Travelogue to resume regular publication

Weddings are busy times. Having family with me is fun. Working takes up a lot of time.

Travelogue will resume regular publication tomorrow.

Apologies for the delay.

----------------
Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Bangor, Maine USA - July 1 , 2009
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Runaway Travelogue

My friend Caitlin wrote the following on her travelogue:

"Now that I’m actually traveling, it’s a lot harder. I’m moving around from place to place, having fun, and it’s hard to convince myself and my traveling companions that it’s time for an internet break." - Travel Blogging More Difficult than I Expected

She is correct: to write a daily travelogue takes a constant concerted effort and a segmented day that allows for plenty of solitude with a computer, thoughts, and notebooks.

I love the work of publishing an online daily travelogue, but sometimes -- once a year or so -- it slips away from me.

I am now flapping my arms in a tidal wave and trying hard not to be dragged too far away from shore.
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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Bangor, Maine USA -June 30, 2009
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Weddings, Work, and Family Usurp Travelogue

The past two weeks was the first time in two years that I found myself too occupied with my physical existence to keep up with publishing and doing the work for this site. I found that I only published one full travelogue entry in more than 14 days. This was my lowest rate of published for a very long time.

The reason: I started a new job on a farm on June 18th, and my family came to Maine on June 24th, and I got married on June 28th.

I have been busy.

I worked 6 out of seven days on the farm. A day of farm work means 10 to 12 hours of weeding, taking care of livestock, and shoveling shit. Upon returning home I have been beat. Add to this wedding planning and then the arrival of my family, and my usually well planned out computer time vanished.

Stale excuses

I offered a stale excuse to an old friend about why I never return her emails a couple of days ago:

"Sorry, but email is no longer a good way to communicate with me," I began my slippery fish little spiel, "because I get at least 30 emails a day for business related to the website. I always plan on writing you long letters, but as soon as I am finished plowing through all of the website related mail, I am beat."

I knew that my words sounded incredibly lame, but I must attest that the emails that I want to write the most are usually the ones that get stuff down to the bottom of the pile. I want to take time when I write letters to my friends, but the future is a mirage that always appears to possess more time than it actually does.

This website project has gotten away from me

I want to do more work in the internet world than what the ticking clock and sun and moon world allows. My various paths have spidered out into disjointed directions, where I am prone to find myself walking too far down one at the expense of the others.

Due to other circumstances, I was not able to take care of the website business for two weeks. I am now trying hard to squiggle out of the middle of a heaping pile of work:

I have a stack of notes to write into stories.

I have tons of photos to publish.

I have mounds of unanswered mail.

I have numerous requests from publishers for permission to use my photographs.

I have a mountain of travel questions to answer.

I have a treasure trove of comments to respond to.

I would not want things any other way.

Digging myself out, a little bit at a time.

Traveling into Marriage

Going to get married. Right now.


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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Bangor, ME - June 28, 2009
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Cheap Beer Pilgrimage in Maine

Upon landing in Maine from Egypt I quickly became accustom to hearing the name "Tim" used in relative proximity to the word "beer."

I questioned this combination, and found out that there is a store in Maine called Tim's Little Big Store that sells top shelf beer for a vagabond's penance. Chaya's family is one that has a good nose for bargains -- "Metsieh!" -- and beer rarely ever seems to be purchased outside of road trips to Tim's.

"Tim's Little Big Store is a little ways out there, so we usually all go together," Chaya explained about her family's habit of making these beer pilgrimages in groups, "We can't go to Tim's alone."
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Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Bangor, Maine - June 21, 2009
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This became a Catch-22 sort of situation: I wanted beer, though I could not bear the thought of paying full price for what I could get for half, and we could not go to Tim's until the family stock of beer ran low. I also did not feel comfortable drinking all the beer in the Chaya's parent's house all by myself in order to single handedly expedite a pilgrimage -- that would not leave an idea impression for a soon-to-be son in law.

Beer is a funny substance for a traveler. In most countries, beer is a little too expensive to purchase regularly -- I rarely ever even think about buying beer -- but sometimes in some places you can get it for next to nothing. In Mongolia, beer sells cheaper than water -- the same goes for Panama, Ecuador, and the Czech Republic. When in such places, I delight in drinking down an occasional handful of beers while ticking these words off into oblivion.

Drinking beer is enjoyable, though not so enjoyable to warrant its usual expense.

With the prospect of Tim's Little Big Store I became excited about getting a load of good beer without hearing a great big sucking sound coming from out of my pocket. I like beer. I was excited about the idea of getting beer in America without poisoning myself with Natural Ice or Pabst's. I was also curious about this mysterious Little Big Store that was able to sell beer so cheaply while every other store had to charge so much. I am not the sort of fellow who is very skilled at putting off my curiosity.

Soon, the beer supply in the collective household's of Chaya's clan began to run low, and my ears perked up one evening over dinner when the magic words, "no," "beer," and "Tim's" were spoken all together in the same verbal clause. I figured that this was my chance to act, so I volunteered Chaya and I to do the dirty work, and make the pilgrimage to the Little Big Store on our own.



We then took the family orders for beer, and the next day drove out to Old Town, Maine -- a half hour from Bangor. I was now getting down to the bottom of this mystery -- and getting some beer.

We soon arrived at the fabled "Tim's." It appeared at first to be a regular convenient store, complete will chubby little Little Leaguers selling candy bars out front. Though when we walked through the door, we befell a wide open arena of beer, wine, tobacco, coffee -- all the legal vices of America under one roof, being sold for bottom of the barrel prices.



A table was set up with single bottles of good beer spread out all over it. A select-your -own six pack carries a standard charge of $3.25. Chaya and I leafed through the sea of local and national micro brewed beers that usually sell for over $8 a six pack, and selected 70 or 80 of the best choices. It was thought that we were not only buying beer to restock the general house supply, but also for our wedding . . .

I asked the guy behind the counter how he could sell this beer for so cheap, and he explained that Tim's is one of three stores in Maine permitted to sell reclaimed beer. So when a grocery store unstocks beer because it runs too close to its expiration date, it is sent to Tim's, and sold at half price.

"Every Tuesday and Friday we get a new shipment," the guy behind the counter proceeded to tell me.

I noted these dates, and penciled them in as the potential launch windows for any future cheap beer pilgrimages to Tim's Little Big Store.

