Cancun Wedding

I was corresponding with one of my former work colleagues when he told me he was getting married in Cancun in a few weeks. He had seen my photography and really liked my work. "I already have a photographer," he told me, "but what would you charge to shoot my wedding?" I assumed he was trying to figure out if he was getting a good deal from his photographer.

Since I don't shoot weddings anymore, I had to do a bit of research. I concluded that a cheap-but-good photographer might charge around a thousand bucks. Better photographers run two to three thousands and it goes up from there depending on what events the photographer shoots. I was freezing through a Quebec winter and joked that I would have shot his wedding for expenses alone, just to spend a few days in the tropics. The joke was on me because he wrote back saying he accepted my offer. Two days later he sent me my airline ticket and hotel confirmation.

Wedding photographers will get very upset at this point because I'm either not charging what I'm worth or that I'm undercutting their business. Not having shot a wedding in decades, I could not justify calling myself a wedding photographer so I could hardly justify charging a "proper" rate. I was doing nothing else at the time, so a few days hanging out with my pal and taking pictures somewhere warm would normally be a vacation. Here he was willing to foot the bill so it was a win/win as far as I was concerned.

Loving the beach!

My flight left very early on a Friday morning. I arrived at the airport an hour early, not expecting to find thousands of people dropping off their bags and waiting to get through security. I considered the speed of the line multiplied by the number of people waiting and concluded that I would not make my flight. The weekend was not starting off well!

Sometimes they let people jump the line if their flight was leaving soon. I wasn't in the position now, but I would be before long. I took another look at my ticket and noticed that I had gold status. I'd not flown in nearly a year and assumed that I was back to steerage privileges. I quickly got into the gold line and checked in five minutes later. I still had to deal with the line entering the security area. I'm not talking about the security line, but the line to get into the line in the security area. There was still a risk of missing my flight.

Then I noticed the sign inviting elite fliers to enter through a different line ... a line with no one in it. I wasn't sure my gold status would qualify, but if I could skip past the two-hundred people waiting in line, it was worth a shot. The attendant scanned my ticket and waved me through. Victory!

Good fortune rained down on me once more as I discovered there was an elite line for security and only three people were in it. I got through security so quickly that I had plenty of time ... to go to the Air Canada lounge! My gold status enabled me to relax and enjoy cappuccino and muffins for a good twenty minutes before heading to my gate. The weekend was starting off well!

I hoped to meet Chris when I arrived at the Cancun airport, but his flight was an hour ahead of mine. I had to make it to Cozumel on my own. The taxi stand was a monopoly and they took advantage of the fact. A car to the ferry terminal cost 100 USD, a shared bus was $25. I later learned that the public bus was a fraction of this price and actually faster.

I piled into the bus with five other people. Just before we pulled away, another man joined us. When he shut the door he let out a big sigh. "You made it," I said, "you're here!" The other passengers laughed, recognizing that the worse part of our trip was behind us and we were now in the warmth and sunshine of the Yucatan. He said something about needing some music to get into the mood. Moments later, the van was filled with the sound "Margaritaville" blasting from his portable speakers. The weekend was getting better!

The van stopped at three big resorts to let off the other passengers, my stop was last. The driver could not take me directly to the ferry terminal, so I had to walk a few hundred meters through a square bustling with tourists and Mexican holidaymakers. I really wanted to take my time exploring, but all the guests were expected for dinner shortly.

During the slow ride across the straight, a remarkably good band performed contemporary hits, keeping us all entertained. I collected my bag at the terminal and started asking people the location of my hotel. No one ever heard of it. I knew it was within walking distance so I started down the main road hoping to spot it. Some time later, I realized I had the wrong hotel name.

By the time I checked in, the other guests would already be at the restaurant eating dinner. I quickly changed, collected my camera gear and caught a taxi.

Cozumel, I am here!

A few people recognized me when I entered (it helped that I was laden with camera gear). Chris greeted me and introduced me to about twenty people taking up a long table. I was more concerned with taking pictures than eating at this point, but I still managed to get some food in me. I grabbed candid shots of any many of the guests as I could before everyone finished.

