch racquetball — especially the pros — the more you come to realize that no two players strike the ball exactly alike. The conclusion should be that there is no single correct way to hit a racquetball. You will limit yourself unless examining the history of Model Strokes from day one to present.
In the beginning, 1949, Joe Sobek invented racquetball, called Paddle Rackets, with a sawed off tennis racket in a winter handball court, and the handful of players used a stiff wrist Tennis Stroke for a control game of passes, kills and lobs.
The Handball Swing supplanted and was superior to the tennis allowing a low contact and wristy underhand or three-quarter underhand for an attacking game, and this remained the style throughout the ‘50’s.
By the end of the ‘60’s the Paddle Racket Stroke per the sport name prevailed using a more sidearm pitch, contact off the lead foot, and natural followthrough. The first national champs Bill Schultz, whom I watched, and Bill Schmidtke, whom I played often, offered two of the best forehands and worst backhands the game has known for national champs. This ‘sword and shield’ was typical of the era and there were few ceiling shots.
The San Diego Stroke from 1969-’71 was pioneered by Carl Loveday, Bud Muehleisen and Charley Brumfield, all cross-over champs from badminton and paddleball, that improved on the old Paddle Racket Stroke with the first studied and controlled swing that became the standard. The stroke they taught themselves on the first ever private Pacific Paddleball Association court was dissected frame-by-frame and puttered with each. Muehleisen taught me to teach in clinics to transfer to the ball two raw sources of energy: the weight transfer from rear to front foot, and the wrist snap. He demonstrated each, and in synergy, by hitting initial shots with only the weight transfer at 50mph, only the wrist snap at 30mph, and combined them for 90mph.
The Michigan Stroke evolved parallel to the San Diego one, and was dubbed the ‘farm implement stroke’ to honor the state inventors and champions, and describes a powerful plowed flat and tireless action with an abbreviated backswing that geared at the back with a wrist cock, short down stroke, with enhanced wrist snap for in-spin. This is the stroke I used with one secret tinker to win multiple paddleball and racquetball championships. Finding myself on crutches one month after an accident, I took one into the court and learned to kill the ball from everywhere on the court from an absolute upright position. The contact was between the knee cast and chest to defy the sacred principal of contacting killshots as low and close to the floor as possible. I threw away the crutches and retained that trademark upright disguise of kills that appeared off the racquet as passes. The Michigan Stroke overwhelmed the San Diego classic because as the ball livened in the early ‘70’s it offered a quicker set with the shortened backswing, and a faster downswing to rewind for the next shot.
The St. Louis Stroke at once replaced the Michigan in the hands of a mid-west contingent who invaded San Diego from 1971-4. The spearhead was 15-year old Steve Serot who made the semi’s of the inaugural 1971 National Singles Invitational that was the first true national tournament because all the top players participated via previously unheard of comped plane fares. The free-wheeling swings of Serot, then Marty Hogan, Jerry Hilecher, Ben Colton, Jerry Zuckerman and a few others who played summers at the St. Louis JCC before relocating in San Diego, put the first bang in the game. Their look-alike strokes surpassed all previous with a wider arc backswing and follow-through, strong wrist snap, and for the first time pounded rather than pushed the ball. These were the first players to hit the ball in the 120mph range as clocked on radar.
The stage was set in ’74 for the most unorthodox and influential Marty Hogan Power Stroke that was so superior in a deep contact, with an amplified force via body coil albeit less accuracy, that it engendered Power Racquetball and no instruction could sell during the remainder of the decade without the phrase. The reform beside a deep contact was a shift from the pioneer weight transfer from rear to front foot, to instead a body coil like a golfer, and in fact the analogy of a golf swing was applied to the backhand. Yet a key element was missing. Marty and I were housemates and competitors that allowed a study that technically he didn’t know how he hit what no one else could. It was finally exacted as a ‘bullwhip crack’ like a towel snap that may double head-speed at the instant of contact. In the end, everyone hit it.
The Hogan stroke prevailed through 1983 when the incumbent champs with new big head racquets and often one-grip forehand and backhand started a Fairgrounds’ Hammer Swing. By tournament osmosis nearly every pro tweaked Hogan’s power swing of deep coil and contact to a compact version for more swing control to hit the target. This stroke was the utility through the mid-90’s.
The Bow-and-Arrow Stroke was first seen in the mid-90’s that is utilized by many present elite. It was perfectly described by Dave Peck who credits Bud Muehleisen to almost come full circle in the history. Peck draws the hitting arm back as if drawing an arrow in a bow, the arm is parallel with the floor, it rests a split second at the top with a crooked elbow, descending with a short loop to pound the ball very hard and accurately. The beauty is an absolute flat backswing to ensure with a tiny loop a mirror downswing that propels the ball accuracy to a bottom board across the front wall. If the ball is hit too early, it’s a flat rollout to the left corner for a righty, and if it’s hit late it’s a flat rollout to the right. If ever there is a model power stroke to start a beginning player with fast progress in strength and accuracy, this is it. That’s why it’s the sport standard.
Metaphorically then, the model racquetball stroke has gone from a tennis swing, to roundhouse handball, baseball pitch, farm implement, push broom, wristy flyswatter, fairgrounds’ hammer, bullwhip, to bow-and-arrow… and who knows what’s next?
The point is that the Model Stroke throughout history is a symbiosis of strokes. It depends on the equipment, and in part on the player’s physiotype and personality. I would say to stand on the shoulders of the champs one-at-a-time who designed the Model Stroke for an epoch that hundreds of thousands copied, and create your own.
Myron Roderick was fun loving with no backhand, and at 5'5, the last man in the world I'd cross. I ran late onto the Orange Outdoor Nationals court as he served, and returned for sideout. He picked me up over his head into a airplane spin laughing and so was only a few feet off the ground. He tackled Dave Messer in Dr. Bud's living room thinking he was Don Craig and rubbed his ear in the rug to say howdy. At the '80 Houston stop he greeted Randy Stafford by picking him up by the heels and dangling him over the court backwall before they descended to play.
I knew, feared and respected three-time national wrestling champ Roderick before I picked up my first racquet and beat him. He was the youngest college wrestling coach in history and moreover won the first of many nat'l championships for Oklahoma State that year. Roderick was the single wrestler my MSU coach Grady Penninger, also a multi-national champ and paddles/racquet player, commented, 'that's one tough character'. MSU wrestling was second in the nation that year and when Oklahoma State came to Lansing, Mich. There was electricity in the first-ever jammed fieldhouse. I saw Penninger shake his head, look at his wristwatch, bang both, and asked him after Okla State defeated MSU, "coach what happened with the watch?". He replied, "I hardly want to say but everytime Roderick and his team come to town I get so wound up that my watch stops."
I went for a walk today in the Sumatra jungle and into a corn field where, standing next to a 10' plant with a tassel top that can double as a basketball hoop, I knew I was lost. The neighbor 9-feet plants were too spindly to climb and I didn't dream of scaling the giant to peek at the sun. A crunch of footsteps a few rows over startled my 'Help!', and the reply, 'Pick a young one, sweet.'
I anxiously recalled my Iowa hobo days at the Brit Convention where a 1942 photograph displayed the 26-feet National Tall Corn Contest winner from Des Moines.
I parted the stalks taking thumps on the head from corns for a dozen rows to nearly knock over an old Batak lady perched on a stool picking. She dropped lightly to the ground and handed me an ear to nibble and it was sweet, however robust like the Batak. After the first line she explained that the corn was sweetest this time of year; after the second she allowed that everyone else waits another two weeks for 20% size increase; and after the third line she cried, 'You hit the peak height because tomorrow the tassels will weep and bend!'
We grabbed more ears ears and an hour later walked out the corn field into the Sumatra sunshine.
The east flank of the Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range, second largest in the world, lies one mile walk from my trailer doorstep where five years ago on a Sunday with scanty jets and thousand-pound bombs lacing the airspace, and the mistletoe draped thick in ironwood trees to duck beneath Navy prop-plane security, I hiked twenty miles across the range to the Salton Sea to visit 320-lb. Big John bobbing on his canoe in the Salton Sea.
The range is where pistol-whipping 'coyotes' abandon illegal Mexicans in the Promised Land who spot dry mouthed the gleam of my trailer and walk in reverse to arrive chewing barrel cactus for moisture and near-death. They were frightened out the range, they say, by the bombs that leave house-sized craters, larger than my modest 10' burrow.
The range is of historic value as General Patton's training ground for hundreds of thousands of troops for the WWII hot Africa campaign and the wide old tank tracks gather sand and stink bugs past my outhouse where the US Border patrol four years ago high-speed chased a vanload of illegals who plummeted into the Millipetas Wash, fled and were never seen again… though others turn up with their heads buried in the cool sand and stiff burning legs.
Patton's dated 1940's shells, some 6'' long that serve as tea goblets to an annual handful of visitors for a refreshing taste of Sand Valley, trickle down mile-wide Milipetas Wash from the range in semi-yearly cloudbursts that brim the bank 100-meters from the library, outhouse, cook trailer and burrow.
Linux-Care CEO Art Tyde answers invitations to high tea leafleting the property from 500' in his Cherokee Piper with photocopy pleas to ensure one blows to Rancho Scorpion to pick him up in an hour at the nearest cross-road town of Blythe.
We recline on lawn chairs 15-feet above the 110F desert night floor on the library semi-truck van roof via a spiral staircase to view Orion and four-hour war stages of a half-dozen helicopters with blinking red taillights dropping Marines here-and-there and sometimes mistakenly near ground-zero flashlights at the Rancho. We ease back in the chairs as a dozen roaring jets climb and dive and release like Dumbo 6'-bombs that pock and shatter the eardrums sending ten-story brown blasted plumes that drift like War of the Worlds on westerlys with parachute flares that light an itinerant three-mile cone to the rancho as 5-mile-long rainbow tracers from 1000-rounds per second airborne machine guns and the rockets' red glare blasted from jets at green dummies on the ground.
The show is all the Fourth of Julys across the great nation and the Star Spangled Banner rolled into one that costs the taxpayers two million dollars per week by my conservative estimate. After a sound night's sleep on the burrow waterbed, that double as an emergency bank, I ride the range in another neighbor's custom dune buggy gathering hundreds of pounds of aluminum bomb fins and brass copter shells to sell at the Salton Sea recycler for a record $1000 for one day's take. My fixed expense for this is $23/year property tax that's paid for by the range collectables among sidewinders and tarantulas.
My friend Art Shay grew his journalistic teeth I believe at Columbia University. The actual impetus though was playing army bugle, picking up the melodic keys for his trademark pen. He also navigated a harrowing WWII bombing mission of which he's prouder so it was probably no big deal getting shot at a couple miles high. Make no mistake though, he's the greatest B&W photographer of the 20th century, his strength is in copy. He told me Life & Look originally hired him for copy, and he transitioned into photography to shoot over a thousand covers for publications. His recent kudos are buried in my folders, but you may find a two-month old feature on 'Shay and Raquetball photography' by Huzek in "Racquetball" mag, and the treasure trove Chicagoist "Art Shay's Vault" published biweekly that I've occasionally forwarded.
I knew Niederhoffer better than Hogan, and we played often at every sport imaginable, and using equipment of one against the other to homogenize our strengths. It's quite clear that he trounced me in tennis, ping pong, badminton, squash, and every other racket contest, except I was a nudge better in paddleball and racquetball. He beat me, Hogan and another top player in an informal late 90s All Racquet fest at his CT home, and carried a gimp leg into and gimper out of the event. There's no question who was the best overall.
Victor Niederhoffer comments:
Those were the days. -v
Howard "Uncle Howie" Eisenberg writes:
My recollections of the event follow. Since it was 36 yearsago and I am at an advanced age, I may be off by a point or two in the recounting.
Vic, coming off wins in the 1975 US, Canadian, and North American squash championships decides to win the International Racquetball Assn championship, never having played the game. This is widely quoted by Sports Illustrated, People Magazine, Esquire Magazine, and other publications including a 7 page article about Vic in the NY Times Sunday edition all of which focus on the prediction of the eccentric commodities speculator who wears different colored sneakers along with his tieless business suits in meetings with clients of his 1/2 billion dollar hedge fund such as George Soros.
There is very little racquetball being played in the NY area at the time. He enlists my aid to learn the basics. Although far inferior to him in racquet sports, I attempt to impart what I know about 4-wall handball to him. He acquires the rudiments of the game practicing with me and mostly by himself at the 92'nd St. YMHA using dead racquetballs on a court with an 18 foot ceiling on which it is virtually impossible to hit effective ceiling shots. He continues his training regimen that includes running through the streets of Manhattean wearing sweat socks as gloves, holding a squash racquet "to ward off muggers". We go to Vegas 2 months later. Vic plays a 1'st round match watched by Ektelon founder, Charley Drake, Keely, and Hogan who is to be Vic's second round opponent. All of them scoff at this "big mouth" upstart who has provided locker room bulletin board material with his presumptuous prediction of victory as he lumbers around the court in a manner that would never have him confused with Barishnakoff.
Vic and I bet Drake $500 on the Hogan match. Thirty seconds before it begins, Keely comes running over with another $500 to bet which we cover. It isn't in traveller's cheques. Our upbringing at the Brooklyn dens of iniquity where the heavy action on handball, paddleball, pool, crap games or whatever takes place has tought us that if you want to ensure getting paid,the money has to be up - in cash. Hogan takes a quick 10-0 lead and it looks like Vic not only doesn't belong on the same court with Marty, he shouldn't be in the same state with him. Things get a little more under control after that with the two trading points, Hogan winning 21-11. Throughout this game and the entire match, Hogan attempts to psyche Vic out by facing the back wall, placing 2 hands on it and sticking his ass out at Vic for 8 of the 10 seconds allowed to receive serve. The 32 year old Niederhoffer has been playing tournaments and money games since he was 10 years old, so this purile attempt by the 17 or 18 year old neophyte has as much effect on Vic as a minnow on a barracuda. The second game is a continuation of the 1'st with no one taking more than a 2 or 3 point lead until 18-all when Vic gets Hogan out and runs the 3 points to win.