(editor's note: an overzealous groom accidentally jumped the gun and drank most of this wedding beer -- go figure)

The address of Tim's Little Big Store

157 Main St
Old Town, ME 04468
(207) 827-2885



Map of where Tim's Little Big Store is located in Old Town, ME


Chaya picking out beer for the non-pregnant members of the wedding party



Cheap Beer Pilgrimage in Maine

Baby Bottle Riot in Bangor Maine

Baby Bottle Riot in Bangor Maine

"Would you like to go to the baby bottle riot with me?" pregnant Chaya asked, as she slapped on some body armor made from halved PVC piping, the guts of old car seat cusions, and lots of duct tape.

I watched in indecision as she threw on a black hooded sweatshirt over her well armored body and masked up her face with a black bandana. She then reached for her sling shot and a sack of ball bearings and was ready to riot.

"Don't forget your tear gas goggles," I called out to her.

"Are you coming or not?" She asked me with a touch of annoyance in her voice.
----------------
Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Bangor, Maine USA- June 17, 2009
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It had been a long time since I had been in a riot. In the days of my youth, I could riot with the best of them; now, as a grown man, I had doubts as to whether I could withstand the barrage of tear gas, stampeding police horses, and the wildly swinging batons of riot cops.

But not wanting my pregnant fiance to go into battle alone, I dug out my own dusty riot gear and re-clad myself in black. I looked at myself in the mirror before walking out the door, and thought for a second that I may still possess a hint of my youthful rage.

Standing up again to fight injustice

We arrived at the pre-designated location of the riot, and found our twenty foot blow up baby bottle towering into the sky -- a standing testament to the riotousness of our mission. The organizers for this confrontation had obviously chosen the location wisely, as it was a safe distance outside of the pedestrian areas of the city. We would not want any innocent bystanders getting hurt. We also did not want the general public seeing our violent rage first hand; for the people of Bangor to find out about this confrontation the next day in the newspaper was good enough for us.

Cars drove by without looking our way, and the ones who did probably just thought that we were doing some benign business promotion for a baby food company. These people obviously did not know what they were in for. They did not know that we were rioters. Our plan was to stick it to the makers of BPA containing plastic products and, while we were at it, The Man.

Well . . . as soon as the TV news stations and newspaper reporters showed up.

So we stood around in waiting, our direct actions becoming more and more refined by the moment. The plan: wait for the media, and then riot.

At the sight of the first news camera, we called a emergency consensus meeting and distributed our secret weapons around to everyone. Now armed with signs that said "Safe Products: good for families" we huddled together in front of the giant blow up baby bottle.

The news cameramen then film us in action. Some of us smiled for the cameras, others waved, and our leaders grappled with the great beasts of oppression head on, and offered up sound bytes to the salivating reporters.

A reporter from the Bangor Daily News in a long white dress suddenly infiltrated our ranks, and began extracting statements from my fellow rioters. We tried to lock arms, we tried to stand together in unity, but the power of the white clad news reporter was far too much for our black bloc formation. We buckled under the pressure, as the reporter cut through our ranks and began interrogating my comrades. I could only watch in fear as my brothers buckled under the heavy hand of the Bangor Daily, and spoke the secrets behind the Maine Baby Bottle Alliance.

We were quickly divided and conquered.

The TV news crew and the Bangor Daily hit squad then exited the riot zone without a scratch. We laid down our arms, our signs were collected in a small pile. Regrouping around the 20 foot baby bottle, we counted heads. Everyone made it out of the battle alive.

As we stood together in the media's wake, we knew that there was no reason to continue the riot: we got on the TV news, we would be in tomorrow's paper. We stripped off our riot gear, deflated the baby bottle, and went home. The entire confrontation was over within a half hour.

It was a job well done for all the brave freedom fighters of Bangor, and the Maine Baby Bottle Alliance goes on to riot another day.

Definition of a media hoax: "A media prank is a type of media event, perpetrated by staged speeches, activities, or press releases . . ."


Rioters preparing for confrontation in Bangor


Rioter being feasted upon by the media, he fended off the attack with sound bytes


Notice that the riot was facing the news cameras head on with its back to the public -- we took measures to not attract the attention of any innocent bystanders


Baby bottle riot in Bangor


Baby Bottle Riot in Bangor Daily News

Vagabond Journey on Journalism
Journalist Absconding in Travel Blog
Vagabond Journey Backpack Journalism Travel Articles

Baby Bottle Riot in Bangor Maine

Free Accommodation To Save Travel Funds

An astute reader left a clever comment on the travelogue entry, Work for Travel Money at Labor Ready:

"When describing how you save money for travel, don't neglect that you enjoy rent free accomodations with your in-laws. $6-8/hour wouldn't go far if were dropping close to a grand every month on rent the way many of us are."

I am not under the impression that I necessarily neglected the fact that I am living rent free, but this is a very good point:

To make money to travel, you need to save money; to save money, you need to cut expenses.

Perhaps the largest expense that anyone has is for accommodation.
----------------
Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Bangor, ME USA- June 16, 2009
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To save money to travel, you need to either work well paying jobs, or find a way to cut the cost of accommodation out of your living expenses.


To save money to travel, it is essential to find cheap or free accommodation

From my experience, this is not very difficult to do. For seven years, I would travel internationally for eight or nine months a year and then return to the USA and work on the road at contractor professions that paid for my living expenses.

Such contractor professions include:

• Archaeology fieldwork
• Land surveying
• Construction
• Pipe fitting
• Industrial scuba diving
• Environmental inspections
• Anything to do with pipeline work
• Many misc jobs with developers
• Geology fieldwork
• Geomorph/ soil scientist work
• Inspection work on development projects
• Oil production work that involves living on rigs in the ocean or on projects at drilling sites.
  
• International contractor work
  

The list goes on. Basically, any profession that focuses on development projects often requires that people travel to work, and, if a job requires that you travel, your living expenses are often paid for.

This means that you can bank your full paychecks, and save every dime that you make.

This kind of employment is good for a traveler, as you not only get a decent paycheck and your living expenses paid for, but you get to travel for work. I do not know of a better work arrangement.