The restaurant was also a distillery. After eating, we sampled some of their various tequilas. Some were ideal for making cocktails, but the finer quality distillations were as smooth as cognac.

Everyone tries the tequila!

I arranged to meet Chris and Monica in the morning to get some shots of them prior to the ceremony. I woke early enough to grab some breakfast, scout out the area, and to get some photos of the hotel.

The pool terrace faces the straight, but this image was more appealing.

Chris and Monica

With camera, strobe and tripod, I arrived at the bride and groom's room, ready for a fun shoot. The plan was to get romantic shots of them waking up together, looking out the window, wondering what the new day would bring ... romantic stuff.

We started with them in bed then in robes on the balcony. Although the sun was behind us, the white finish of the hotel bounced the light around and made an excellent high-key setting.

They choose Cozumel for their wedding when they visited the town on a cruise holiday a few years earlier. I managed to pose one photo to make it appear as if they were on a cruise ship.

This angle is reminiscent of a cruise ship balcony.

Leaving the couple to get ready, I tracked down the best man and a few of the guests to test the light on the terrace. Since the couple had only about twenty people in attendance, I wanted to get one good shot of each person at the wedding. During the course of the day, I succeeded.

When Monica and Chris came down, I did another set of photos with them in their wedding attire. Monica looked exceptionally nice ... especially against that beautiful sea!

A very relaxed bride!

To get to the wedding, the couple arranged a jeep safari. While we waited for the vehicles, I set up some of the guests for an informal group portrait. Their colors coordinated brilliantly.

Pastel colors, perfectly coordinated for a tropical affair.

The wedding was held on a breakwater at the sea's edge. My attention was immediately drawn to the floral arrangements.

Flowers were aplenty at the wedding.

The ceremony was a splash of pastels against the blue sky and sea.

Hitched at last.

Beneath an archway of flowers, the couple exchanged vows. This being my first wedding this century, I had never seen anyone using a computer tablet to read their vows. Well, tears of happiness were shed by more than a few people present.

Part of the ceremony included pouring two different colors of sand into a bottle, signifying two becoming one. Monica and Chris then walked down the peddle-strewn isle of sand where they greeted their guests once again, this time as husband and wife.

Everyone moved to the restaurant next door seafood lunch. On the agenda was making toasts, making speeches, making merry, eating cake ... and making more merry.

After eating and carrying on, we got back into the jeeps and drove the road around the island, stopping at a couple of tourist traps. Everyone had to try one of the bizarre, alcohol-laden, coconut cocktails.

It tasted as delicious as it looked.

Grasshoppers made of dune grass. 

The bride and groom spend some time with local iguanas. 

Party time in the honeymoon suite.

Jumping for joy!

Watching the sun rise over the sea.

One of my favorite poses.

The Second Laziest Place on Earth: Pulau Weh

The largest Indonesian island is Sumatra. An hour's ferry ride northwest of Sumatra is the volcanic island of Pulau Weh. It's lush, jungle-covered hills are surrounded by a sea prized by any diver lucky enough to get here. I'd planned to visit the place ten years ago, but the Banda Aceh region was closed by the government due to "rebel activity." After the tsunami took 150,000 lives, government and residents put aside their differences and international aid flowed to the region. The tourists soon followed.

It cost me less than fifty bucks to take the evening flight from from Medan, Sumatra's largest city, to Banda Aceh. Finding a place to sleep was a bit more troublesome as the small city is not equipped to accommodate backpackers. Every driver wanted to take me to the expensive hotels (rooms costing $70 or more). I managed to find a budget hotel after a good hour of roaming the streets with a perplexed motorcycle cab driver who spoke no English.

I'd planned to spend two nights in the city, but by the middle of next day I was ready to leave. The devastation of the tsunami had been repaired but there were no really interesting places to see. I packed my bags and took the last ferry across the straight to the island of Pulau Weh.