Initially in the 3'rd game, it looks like Hogan has been broken with Vic taking a substantial early lead. However, there is a pervading dynamic in this match. Hogan is playing racquetball, serving with great velocity, driving, and killing while Vic is playing squash in a racquetball court, serving softly, retrieving, keeping the ball in play and rarely going for a kill shot. Marty's well honed racquetball skills come to the fore as he gets to 17-19, then runs 3 for match point. The 5' 7" Hogan then executes a black power salute thrusting his fist in the air in Vic's direction. Undaunted, Niederhoffer approaches Hogan and reaches down to place the ball on his forehead. Hogan serves and Vic hits the 1'st back wall kill shot he has attempted in the whole match to regain the serve. This is followed by a squash shot, a boast, which is hit into the left wall, hits the right wall, and unreturnably just grazes the front wall. After a timeout giving Hogan a chance to feel the pressure, Vic hits a terrible serve which Marty drives past him deep to the left. With the ball dieing near the back wall, Niederhoffer reaches behind him and with wrist action, flicks a backhand into the left sidewall. The point of impact is more than 1/2 the court back, which if the angle of reflection is to equal the angle of incidence could never reach the front wall. However, the clockwise spin imparted causes the ball to hook at a greater angle off the wall continuing to the front where it rolls out in the right crotch.
With a full glass back wall, the only way for the players to hear sounds from the outside is via the microphone used by the ref. That is, unless there is an elated uncle bellowing in delight at 100 decibels at what has just transpired. It was this loss and a loss to the aging Charley Brumfeld in the finals of the nationals a year later after Hogan had won most pro events that resulted in the epithet of Hogan not being able to win the big ones. By the following year, Marty's superiority was firmly ensconced with him transcending whatever residual trepidation resultant from the Niederhoffer loss . Perhaps the echos of the Eisenberg victory expostulations had tamped down by then.
Remote is my idea of an Eden for retirement or to spend a few months each year.
Forced into teaching retirement for trying to prevent a California playground war, I started globe-trotting to unwind from the America trials and in search of Edens. Within two years, I found myself a peripetatic ex-patriot surfing the world Shangri-las.
The top three have been Iquitos, Peru, San Felipe, Baja, and Lake Toba, Sumatra.
Iquitos, Peru at the headwaters of the Amazon is pleasantly jungle strangled and water bound to escape nearly every world influence of the last 50 years. Daily air flights from Lima drop a handful of tourists who usually imbibe the hallucinogenic ayahuasca, marvel at the 3:1 female to male ratio due to soil concentrates and, as the Yellow Rose of Texas ex-pat proprioter explains, 'Arriving in Iquitos is like traveling to the 1930's USA'. One in a thousand visitors remains, including a surprising twenty Americans entrepreuners who manage small businesses. An attractive option is a Peru resident visa to anyone on Social Security pension.
San Felipe, Baja, Mexico hugs the Sea of Cortez with the two grand advantages of location just two hours from the California-Mexico border, and a tourist slump from the global recession has opened hundreds of ranchos, houses and apartments for dirt-cheap. Meals are economical and hardy, the locals amenable, and there's lots to do in the water and desert.
I'm sitting in the third Eden, Lake Toba, Sumatra, a far flung volcanic island among the robust, beautiful Batak people. Their jungled mountainside resort of orangutans, huge butterflies and waterfalls is open for vacancy since a 1970's tremor drove most of the tourists off the island. A daily ferry drops a new trickle from the mainland and six bus hours past baboons on yield posts from the Medan international airport.
Who says you must stay in one Shangri-la forever?
May 4, 2011 | 1 Comment
Force yourself to start slow and finish sooner than you like.
Tell yourself you deserve the punishment for getting out of shape.
The first week is the only hurdle. Tack a note on the fridge: it will get better. GE guarantees it does.
There are four paths to advance in walking called resistances: distance, frequency, speed and weight. You may toy with these or take my advice from having used walking/hiking a half-dozen times to cure various maladies.
Start with slow blocks of time spaced frequently throughout the day.
After one week increase the duration of each walk while reducing the number.
Beginning the second week don a knapsack with five pounds of stones or water.
Daily increase the weight 6-ounces.
In one month you will look back at your tracks and marvel in good health.
Hobos are America's historic backbone. Reams of books describe how townspeople, and even RR bulls during the depression, helped them get to the fields and orchards to get the crops to market and feed the citizens. The definition of a hobo is a train rider who rides from job to kind words and helping hands. He knocks apples in Washington and plucks oranges in California but no longer cuts ice from lakes in Wisconsin. The RR bull turns a blind eye during harvest seasons if the hobo doesn't spend his wages on alcohol and can speak polysyllables on the way to the boxcar.
A King of the Road by wit, guile and grace doesn't lose a finger or end up in jail after decades on the rails. Pretenders seat him in the warmest spot near the campfire to prove himself with stories of the fast freight.
An Executive climbs in the business world by making the fastest decisions that are usually right. He comes packed with the hobo traits of intellect, humor, humility, alert drive, brinksmanship and good cheer in a storm.
The meeting place of the King of the Road and Executive is the American Dream. The King wishes dearly to pursue the financial American dream and the Exec asks himself, 'Do I dare to live the American Dream of independent travel?'
One man's dream is another man's nightmare.
I went into a chili patch today on Lake Toba and got a lesson in island economy.
Four Batak women were hoeing the fecund earth from a 700 century old supervolcanic eruption that brought lava minerals to the surface and is in their blood. One beckoned to come rest from my jungle walk in the shade of an ingenious tarp bent over treelings, and so we sat to be joined by the other three. The seasonal rains arrived one month ago, they explained in humorously broken English, and with nil tourists they had communed to plant the chili.
The earth is tilled by shovel and hoe, parallel troughs laid across a half-acre to direct the afternoon storms, and beside us, on a green tarp under the blue overhead, sat 2000 hand-fashioned black chile pots ready to be transplanted into the dirt rows.
‘Where are you from?’ asked the first. ‘America.’
‘Are you married?‘ asked the second. ‘No.’
’Are you on pension?’ queried the third. ‘In three years.’
‘I’m the only single lady here,’ asserted the forth.
Island economy is my corollary of Island Evolution where geographic barriers such as mountains, deserts, water or even a marauding enemy isolated a region to cause observable changes that are unique to the world.
Batak is a 100km circumference jungled volcano island at 6000’ in the deepest volcanic lake at an astounding 11km depth of the world. A 300-meter waterfall crashes outside my room window to water and alter every species within drinking range. The plant, animal and human developments show ‘hot evolutionary changes’ that I’ve seen in the similar caldera of New Zealand’s Lake Taupo created by a supervolcanic eruption 300 centuries ago. Here everything in sight has a greater growth rate and size, and rich, colorful and simple patterns. The Batak people including these ladies with white palm oil smeared cheeks are the most fierce looking people I’ve met in the world and, fortunately, the most gentle and industrious in their evolved island economy.
A daily ferry runs 8km across the lake to mainland Sumatra (also an island) where a ribbon road winds past dozens of monkeys on guardrails making faces at the meager traffic three hours down to the nearest city Siantar, and sparse uphill tourists. The ferry and road is Toba village’s social and economic link to civilization, and they have evolved an independent character and economy.
The tourist trade is the chief input until the annual rains come, and this is one of the top three dirt-cheap resorts I’ve discovered anywhere in the world. (The others are Iquitos, Peru and San Felipe, Mexico.) Now few tourists disembark the ferry and I have the run of the town. A room is comped behind the Bagus Bay internet cafe every other day when a storm crashes a power line and the café closes, people invite me to meals, and I get daily propositions in so many words to marry a Batak female and ‘live happily ever after on Toba’. The requirements are that I be male, unmarried and on a pension. Three other European men have chosen this fate.
I could be a chili farmer for the rest of my life, the single girl at the patch explained as we planted. Chili loves heat, and moisture under full sun. First the plant and then the harvest, I replied and rose again to poke little holes with a stick along the rows to drop inside the 3’’ potted plants.
The gaggle paid $200 for 150 kilos of prime seed that covers the .5 acre cleared jungle garden. Drop, bunch soil, water, done. In four months the harvest will sell for $5000 across the lake, and they will enjoy fat times until the tourist season arrives to replenish.
One hundred Toba villagers likewise fanned out onto the jungle slope to plant corn, beans and other crops. These grow well, but others like cucumbers and tomatoes do not and are imported from the mainland. A huge mixed salad costs a dollar, but add tomato and cucumber and the price doubles.
I drove a motorcycle around the island broken ‘ring road’ to first note the 3:1 female to male ratio in passing among about 1000 school kids. The second interesting item is there are a handful of cars, many 100-150hp motorcycles, and a pickup truck that circles the island daily delivering vegetables. When the battered black pickup arrives at Toba the women chase and climb aboard to pick the best as the driver shakes his head in dismay, pulls out a scale, and weighs portions out to each.
The deep lake a hundred meters behind me supplies abundant fish where each morning at 6:30 the townswomen traipse a 30-meter concrete pier to fishermen’s’ motorized canoes to weigh and sell the catches. A 10’’ prehistoric looking trout sells for $US1 and each wife buys one, chucks it in her vegetable bucket, puts it on a towel on her head, and balances it home to add rice to feed the typical family of four.
My dollar stretches a ways here: A room with bath and three meals costs $10. The hotel workers and clerks earn $4 per day plus a bunkroom and meals. The cheerful workday is 13-hours six days a week and everyone is grateful to have a job, full stomach, roof over the head, and pocket money.
Smile wrinkles build, stomachs flatten, and people are more cheerful along the one town lane during this lag between the tourist and vegetable harvests. The citizens know no other way in their isolation. Nothing is locked up: Motorbikes are parked with keys in ignition, the internet café door is open all night, tools are left at construction sites, stores are unattended for an hour at a time trusting customers to pay in the register what they take, and most hut homes have no locks much less doors to hang them on.
Everyone carves at the rock-and-concrete Hobbit homes braced by ornately chipped posts that stare down like hundreds of totem poles. Nearly all play music and sing well, but none is fond of shop keeping. The deformed ‘village idiot’ next to me is the town accountant and authority on local lore. A thousand English books- classics to self-help- from the1960’s circulate town at a buck a read, and then return it to a shelf from when the tourist trade boomed before a tremor shook the island. English is taken seriously and hilariously spoken from the books and an oral tradition passed down from hippy tourist phrases from twenty countries.
There is no village store, pharmacy, doctor or knick-knack shop, however nearly every house boasts a front porch business with a table to serve meals, or hand-made souvenirs, plus two bars with live music three times a week. Every cat has a bent tail and vehicles drive the left side of the road. A motorcycle express putters by every couple days to sell stamps and pick up mail from a community wood box near the pier.
The high school is called a ‘tourist college’ to ensure the shrewd Batak children learn English to get ahead upon graduation at one of the finer $5 hotels. Chickens are trained to lay eggs inside houses ‘where it’s more comfortable’. It’s an Eden to raise a family.
Back at the chili patch, the ladies have judged my feet to be nearly as spread as theirs from daily walks, and have talked the single girl into proposing marriage. However, I’ll visit the chili patch daily to learn more about island economy and the remarkable Batak who have evolved with it.
Any beggary tips I proffer are from observations on a hundred skid rows across America and in a hundred countries, with one exception.
Hobos call it ‘throwing your feet’ with so much walking and standing. It stares you in the face that the more panhandlers, the worse the times, and the higher the takes the bigger the boom.
Quick on the heels of a begging market comes the calamity of a region being bummed out. One year, I hopped out a boxcar along the Milk and Honey Route because of the easy alms in Salt Lake City, the Mecca. Tightened mouths under drawn hats greeted on every corner in tramp heaven until I asked, ‘Why?’
‘The city’s bummed out!’ one, and then the next cried stretching palms.
‘But why? I wondered.
‘The Bishops givin’ eats.’ I followed a string of pointed fingers to The Bishop’s front porch and a queue of thirty willing workers to sweep, wash dishes or run errands for one hour for a big sack of groceries. The news had spread like fleas up and down the rails to bring a great flux, until supply-demand had forced the immigrants to throw their feet like common beggars.
Salt Lake was bummed out. The missions jammed with not a tree remaining to sleep under, and it took a month to recover. However, I was set like Aesop’s grasshopper with twenties in my boots.
Panhandling is the world’s second oldest profession, whatever the times, so reach out to a beggar with austerity. Fully 80% of the men leaning on stop signs at intersections with upraised hands are on a government dole. The single women there have a man hiding behind a bush or building to periodically pop out to bank the cash before she’s looted by another panhandler. They are nearly all welfare moonlighters.
A Las Vegas Viet Nam veteran asserted- at least he wore a veteran’s baseball cap- ‘I clear $50 daily in the casino parking lots, and on busy days $100.‘ He migrated casino to casino judging people to tap by their gesticulations after leaving one-armed bandits. He sauntered off chewing a hash brownie. I estimate that 50% of the millions panhandled in the US alone go for drugs and steaks rather than the ‘Please give for food’, ‘Baby needs milk’, and so on that is covered by Food Stamps.
Bear times and holidays throw open hearts to win jackpots everywhere. Easter and Christmas bring the best pickin’s and I can’t say the number of times I’ve hidden behind a park bench or dumpster to keep a holiday do-gooder from forcing a turkey dinner on me.
Internationally, I recently tailed in a busy Saigon market a blind panhandler with a white cane strapped to his back and an outstretched tin cup in one hand, bullhorn in the other, bellowing pleas. I know he was blind because he walked into a truck mirror, yet when I followed him beyond to a coffee shop he pulled a thick wad for coffee and donuts as others clustered around the table. Legitimate beggars have bankrolls to share with ‘less fortunate’ friends.