It is not extremely uncomfortable commuting to work from a tent in the woods -- I have done this on numerous occasions, including one stint in the summer of 2007 where I slept in a tent for over 70 consecutive nights while working, so that I could save as much money as possible

There are also a lot of other professions that offer free accommodation that are too numerous to mention. Maybe readers can submit some ideas in the comments below?

Some ideas on jobs that may offer free accommodation:

• Nanny.
  
• House keepers - Many people want people to watch their houses when they go out of town long term
• Pet sitting- It is often cheaper to give a trustworthy person the keys to a house than pay for a kennel
• Seasonal work in tourist destinations
• Trail crew and other jobs that you work in the forest
• Farm work
• House cleaner
• Traveling salesperson -- many kids travel around the USA selling posters on university campuses
• Gardening -- large estates sometimes have quarters for gardeners
• Flight attendants can stay in airline operated hostels cheaply or for free
• Overseas English teaching positions often offer free accommodation
  

Where I am sitting now, I have three options for free places to live:

1. In my law's cabin and/ or apartment
2. I was offered a place to stay rent free +$500 to watch over a guy's house and feed his cat while he works out of town for the summer.
3. I took a job at a farm that has a worker's cabin and places to camp.

Free places to stay are not rare, they just need to be found.

Tips for finding free places to live:

1. Find work that gives you a free place to stay
2. Offer everyone you know to trade housecleaning services for a couch
3. Offer everyone you know to trade childcare services for a spare room
4. Explain your situation to you family, maybe they can help or know someone who can
5. Search newspaper ads or Craigslist for people looking for house/pet sitters
6. Live in a tent in the woods -- not joking, I have done this to save money to travel
7. Go between the couches of friends in a rotation -- though offer something in return (Note: if you clean the toilets in a punkhouse you can stay for as long as you want)
8. Squat an abandon building -- again, not joking
9. Ask on the community message boards of Couchsurfing.org if there is anyone willing to host you for a few months if you agree to do house chores
10. Ask at farms for jobs -- very often they have a place for migrant workers to stay
11. Put up ads in coffee shops saying that you are trying to save money to travel the world and are willing to exchange work for a place to stay -- it is unbelievable how many people are happy to help travelers ("just want to pay back a little of what I was given when I was on the road")
12. Go to a place that has a warm climate and sleep outside
13. If you have a car, live in it!
14. Offer to refurbish someone's basement/ attic/ garage in exchange for the right to stay there until you are finished
15. Find an activist house that allows volunteers to live there free
16. Offer to work in hostels/ hotels in exchange for a bed or a room
17. Build a hut on public land
18. Trade work at a monastery for a free place to stay
    

There are many options for limiting or eliminating accommodation expenses while you save up money to travel. Not paying rent is one of the most essential steps to saving money.

The quote that opens up this entry is right on:

You cannot save up money to travel while spending $1,000 a month on rent.

Traveling starts long before you leave home. Abruptly moving out of your expensive apartment and living on the fly is not only good preparation for travel, it is travel.

Working temp jobs and jumping between couches is travel.

Getting land surveying certification and taking contractor jobs around the USA is travel.

Doing a term on an oil rig is travel.

Setting up a tent in a friends backyard so that you can avoid paying rent is travel.

Planning out daily where you are going to sleep at night is travel.

Learning to trust your instincts is travel

Trusting that everything will be alright forever and ever and ever is travel

No matter what, you will find a way.

It is my experience that traveling is not only the physical process of moving from place to place, but also the mental processes that goes along with it. Traveling provokes an almost primal sort of mindset in which you are constantly making conscious decisions based on what you need to survive: the resources to obtain water, food, shelter as cheaply as possible.

This is part of the fun of the Open Road.

I find no reason to wait until you are traveling to begin living like a traveler. Exploring new ways to make and save up your bean money can be as fun and interesting as traveling itself.

It is my impression that a lifestyle is not something that someone is stuck with, but is something that a person chooses every single day.

I will end this entry with another quote, this one lent impetuous to Richard Halliburton's Royal Road to Romance, and was taken from Wilde's Picture of Dorian Grey:

“Realize your youth while you have it. Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, or giving your life away to the ignorant and the common. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. “Live ” live the wonderful life that is in you. Be afraid of nothing. There is such a little time that your youth will last- such a little time.”

If anybody has any more suggestions on how someone could save money to travel by not paying for accommodation, please comment below. If anyone is willing to put up a prospective traveler in their homes to help them on their journey, email me at Vagabondsong@gmail.com.


Avoid paying rent by living in a hole if you have to.

Vagabond Journey How to Make Money to Travel Project

Work for Travel Money at Labor Ready

Free Accommodation To Save Travel Funds

Journalist Absconding In Travel Blog

"I would like to see you make a go of being a journalist," my friend Motorcycle Bob once wrote to me.

I would, too.

If I were to put as much energy into writing newspaper and magazine pieces as I do into this travelogue, I know that I would have a fighting chance at making a living off of the written word.

But I know that writing standard articles for the standard press is to play checkers on someone else's board -- I may win all of the pieces at the end of the game, but I will not be able to take any of them home with me:

If I write a magazine article, the magazine owns it -- sometimes they pay me, and sometimes they forget -- but they have full sanction to strangle, strip, and bugger whatever I sign away to them.

And they do . . .

All journalist know that editors oddly possess the more virtuous qualities of a Hoover.

Perhaps I am a little too proud.
----------------
Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
in Bangor, ME USA- June 16, 2009
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"That is journalism," I can remember my thesis adviser saying to me as I raged about how a magazine printed a gross perversion of one of my articles without my final stamp of approval.

I feel tied up in knots when I try to publish in print media. I feel like the geek who buys a set of jock clothes and tries to act cool for a day in high school . . . just to go home at the end of the day with a much clearer idea of how much of a geek he really is.

I feel good when I put a full day into publishing on the travelogue. I feel fulfilled, as though I completed something that I can build upon a little more the next day. I like it when I breeze through the latest entries and find a typo, a grammatical or spelling error. It means that the work is still breathing, and has not yet been turned to stone.

But I cannot make a living off of the travelogue. I know this all too well. 12,000 weekly visitors nets $20.
-----------


To publish in a magazine I must write bullshit. I publish bullshit here on this travelogue as well, but at least it is honest bullshit (because it is my bullshit).