From the pier, I joined a shared mini-bus to get across the island to the village of Iboih. The narrow road winds and twists along the steep hills and the driver had to negotiate his way past numerous motorcycles on the route. The road was in particularly good condition, with what looked like new paving. What struck me most was the method the islanders used to create fences; planting thin trees right next to each other and connecting them with wire. The result is a living fence that will not rot in the moist tropical air.

Note the construction of the fences.

At the end of the road we found a small set of shops and restaurants and a single mosque, all facing the tranquil beach. The five of us grabbed our bags and made our way along the street to the path leading up into the jungle. All the budget accommodations are located here.

The trail starts with a set of stairs that goes up along the tree-covered hill. Along the path are scores of wooden and concrete huts, ranging in price from five bucks to thirty. The places next to the shore are more expensive than those up the hill and air-conditioned rooms are the most expensive. Instead of leaving my bags at a friendly restaurant and exploring unencumbered, I hauled my kit along the path until I was nearly exhausted. I elected to skip the very last set of bungalows; a decision I later regretted because they had impressive views.

The beautifully maintained Yulia's Bungalows.

I spent the first night in a cabin right next to the path. It was great for meeting fellow travelers, but not particularly comfortable. I decided to check out but was unable to find the proprietor. I left a message with two other guests about my plans. I returned later and missed the owner again. Over the course of four days, I managed to miss the owner, Eric, every single time. When I finally caught up to him, he was pleased that I had not skipped town before paying my bill (of less than ten bucks).

My new accommodation was further along the path, a cabin right on the water's edge. I had eyed this particular spot the day before and could not believe my luck in getting it. At high tide, it was almost possible to dive into the sea from the balcony.

My home for nearly a week.

While the outside was beautiful, the interior was rather spartan with a simple bed and a single shelf unit. The mosquito net was a welcome addition and, despite being right on the sea, the fan was entirely necessary to sleep at night. After having used a communal facility the night before, I was pleased to learn my new room had an indoor toilet.

Bungalow interior.

The best part was the hammock hanging on the front porch. Over the next few days, that became my home. I'd wake up in the morning, go for a swim, wash, go to the beach restaurant for breakfast, then lounge away the rest of the morning. I'd sometimes go for a dip in the afternoon if it was particularly hot.

One of the island's original inhabitants.

There was a curious mixture of animal life on that part of the island. First and foremost were the cats. Every bungalow complex seemed to have a family of domestic felines roaming around. Most welcomed a scratch behind the ears, but the place up the hill from my room had a kitten that delighted in attention. Every time she saw me on the path, she'd come running. Occasionally, I'd carry her around on my shoulder. Once, I took her to the next door neighbor's complex, where I was planning to eat, and the local cats did not take kindly to this intruder, hissing and snarling. I ended up having to carry her back home.

I was quite surprised to discover a family of monkeys in a nearby tree. They'd come to the ground to gather fallen fruit, then return to the tree to eat. The local cats and dogs were very leery of the animals. The dogs are not particularly friendly, but mostly ignore the visitors. I had one that regularly slept on my porch. I noticed that a lot of other bungalows had their resident dog fast asleep on their porches as well.

The goats were my favorite. They're mostly shy and stay off the path, but now and then I'd run into a billy-goat that was happy to do some butting. This consisted of the goat charging my hand with his horns. I read about a guy who used to wear a helmet to to do headbutts with his pet goat.

I also spotted some wild pigs rummaging around one evening. I assumed they were domesticated pigs, destined for a future on the grill, until I remembered that the locals did not eat pork. Pulau Weh is a great place to be a pig.

One of the main boulevards of Sabang town.

This is the sort of place that does not inspire, but pacifies. I rightly feared that I would have become a parody of Jimmy Buffet had I access to quantities of cheap rum. Banda Aceh province, though, is dry (although some restaurants do sell overpriced booze). My activities were limited in this little corner of the island, so I rented a motor bike to explore. The nearby town of Sabang offered the most interest. It was a harbor for the ruling Dutch a hundred years ago and much evidence of their occupation can be seen in the large houses built there. The Japanese took over just before the war and built numerous fortifications. These have mostly grown over or re-purposed, but a few remain as curious historic sites.