The beggar stakes his busy territory and guards it jealously. If a region is bummed the fix is to move into trafficked lanes. In many countries such as El Salvador they board buses and hum a tune, pass out ‘I am deaf’ fliers or sing a psalm before staggering the aisle for payment. It is simply a job to rise to each morning. One Guatemalan beggar was a smiling legless, armless basket case who boarded my bus on the shoulder of his amigo and ambled the aisles at great profit. At the next stop he was chucked to another man who boarded a selected full bus, and little doubt each porter took his fee.
In India a crippled or scarred beggar is the golden goose, with a protective owner because beggary runs the low life economy and in a hungry recession he or she becomes the mark. Here in Lake Toba, Sumatra the coming rains have decreased tourism and turned Batak villagers to cultivate the fields where drunks live hand-to-mouth knocking on fence posts to pull weeds for small change. There is no tinkle in the cup because a dine is a paper bill.
In Egypt in a miserable sandstorm a man dashed from an alley, pleaded for alms, and when I shook my head emphatically no he jumped on my striding thigh and humped it like the affectionate dogs up and down the kennel arteries of veterinary school. It is no shame that when people get hungry they will resort to anything to feed themselves and families.
Music moochers are everywhere. In a NYC subway once a roughly dressed young man closed in singing patriotic songs so pathetically that when I put on earmuffs to block the din he drummed on my shoulder with a dollar bill until I shouted, ‘I don’t come that cheap!’
Virtuoso panhandling is a joy. How does it differ from the chamber music you pay a ticket to hear? My Sand Valley neighbor Sweet Pie altered New England statutes for burlesque music and has a standing invitation from Jay Leno to appear clad in the scantiest frill jockstrap to play the piano with a left hand signature Liberace said was the best he’d ever seen. His CD melodies confirm, and a scrapbook of Playboy, Penthouse and other risqué rags arm-in-arm with Dolly Parton and other musicians. He rejected Carnegie Hall until the contract allows after a performance to ‘pull the purse’ strolling the audience with a saddlebag hanging from his scrotum to hold up to 30lbs. of tips like the good old days.
Then there are the egghead beggars. The best I recall was a San Francisco adept on Pier 39 shouting mathematical solutions to columns of numbers and long divisions from passers-by to win change for each correct answer. But who could check him?
Are you surprised that a pro makes more per hour than you or I?
The single exception to never having less than a hundred dollars worth of twenties in each boot was in the mid-1990’s in Minneapolis where the boots were stolen. It was the projects section and so simple to borrow a quarter for the phone. On learning penniless at midnight that support would not arrive for three days, I walked into the police station and asked for a cell to overnight. Instead, the manager ran me in a squad car to the psych ward for a three-day hold pending the mental state. I was released on being able to memorize the serial numbers of a few bills in the head shrinks wallet as we played liar’s poker.
I could make the beggar venture anywhere because of an early mentor. Beggary, after all, is business or sport where the path is paved by an early teacher.
In Los Angeles in the late 1980’s the classic Midnight Mission catered to the down-and-out stew bums, car tramps and hobos alike. You walk in the peeling paint arch, sign an alias, put your gear in a locker, and take a towel, bar of soap and hot shower. Then you read donated dog-eared Women’s Days for an hour until the supper bell beckons ‘feed the spirit before the stomach’ and you stuff into church pews among the lot of demon tattooed cursing jailbirds, and good tramps too, to listen to an ‘ear pounding’ from the ‘sky pilot’, which is to say a sermon. The meal follows, and a winding stair into the building bowels to drop your pants for the Wood Lamp lice check whom are not the only creatures glowing in the dark. Then back up the stairs to the bunkhouse to sleep with your wallet between your legs. I heard gunshots outside all night in a crescendo of snores and flatulence.
The next morning I exited the Mission and was instantly accosted by a man with a tin leg that he banged with a long 45 revolver alternately pointed at my forehead, and wouldn’t stop bragging about his nitroglycerin bank heists in the old days… until a tall shadow overtook him. I looked up and a large be-whiskered old man blocked the sun.
‘Put the guy away you fool!’ The tin legged man simpered off with a resounding ping, and I turned to face my benefactor.
Now I understand it was a likely set-up for my donation; however all I could offer was, ‘Thank you. How can I possibly repay…’
He held high a huge black palm, brought it down square in front of my nose and smiled with seven teeth, ‘A tip will do.’
Instead, I bought a begging lesson from the beggar.
That my mentor had persuaded the American metropolises became obvious as he removed his hat, stringy hair drifted onto his chest, and he pushed it aside to assault each five-minute passer-by with, ‘I’ll bet you’re from so-and-so’. When he was right he got a bill; when he was close he got their attention; and when he missed the people walked on.
He instructed to always have a tale to stop a Santa Claus in his tracks, and punch it with a reason for a bit of change- $.83 to be exact that would fetch a dollar. I had a bank of stories and stood at his elbow competing for alms, beseeching while listening, and imitating each trick with my next mark. The key lesson like any sales pitch from WallMart to Macy’s is know your customer, break the ice, and appeal to his logic, emotion or intellect,… to get into his wallet.
He won hands down as I could not volunteer tears to my eyes to close the big deals. My few dollars went into his hat that I saw as a free begging lesson.
Today I caught an ox cart and ferry off bucolic Toba, Indonesia. The ambiguous visa turned against my favor. Immigration is kicking me out of the country, but won't deport me unless I stay another 35 days to become a 'criminal' that would avoid a fine. Today the immigration chief laughed, and advised I go back to Toba & enjoy an extra month. Becoming a criminal offsets the fine and blacklists me from the country for one year, plus two days in jail. I know he's the chief because I stopped in every floor of the Medan immigration skyscraper until topping out at him, he won't give me his name, speaks through an interpreter, and says the building has no phone though he packs a cell. Indonesia has a a recent watchdog system on high officials that works. His kids will like my secret mirror writing. It's too far back to Toba to consider becoming a criminal. The U.S. embassy will loan the money but nab me at the arrival airport. As it is, I'm fined $600 for overstay on the immigration oversight three months ago as a blue-jeaned embassy clerk crawled through a window and stamped my passport w/ duplistic expiration dates– 'expires April 23' in bold at the top was my incorrect guess. I've fanned out to ATM machines to accumulate the fee but ATM's don't work well with American cards… I have garnered $400 at six. There's also a remote island ferry to Singapore that may not have a computer or take a bribe.
Hat on Head
Doc Bo Keeley's Hobo Timeline
Aug 22, 1900
- The first Hobo Convention is held at Brit Iowa, and to this day hobos and the curious gather in the hobo jungle. There is a Hobo newspaper, a grapevine of symbols on RR water tanks, and the most successful hobo college in a Chicago hub of the expanding rail network.
Steven 'Doc Bo' Keeley is born in Schenectady, N.Y.
At six months whisked in a laundry basket on the back seat of a '40 Mercury to Santa Cruz, Ca.
Hit driving a VW van by a freight train and carried 200 yards on the cowcatcher for the first hobo ride.
Experimental ride with Freedom Frey from Salt Lake to the Ogden 'golden spike'.
Ride the rails from Salt Lake City to LA and learn the hobo ropes from two masters.
Nabbed by Canadian immigration during an unplanned border crossing inside a grain car.
Havre, Mt. to Minneapolis by rail and caught by the first bull who issues a warning.
Robbed by Minneapolis tramps and ask police to sleep the night in an empty cell.
Sell Michigan Garage Nirvana to tramp the country.
Cross-country hitchhike with twelve rides in four days from Michigan to San Diego.
Travel to southwestern missions with a Franciscan monk.
Pinned on an LA sidewalk by a demented man with a .45 pistol and a tin leg.
Join a Clydesdale wagon acting troupe along the California coast for a week.
Hobo throughout the West standing in food lines and staying in missions.
Invent boxcar handball.
Visit the Rajneesh ashram in Antelope, Oregon.
Climb Mt. Rainier.
Sacramento to the Brit, Iowa National Hobo Convention, and back by freight.
First Executive Hobo trip Denver to Grand Junction with a Denver businessman and Australian pilot.
Second Executive Hobo trip Las Vegas to LA with two San Diego businessmen and a psychologist.
Surrounded and punched by four hoods while rescuing a San Diego victim.
Drunk redhead begs to show what's 'inside her pants' and pulls out a hunting knife.
An epoch ends of spending one hour for about 3000 straight nights standing without a drink in bars across the country.
Finance travel with annual writing storms to create backlogs for mother to submit to magazines.
Drive a Chevy van around the USA with an invisible fish-line attached to a 7' rabbit riding shotgun to wave down interesting people.
Sacramento to Salt Lake to Denver to Chicago to Minneapolis to Seattle to Sacramento by rail.
Near suffocation riding too near the locomotives through the 6-mile Colorado Moffat tunnel.
LA to Jacksonville to Newark by freight.
Freight from California to Dallas on the old Southern Pacific for a family Christmas.
Sacramento to Brit with hoboette ChooChoo Chelsea for the National Hobo Convention.
Caught on a moving freight ladder over the Salt Lake causeway.
Hitchhike to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, and freight the transcontinental rail to California.
LA to Dallas and back by boxcar for a family Christmas.
Near-death from exposure trapped on a winter flatcar between Colorado Springs and Denver.
Says,' That's enough!' through spaghetti in frozen beard on the high rail between Spokane to Minneapolis.
Sleep in a coffin lined with electric blankets through the Michigan winter.
Teach a sociology course Hobo Life in America at Lansing Community College in Michigan.
Write Hobo Training Manual for the course.
Profiled in a documentary hobo film.
Volunteer stints at Lansing nursing homes, adolescent and geriatric psych wards, orphanages and school for the blind in a one year study of the mind.
Speak to the NYC Junto on hoboing.
Hobo in America is canceled after one term by the college president due to an uproar- 'The bum is teaching our kids to be tramps'.
Wilderness survival class from Peter Carrington.
Michigan to Indiana by rail with Locomotive Lotus for 'Hands Across America'.
Minneapolis to Spokane to Sacramento to St. Louis to Chicago with celebrity hobo Iowa Blackie.
Fall asleep covered with cockroaches on a kitchen floor when a lasso of Borax fails to repel them.
Hitch to the Missouri national Rainbow Gathering.
Sacramento to Brit with Hobo Queen candidate Silver Sidekick.
North Platte to Denver by freight with celebrity Hobo Herb.
First tattoo at a skid row parlor of a Road Mouse with a smile and teardrop.
Address the Aspen Eris Society about hoboing.
Grand Junction to Sacramento by boxcar with financier Doug Casey.
Spokane to Chicago to Toledo by rail with hoboette Boxcar Beetle.
Chicago to LA and hook up with the National Hobo Association of movie star and yuppie riders.
Contributor to the NHA Hobo Times
Hike three months on the California Pacific Crest Trail from Mexcio to Taho with a custom fanny pack.
Sacramento to Brit to the Eris with hoboette Mappy.
Ride in his cherry Cadillac and the rails with Hobo King Steam Train Maury Graham
Third Executive trip from Grand Junction to Roseville with LinuxCare CEO Art Tyde and Doug Casey.
Nabbed by the Salt Lake bull and to court where the judge slams gavel, 'Dismissed with prejudice'.
Three days in the LA Country Jail for jaywalking from a bank robbery in progress.
LA to North Carolina by rail for a family Christmas.
Freight the USA perimeter working odd jobs and frequenting the Willies, Sallies and Goodies for collectibles.
Hardest day's work ever ketchin' 2500 chickens with four retarded youths in deep Georgia.
Bay Area's 'Best Sunday Magazine Feature' award with a hobo ride-along reporter to Mt. Shasta.
Escort hoboettes Mappy, Silver Sidekick and ChooChoo from Sacramento to the Brit convention and back.
Caught skinny dipping with the three hoboettes by the North Platt RR bull.
Recumbent bicycle with a wind sail the 500-mile Baja Cortez coast.
Sacramento to Grand Junction to Eris by freight with hoboette Silver Sidekick.
Grand Junction to Portland by rail with Doug Casey to inspect gold mines.
Save the life of an Oregon 'apple knocker' stuck on the latch of a rolling boxcar.
Ride the RR 'low line' from Washington to Chicago to Pittsburgh visiting a string of associates.
First and only life drunk on hopping down from a boxcar near Wilmington, De. to visit a girlfriend bartender.
Start cheap living to save money for travel: French-fry hotels, basement, shed, garage, cellar, laundry room, trailer, sidecar and a boat.
Mother dies in my arms.
Tour NYC subway and steam tunnels to ferret HUD's (human underground dwellers).
Hike and canoe the Okefenokee Swamp; swept to sea by a tidal bore.
Travel under a backpack to 100 countries.
Return to Manhattan to compile a list of 'Low-Life Indicators' for commodities such as long cigarette butts in a bull market that catch print in the New York Observer and Barrons.
Ride a boxcar from Jacksonville, Fl. to New York and borrow a suit to wear to a meal with George Soros at the Four Seasons restaurant.
Explain hobo economics at global banking seminars.
Cast a skeleton list of near-deaths in a one-year sequester in a Ct. stairwell to quantify near-deaths on the rails and world byways with a dream goal of Catman with 'nine lives'.
Artist Linda Mears paints Hit by Train as part of Adventure Art that become jigsaw puzzles.
Return to alma mater MSU to lecture on hobo and world travel.
Hike the 500-mile Long Trail through Vermont.
Hike the 600-mile Florida Trail alligator gauntlet from the Everglades to Georgia.
Black Friday October 27, 1997 Dow mini-crash and The New Yorker takes a swat at Keeley for it.