I admire honesty in writing, and by honesty I mean writing yourself as an imperfect person. I mean writing brash opinions, thoughts, and memories into stories that journalistic standards say should stand alone -- stand alone in some wallowing corner of self-trumpeted objectivity, perhaps.

I want to know where a writer is coming from. For me to enjoy a story, I must also enjoy the person writing it. Part of a story is its retrieval. I want to know how the writer got their leads, what they did with them; I want to know about the pothole that they tripped in along the way. I want to know what sort of brandy they were drinking.

Did a crow fly by and poop on the interviewer's head?

Did the subject have a smear of mayonnaise on the corner of his mouth?

I want to know this.

I want feeling, not words. I like stories, not explanations. X is X and Y is Y means little to me.

HST proved that the process of journalism can often be more interesting than the story itself.

I want to see a writer working their way through an issue. I want to see the gunk that is stuck in their craw. I want to see the journey of compiling a piece from start to finish.

I want to read honesty.

By honesty, I do not mean the truth. I care nothing for truth. There are 4 billion different versions of "truth" on this planet, and I am not interested in a single one of them. I care about pure, essential, raw honesty.

I do not want to read the chicken scratch of robots, but the honestly felt words of an imperfect human being. I want a story worth reading to a man-child while tucking him into bed.
-----------------


When I was studying in university I remember walking into my first meeting with a new adviser.

"What are you focusing your studies on?" she asked me.

"Journalism," I answered with confidence.

"What publications do you read?" she questioned me matter of factly.

[pause][squiggle][pause][pause]

"I don't read any publications."

My adviser raised her eyebrows as if I was nuts. "A journalism student who doesn't read journalism . . ." I could feel her thinking.

"Sounds like a lucrative career path to me."

Perhaps I am nuts, and perhaps I am on a road to making very little money off of this thing known as the written word, but I also know that I am not going to waste my time reading or writing the robot garbage that somehow finds its way into print magazines and newspapers. I do not read periodicals because I find them lacking any semblance of humanness.

Technicians, not writers, are journalists. Facing the modern standard of journalism is akin to sucking a dried up turd out the ass of a smushed flat roadkill cat: it is not enjoyable.
----------------

In this travelogue, I can freely be imperfect and show my mistakes. It is hard work trying to be right and perfect within the written word. Written words are taken as being permanent, when in actuality they are just as pliable as the breeziest of conversations. It is a good thing I know that the story is found in imperfection.

In print, the magazine writer must faux perfection, clean off his shirt sleeves, and leave no tracks.

My writing is far too dirty for this.
----------------
A friend recently threw a dart at me:

"You write for a poor audience, how can you expect to make any money?"

I laughed at his bull's eye accuracy.
---------------

A letter arrived in my email inbox from a study abroad magazine that I published an article in a long time ago. It was a simple notification that they chose my article to feature on their new website. Ok, no problem. The letter continued to say that they would have to reedit it and cut it down to about half of its size. Ok, no problem -- a journalist cannot hope to maintain any artistic pride in his work. The letter continued:

"Please remember that as per the contract you signed with us, we do own the story and therefore have editorial control . . ."

It did not take very long before I remembered that this magazine failed to pay me for my submission. I wrote back a quick and snappy letter to this end.

They, in turn, politely informed me that I misread my contract: they do not pay their writers.

Good thing I gave up studying archaeology . . .
---------------------
I occasionally glance at the name and number for the human resources director for the Bangor Daily News. I am digging up the gumption to go in and ask for a job: I have a degree in journalism, experience, flowery letters of recommendation, I even worked as a copy editor before.

"Maybe they would let me dot some i's or write some headlines or sweep some floors or
clean some toilets . . ."

"Hey son, I see from your resume that you have a shiny new degree in journalism, have won writing competitions, published a dozen articles, worked as a copy editor, and come very highly recommended. Here, take this mop and get at it."

I don't budge. I weed gardens and go to Labor Ready instead.
-----------------

I just receive an email from Canada's Verge Magazine who did an interview with me a few months ago for an article on international education. The reporter wanted to ask me some follow up questions. I answered them. The reported asked if I had some photos they could run. I sent her some.

I then asked if they were able to pay for the photos, not really expecting an answer in the affirmative -- but I figured that it was worth a try anyway. A photo credit paid to www.VagabondJourney.com was the most I was expecting.

I received this reply:

Hi Wade
I asked the editor about the photos -- she said they only pay for photos if the photographer is an established professional with a portfolio. Hope that answers your question and that you'd still be willing to have your photos featured in Verge if possible.

If only I was one of them established professionals . . .
--------------

I am hesitant to walk into a newspaper office for fear of being thrown out. I know that this entire travelogue entry is only a shield for my own cowardice to hide behind.

I know that the real reason why I have put off looking for work at magazines and newspapers is because I do not want to give them the opportunity to tell me to go shit in my hat . . . or hand me a mop.

"Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out!"



For some odd reason I do not think that I fit in here.

Vagabond Journey on Journalism
Backpack Journalism - articles written by Wade Shepard
Not to Journalism grad school
Another concept of journalism- Article
Another Concept of Journalism
Editor Eats Article

Journalist Absconding In Travel Blog

Work for Travel Money at Labor Ready

Question: How do you make money to travel the world?

Answer: By any means possible.

I am not joking. There is scarcely such thing as not being able to find a job in countries like the USA. When I hear people say this, I really hear: "I can not find a job that I want to do."

To make money to travel the world, sometimes you have to shovel shit.

This was my plan as I walked through the doors of the Bangor, Maine branch of Labor Ready. I want to leave the USA as soon after Number Three is born as possible. To do this I need to make money. To make money, I have to shovel shit.

For some odd reason I was wearing a slick Turkish suit as I walked into the Labor Ready. A crossed eyed man in dirty Carhartts and a grease stained sweatshirt looked at me cross eyed. I laughed at my shallow attempt at pomp, even though I knew that I was dressed up just for kicks.

I walked up to a desk that ran along the back wall of the Labor Ready office and I was met by a young man, who promptly asked me what I wanted.

"Work," I answered a bit confused. Why else would I be standing in a Labor Ready office?

The guy nodded his head, took down my name, and told me to come in at 1 PM the next day with two forms of identification. I was then dismissed.

Other workers were standing around the desk waiting for their day's pay. They did not seem too worn out from a day of working, and one of them kept trying to talk to me.