In the harbor, I had an opportunity to examine the curious style of fishing boat used by the people of Pulau Weh. A tall prow and a flat-back stern, the wedge-shaped vessel is powered by a two-stroke engine. It's distinctive "putt-putt-putt-putt" sound could be heard long before seeing the boats. I am told that they are not particularly stable in rough seas. They have beautiful lines, however, and the lovely paint jobs applied make them even more so.

The elegant design of Banda Aceh fishing boats.

On the way back to Iboh, I explored back roads. I received curious stares from both adults and children. Some of these villages receive no foreign visitors. At one point, I discovered a quarry. In a nearby village, I saw piles of gravel sorted by size. Further along, I saw them making gravel ... by hand. Using hand hammers, they'd chip away at the small boulders to make bite-size pieces suitable for construction.

I did a few dives around Iboh, though the water was not as clear as I'd hoped. The place is teeming with brightly colored moray eels and friendly sea turtles. I quite enjoyed exploring a tugboat wreck, but of most interest was an underwater vent from the island's volcano. Over an area of fifty square meters, bubbles of sulfur gas peculate up through the sand. The result is like a rainfall, only in reverse and with bubbles rather than drops. Swimming through it was a curious sensation, but the visual effect was ethereal. More than ever, I regretted not having an underwater camera.

My days were too often spent lounging on my balcony hammock, reading or watching tourists splash around in the straight. I noticed that when the tide turned, the sea would rush past the dock like a river. I joined another fellow in jumping in and letting the current carry us along. We'd then walk back along the shore and jump in to do it again.



There is a very small island about 200m north of Iboh. I had stopped there during a diving session. I could see the remains of concrete foundations. I was told the island was used a stopping point for Indonesians on the way to the middle east doing their Haj. One day, I thought to take a boat across to the other side and do some photography in the jungle there. After much investigation, I learned that a round-trip ticked cost fifteen bucks! Well, that's one way to make sure the island gets few visitors.

Pulau Weh only ranks as second laziest place because first is taken by relatively nearby Nias island. While in Iboh, I was required to walk five minutes to the nearby restaurants. Living on the beach on Nias, the fishermen would walk by and show you that morning's catch. Pick a fish and they deliver it to the guest house owner, who then cooks it and delivers it to you bungalow. Combine that with inexpensive Bintang beer, and you might not ever leave.

I did manage to escape Pulau Weh's grasp, eventually. I spent another morning in Banda Aceh where I took a short tour. During the tsunami, a large ship was washed well inland and a fishing boat came to rest atop of a home. These two sites have been turned into tourist destination, including a viewing pavilion adjacent to the ship. It felt strange, looking at these two anomalies and how they'd been transformed. I guess there are not many good things to commemorate from that horrible event, so they choose these oddities.

See more photos from Pulau Weh here.

Return to Phi Phi Island

Every time I return to a place of happiness, I'm disappointed by how much things have changed. I don't know why I continue to pursue these threads of dreams, but there I was, fending off the touts as I tried to sort out my ticket from Phuket town to Phi Phi island, a place I'd not visited since 2003 (scant weeks before the tsunami struck). Where before there were only a couple of average size boats going to the island, now there were half a dozen ships departing the dock ... all at 8:30 in the morning, for some reason. The ships were tied to each other so some passengers had to walk across the deck of one craft to get to the other. Then we had to wait for the outermost ship to depart before our own vessel could cast off. Why not stagger the ships in fifteen minute intervals? I would have been very happy to leave at 7:00.