Walk the 130-mile length of Death Valley and stumble on the bleaching bones of a mysterious man.
Hike the 600-mile Baja coast from Cabo San Lucas until forced out by rattlers.
Hike the Colorado Trail 500 miles through the Rockies from Denver to Durango.
From Education of a Speculator (1998, Victor Niederhoffer) - 'When all's said and done there's the Hobo (Bo).'
Retire to a desert burrow as a hermit near the California-Mexico border.
The turn of the millennium passes unnoticed in the desert with Sir the Sidewinder doorkeeper.
Second person to walk the 220-mile Mojave Road from Needles to Barstow.
Hike with a llama two weeks along the Sierra Nevada.
Freight from Reno to Colorado for Eris.
Fifth executive hobo trip from Sacramento to Denver and back with the LinuxCare CEO, a Canadian stock broker, NY speculator, and Bay Area head of emergency response; Trip ends on 9/11 that clamps security on hoboing.
First person to walk 250 miles on the California's Heritage Trail.
Begin a series The Desert News in scorching Sand Valley, Ca..
Hitchhike the perimeter of Baja Mexico.
Hike from Mexico to San Bernardino on Pacific Crest Trail.
Walk 24 hours waterless and lost in a Sonora desert near-death.
Liberty Magazine article shames a Florida peace officer after '36 hours in the Broward County Jail'.
One hundred posts of hobo and travel yarns at dailyspeculations.com, swans.com/main.shtml, northbankfred.com/stories.html and internationalman.com.
Resident Sand Valley, Ca. consultant to Rancho Costa Nada: The Dirt-Cheap Desert Homestead (Phil Garlington).
Trapped by flash floods in Sand Valley for the first full summer as three die in the heat.
Spokesman for the Canadian Safety Pak for survival.
Rail across Canada with South African accountant Tom 'Diesel' Dyson.
Ride disguised as Mexicans with Diesel Dyson and Central American immigrants through Mexico to the USA border.
Executive bo trip with Baby Jack Black (Hollywood TV show) from Eugene to Seattle.
Grammy songwriter Shandi Sinnamon writes and performs 'Baby Black Jack and Bo Kerouac'.
Bo Keely Executive Tour Services founded as businessperson's outward bound on the North American rails.
Executive outing to the Baja Santa Maria Mission ruins.
Lost on the Rails from Colton San Bernardino with executive bo Rail Mariner (Computer services).
Ride the Mexican rails with anthropologist Boxcar Dolly and Central Americans from Guaymas to Juarez.
Orange County district court switches DNA on a Conservancy trespass charge to dismiss the case.
Executive trip with Rev (Medical devices president) from Colton RR yard to Tucson.
Peter Gorman's 'Renaissance on the Rails' profile wins 1st place for the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies 'best feature of the year'.
Halloween trick or treat on the rails with Boxcar Dolly from Sacramento to Cheyenne to Portland.
Take to the rails on being fired trying to stop a 'playground war' at the Blythe, Ca. Middle School.
Keeley's Kures: Alternative healings from the Trails, Rails and Trials (Free Man Publisher).
Hobo Jungle: Tales of the Iron Road (Free Man Publisher).
One is reminded of Victor Hugo's The Man Who Laughed where people in Spain, one believes in the 13th century, (albeit Cervantes didn't write about it) were purposely deformed and trained as deformed so that the rest of the population would not succumb to envy of the flexions or in general be unhappy with their relative lot. Perhaps Mr. Jov will set the record straight.
Art Cooper writes:
Here is a link to the Monty Python skit in which John Cleese plays an Oxford-educated village idiot. When a villager walks by, Cleese acts like a mentally-defective clown. When no one else is around, Cleese speaks to the camera in a highly educated tone, explaining the importance & usefulness of the traditional village idiot to the mental well-being of other villagers.
Bo Keely writes:
One must study the village idiot to discover just what cards he holds. Every town has its hunchback, dwarf, ostensible retard or combination who is the resident savant. Here in Toba, Sumatra it is a cerebral-palsied man sitting next to me doing the town accounts on the computer. In your post 'Grassroots Jungle Economy' the village idiot poisoned the town like Sweeney Todd with coconut sweets from his sewage fed coconut tree. In 'Village Idiot' the hunchback in the key Surfactio, Mexico RR junction is the secret liason to a daily dozens of illegal Central Americans riding the Mexican freights to milk the USA economy. Anyone pushed by a physical or mental deformity from out under the Bell Curve is to be seriously reckoned with.
I can't believe I have amnesia of a mononucleosis loss against the two-time national racquetball champion Bill Schmidtle. He swung a merciless forehand and impotent backhand that given a stronger backhand and patience was licked in every previous and subsequent match. I could scrape a (slow ball) ceiling shot along the left wall all day to his backhand until he miss-hit to yield a plum setup. I could hit a baseball cap in the left front corner 50% of the time from deep court, and went to a cigarette pack as a target. I had learned to 'float' the ball along the air mass hugging the floor depending on the court temperature so it virtually could not skip into the floor.
The mono month was nutty. It started when I fell on my face running on the Pacific beach one day, got up and went to the racquetball Doc Hannah. He returned the next day with a lab report, 'You have the 2nd worst case of mono in the history of San Diego County. I writhed in a bed kindly provided by multiple-national champ Bud Muehleisen's mother for one month listening to the top song 'There's got to be a morning after', till one morning I felt well and got up.Doc Hannah prescribed one month of ceiling balls hit to myself to prevent a relapse, that I did daily in increasing blocks of half-hour sessions until I owned the second best ceiling game in the world, behind Charlie Brumfield. I entered the first tournament with muscle memory for no more than the ceiling stroke, as spectators' heads bobbed up and down counting upwards of 40-shot streaks against lefty Dave Charleston. I won in three, but lost the tournament famished from the exercise.
It must have been after that that I dropped the match to Schmidtke; I don't remember. He never beat me again, though others did.
The practical game strategy with the slow ball of the early 70's was to soft serve to initiate a ceiling rally followed by an error that the rival killed. This was the tedious method of the sport's early greats- Muehleisen, Charlie Brumfield, Steve Serot and less so Jerry Hilecher, Rich Wagner, Steve Strandemo, Benny Colton, a young Marty Hogan, Steve Mondry, Trey Sayes and the rest of the top 32 in the nation who sooner or later travelled to San Diego to graduate with the best. It's a rare person who climbs ranks without personal exposure via viewing or playing against the experts.
Victor Niederhoffer was an exception in taking his first racquetball into the court after winning a world squash championship, bouncing the ball once for study, and proclaimed to a witness, 'Now I'm the national racquetball champ.' He nearly was, soon beating Hogan in a Las Vegas thriller, and most of the field, before losing to Harlem Globetrotter Ron Rubenstein.
When the ball speeded up in the mid 70s, so did the players' mentalities. They became squat and grovelling close to the hardwood for repeated passes and killshots, and new champions like Hogan, Peck and Yellen emerged. The big sponsors- Leach and Ektelon- deftly grasped that a livelier ball meant females, grandpas and youngsters could play making it a sport for the masses, but it ruined it at the pro level.The athletes got meatier and meaner in a competitive way, and racquetball evolved into what you see today: blazing serves, driving returns, average 2-shot rallies, and you could put a table across the court 4'off the floor that the ball rarely rises above.
We lanky, meditative champs nonetheless passed the trophies and money purses with tooth and claw defeats. When the fast ball guys with big serves and shoots that required a fast game to win soaked the tournament balls in hot water before entering the court, or enticed the tournament director to store the whole batch in the sauna until plucking one-at-time for each match… we slow gamers retaliated in ingenious ways. Strandemo switched balls during timeouts with a molasses batch in his gym bag. Steve Mondry secreted a razor blade in the tongue of his hi-cuts and bent over to tie his shoe in the service box, and sliced the ball. And I used a hypodermic needle from vet school to deflate to even things out.
Losses with determination are the stepping stones to victory.
Three Game Styles
There are three game styles: honesty, cheating, and gamesmanship. I was too ignorant to cheat in the racquetball and paddleball pros, and tried eight times in winning seven national singles championships during the sports' golden decade of the 1970s… in retaliation to like. The formula was if a rival cheated the first time, let it slide as an oversight; the second time politely point it out; and the third time cheat back or trim his the earlobe with the next shot.
There are three approaches into the court or any sport or business. The traditional was play hard and the best man wins. The second method is win at all costs, tantamount to a war. There isn't necessarily anything wrong with an anything goes contest, however it groups you with birds of the feather. The third is the most fascinating and irritating, gamesmanship. This is bantering and bending the rules, manipulating the ref and hypnotizing the crowd to gain an edge on the court.
The best gamesman in racquetball history was my nemesis Charlie Brumfield, a genius attorney who applies his techniques in the court of law and routinely gets thrown out by judges for quoting Perry Mason or must stand behind a screen before the jury box. The problem is there were no judges as racquetball referees, and hoarse traders earned a point for each cheat and shenanigan until a straight player gave away 10-points in each 21-point game.
There are a hundred tricks. Intentional long servers control the game pace and double the length of matches- the better delayers loft the serve out of reach to the back wall for a long 'fault', and it rolls to the front corner to be fetched at an amble. You squeeze or wet the ball before serving to make it knuckle and slide. A sweating receiver lingers in one spot until a pool forms, and the next time serves into it. Physical intimidation in blocking opponents or the ball, striking him with the racquet, ball, elbow, or in combination agitates. The 'donkey kick' was in vogue where a player jumped and kicked backward into the foe's midsection to propel himself to front court. Before a national doubles championship an ex-professional football player approached to wish me well, and quickly slammed my head against the wall. He tried to wish himself well in the match but it didn't work.
The best strategy against a Yankee operator, given a spineless referee and a conscience not to fight him, is stoicism. A strong stoic cuts the gamesman's edge by 70%. The breathing room opens an opportunity to run him with superior shots until he may no longer talk. There has never been a dumb gamesman.
Sooner or later the luck of the draw brings on the cruellest strategist and you get fan support. They heckle the clown to fair play, or threaten him during timeouts. There's no need for that. An opinionated girl in the San Diego gallery once sat through the glass in the left rear corner and flashed her underwear every time Charlie Brumfield went for my passes.
I used to quantify wheeler-dealer moves. When Brumfield threw his racquet cover into the court to hit his opponent's racquet, it was worth the first point. When handball best Paul Haber entered the court wearing boxing gloves and pounded the glass perimeter as the fans outside ducked reflexively, it earned the first game. When Muhammad Ali leaned against the rope and gasped expletives it won the heavyweight crown.
Racquetball for me started in 1971 at the most pivotal national singles tournament that transformed the sport from amateur to professional.
I was a relative unknown, as was racquetball that year, never having paid it attention except for a few hits against the coming king of the decade, my nemesis Charlie Brumfield. Brumfield had moved from San Diego to become housemates at Michigan State University for the prior summer after I had beaten him in the finals of the '71 paddleball nationals where he screamed at the Flint, Michigan gallery before losing, 'Stick a fork in him, you farmers…he's done!' It was my first championship and when Brum returned to San Diego his mentor, Dr. Bud Muehleisen (present holder of 69 national and international titles) counselled, 'Keeley's your only threat, babe. Go back to Michigan and live and learn from him.' He did, and he did.
Later that year, the '71 national racquetball singles invitational rolled around in Mule and Brum's hometown San Diego. Indeed, they called me a hayseed despite beating in succession the incumbent national champion Bill Schmidtke and New York state champ Charlie Garfinkle, before taking on Brumfield in the quarters.
The tournament is memorable for a couple scenarios. At the time I was collecting $50/mo. under the table from Trenway Sports to use their wooden clunker racquet. Then lo, Bud Leach stood in the doorway of the Invitational host Gorham's Sports Center greeting each of the 16 invitees with a green Swinger racquet newly moulded in his garage and a $20 bill wrapped around the handle. I struck a deal with him for equipment and plane tickets to each of the four national tournaments and invitationals in singles and doubles. My genius doubles partner Charlie Drake, also soon to graduate from MSU with a PhD in sociology, hustled Bud at the tournament, and soon owned 51% of the company.
The craziest instant was losing to Brumfield in the quarterfinals. I took the first game with a serve right to surprise him, he flailed a famous forehand and the ball disappeared. He, the ref and gallery searched but could not find it. We adjourned to the drinking fountain where his Swinger racquet dangled by the thong… with the ball stuck between the handle and frame. He screamed to let the gallery know, 'When's Leach going to string the crotch!'
Bikinied girls handed out awards at the '71 Invitational, the Pacific lapped five blocks away, and a year later this hayseed vet school graduate took the sheepskin to California where a snafu in the vet licensing thrust me into the burgeoning sport pro racquetball.
What is the American Dream?
The Dream is to work, to have a home, to get ahead. You can start as a janitor and become the owner of the building. The American Dream is not written into the constitution but it is so ingrained in the national psyche that it might as well be.
Bo Keely comments:
The American Dream is still alive and that's why I return occasionally to USA from globetrotting to selective Shangri-Las around the world. Though the American Dream there is diminished and threaded with nightmares, after 100+ countries it's still the best place to own property, work to get ahead, and use as a base to travel from during retirement.
I'm about to sit down to read L'Amour's memoir Education of a Wandering Man. One of the things about this book that immediately appeals to me is that he kept a record of everything he read between 1930-1937 that is available at the back of the book. As someone who loves to read, and also loves lists, it doesn't get much better than this. As an aside, if you're a list fanatic like me, check out Eco's The Infinity of Lists : An Illustrated Essay.
I thought I would share some tidbits on his reading appetite.
Over this 8 year time period, he read 731 books. This works out to roughly:
91.4 books a year
7.6 books a month
1.9 books a week
There are a lot of interesting items on his list. His interests appear to cover a wide range of topics and authors. Everything from detective stories to Nietzsche is on here.