Not knowing what to do with so brisk of an introduction to Labor Ready, I refused my dismissal and asked the guy behind the counter what sort of work I was in for.

"Do you know what kind of work I will be doing?" I asked naively.

He just shrugged his shoulders. The dude that kept trying to talk to me jumped in.

"Naw, it changes every day. Today they had me shaving Alpacas!"

"What!?!" I replied with a touch of surprise, newly interested in what this dude had to say to me.

"Well, actually," the dude admitted, "I was just holding them down, the other guy was shaving them."

Going to shave Alpacas.

Going to make up my travel funds the hard way.
-------------

I returned to the Labor Ready the next day in more appropriate attire. I wore a flannel shirt and torn up jeans. I handed my passport to the guy behind the counter that I had made my appointment with the day before.

"You travel a lot," he said, noticing that the two extra sets of pages in my passport has made it the size of a small sandwich.

I nodded my head.

"What do you travel for?"

How could I answer this?

"For fun, school, work."

This seemed to be the best answer.

I was then prompted to do a 60 question test in which I had to punch in the letter notated answers on a little keypad.

The test was technically 60 questions, although it only asked me four things in different ways.

1. When and how often do you do drugs?
2. In what circumstances and how often do you get into fights at the workplace
3. When and how often do you steal from your employer?
4. How many times a week do you show up for work drunk?

I think I scored an A on this test. I could not believe that anybody coud do otherwise.

"Does anyone ever fail this test?" I asked the counter guy.

He just rolled his eyes at me as he replied, "All the time."

I then was given a worker safety test and a stack of papers to fill out.

I did so.

I was then ordained an official Labor Ready day laborer. I took this title with the instructions that I can show up at the office whenever I want to work at 6 AM, Monday through Saturday, and they will try to "put me on doing something."

I said I would be there.

Going to shave Alpacas.

Going to make up my travel funds the hard way.


Labor Ready in Bangor, Maine

There are over 600 Labor Ready centers around the USA. If you are ever stuck for travel funds, go to one. The pay is low -- $7-$8 an hour -- but they follow a "work today get paid today" policy, so you can always be assured a small pocketful of cash upon leaving.

Go to Labor Ready.com

Vagabond Journey How to Make Money to Travel Project

• How to make Money to Travel

• Gardening in Maine - part I

• Gardening in Maine - part II

• Gardening in Maine - part III

Work for Travel Money at Labor Ready

Cross Walk from Maine to Mexico

A new Backpack Journalism feature story has just been run out of the mill:

A Cross America: spiritually intoxicated ex-addict walks from Maine to Mexico

This is the story of a refurbished drug addict walking from Maine to Mexico with a cross over his shoulder and a legally blind guitar playing companion by his side.

This is the story of spiritual intoxication in the context of modern America.

This is the story of a guy with twenty bucks in this pocket and a entire continent to walk on faith alone.

This is the story of two men on the slow road across the USA.

"Hey, it's called the Cross Walk."



Tom Helling walking down highway 1A outside of Bangor, Maine on the first full day of his pedestrian journey to Mexico.



A Cross America one step at a time.



Video of Tom Helling's walk from Bangor, Maine to Nogales, Mexico.

A Cross America: spiritually intoxicated ex-addict walks from Maine to Mexico

Cross Walk from Maine to Mexico

Vagabond Woodblock Print by Justin Catania

The following photos are of Justin Catania making prints off of the 4' X 4' woodblock carving of my face. Justin's master pieces usually cannot be fit easily into a room, as they are so large. Four by four foot prints are the mid-range of his woodblock prints that often extend to heights and widths exceeding eight or nine feet.

Justin has recently offered his talents to Vagabond Journey.com and has been doing feature illustrations for its feature articles.

Justin Catania on VagabondJourney.com
A Journey through the Ancient -- features illustrations by Justin
Justin Catania Woodblock print artist interview

All photos by Helen Michelsen


Justin inking the woodblock of Vagabond Journey Wade for a print


Print of Vagabond Journey Wade in the background while Justin works on a print of the photographer Helen Michelsen


Justin rolling ink on a print of Wade



More of Justin's art can be found at Crooked Spines

Vagabond Woodblock Prints by Justin Catania

More Blogger Problems - Template Not Updating

I like Blogger. I like that the Classic Blogger system is straight up, simple HTML. I like the way this travelogue looks and functions. It is my impression that it is easy to read, use, looks alright, and does the job. The three-column Minima template that I rigged together is exactly the sort of appearance that I want: simple, straight forward, and content heavy.

I also know what is going on in every piece of code inside of this travelogue. It took me more than a long time to learn this, as it has been a journey in and of itself . . .

In point, everything should be alright, and I would think that I could just ride this wave off into the horizon.

But there is one problem, and that is that Blogger has regular publishing problems that often arise out of nowhere. Every month or two, a new problem rears its ugly head: either the blog fails to publish new entries, or some other odd dysfunction. Through experience, I have learned that if I just ignore these internal publishing problems that I cannot fix, they usually -- somehow -- go away.

Though I am in the middle of a problem that has been ongoing for over two weeks: I cannot update the template on any entries older than May 2009. This is rotten because I consistently update the travelogue template with maps and other temporal information that often changes. If I cannot have a consistent template on ALL of the pages of this travelogue, then it is going to soon become a mess.

More than 50% of the travelogues' traffic comes in on random post pages from Google searches. This means that these people are entering into the middle of the journey on a page with an outdated template. 95% of the pages on this travelogue say that I am in Israel and going to Egypt. I cannot change this. It is an internal Blogger publishing problem. I have updated the template, as is evident on this page that you are reading, but it will not rewrite all of the pages on the entire travelogue as it is suppose to do.

Also, this is a problem because comments on entries older than May 2009 will not publish automatically. I have found that if I go in and enter a comment on the older, outdated pages and refresh the page, that they will update. But this is not good. I cannot rightly leave a comment on 800+ pages each time I want to update the template.

I need a travelogue that is a finely tuned machine. Blogger COULD to this, but it functions in a far too clunky manner to be relied upon. Two times in this journey I have bailed from Blogger because of these odd little problems, just to return because of a nostalgic notion that it COULD work well this time.