Despite the slightly staggered departures, the ships arrived at Phi Phi's wharf at slightly more staggered times as some cruised faster than others. Still, we had to wait for the earlier boats to unload before we could berth. After paying a 20฿ water tax, we pressed through a gang of hotel touts to get to the "downtown" of the island. The mob packed into that first intersection looked like a strange combination of Times Square New Years celebration mixed with refuges fleeing some great disaster. The vast majority of the backpack-laden travelers were Europeans in their late twenties, sporting the most casual of beachwear. 

Chinese New Year is a not a good time to visit Phuket Island. I had tried to get reservations at my favorite hotels, but they were booked solid. A travel agent got me a room in a complex that consisted of little huts clinging to the steep hillside. The price was nearly sixty bucks a night, but it sounded delightful. So, I paid in advance, something I have never done before ... or ever will again.

The hotel was a hike from the pier and I needed to get directions a few times. Phi Phi had changed so much I had no idea where I was as I maneuvered through a twisting warren of shops and restaurants. My "hotel" looked lovely, each little cabin with its own little balcony, perched on the steep hill. I ignored the fact there was a large stinky catch-basin right at the foot of that hill. I handed over my voucher and was led back down the hill and presented a room right across from that very pond. The room was only slightly larger than the bed. Had this been going for ten or fifteen a night, I might have accepted it, but for nearly sixty bucks, I expected a view at the very least. The hotel assured me they had no more rooms available and offered me a free cancellation  I ended up in a nearby guesthouse complex with a rather large room and a view of the little valley for only 1500฿ per night (about $45). I could have just as easily have obtained a quiet room for half that price, but I was too lazy to wander around with my bags.

New cottages are piled upon each other

Phi Phi has changed quite a bit since my last visit; the proof of that was in the shiploads of tourists arriving twice each day. They all had to sleep somewhere and beautiful guesthouses were crawling up the slopes like concrete creeper vines. The number of accommodations had easily quadrupled since the disaster and there were plenty more buildings under construction. I was concerned mostly about the infrastructure. How were they getting fresh water? How was the sewage and garbage being treated? Speaking of garbage, there was plenty of that to go around. Look over any wall and you'll see either a lovely hotel garden, a ramshackle local's habitation or a garbage heap. Get up into the hills and the gardens and walls go away; there are just shacks and midden piles. 

The hills and beaches are the most pleasant parts of the most densely inhabited part of the island. I refused to pay the extortion rates the local boat drivers demanded to visit other parts of Phi Phi and I was happy enough to explore on foot. By the look of the little shops, a vacationer will spend most of their time eating, drinking, SCUBA diving, dancing and getting tattoos—in that order. I wasn't planning to eat or drink much, but I was rather keen to dive. Having snorkeled here before, I knew the waters were beautiful. After surveying half a dozen of the seventeen(!) dive shops, I concluded that they all offer the same two dives, charge the same prices and leave at about the same time. I picked the one that left a bit earlier than the others.

All of my diving companions were completing some part of a SCUBA course. I was the only one doing a "fun dive." I took exception to this label and insisted they call it a dive, "If you call it a fun dive, it sounds like you're not serious." They said the other dives were for classes so my dive was for fun. "You mean people don't have fun in the courses?" They could not refute my brilliant logic and gave in ... at least when I was in earshot. 

As the only diver not taking a class, I had my own guide. I hoped this would enable us to explore different areas, but we just did standard dives going to the same places as the classes. The locations themselves were good, but nothing terribly exciting. The guides assured me that the habitat had not changed much as a result of the tsunami, so perhaps my memory of beautiful corals and shoals of colorful fish were slightly embellished by time.

Phi Phi consists of two islands. The second, uninhabited island, is famous for having a small bay with a small beach that inspired the movie "The Beach." On my first visit with on a snorkeling tour, we visited the beach alongside a couple of other boats. The place was rather nice. When our dive boat entered the bay this time, I was reminded again how much things have changed. There were at least a dozen medium to large size vessels anchored in the cove. The small sandy shoreline was crowded with scores of beached speedboats on one side and numerous long-tail boats on the other. That left only a quarter of the beach for tourists to ... well, "enjoy" doesn't seem like the right term. Experience? I can't help but wonder how many of them saw that movie and imagined a beautifully secluded beach where they might frolic in the surf unmolested. Reality might suck, but once upon a time, that beach really was secluded and frolicable. 