Bo Keely writes:
Thanks for the reminder & fresh info on L'Amour, who single-handedly thrust me into a lifetime of adventure and escape. My favorite short story is 'the strong shall live' about a cowpoke who gets stranded in the blazing desert near my rancho where one day and night I unintentionally re-enacted the plight and escaped, with a L'Amour tip, by finding a stone cistern of water and spitting guppies, but lived.
If I seem out of place in strange diagnoses with odd treatments of human ailments, it's only because people aren't accustomed to a veterinarian addressing human medicine. Vets take the same courses as medical students but have a long edge in seeing more patients. How many more? About 30x.
We walk lines of kennels and circle pastures while a physician is limited to his practice and hospitals. Vets take a holistic approach to treatment that should be applied to human medicine, accounting for the weather to what kind of scraps farmer John's wife throws to the pigs. We diagnose by gaze and touch more than by dialogue and lab tests. Vets are not specialists, and have been trained in the anatomy, diagnosis and treatment of four species: dog, cat, cow and horse. Finally, the two vets I worked for treated their own kids, from stitches to prescriptions in their clinic. There are masterful human physicians, but if I had kids who got sick, I would tell them to first go to a veterinarian and get a second opinion from a physician.
Rip McKenzie writes:
I tell others, doctors deal with one species that can talk. Vets deal with multiple species that can't.
Here is the website of Ruben Gonzalez, a great painter of racquetball.
I recently found this English Literature Dissertation: A Study into Hobo Literature by Nial Anderson
"The imaginative young vagabond quickly loses the social instincts that make life bearable for other men…"
It's about Steamtrain Murray Graham, who was a bricklayer by trade and spent most of his time traveling a lipstick red Cadillac convertible with a white top. (He only appeared to be a hobo in the technical sense).
Steamtrain was a great guy. I stayed with him often in Toledo where he took me to the RR yard to talk to Wokers to help get on a freight. I rode w/ him in the lipstick caddy to a string of elderly people & old folks homes to cheer up dying seniors. He rode freights, not as much as most think & less than the press implies, but is an inspiration. He once advised me to dress in white and walk the back roads of America. That spurred me in the 90s to shift from freights to trails, and dress in green & walk the Pacific Crest, Vermont, Colorado… like I say, an inspiration. His autobiog is Tales of the Iron Road.
This morning I rolled out of bed in Lake Toba recalling an Indonesia visa expiration in three days after two wonderful months in Borneo, Sulawesi and Sumatra. I packed my bag, tidied the $10/day room that includes two meals and a massage, and left for the mountain ferry to the mainland to reach immigration before the expiry.
On the first step out the door, a glance at my visa reads '60 days' starting January 23, and yet the 'expiration date' is a month beyond on April 23, 2011. An embassy bureaucrat two months ago goofed, or warmly provided an additional month after losing the door key and helping me crawl through a side window for the visa. I weighed the options in mid-stride, turned into the room, and unpacked.
Lake Toba is the third of selected global Shangri las in a new career as a peripatetic ex-patriot after being the first California sub-teacher to be canned surrounding a 'playground war' two years ago, and the best. The first two were four months each at Iquitos, Peru and San Felipe, Baja.
Toba has it all: 300-meter waterfall cascading outside my window, hand hewn canoes paddled on an idyllic bay, healthy food, cheap accommodation, good internet, expert massages, and the Batak descendants from the Toba Catastrophe Theory. This volcanic island is somewhere between Robinson Crusoe's atoll and Jules Verne's Mysterious Island.The overstay is welcomed, yet a week ago the massage ladies boycotted me.
I used to stroll the single Toba lane and call into one of a dozen windows to the woman of the house cooking or cultivating rice in the back yard, 'Massage?…' It went smoothly for one month, until a week-ago altercation in a market with a popular matron who forgot the calculator. She took offence at my polite math, snubbed me in the town of 150 (2/3 female), and the call 'Massage' is ignored. This is unprecedented in a down market 3rd world land that time forgot, and is a tribute to the Batak people.
Cliff Swain, charming and unlikely, is the greatest racquetball player in history, in viewing all the champs from '70-03. I watched him dismantle Hogan with these strokes the way Hogan dismantled the field. He is the only player who, though they never met on the court, would control both Brumfield and Niederhoffer. At my best, I would have scored 10 points/game.
Cliff Swain is from Boston, learned racquets on the long (maybe 30') outdoor courts. This is one reason for dominance, the court, like a slow squash ball, demands stepping to volley shots. Plus, the increased distance was helpful resistance training to a young arm. He's extremely coordinated. I watched him closely for hours at practice and tournaments during '03. He's slight, 5'10'', 170lb, mesomorph. The grace provides power– that, as I talked about in the swing tutorial. He generates more force than anyone has every applied to the ball in the split-second '3-5 frames' the strings are on the ball. His strokes, despite the photos, is relatively effortless compared to the rest of the champs. He's the one who stalks the ball in slow motion (due to coordination) around the court, and plants to intensify per muleheisen's rheostat for the setup and swing… then it's back to slow motion til the next setup. It's v. animal like, something between a gazelle and big cat. When I watched he & Hogan square off for a money shootout with many rallies of matched force- you recall no one in history overpowered hogan- except Swain's stroke for strokes were 20% less physical with 10% more pace + weight on the hit ball. It's one of the handful of times that I've been agog. As for Swain, I fibbed: at my best, I would have stood a 50% chance of beating him given my best day repeated forehand wallpaper serve scraping the right wall to his backhand. Swain trained under Mike Quinn, also from Boston.
This is valuable info for an ex-pat or American in need of competent medical care. A traveler, or US resident willing to take a junket to a 5-star hotel + quality hospital in an exotic land need not have American medical insurance at the low rates 3rd world countries charge for diagnosis, treatment & operations. (Someone pointed out to me that it is correctly termed medical rather than health insurance, because many overwrought american doctors are ill at promoting your health.)
As you say, it's all in finding the right doctor, anywhere. I insist on older docs and sports med physicians, or at least one who does sports. In a dearth, visit a sharp young clinic operation of a handful of friend docs who in synergy come up with the proper diagnosis and treatment. My luck with physicians in foreign countries has been excellent. They kick the price 20% for ex-pats or visitors, bringing it to maybe 5% of American rates.
As you say, foreign hospital doctors nearly always have private practices at home, and that's where I get instant professional help. No appointment, his wife is the secretary, and he's linked to top specialists for radiology, lab tests, surgery, etc. in town. You're in and out his doctor's door in 15 minutes, and feeling so much better for it that you're tempted to toss the prescription to be filled down the block instantly at about 25% USA costs. The doctors & pharmacists generally speak some English.
Foreign docs, while making less than American, often own businesses on the side. I got close to an Iquitos waitress to meet the physician-owner of a restaurant who gave me a tour of his clinic, some excellent off-the-cuff health pointers, and was willing to trade english lessons for future diagnoses.
On the other hand, here in lake Toba, Sumatra, the elderly lady who just made me a salad says that no one in Toba gets sick, and there are no dentists (she's never been), but for a village accident or emergency one is whisked in one of three cars to a nearby town where the doctor accepts homemade pies and chickens, just like the old-time American doctors.
Medical tourism is a welcome wave set off by shock American fees.However, it's all about competition (as your letter indicates re: the Bumrungrad Bangkok hospital ruins), and it's reckoned that USA prices will fall with less demand. or, they'll try to control it somehow, like recently 'requiring' american passports to re-enter from Mexico, where thousands of borderline americans travel for medical, dental, px. The truth at the border -tested by friends and I dozens of times & most recently 6 mo. ago- is when a smart-alec immigration officer demands your passport or else, the legal repartee is that he may not prevent you from entering your own country. Then his face reddens, and he waves a sheet in your face that asks that you next time to bring a passport.
March 16, 2011 | 1 Comment
It's tournament time in Racquetown, USA. where ten courts arranged in two rows with a gallery plank above and between them is about to bust open with first serve. The left row hosts the beginner through Open divisions, and the right is strictly pros and racquetball Legends. Soon, we'll take a comparative squint at their physical vs. mental errors, and intentions.
The first two terms are my inventions, but intentions have been with us since the first Neanderthal raised a club for advantage.
Physical errors occur when you miss a shot due to a bad footwork, poor swing, or anything not having to do with a mistake in shot selection. Players make physical errors all the time, and it's no big deal, they say. It's true that a corrective lesson, plus practice, insure a diminishing chance of repeating physical errors.
On the other hand, mental errors are faulty brainwork, usually in shot selection. You should have taken a specific shot from a certain court position, but for some reason did not. These errors may be corrected instantly by an assertion of will, even inside tournament pressure. However, unnoticed or uncorrected mental slights become losing habits.
Let's stage the two types of errors before we look in on the action at Racquetown.
1) You take a forehand back wall shot and miss a killshot because you were tired. This was the ideal shot but it skipped, hence a physical error. 2) Your step up to volley your opponent's lob serve, but your return zooms off the back wall for a plum setup. The analysis is that you made the proper return attempt, but missed, perhaps because it's a difficult shot. 3) You plant to kill a mid-court shot, a logical thought, and miss it because you forget to step into the ball. You call timeout and sequester in the corner to practice stepping into the ball for a minute, and resume with confidence that you've corrected a physical error. Get the idea?
1) You gaze in front court at an oncoming ball with your opponent behind you, and hit a pass. This is a mental slight, whether or not the pass wins the point. The correct shot in front of the rival should have been a killshot. 2) A ball lofts softly off the front wall that may be volleyed with one step forward, or floor-bounced three steps backward. You choose the later, committing what Ben Franklin called an erratum, a failure in your systematic shot selection. Always step up to volley whenever possible. 3) It's match point serve as you pause inside the service box to gather courage for a surprise serve to his forehand. At the last instant in the service motion, you psyche out and lift the ball for a safer Z-serve that scores an ace. Nonetheless, this is a mental error, so keep your victory speech short.
At the lower skill lever, every rally is fraught with physical and mental errors, and the general rule is the first player to correct them via lessons and practice advances to a higher division. He'll still make a few correctable physical errors in progressing on to the pros, where the rule is no physical errors. It's all mental.
What can you do right now from an armchair to discipline physical and mental errors? Order the mind to be content after a lost rally using perfect shot selection, since a physical flaw has been unearthed to practice.
Also, swear to reinforce regret after poor shot selection wins a rally, since its repetition loses ensuing volleys. Unrecognized mental errors become physical habits over time that takes long practice cures. Worse, mental errors explained away because of won points pave a path to an irrational life.
Physical vs. mental errors is about delayed gratification. Try a game where you and your opponent agree after each rally to pause five seconds to reflect on each others mistakes. Identify the physical and the mental ones. Watch them diminish until the play advances to intentions, talked about shortly.
Physical, and especially mental errors, steamroll from inside to off the court, and into your future. A single erratum now may domino to knock out of a lifetime deal anywhere. This is why it's important after a match to sit down with a Gatorade and pencil, and analyze your repeating physical and mental errors. List the physical ones in a column on a sheet of paper, with a remedy practice drill next to each. List the mental ones in a second column, and next to it a vow or trick not to do it again. Some methods to clear up the mental error column are mantras, mental rehearsal of the right shots, and practicing correct shot selection with a partner who agrees to end the rally, and thus a point against, the first player to use incorrect shot selection.
It becomes apparent that for any given shot the permutations are: 1) No physical or mental error, 2) Physical + mental error, 3) Physical error only, or 4) Mental error only. Charting these helps open door #1 to victory.
What's more important in the overall game: physical or mental errors? Rookies who conquer physical errors such as a poor grip or slow backswing go on to win. Yet, as the skill level heightens with fewer physical errors, mental play keys in. He who commits fewer mental faults then wins.
Strive for errorless games with stick-and-carrot tricks. The most common beginner folly of protecting a weak backhand by running 'around' it for a forehand, or by hitting the ball with into the back wall, is quickly fixed by racquetball's premier early coach, Jeff Leon. For each mental error, the player must drop to the hardwood and do ten pushups. He concurrently praises positive actions.
Intermediate players may place a small pot in a rear court corner, next to a roll of nickels. The house rules are: 1) When you make a physical error, put a nickel in the pot. 2) For every mental slip put in three nickels. 2) Take a nickel out for every point scored. Now, can you get to 21 points before losing all your change to the pot? Want to bet?
I threw carrots and sticks at myself on the court for years hinged on an updated list on my locker of physical and mental errors, till the career autumn as uncovered balls began bouncing twice beyond my reach. Frankly, toward the end, it was easier to store errors in mind as there were so few. Often a rally, game and match- but never a full tournament- passed with zero physical and mental errors.
One lesson from the chart was there is absolutely no such thing as an 'off day' that millions of sportsmen across America fondly lament. Once you peak in a sport, where no further physical training beyond maintenance is required, and the strategies are understood to eschew mental slips, you may not perform badly. What the people are describing as bad days are unrecognized or uncorrected physical and mental errors.
I carried that hypothesis into a ruinous first game at a Madison Pro stop. Nervy Ken Wong had burst into the pro ranks as the first successful Chinese player who used an inscrutable service motion to lob or drive. He stood like a statue in the service box and looked long up into the lights, tossed the ball nearly to the ceiling, and struck a perfect lob or drive serve with one deceptive swing. I couldn't do anything right against him, and the gallery hooted Chinese hex. I exited the court after the first game loss, just not grasping why shots went crooked. I reached into my gym bag for water only to feel slime- a bottle of Prell shampoo had broken coating the racquet grip with soap. I grabbed a spare racquet with a dry grip and re-entered the court for a showdown win. Some mistakes are committed before one enters the court and need to be corrected to take the streaks out.