Oh brother . . . I am becoming worn out by these same old problems. I did some reading this morning on how to convert this Classic Blogger powered travelogue over to Wordpress -- like many of the other sections of Vagabondjourney.com -- without changing the URLs . . .

In with the new boss, perhaps.



The arrows in the above screenshot of an older page on the travelogue show some of the places where the template will not update.

If anyone has any suggestions on how this can be repaired, please let me know.

Thanks.

Walk Slow,

Wade

Other Blogger problems
Blogger Comment Form Problem
Blogger Problem Fixed
Vagabond Site Without Blogger
Travel Blog on Blogger
New Travel Blog

More Blogger Problems - Template Not Updating

How to be a Travel Writer

The formula to being a travel writer can be found in the following anecdote:

I was sitting on the front porch of the apartment in Bangor Maine just puffing away on a meerschaum pipe and watching the world go by.

All of a sudden the world stopped going by: it stood right in front of me on the sidewalk with a sideways look on its face.

A larger sized women with pink sweatpants cranked high up over a half tucked in Bart Simpson t-shirt stood right before me. Big and broken plastic eyeglasses hung askance upon an askance sort of face.

I took another drag from my pipe, as we entered into an odd sort of voyeuristic gridlock.

Shit, I am going to have to talk to someone, I thought to myself -- panic, panic -- I hate talking to people in my own country. If I am an open sea of conversational inquiry when traveling abroad, I am a sealed tight virgin clam in the USA.

The contorted faced, pink sweatpant, askance eyeglass woman continued staring at me.

I thought for a second that she was either retarded or lost -- or, retarded AND lost.

But before I could inquire she began speaking:

"Is that an ice cream cone?" she asked.

"Is what an ice cream cone?" I retorted.

"That," she again queried while pointing at me.

I looked all around for an errant ice cream cone. I could not find one.

"Is that an ice cream cone, in your hand?" she again asked with a little more clarity.

She was referring to my meerschaum pipe, which was carved out of a white stone and, apparently, resembles ice cream.

"No," I responded, "it is a pipe, for smoking tobacco."

She then watched a demonstration of its use with interest before continuing down the street.

I watched her go.

At the next house, she found something curious about the people sitting on the porch and began her inquiries all over again.

I laughed to myself: the tables had been turned, the wandering asker of stupid questions had now found a porch to sit upon to be asked stupid questions.

How to be a travel writer: walk through the world going from house to house asking questions about anything that baffles you without fear of looking stupid.

The feeling of being baffled is the raw materials of the written word.

"I write about what sticks in my craw," a NYC novelist once told me.

The writer is the fellow with the questions, not the answers.


A meerschaum pipe


Sitting on the Maine porch, smoking a meerschaum pipe

Asking questions for stories
Blacksmiths in Urfa Turkey
Online Daily Travel Writing
People Look at You Travel Tip

How to be a Travel Writer

Fixing and Cleaning Cabin in Maine Woods

Two days of toiling hard out at the Great Refuge of Serendipitous Beasts, I have come to the realization that Chaya and I only have one more full day of preparation to go before we can move into our first home in the woods.

The cabin has now been spared its various nests, layers of dust, weird dried up dead things, and anything broken, unusable, disgusting, or in the way.

We could now move in on a provisional basis and work on fixing the outhouse and cleaning the well.

We are almost there.


Fixing the couch


On the prowl for anything gross


Dried up dead things in Maine cabin


Chaya sweeping the plank board floors of the cabin in the woods

A Note on this Project:

The essence of this Home in the Maine Woods project is not to live in wilderness isolated from all society, but to simply have a good place to live.

Although, ironically, one of my main criteria for a good place to live is that it is in the wilderness and isolated from society.

This is not yet a project fuel by philosophy, politics, or any other idealistic goal other than to make ourselves happy. All too often, getting "back to the land" sparks rages of idealism out of people. I have no idealism than to have a happy home in the woods that I can delight in fixing up.

Self sufficiency is a goal that is equatable to waking up in the morning with a smile on your face: sometimes your sleep is broken by smiles, and sometimes you wake up with a sleepy head and a scowl. We will try to set ourselves up as best as possible in the woods, but we are not going to make ourselves unhappy by trying to live out any ideology.

The parameters of the 2009 season of living in the Maine woods:

1. Wedding preparations and a work project that requires regular computer access will keep us from moving into the cabin until the beginning of July. After June, the cabin will become our home base.
   
2. We have a car, and can transport ourselves easy between our isolated home and work, friends, and family.
3. We want to leave the USA by the end of October, so we need to work as much as possible, which means that we will not be in the woods all day everyday.
4. I have the VagabondJourney.com project so I need to regularly seek out internet access and electricity.
5. Seasonal and time restraints prevented us from putting in a garden this season, so most food will have to be brought in.
6. Hunting small game and fishing will supplement our diets, but will not be relied upon.
7. These parameters will change as the project goes on through the years and we become better provisioned and prepared. Our accomplishments can only be built upon.
   

In point, the cabin in the Maine woods will be a home base, and not an ideological straight jacket. This project is for fun and enjoyment, and not to prove anything. Our ideology is retained to the smiles on our faces. We will drink beer (humf . . . I will drink beer), drive cars, work jobs, commune with friends, and continue with the internet projects.

We are not yet going primitive and allowing our gnarly hermit locks to grow freely in the wind.

Though this project is being viewed as a practice round for similar projects of a more intense hue.

Cabin in Maine Woods Project

1. Cabin in the Maine Woods Introduction
2. Initial Inspection of Cabin — What needs to be done?

Fixing and Cleaning Cabin in Maine Woods

A Stranger in Every Land

I pulled weeds in a woman's garden in Bangor, ME for the better part of a week. I tried hard to work like the migrant workers who labored quickly and efficiently on the farms of my childhood.

At the end of the job, I went to be paid for my efforts.

I ask if my check could be made out to my wife, Chaya, as I do not have a bank in Maine where I could easily cash the check.

At this request, my employer acted with supreme understanding.

The amount that I was to be be paid was $405.

I was handed a $400 check and a five dollar bill.

"I made the check out for an even $400 so that you could say that it was a gift," my employer stated with an all-knowing sort of smile.

"Alright . . . thank you," I replied without recognizing the significance of her statement.

I could not figure out why she thought that I would want to disguise my pay as a gift, but figured that this was just the way rich people from Maine paid their gardeners.