Tourists flood over the side of the boat to splash around in the deeps. 

Back on shore, I walked the north side of the beach. It's filled with groovy hot spots to sit and drink while watching the sun set behind the hill to the west. The food at such places is pretty mediocre, but you're paying for the view and the style, not the food. At night, they put on fire shows to entertain the patrons. Further along the shore, there are still fishermen going about their jobs and a few Thais have set up their own little out-of-the-way beer stations. That side of the island is the most affected by tides; it's barely knee deep at low tide so the boatmen can repair their craft.

Taxi boats, pulled up on the beach, awaiting tourists.

The island really should be called Kitty Kitty island for the startling number of friendly cats inhabiting the place. They lounge outside the shops and homes and welcome a scratch behind the ears. Dogs are not as common here as in the cities, oddly enough.

I decided to leave the island after two nights. I figured that the 9:00 boat trip would be the least crowded as so few of the party-goers would get up so early. I was very wrong. There was quite a mob at the docks, though not as crowded as I had experienced in my arrival.  There were only two boats going out. I realized then that theses two had remained on the island overnight and the great flotilla was only now leaving Phuket town. With our baggage piled up in the stern, we crowded aboard these two boats and cast off. Our boat stopped just at the edge of the harbor. Racing toward us was a long, slim ship. The crew gestured to us to get away from the side of the boat. Apparently we were going to hook up with this vessel. They transferred a few dozen bags and then passengers from a nearby island climbed aboard our already crowded boat.

Surely we'd be on our way now? No. Another high-speed boat was racing in from another island. Their bags were piled on the lower part of the stern and few score more travelers joined us. There was no room inside so the newcomers were at the mercy of the sun for the next two hours.

Hopefully, this will be my last trip to Phi Phi. I could not bear to see it get more crowded.

Fortress Kandahar

My flight into Kandahar descended through pale grey clouds to emerge into a darker grey of drizzling rain. I couldn't see much, but I did notice that the land was a patchwork of small farms. I don't know why I had the impression that the place was mostly desert, but if the wooden shacks had been houses and the cart paths been dirt roads, the place could have been mistaken for any arid farm country. 

The flight out of Dubai started with little promise as we exited the terminal and got on a bus to get to the plane. Plenty of airports use this technique, so I didn't think much of it until the bus took a wide turn and stopped at a plane that was a stone's throw from the terminal door. While I might have appreciated the ride, I could have walked the distance in about thirty seconds. Adding insult to slight injury, we waited on that bus for fifteen minutes, looking at our plane, before they'd let us out to board. The aircraft was a commercial plane, complete with video entertainment, so the trip was pleasant enough. 

On the ground in Kandahar, we were ushered into the airport terminal; a structure of brick arches that looked much older than it probably was. We listened to a scripted welcome/warning lecture from a young Afghan national and then a soldier collected our identification cards. There was no one to meet me so I waiting in the rain for a bus that supposedly came by every once in a while. I struck up a conversation with a contractor working in the terminal and he offered to help. After a few phone calls, my contact was on his way. The two of us had to wait another half hour while one of his colleagues tracked down a vehicle to get us to the billeting office. I was prepared to walk in the rain if need be. Fortunately, he objected to this plan as most of the fort was covered by deep mud after the rain.

I collected my room assignment and we proceeded to the dormitory. I share my room with three other contractors, one of whom was sleeping when I entered to drop off my bags. I was lucky not have gotten a tent as they often house half a dozen or more people.

The only green in this fort is the uniforms worn by the various soldiers. There are a few dust covered trees that look like hairy ferns, but there's not a patch of grass to be seen. There are a few paved roads and sidewalks, but most of the ground consists of mud the texture and color of fine humus, with patches of gravel. When it rains, workers drop pallets in the low areas so we don't have to slog through too much mud. More permanent muddy areas have broken concrete slabs to act as stepping stones. The mud is extremely fine. When it's dry, it raises a very fine dust that hangs in the still air and coats every exposed surface. I fear for my camera gear and my computer.