My peak performance among about 1000 tournament matches was against Mr. Racquetball Marty Hogan at his peak on the front wall-glass exhibition of the Denver Courthouse. In the first game, I made no physical and no mental errors in a state of high difficulty due to the glass and, behind, a sea of bobbing heads screaming 'Hogan!' mixed with Marty's invisible power serves. The ball disappeared into someone's mouth, and suddenly was upon me. After losing the first game, in the second I made one physical and no mental errors. I lost my best match ever- the one that on any other day would have beaten myself-. 21-20, 21-19. I kept my chin up as my opponent was physically and mentally tortured.
It's a ball-buster to run around the court against an unerring human machine. He is the 'control' in the sport experiment, and you are the variable. His game is unchanging, so how you stack up depends entirely on your play. These champs are called Walls, and are invaluable to lose to, or win against, since they identify your mistakes.
My favorite brainy quote from the Racquetball Legends as their 2003 historian and psychologist, is from
Mike Ray, the Andy of Mayberry with a racquet. He gets things done, and quietly. He beautifully describes playing one game against himself, and another against the opponent, simultaneously. 'When I'm on the court I have a strategy that I know if I execute well and the opponent doesn't do anything special, then I'll win. I just hit my shots, repeating the situations I've been in a thousand times before, so surprises are rare in a year. I ignore the score and let the ref keep it because it has no bearing on my shot selection. Often, my opponent walks off the court and I'm left holding the ball, until the ref yells, 'You just won the tournament!''
Now let's look in on the play in progress at Racquetown. Glance up-and-down the courts of beginners on the left, and pros on the right, and tally the number of physical vs. mental errors per rally per player. Among the 'C' players, each makes both errors on nearly every shot, so the games are long, sweaty rallies. (Racquetball survived early growing pains because of this.) At the 'B' level, see about half as many mistakes. At the 'A' level, the physical errors are ironed out but mental errors abound each second. In the Open division, we see only one physical error by each competitor per 4-shot rally, but two mental ones.
Then turn around and peek into the pro courts. A player only loses a rally who makes an error in shot selection that the rival invariably rekills. Most pros, except one in an epoch, make one mental error every two rallies.
Leave Racquetown knowing there's room for betterment through awareness and practice.
The professional level of anything is all about intentions. Locke said, 'Intention is when the mind, with great earnestness, and of choice, fixes its view on any idea.' In sport, you study the opponent's face, hands, gait and grace to quietly determine how he will act the next split-second. What is his design? How soon does the scheme dawn on him, and how long before he physically reaches a point of no return and executes it? Observing these signs is to predict first intent, and make a counter even as, or before, he moves.
The opponent, of course, is looking you up and down the same. Hence, second intent evolves during first; a counter to a counter.
Intention is stretching the mind toward an object, and with practice you will anticipate a competitor's actions before he does. I learned the most about intentions in 3500 straight non-drinking nights in bars studying drunks, along miles of speechless dog and cat kennels, and trails of survival around the globe.
How far intentions reach is problematic: 1st… 5th… in chess predicting ten moves ahead blindfolded. Keep grounded that second intention is reference to signs, properties, guesses and relations among first intentions. Sequentially, third intent is established during second, and so on. Then decide how far you can or want to go.
Most people use intention sequences all the time, without realizing it. Let's look at a model of sport intentions to apply to business, dating and walking under dim streetlamps. Fencing intentions are described by the tactical wheel that teaches that each tactic will defeat the one before it, and be defeated by the one following. The fence, racquet rally, business negotiation, courtroom unfolding, early romance, political race or street brawl is an endless game of Rock/Paper/Scissors revolving around guessed intents by the players. (Rock breaks scissors, scissors cut paper, paper covers rock, and so forth.)
By assuming the opponent's attack while planning yours, you make a choice what move to use in the bout. That's first intent.
When you study the other's first intent in order to plan yours, you assume he is doing the same, and may alter your next move in what is called second intent. If your foe also notes your second intent, it progresses to third, and so on.
Intention doesn't play a large role in boilerplate sport and business, but it's the wild West throughout history for world beaters like Charley Brumfield, Amarillo Slim, Henry Kissinger, Thomas Jefferson and Perry Mason.
In other words, if one of them presents scissors, you can choose rock, and if you guess he or she will choose scissors again, you may assume he's picked something else for the next round, and so forth, perpetually altering your tactics.
In fencing, the first attack is certainly false, making the opponent perform a parry-riposte, while the real attack is a timed stroke against the opponent's riposte. In boxing, the first lesson from the horsehair mat is left jab, right- cross and Palooka's uppercut though a hole. Gunslingers at nineteen paces rely on multiple intent to shoot accurately first.
The problem with hitting on first intent, which is a euphemism for a 'model stroke', is that it's easily anticipated and countered. I favor second intent only, feeling that to journey farther into third intent against superior intellects that I'm accustomed to squaring off with, is suicidal.
This was the sweat-lesson, evening after evening for two hours, in the upstairs dungeon Michigan State University racquetball courts. No one could see me. I descended every couple of months to bash around in an intramural or fraternity contest, got clipped, and trudged up the steps again. Then one evening I thought of intention, without knowing the word. The next decade of championships in paddleball and racquetball relied on the exclusive stroke strategy of secondary intent. In setting up to swing, I always stepped, looked and angled the downswing (till the instant of ball contact) in precisely the opposite direction the ball was going.
For example, every right-hand killshot to the right-front corner began with a step into the ball cross-court, looking left, and striking the ball waist high. The technique runs tearfully counter to standards, but I wanted to better that, and so build strong first intent into the stroke to fool opponents. My killshot to the right front corner looked like the model stroke of a cross-court drive to deep left. The white lie, forehand and backhand, repeated millions of times in exhibitions and tournaments in a dozen countries without, I believe, anyone reckoning it.
The problem with third intention, and beyond, is that a mental state and stroke built on too many camouflages breaks down with physical exhaustion. Keep it simple, I reminded myself, and win, until all I could do for years is hit second intent shots even after knocked semi-conscious by a ball. In the more poised competitions of baseball and attorney work, you may safely extend into fourth or fifth echelons, reading the opponent's body language and 'mind' to establish his chain of intentions, and evolve your counters.
There's no riddle a computer poker, Jeopardy, or as once I was interviewed by a psychiatrist program, cannot solve. Cold hardware, given the proper juice and circuits, surpasses human. However, bloodless machines move pitifully in tennis shoes, and will never beat a racket player.
So, who are the best of the short line of court sport thinkers in history who committed the least physical and mental errors, hence the strongest 'intentors'? The list embarrasses since, I believe, built into every cerebral champion is a physiological shortcoming that trained his mind. Starting at the bottom, for racquetball,
The greatest cerebral player is probably Victor Niederhoffer, who for decades plopped around squash, tennis, paddle and racquetball courts more noisily than I. We met to warm up on a St. Louis court at the 1973 national racquetball tournament, each wearing different colored sneakers. He in a black and a white, and I one red and a black. We eyed each other across the service box with first, second… I don't remember how many intentions. I was playing on a sprained ankle with a Converse Chuck on the hurt right, and a low-cut left. I asked myself, 'What does this guy know that I don't?' We've basically been inseparable ever since. There have been countless matches in multiple sports, evenly split, except I always walked away with an intent headache.
Niederhoffer and I entered a NYC squash court just before New Year's 2011 for a hybrid game using a racquetball and he a child's tennis racquet against my wood paddle. He's loosed up over the years, a hip replacement pops, but it's still hard to force his hand by intent. He won a tiebreaker to 11-points, but that night I left the court feeling pretty good for once.
March 12, 2011 | Leave a Comment
Mr. Universe and some of the top racquet players heft the common goals of individualism and personal perfection. A few years back, I dug into a ‘Gold’s Mine’ of training tips from Mike ‘The Mighty’ Quinn. Make that mighty, as in savvy and gracious.
‘You can make a chorus line of doctors and psychologists who disagree, but serious sports competitors need conditioning and nutritional advice to progress. Athletes discovered twenty years ago that the ones coming out on top had personal trainers and nutritionists.’
We met in 2003 in the Coral Gables Racquet Club boiler room as I strained to shove a 600 lb. extinct water heater out the door to make room for a bed. I was the new club pro. He heard the scrapping through the ceiling pumping iron, and descended to help. I tipped the heater on edge, he squatted beneath, lifted, and hauled it out the door.
‘I held the same cup as Arnold Schwarzenegger,’ he cracked, loosening the weight belt, and returned upstairs to pump iron.
That afternoon he offered training tips to me on an adjacent treadmill.
‘Let’s start nutrition with an analogy. There are Lamborghinis and Volkswagens, and owners who care for them in different ways. You can put high or low quality fuel, oil and so forth into each. At the same time, there’s a genetic predisposition to everything. My father is a butcher, as big as the beef he carves, but I don’t eat beef. Are you with me so far?
‘The intense athlete must train himself to eat every three hours. The intake should be high protein because that’s the building block of muscle. I eat chicken, protein shakes, salads, fruit and no red meat.’
He asserts the most important eating spurts are 90 minutes before, and 90 minutes after working out. ‘Build and recover,’ he keeps repeating. Interestingly, he takes some sugar with meals ‘to pull the other nutrients into the muscle cells’.
How about a training regimen for the devoted wannabe?
‘Young athletes get on the tournament court, field or mat and run out of steam before the finals. Their coaches berate them for not trying hard enough; however, in most cases, they peter out because they’ve been working too hard up to the tournament date.’
‘Here’s a training regimen for very serious players who have a low (non-playing) and high (tournament) season. In the first month of the low season, don’t play much of the prime sport at all. Train at weights and machines intensely, and for short amounts of time, with short rest periods.
’If your workouts in the first month are twice daily for an hour each, follow these principals: In the month’s course, gradually increase the intensity, decrease the rest time between exercises, and maintain the duration of the overall workout.’
He grins broadly, ‘It makes you puke’.
’In the second month of training during the low season, cut back half the weight training, while spending most the hours on the court, field or gym practicing and playing.’
‘In the third month of low season, don’t weight train at all, and don’t play hard. Eat wisely throughout the three months, and go gentle on the ladies…
a Lamborghini in the season opener!’
Quinn’s analysis of over-training supports a personal belief that I over-trained throughout a fifteen year pro racquetball career, rarely taking a day off from hours of practice (one hour), playing (two), running (one), biking (two) and lifting weights (one hour). Tournaments were breathers.
‘You never peaked!’ assays Quinn.
‘Right, but my priority was working out rather than winning tournaments. I loved it,’ I asserted.
‘Most players want to win more than that, don’t they?’ he countered.
‘Yes,’ I agreed, recollecting six national championships.
In a challenging silence, I asked to grab collars to test my better sport, judo.
He grasped my lapels at arms length, lifted me a foot off the ground, and whisked his sneaker under mine, exclaiming, ‘This is a foot sweep!’, and gently lowered me to the floor.
Quinn put me on a 3-month regimen of weights with a high-protein diet to gain slight weight and much strength, while increasing speed and stamina- can you beat that?.
‘There’s an ancient controversy of muscle vs. sport, that should be muscle and sport. The stronger the player of any sport, the greater the edge- period! However, don’t think muscle equals bulk. Think of tiny individual muscle fibers growing thicker, and stronger end attachments to the bones. This increased density is a strong muscle, not a huge muscle.’
Huge muscles are for bodybuilding, Quinn’s profession.
‘Arnold Schwarzenegger, Lou Ferrigno (The Incredible Hulk) and I hold the same trophy for Mr. Universe. We just held it in different years (1984 for Quinn). Arnold is a smart, hard worker who likes to ‘bust your balls’. He and I had words once, that fortunately for each of us, didn’t go any farther. Lou, on the other hand, demands everyone’s regard for achieving greatness through deafness. He’s a friend who would have worn the green skin, even with good ears.’
Mike Quinn set the world pumping iron aflame by winning Mr. America at 18-years old. ‘It was too early to peak into fame, but I plowed on as best I could.’ Title after title, in country after country, followed. In the early 90’s, he opened two Gold’s Gyms in southern Florida, then exited business to train professional football, baseball, racket and other players. There was a two-year stint with Tae-Bo boxing guru Billy Blanks trading daily lessons-weights for martial arts.
To look at Quinn is to behold a bull with a quick glint behind the eyes. ‘I rose out of a dysfunctional family, neighborhood rubble, and attention deficit, and it’s the best inspiration I can offer whiners.’ He’s extremely graceful, honestly sociable, and highly self-educated on health, nutrition, exercise physiology and psychology. He likes to stick you between a dumbbell and a hard place with mental puzzles, and watch the workout.
As I listened to the gentle giant speak, it dawned on me that despite my life-long study of unorthodox pet and human training methods, there was not a thing to disagree with. His hair-brained theories fit my hair-brained theories to weave Sampson a wig.
Thanks to Mr. Universe Mike Quinn for the conditioning tips of a lifetime.
March 10, 2011 | Leave a Comment
My early pro career was playing hard for tournament T-shirts and trophies, plus perfection. The attitude hasn't changed over the increasing prize-money years, except I'm grateful not to hitchhike around the nation to senior tournaments.
Have my patience from these early excursions where, one sunny Nebraska day, I learned the granddaddy secret of all racquet sports and others using a stinking implement- horizontal fences and vertical telephone poles.
Gym bag in hand, and thumbing rides with the other, I peered at a rockpile alongside the road, and then up-and-down at a telephone pole behind a rail fence. I dropped everything to throw rocks with a mind's eye on sport. The basic throwing motions were sidearm, overhand, underhand, ¾ overhand and ¾ underhand. The conclusion was the most accurate, by far, for the telephone pole, was the overhand throw. Bam, Bam BAM the rocks struck the post.
Gathering more rocks, I eyed the horizontal fence rail. The sidearm throw produced a huge correlation with smash, Smash, SMASH.
Even with the off-left hand, the overhand pounded the vertical, and the sidearm the horizontal.