"Do you know what my daughter does?" my employer then asked me rhetorically. "My daughter is an immigration lawyer."

She made her eyes real big with significance as she said the word "immigration," as if she was implying the obvious.

I had no idea what this obvious was.

"My daughter is an immigration lawyer, so I know a little about immigration law," she reiterated with a nod towards the even numbered check. "I know what you are going through," she then quickly added.

It took me a moment or so before the situation became clear: my employer, apparently, took it for granted that I am not a national of the the USA.

She took me for a foreign migrant worker.

I suppose I achieved my goal.
------------------
A Stranger in Every Land


Origin of stranger photo

I once questioned my friend Dave from The Longest Way Home, who has been traveling around the world for the past four years, about his country of origin.

He answered:

"No secret on where I'm from, these days a little of everywhere."

Well, if Dave is from a little of everywhere, then I proclaim that I am from a little of nowhere.

I have been prone to noticing over the years that people really seem unable to accurately gauged what country I come from. In the Middle East, the top guess was Spain; in China, people think that I am an Uighur; in Turkey, an unspecified sort of foreign Muslim.

I have become a stranger in every land, which is appropriate to how I feel.

I suppose this especially holds true in the USA. I have been usurping pointless small talk during these Maine days with the story that I am a half Russian/ half Mohawk Indian whose real name is Igor.

Making up stories is exponentially much more interesting than honestly boring small talk. . . and to tell the truth in the midst of a small talk inquisition would remove the social cloak that I delight far too much in hiding under.

I also have a speech impediment. But I am fortunate enough that my home grown, genetically absorbed, odd way of speaking is often mistaken to be a naturalized accent from some far off locale.

When I was little, my classmates would always ask me where I was from, my teachers guessed "Boston." But I was always embarrassed to admit that I was no specimen of exoticism, but just an ordinary little farm runt that difficulty pronouncing his R's.

The attention that my speech would receive perhaps pushed me away from the world of play and into the world of books: speech impediments are not recorded on paper. I tried not speaking to anyone through my days at school, and when I was called out of class to to go speech therapy, I would hear a subdued chorus of "retard, you don't know how to speak?" arise from my classmates.

But rather than walking straight to my in-school speech therapy lessons, I would instead walk the hallways alone. When my speech therapist told me to write a list about why I did not like coming to speech therapy, I took it as an opportunity to get myself kicked out.

I wrote something to the effect of:

"I don't like speech class because . . ."

1. You are stupid.
2. You are ugly.
3. I hate you.
4. on and on and on

I got kicked out of speech therapy, but the damage was already done: I was the kid who couldn't talk. So I shut up for a while . . . until I found a few uncensored books by Emma Goldman and Paul Avrich in the public library. Then, my speech became the last thing my school was worried about.

This speech impediment set in the foundation stones of the social estrangement that I would build voluntarily throughout my latter public school days. I somehow managed to turn my verbal estrangement into rebellion, and I soon became well respected as a witty sort of trouble maker.

But my mother, being a good mother, forced me into years of private speech lessons. My therapist may as well have been my probation officer, as I felt as if I was being punished for breaking the laws of the letter "R."

Though I did my time in full, and, after being shown a little trick by the therapist, I could pronounce my "R" like a regular western New Yorker, and was thus freed from the bounds of speech therapy.

Though my inveterate mumble and half hickish drawl I was allowed to keep.



How to make money to travel
Project - how to make and save travel funds
Garden work day one
Garden work day two - Glory of the Working Class

A Stranger in Every Land

I am not a Colonial Frenchman

I have a friend who journeyed to Cameroon recently. Good on her. When she returned to Maine I huddle around to hear what stories I could hear.

I am always up for listening to a good travel yarn.

. . . and her yarn was pretty good, but the peaks and valleys of it were perpetually intermixed with statements such as:

"We messed these people up so much."

"We destroyed their indigenous society"

"We ruined their tradition medical systems and gave them our own."

"We did all sorts of horrible things to these people."

By "we" I am assuming that she meant 19th century colonial Frenchmen, as they were the ones who enacted many of the above stated misdeeds.

I struggled with myself over this rampant use of a pronoun that I could only find horridly misused.



I am quite sure that I am not a colonial Frenchman, and I have very strong suspicions that the teller of this tale was neither from the 19th century nor was she from France.

How could "we" have had anything to do with the colonial history of Cameroon?

Perhaps I am a little dense about such things, but I just did not get it.

Though I knew that I was dealing with a matter-of-fact example of White Man's Guilt in practice.

Societies -- tribes -- have ways of programing themselves into philosophical uniformity. Lines are drawn in the sand: "good" is placed on one side, and "bad" on the other. . . and the distinctions between the two are beyond contention. My friend took it for granted that I would not question the use of "we" to mean French colonials -- we were both white skinned people -- and she took it for granted that I could not contend the fact that modern white Americans are somehow to blame for the post-colonial ills of Africa.

This seems to be a normal perspective of liberal America.

This stuck in my craw.

I asked Chaya about this the following morning.

Chaya answered intelligently, "She meant that "we" come from a similar cultural tradition as the colonists in Cameroon."

Fair enough, but Chaya is a Jew, and I am a quarter stock Native American whose antecedents emigrated to the Americas long before any white folk stepped foot in that part of Africa.

We obviously had no historic connection to colonial Africa other than our pelts appear to be similar to that of the White colonists.

Is this to say that "we" means all White people regardless of true national origin? Is this to say that all white people are the same?

Didn't grade school teach us that it is not prudent to judge people based on the color of their . . .

The misuse of pronouns

I cannot help but to find it profoundly weird for people to think that they are somehow responsible for historic events that were perpetrated hundreds of years before their birth, just because they were done by people of a similar hue of skin.

"We" cannot be used to draw a line of moral responsibility between present people and past actions.

Conclusion

It is my impression that it would be a very unpopular position to blame the people of Ghana for the genocide in Rwanda.

-- all people who appear similar to each other are not necessarily from the same cultural group.

It is also my impression that it would be equally unpopular to blame the modern decedents of the Iroquois for their prehistoric massacre of the Erie

-- modern people cannot be blamed for past people's misdeeds.

I find it profoundly weird that white skinned people in the USA can somehow take if for granted that they are somehow morally responsible for the actions of all white skinned people throughout history.