Take a moment to ponder, why, and what are the targets in tennis, squash, racquetball, badminton, baseball, football throw, soccer, even golf or a martial arts blow?
My expertise is racquetball and paddleball, where the horizontal and vertical targets are for killshots and down-line passes, respectively. Each target lies in a narrow horizontal (and vertical) plane that spreads from point of contact on the racquet forward.
In these sports, a 1'-high stripe or tape is applied to the front wall from sidewall-to-sidewall, like a squash tin, except with a different strategy. The real or imaginary 'tin' resounds from a killshot with a bang!. The most noise is generated on the forehand sidearm swings like a baseball bat, and on backhands like a Frisbee throw.
The down-line pass, oppositely, requires vertical accuracy to insure it within an upright alley along either sidewall. This shot is the second only to the killer in a racquetball arsenal, yet discover for yourself with anything you wish to hit, fling, pass or kick that vertical accuracy is honed with an overhand (or underhand softball pitch) action.
Winning is all about increasing your margin of stroke error.
A quick analog shows the work: A right-handed baseball batter swings at a fastball, and then at a change-up, that angle in sequence down the right and left sidelines. The batter's bat was 'late' on the first pitch (behind the ball), and 'early' on the second (ahead of the ball). You may also see this in every other racket sport, especially the zealous tennis vertical overhead early into the net.
However, in racquetball for horizontal kills, it really doesn't matter if you're late or early in the contact zone, because whether the ball angles right or left off the racquet is immaterial. It still hits the target tin. The advent of the speedy ball in many racket sports met with a deeper, crisper strike with a flattened face to allow nanoseconds extra set-up time, and using a lower grip to square the face with the front wall. Take a side swing for greater stroke forgiveness on kills, or tennis shots that brush the net, or squash nicks just over the tin.
Similarly, the margin of error for racquetball pass shots, tennis line serves and squash rail shots is better a looping vertical stroke that, if struck late or early, simply lifts higher or lower to hit the vertical target. Now, think of activities where an edge goes with selecting a three-quarter motion for dual horizontal and vertical accuracies. Examples are throwing a baseball to first base, archery, and avoiding an eagle in the pilot's seat. Edges repeated thousands of times spell a winning tide.
Now, leap to an understanding that the 'moment' of contact is a miniature unfolding of the full stroke. This small, time-measureable scenario of strings-on-ball recapitulates the larger stroke. The more proficient the player, the greater insight and longer the moment seems, yet all are assured the 'travel' of racket-on-sphere is longer and farther than you suspect.
Ergo, the interface is influential, I propose, more so than the stroke.
Having swung everything from my Complete Book of Racquetball, bleach bottle, 4'' mini-racket, and Converse shoe against Miss World, the premise is that the touted ideal stroke in any sport shrinks in import to the ensuing moment of contact. Precision is born during travel.
Instant replay: Run a mind's movie of the strings-on-ball during, say, a travel of half-second and two inches. Stop action: This few frames sequence determines the destiny in of the flying projectile. The more 'elastic' the moment, the fewer frames, and more difficult to control.
If during the interface the swing is level, despite being late or early, then horizontal accuracy propels the ball; or, if during travel the racquet angles up-to-down, or vice-versa, then vertical is mastered.
Years later, I presented the concept at a Florida clinic and asked the group why it was so that sidearms make better kills and vertical strokes better alley passes. A 12-year-old piped, "Because the contact stripes are in the same planes as the target stripes." There is no more succinct an explanation. I made it to the Colorado racquetball tourney, and beyond hitched and hoboed to hundreds more, all the while tossing stones, swatting flies, and ducking a few, that engineered a decade win streak after the original thrown rock.
It was the night before Christmas when I stepped down into the Idaho basement and beheld a horsehair mat measuring six-by-eight 10-year-old strides that changed my life.
The next morning the real gift came when dad took off a bowtie and younger brother Tom opened a big box of boxing gloves. We descended the stairs, and had at it. Thrice weekly for an hour, the bouts alternated among boxing, wrestling and judo for years.
Parents should wonder what martial art to place their youngster in, that will alter his thinking, movement and life choices. Having dabbled in most of the sports from the horsehair mat to asphalt alley, here's a quick rundown.
Boxing: The attack and defence is with the fists. The hands are wrapped and gloved, and head put in a helmet to prevent injuries. I've done enough boxing to say it's a great sport from a distance. I gave it up at the YMCA after getting so pummelled and pooped that there seemed no need to raise the elbows above the supper table for a day. It's a great sport for those who stick with it, teaches importantly getting hit is no big deal, and will get you by nicely in most street scrapes.
Judo: The name means gentle way, and was my forte for ten years. The opponent's center of gravity and momentum are utilized to throw him around like a rag doll, without injury to anyone. It is superior because of 'hands-on' training, quick gains, aerobic and anaerobic condition, and is the best progress to balance and tumbling. There is no better way to learn to read a person's body language in every situation.
Wrestling: This is the most superior martial art that I had a love/hate relationship for many years. I practiced so hard, adored the move and counter chains, and half the time ended up flat on my back in front of jeering fans and my sad parents. Nonetheless, if you don't know what to do after school, go to the wrestling room and get an epiphany for life.
Karate: The term means empty handed, and is a practical self-defense appended by a philosophical touch. Strikes with the hand or foot stop just short of contact. It involves tedious repetitions that, in college threw my elbow and knee joints out of whack from jerking to a stop. There are more efficient ways to exercise or learn combat.
Ballet: Is too a martial art, especially for an uncoordinated person.
Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu: This is a self-defense system and martial art that emphasizes taking an opponent to the ground and applying submission holds such as joint-locks and chokeholds. The premise is that most of the advantage of a larger, stronger foe comes from superior reach and more powerful strikes, that are negated on the ground. My practicing friends call it 'tackle-and-choke', and there's something refreshing and potent about simplicity where there are so many choices.
Kickboxing: A popular blend of karate and boxing, especially in Thailand where after public contests I've been invited, as the only Caucasian spectator in the crowd, to dojos to train with the athletes. I trained little, watched a lot, and surmised (as in other contact sports) it's good to learn to take blows, plus it builds character and very strong legs. However, it's inferior as a defense to all the other contact arts.
Full contact Karate: To me, this is the only Karate. I took a year of contact-less in college and the big problem is that after a few months of pulling thousands of kicks and punches short of target, or striking a defenseless sawdust bag, one suddenly finds himself in a rough place with a false glow of confidence. There's a split-instant hesitation before striking as the muscle memory kicks in to actually hit a person… and by then it's too late. But Full Contact is a true self-defence with protective pads and helmets during practice for safety.
Ultimate Fighting: It's an American martial arts' fest where fighters from different disciplines fight to submission or knockout. I've known a few ultimate fighters, usually type A personalities in gorilla bodies, who admit it's a bloody, real test. The best are former collegiate and Olympic champion wrestlers.
Kung Fu: The term means a skill or ability to do something, hence is aggressive. Also referred to as Wushu, a modern name for Chinese martial arts, I once lived with a practitioner/owner of a dojo who was also a telepath, according to publicity (not mine), and he challenged Sugar Ray Leonard in the boxing ring blindfolded using just his feet. It never happened, but he did get on 'That's Incredible.' Sharp kicks and blows are applied to pressure points on the body, and once I wrestled the housemate who in the first three seconds touched each of about two dozen pressure points, and I gasped.
Thai Chi: Throughout Asia, one sees seniors practicing katas in front yards and parks, content and oblivious to passers-by, dogs and traffic. For this reason, it seems a good meditative activity, develops body awareness and sequential thinking, but is too static to be considered a martial defense or aerobic activity. There are faster-motion forms, but the martial aspect requires years of training.
Aikido: The self-defense resembles a harmonious dance on the mat or street, until suddenly a lock is applied to neutralize or control the opponent. There are chains of beautiful applications of leverage across joints, and circular movements within a contained mat area that teach discipline and respect. I've watched practice sessions, and had an elbow and knee bent to testify the efficacy. At the highest level, the defender hurts no one, only leads the red-faced attacker away by a bent finger or ear. This is the first horsehair sport I would encourage my child to undertake.
The above list (from about 50 martial arts practiced around the globe) includes the most popular and ones with which I have some familiarity.
The benefits of martial arts cannot be underestimated. They include:
General fitness and coordination.
Decision making, including cross-over training for chess, bridge and many jobs.
A discipline to greet new challenges by forming a strategy, and to adjust or stick with it to a goal.
Confidence in mastering new situations.
A mindset to find a correct frame of thinking to greet novel scenarios.
The grasp of chained sequences in thought and movement.
Respect for an instructor, and others.
Testing and learning one’s limits, hence humbleness.
Boost in general self-esteem as other life challenges, physical and mental, are met cheerfully.
A habit of accomplishment from training with many little steps and progressions.
Increased productivity in school or business
The confidence to strike out to new grounds, and travel.
Meet worthy people.
Burn off a kid’s energy with a better night’s sleep for everyone.
T.K Marks writes:
Bo Keely's thoughts and experiences are an enthralling memoir waiting to happen. At once picaresque in its tone and regimented in its discipline, his stories exude the charming rogue paradigm. He's an original.
P.S. Met up with Omid last night for dinner and he told me that come this summer he's considering "riding the rails" again with Dr. Keely. I could see handy-with-a-camera O getting some video grist out of something like that. The wild thing being that none of it would be staged.
P.S.S. Where did you find Bo Keely?
Victor Niederhoffer writes:
We met at a racquetball tournament.
Bud Muehleisen won a record 69 national and world championship titles. I once went in his attic and found stacks of trophy plates removed (the cups donated to kids' charities), and a thick scrapbook that opened with a clipping, 'Birdy Basher Bud Muehleisen wins Navy championship'.
However, what caught my attention was a certificate for #1 standing in his university dentistry clinic. I asked, how, and what's the relationship to sport?
Dr. Bud gazed down through spectacles and said, 'Players can learn a lot about their games, and lives, by examining personal intensity on the set-up and swing.
'The most important place for a personal rheostat is on the swing. Strokes aren't knee-jerk reactions that turn on or off. Slide the action along an intensity from low to high. Try two things: Increase swing force just 10% on a few shots, and see what happens. Then, lower swing force by 10%, and think about it. The adjustment one way or the other should prove beneficial.'
You may tinker with stroke intensity on the whole, or by dissecting the many variables: A change in overall body tension, a sharpening mental focus, altering the body coil or wrist snap, step into the ball, and so forth. Work on the variables one-at-a-time.
Yet, the normal method in a tournament match is to adjust the stroke rheostat remotely by psyching up or down a tad (start with a 10% change). The body will follow suit with a resultant smoothing out of swing. This corrects the three most hideous errors in crucial rallies- over-hitting, under-hitting or fainting away.
It accordingly zeros in on three court personalities: the Good, Bad and Ugly:
The Good jovial lazy bones slaloms between hits for fear of stepping on his opponent's toes and upsetting karma. There have been Good champions in all sports from Mike Ray in racquetball to boxing's great Joe Lewis.
The Bad player is so wound up by the coin toss that he doesn't wind down until match point. He operates at such high intensity the match becomes an attrition of energies. Sudsy Monchik's patented strategy to 'turn up the heat' from first serve increasing to last, won an unprecedented 50 pro tournaments.
The Ugly, like big-time wrestlers, employ ostensibly whacko rheostats to turn each sporting moment to unpredictability. People do not want to be near you when you act crazy.
If you're not already a champ, how can Muehleisen's Rheostat carry these racquet personalities to greater success? What are the defenses?
The Good should take an intensity supplement on shot setups, that trickles to other areas of the court. It yields instant results for languid players who shift just one higher gear on setup, swing, mental attitude, and court scramble. Curiously, it produces a style displayed by legendary Cliff Swain gliding about the court until planting for the swing, and he lightly jerks to focus.
The Bad should maintain his excellent high intensity throughout the match, except regulate it down (10%) on the swing to avoid over-hitting. Slowing the swing a tad relaxes the body a lot.
The Ugly is a tough crack, but I'll clue you that champs like Hulk Hogan and Charlie Brumfield own fine control over their irregular rheostats to orchestrate show to victory. You may enhance personal nuttiness by playing for bets, against gorillas, or simulations of tournament pressure.
The defenses against each of the three are reversing their rheostats. Turn on the heat with drive serves, harder shots, and body contact against the dopey Good player to shake his strategies. Turn down the intensity against the Bad competitor who hates a slow game of lob serves, ceiling shots and timeouts. Finally, ignore the antics of the Ugly who, given a driving, extended three-game match, melts in the back corner like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Dr. Bud's Rheostat worked for me.
It's not true people are the same everywhere, but what about the ignored species? I'm on a Darwinian voyage around the world by plane, bus and thumb, and now in Sumatra, Indonesia, where the contrast of species, including our own, is great, with the most interesting extremes.
The Sumatra butterflies have the strongest wing attachments, hence steady flight in the island's winds, than any encountered around the globe. The chickens, c/o mankind, crossed the ocean to evolve into the sturdiest, best eating in the world, meatier with small fat, and less gamey. The eggs are 20% denser than our American counterparts with a ratio of one medium Sumatra = one extra-jumbo USA. The two-egg omelet I devoured an hour ago was enough for two explorers.
The cook and people in Tuk Tuk village on the volcanic Lake Toba bank are, along with Peruvian Amazonians, the hardiest in the world. They were southbound refuges from early war-torn North Asia, and cannibals among themselves to weed the gene pool. Lake Toba is the seat of the Batak people, with homes like ships turned upside-down and put on stilts. They are the most gentle with the fiercest anatomies anywhere.
This is also the focus, I believe, of a rise of consciousness separate from the dawn of man's climb from Africa into Europe. (Incidentally, one may study at googlemaps 'satellite view' the ocean shelves tapering and joining continents, to surmise the early travels of 'missing links'.) My evaluation of consciousness in Lake Toba is untainted by small text preparation of man's early migration and rise of awareness, but rather from having visited all the continents, and being a sharp student.
It appears the local 6500 orangutan population is the most intelligent of apes, including gorillas and chimpanzees. They are processors, or an offshoot, of a missing human link different from the African one with facial expressions of condescension to be cherished on a jungle path.
The Batak proudly own orangutan and chimpanzee features, with not the natural, long sharp canines of greater cannibalistic Peru, and none of the heavy jaw stock from my own family tree. It's apparent their consciousness arose in a separate Asian branch from the Africa-Europe one, with a different style of thought revolving around anatomy. They generate thoughts from lower on the brain stem, with less capacity to entertain simultaneous concepts like scrambling eggs and swatting flies processed higher in the cerebrum.
A Toba Super-eruption about 70,000 years ago is recognized as one of the earth's largest, and perhaps greatest disaster, and evolutionary factor. The theory holds the event plunged the planet into a decade volcanic winter that resulted in the world's human population being reduced to an estimated 1,000 breeding pairs, creating a human evolution bottleneck.
Today's tranquility, and 3:1 female to male birth ratio, under towering trees and tumbling waterfalls suggests correlative causes with the Peruvian Amazon. In each, an early tribe fled into an impenetrable place: one a volcanic island and the other the thickest rainforest on earth. Each sequestered over the centuries in what evolutionists call 'island isolation'- raiding each others villages for breeding girls and eating the men's heads, squeezing a few years though a malaria sieve, preservative infanticide- where inherited and mutated traits tend to be preserved.
Until scant centuries ago, they also remained separate from the global pace. The result in each locale is royal peoples, and flora and fauna quirks, like the butterfly wings and chicken eggs far removed from the Bell canopy.
This is why one travels.
On a remote Michigan lake, in an unheated garage with double-walls, triple ceiling, and a waterbed, two Dobermans and an Irish setter, I spent one introspective year after carving and hanging a sign on the door 'Garage Nirvana'.
A series of 24-hour experiments for self-study, to explore limits, and fit together a personal puzzle engaged the time. One was bladder control, that hit the news today, 'People with Full Bladders Make Better Decisions, Scientists Discover' (Telegraph) asserting that the brain's self-control mechanism provides restraint in all areas at once. Like Pascal's principle, I suppose, pressure exerted on confined liquid is transmitted equally in all directions.
It applies to the Garage Nirvana trials of 1978.
The early bladder test was a simple design: One sweat-hot summer day I drank copious water while bent with screwdrivers and pliers over a 5-meter line of accumulated broken appliances- radios, blender, watch, drill…- strewn on the dog funhouse ramp out the garage window to fix, or at least, see what makes things tick. I held the bladder tinkering into the night
I built a plywood phone booth-sized closet next to the bed as a 'jail' deprivation booth, and sat for 24-hours on a cushion with nothing to do, in the only superfluous bid, except the clothes closet.
Some assays extended beyond a day, like the one month fast @ 2000 calories while sustaining 6-miles runs with the dogs around Haslett Lake. To this day, I eat simply, slowly and prefer to eat alone.
A chin-up bar across the door jam was a 'bell' that I forced myself to 'ring' with X +1 chins before entry, where X was the previous number.
One morning I came out and rode a Peugeot PX 10-speed for 24-straight hours through Dodge and Hell, Michigan listening to Sherlock Holmes books on tape, learning that sleep deprivation is speculative.
There were dubious achievements of letting ants, flies and cockroaches crawl or fly closer without flinching. An hour sitting on a knoll in a mosquito cloud with Emily Dickinson flamed a swollen head, but without welts.
In a swoop at Nirvana, I put a rheostat on emotions, without suppression, via willpower. The brain works quickly under emotion or stress, like a clucking chicken in a rainstorm, but a blink or thought may replace affection to quiet it. Feeling the diminishment like a questionable protagonist of Twilight Zone, a final insight burst allowed a creep of sentiment, while maintaining the rheostat.
I started reading books upside down to cause a print flow from left-to-right to offset the spiritless daily reverse, and succeeded in a month to reach 90% speed and 110% comprehension. Then, I extended nightly non-fiction reading sessions by 30-minutes for a week, and was so aided by the increased stamina from book tipping, the only limit was sleep deprivation.
Sleep deprivation, for sleep is a little slice of death, was pruned by 30-minutes a night until I felt sick at four hours, and chucked it. The rationale is that one who thinks and acts hard in waking hours requires more sleep to return to a morning steady state. I did learn to drop off in seconds like a bum on a park bench, and to appreciate the qualities of sleep, and accomplished dreamless repose.
Every night for a nearly a month, i went to sleep an hour later until gaining the equivalent of circling the globe, and clapped myself on the back for snatching a day from Father Time.
One winter week I spent ten-minutes on either side of midnights throwing snowballs at a backyard telephone pole to improve an off-left hand for sports, and to prove a theory that an overhand hones a vertical target. And, I learned to write left-handed in mirror to try to match my acclaimed 'best racquetball backhand in history' attributed to writing journals since childhood left-to-right on the horizontal.
Along with proud acquired dyslexia from reading backwards, in so many night waking hours I learned colorblindness, seeing none even in daytime, and with no color recall. To this day, the blindness may be turned on and off, but somehow I cannot conjure color. The gains are a contrast of black and clear that speeds the visual process, recognizable smaller images, and eyes in a flash to pick movements.
Bodily functions offered proofs of the control cough and sneeze reflexes, shivering, and best not blinking. In one day I blinked once, but the next got a contract from Contemporary Books for The Women's Book of Racquetball, and stopped.
The most dangerous undertaking was reading Carl Jung's Memories, Dreams and Reflections, and suddenly it popped into my head that thinking may be earned. Thoughts have a prelude like background static that I determined to raise the curtain on by paying attention. Indeed, one tunes into formerly subconscious thoughts, speeding cognition to breakneck speed.
Another peril was a mounting endeavor not to waste time, not a second, that is difficult to explain. It entails cutting corners in thought and to the latrine, to spiral eating corn-on-the-cob. The best week was an accumulative wasted one second at multiple blinks.
One aim the dogs just stared at was jumping to hit my head on the ceiling for increased leg strength. It happened in one month.
Concurrently, I tried to fuse grace into every movement that carried beyond the year on leaving the garage to travel the world with this bag of tricks.
The lessons gleaned from the Nirvana struggles are:Thinking is an athletic event.
Athletics is best done thinking.
There are cross-over benefits in every action.
Knowing your limits pays life dividends.
You may through self-knowledge feel whole,
And become what one may.
My observations during the 'yank bo' speculative tour some time ago to find emerging markets were, and still are, that in first world countries a rise in alcohol consumption is bullish, and more correlative a rise in 2nd & 3rd countries it is bearish. From Lake Toba, where the cigarette butts are smoked to the bitter end and the local economy is 70% depressed because of a fall in tourism due to recent Indonesian bombings.
Apparent per capita ethanol consumption for the United States, 1850–2007. (Gallons of ethanol)
List of countries by alcohol consumption can be found on wikipedia.
March 3, 2011 | Leave a Comment
Low energy need not accompany travel any more than going to a job. The over-complained symptoms of headache, nausea and compromised mental skills sour too many vacations and shouldn't undermine business efficiency. There is no airborne infectious agent, only a compromised health that could, and often does, allow a secondary condition such as a cold to take hold.
Prevention is the standard treatment, including being rested before travel, being fit, drinking liquids before departure, and relaxing. After landing, or alighting from a boxcar, the conventional treatments are symptomatic for nausea, headaches, etc. with a possible alcoholic or energy drink, or tranquilizer. Good sleep during travel is essential, as is proper food and continued liquids.
Crossing repeated time zones provokes various strategies. Some travelers choose a flight that arrives at the hour that begins the normal workday; or, alternatively, arrives at the usual bedtime hour and immediately go to sleep. A further option is to arrive for an important meeting a couple days early to prepare by relaxing. Finally, some prefer to reset their body clocks several days before leaving home by developing a sleep-wake cycle similar to the destination clock hours.
All this is elementary to the modern barnstormer, but I may add a few nuances after having crossed by camel, foot, thumb and Jeepney, as well as conventional jet, thousands of time zones.
Arrive hours early at the airport and kick back as prelude. The distraction of rushed passengers soothes for an hour, and then read a cliffhanger book. The amenities of flying business or first class are efficacious, if affordable. You may visit the executive lounge with computers and manners, or use the airport gym and showers. Moreover, Victor Navorski taught us while trapped in 'The Terminal' that there's plenty to do. Once. after a month on a 13-country inquiry for a speculator, I became dull, and the overnight reports suffered; however, on upgrading the tickets to business class and by following the ensuing tips, sharpened in a couple days and the sponsor benefited.
I divide traveler's syndrome into two categories: short and long term. The short occurs in the first couple days of a vacationer's two-week holiday or businessman's protracted swing. The causes are the myriad stresses of haste, schedule changes and crossing time zones. The long-term condition comes weeks or months into a tour due to being intense for so long, hence is more neurological. The preventions and treatments differ accordingly, as follows.
For vacationers and short-term businessmen, get to the terminal early, be in shape when you step on the first flight, and block an hour or more a day of exercise during the trip to quash symptoms. Physical fitness is directly proportional to resistance to Traveler fatigue. Liquid intake should increase with miles traveled, to your limit. Take your own fluids into the airport for the wait, and once past security buy more to sip during the flight without nagging the flight attendants. (I carry a trucker's boot- small bottle- in my suit coat for frequent urinations.) I also pack a first meal in case the flight, train or bus is delayed. Some authorities advise eating less to beat traveler's malaise, but I disagree and eat more as long as there are extra fluids. Finally, the "redeye" or night trip is favored to sleep during transport, and awake fresh with eyeshades and earplugs as if never having moved.
Long-term educational travel of six to eighteen months is my strong suit, and this anecdote finds me in the Sumatra jungle across from a few thousands curious human-like orangutans. My round-the-world ticket peers- nearly all European- are going ape on Skype to touch familiar bases. I may ask for their Email addresses to quiet them. On other journeys over the decades, I've witnessed them rave and cry without knowing why and, admittedly, as a greenhorn I weathered a couple bouts before gaining insight.
Somehow, the CNS is liable in world travel (probably from chronic amplified visual traffic and inner ear imbalance). I tell journeyers to force themselves monthly to stay in one place for 4-7 days in proportion to their disturbance; I've been here for two weeks after three brakeless, reckless months on the road. The best Shangri Las are white sand beaches scattered around the globe, or dense jungles like this one with fresh fruit on the trees and hiking trails. After three decades of nearly constant travel to a hundred countries, the longest swing was 18 months through Africa, South America and the South Pacific where I learned that traveler's illness mitigates the longer the trip, as long as the rest breaks are observed.
The best tip to your better travel health is to pack a pair of running shoes for sightseeing, and use them at any speed.
I recently was asked a good question: does high altitude resistance training actually work?:
Certainly using oxygen filtering masks works to simulate high altitude training. You may get the same benefits with an oriental exhaust mask (that cuts air intake by about 30%, and I currently use) over the mouth. Moreover, you may put training stress on your lungs by willfully controlling respiration– learn to breathe less oxygen per breath by many means such as through the nose, heating air by holding in the pharynx, diaphragm breathing, filling just the lower lung lobes, & so on.
Yet, the $89 training mask is ingenious. Thanks for the site, however, the company's argument of equality of passive vs. active training holds no water, and this is a lesson for all sports, dance, bedroom, or walk in the park. Having ambled on most of the world's major ranges, active training out-performs passive in myriad physiological gross & microscopic ways, despite studies to the contrary by lazy bone scientists. Isotonic overpowers isometric. Physical doing beats mental rehearsal almost always.
Physical training made easy is grasping there are three techniques to fitness gain: increased weight, repetition or frequency. This is a distillation of every exercise physiology class I ever took, and Joe Wielder's technique to stop getting sand kicked in my face. The best gain for most sports is by increasing weight (resistance), e.g. the ankle weights I'm wearing & 10lb. of books, bills & camera stuffed in my hiking shorts.
The face mask can be said to increase the resistance of respiration. Future elite athletes, I think, will train in underwater gyms like track horses to increase resistance on every square-inch of skin, and later Olympic champs will train on Jupiter (or a simulator) requiring more effort for every muscle fiber to contract. Until then, you may sink your gym set in the shallow end of a swimming pool, and dog paddle with a weight belt between sets.
The resistance trainer will win nearly every time against one who doesn't, whatever the activity. I used to tell competitors that the wire on my tournament racquetball racquet was a coach's antenna.
Russ Sears weighs in:
Altitude training is a lot like life: it is not how you are torn down that matters but how you re-build. What runners have found is that it is the recovery especially sleeping at high altitudes is what build endurance by forcing the body to adapt in the recovery. Hard training in high altitudes is not as much nor as quick and it is close enough to race pace or conditions. The newer mantra is to train low and live high. They achieve this either by stimulated altitude chambers or sleeping tents or by driving down a steep road to train, at least to do the faster harder stuff.
The newest mantra is to use "anti-gravity" treadmills (they hold you up at the waist so the pounding is not as hard). This enables you to train more distance and to increase the turnover and pace beyond a normal race. So the idea is to train "gently" so as to train as much as possible and to also stress neurologically system occasionally beside the muscles.
While Bo certainly could tell us more about the bodies adaptation than I could, the main effect as I understand it is to increase the red blood cells and therefore the bodies ability to carry oxygen and repair damage. This is similar to the effects of EPO, except EPO tends to let your blood turn to sludge and cause heart attacks if you dehydrate too much. The tale tale sign of a drug cheat is to see if they pull out of a meet/race when the weather is hotter than expected. But I can attest that even a trained runner can pass-out from dehydration, as I did last June.— keep looking »
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