I cannot help but to find it odd that "we" in 21st century America had anything to do with the ills of African colonialism, and I find it sourly pretentious to hear people speak as if it is their responsibility to rectify these ills.

White Man's Burden all over again.

I have a groggy memory of an ethnographic anecdote that I once read a long time ago about an Ethiopian tribe who had a considerably strong reaction against the passing of gas in public. This reaction was said to be so strong that one member of this community was actually named, "The Man Whose Grandfather Farted." It seemed ridiculous to me to think that this man should be blamed for his antecedent's unchecked noxious release.

My feelings are the same for those who ascribe to a White Man's Guilt world view, as you are essentially blaming yourself for the farts of your grandparents.

"We" are not colonial Frenchmen.

On White Man's Guilt
Tourist Guilt and Helping the Poor
Donate Money to Africa
Tourist Charity and Street Children
Can Culture be Wrong Debate

I am not a colonial Frenchman

Water Filters for Travel

To travel the world cheaply, I know that I need to have a strategy for acquiring drinking water for myself, without continuously paying for it. Dropping an additional 2-3 USD a day -- everyday -- for bottled water is an unnecessary expense -- and wanton expenses are to be isolated and stabbed dead by any budget travel strategy.

So I filter my drinking water.

To travel the world cheaply, I know that I must attempt to be as self-dependent as possible. As Andy says, "the more gear I carry with me, the cheaper travel will be." One way that I cut down on my travel expenses is by purifying my own drinking water with a pump style hiking filter.

I purchased my water filter for $40 in 2001 (actually, my mother bought it for me because she was not confident that I would abstain from drinking the water in S. America) and I have often use this filter -- or one like it -- on hundreds of occasions all around the world. Filtering my drinking water over the past 8 years has probably saved me close to a thousand dollars that would have otherwise been spent on bottled water.

If $15 can conservatively be called a day of travel in most countries in the world, and I can regularly save myself $2 a day by filtering water, then using a filter everyday for a 6 month trip would provide me with 24 extra days of traveling.

I would rather take 10 minutes every morning of filtering water to ensure that I could have 24 more days of traveling. If you did this for an entire year, then you could rightfully add another month and a half on to your travels.

It is far easier to save travel funds, than it is to make them -- I am learning this now the hard way, working away in Maine.

How I use a water filter when traveling


Type of hiker water filter pump that I often travel with

1. I get one disposable 1.5 liter plastic bottle from another traveler who lives off bottled water (or from anywhere you can get one)
2. I cut the top off of it so that I can make it fit beneath a standard size faucet
3. I pour tap water into the plastic bottle
4. I filter this water through the pump into my water bottle
5. I pack everything up and carry the empty disposable bottle with me

This process takes 10 minutes a day. From these ten minutes of work I can save myself around $2 everyday. Not bad.

There are many other ways to process drinking water when traveling -- boiling, iodine drops, ultraviolet light pens -- but I am very partial to filtration pumps. The reasons for this are as follows:

• The pumps can remove both bacteria and virus'
• They can be used for both tap and stream/ wild water
• You do not usually need to use chemicals with them -- I do not want to drink water that has been treated with iodine/ chlorine drops for long periods of time
  
• They are light weight and heavy duty -- mine is 8 years old, though I have used others during this time
  
• You can filter a few liters of water in under ten minutes -- boiling water usually takes longer than this and then you have to wait for the water to cool down before bottling or drinking
  
• Filtering water gets out the crusties in wild water -- I do not care if all of the bacteria is supposedly killed in my drinking water, I still do not want to drink river crud
• I do not need a power source to use a pump style water filter -- boiling water takes electric or fire energy and ultraviolet purifiers rely on battery power . . . I trust the continual availability of none of these sources
  
• The filters on the pumps last a long time -- I only need to replace it once every year or two if I predominantly filter tap water
  

I like to be as self-dependent as possible in all aspects of living, I like to have everything I need to survive and travel with me whenever possible. I like the knowledge that I can go anywhere at anytime and be prepared. Carrying a water filter means that I do not need to worry about when I will come upon the next store to acquire drinking water from, as I can make any water drinkable in a matter of moments.

By carrying a water filter, I remove a portion of my dependence on an outside infrastructure, and, in the process, make my life a little simpler and routine.

I am not squeamish about drinking tap water in many places, but I always follow a simple rule: If the local people in a town drink the tap water, then I will too; if the local people process their water in some way before consuming it, then I will follow suit and use my filter.

Though it only takes me a few moments to filter out a day's supply of water, so if there are any questions, I just break out the pump.

Filed under: Travel Gear

Water Bottles:
Stainless Steel Water Bottles for Travel
Klean Kanteen Water Bottles are Petri Dishes for Bacteria

Water Filters for Travel

Cabin in Maine Woods Initial Inspection

Initial Survey of Cabin in the Maine Woods

"We are aware that old building have an appeal for people......but that is no reason for accepting and refurbishing old buildings that, no matter how patched, repaired and rebuilt, are still old buildings, even if the shingles and paint are new."- Continuing The Good Life by Scott and Helen Nearing

The door to the roughly cut plank board cabin hung ominously open in the depths of the Maine woods. After a decade of nearly undisturbed slumber, myself, Chaya, her father, uncle, and a random lumberjack were entering its breaking its long cherished privacy. At seeing that the lock had been busted off and the door left hanging open by someone at some time, we could only expect the worst.

The lumberjack was visibly nervous about opening the front door to the cabin any more than it was before our arrival, and Chaya and I stood back f0r potential cover.

"You may want to be careful, you don't know what could jump out of there," the lumberjack, who had been cutting woods in the Maine forests since the time he was born, warned Chaya's uncle multiple times in succession.

But the uncle was undaunted, as he was one of the men who built the cabin with his bare hands thirty years back into his youth. He strode up to the cabin door, bounced a little on the low laying porch that was in bad need of repair, and flung the door wide open to face what laid within.

Chaya and I cringed, the lumberjack stumbled back: we took it for granted that some thing was going to jump out and get us.

Chaya's uncle and father strode right inside without any hesitation. This was their home after all.

Chaya and I had high hopes of again creating this forgotten refuge into a place where we could live out a modest turn of our Call of the Wild like fantasies. This grand moment of entry would plainly reveal if our plans would fall