I've only visited a few areas in the fort so far, but from I've seen, the place is made up of concrete walls with metal buildings interspersed. There are a few brick buildings though. Nearly all the metal buildings incorporate a rather clever design: they are surrounded by tall concrete slabs protecting them from explosives and weapons fire. Metal buildings are as safe as cardboard and a projectile can shred through several of them with ease. The great monoliths of concrete prevent projectiles from penetrating more than one building. They can also be easily rearranged with a crane.

The slabs are perfect canvases for graffiti "taggers," but only stencils appear on the walls. Some of them are quite excellent. I've been keeping my eyes out for a "Kilroy was here" mark, but so far, nothing.

While the concrete slaps afford some protection, there are also concrete bunkers where everyone takes shelter during an attack. I've heard them referred to as Soviet bus shelters. Some have sandbags stacked around them for even more protection. A few folks have taken to decorating their home away from home away from home with paint and crude furnishings.


There are shipping containers everywhere. Some are ready-built for specific needs like refrigerators, toilets, accommodations and electric plants, but most are obviously converted from shells to laundromats, offices, and storage facilities. They are either sitting alone or grouped with a few others or stacked up. There are a few compounds that consist of nothing but a wall of shipping containers. I have no idea what's behind them, but they are the modern equivalent of medieval keeps inside a castle.

The roads are occupied by SUVs, delivery vehicles and buses. There's an odd mix of right-hand and left-hand drive trucks and vans. On more than one occasion, I did a double-take when I saw a vehicle with no driver, only to realize that it was a British or Australian truck piloted by someone in the "passenger" seat. 

There are also great brooding monsters, tactical vehicles, that sit alongside the road like predators digesting a recent meal. Occasionally, a small convoy of these machines roll out on a mission. I was amused to watch one of them wait patiently for traffic to clear the street and pedestrians to move out of the way before it pulled onto the main boulevard. I dare say if it had appeared on any North American road, everyone would pull to the side in awe and fear. Here, it had to wait it's turn, yielding to vehicles that are little more than golf carts. 

I was told to prepare for cold weather, so I brought my cold weather gear. On my third day, the sun came out and I was walking around without hat or jacket it was so pleasant. A few days after that, I walked to the gym with only shorts and t-shirt. Some contractors were dressed in cargo shorts. The nights do get chilly, but so far I've seen scant evidence of frost. I was quite disturbed when I noticed a small swarm of mosquitoes near one of the large puddles. Malaria is a real problem here, but in December? Not good.

There are soldiers from many countries here and I make a game of identifying them based on their camouflage pattern. The US Army makes up easily eighty percent of the uniforms, but there are some marines and navy personnel mixed in. The second largest contingent is the Romanians with their lighter colored uniform and larger patterned camouflage. Their neighbors, the Bulgarians, don't seem to have camouflage but what can only be described as dressy fitness attire. My office has a few Australians so I've learned to recognize those. The Afghans have the sharpest uniforms, looking like WWII airmen in their short wool jackets. The United Arab Emirates soldiers I saw wear digital patterned sand-colored material while the two Singapore soldiers striking green camouflage in a similar digital form. The solitary Portuguese pilot I met wore dressy khakis. The British have a very practical green camouflage. I spotted a New Zealander and a Canadian but didn't have a chance to examine their attire. Contractors, oddly enough, are permitted to wear camouflage uniforms, but must include a "contractor" tag and obey all dress regulations. Like most of the civilian workers, I'm sticking with work clothes. 

My first few days were spent tracking down documents and missing requirements so I spent a lot of time waiting for other people to get back to me. That gave me an opportunity to take different routes when walking around the compound. One time I passed a group of soldiers shoveling a pile of gravel into buckets and wheel barrows. The shovels hitting the gravel made a delightful sound and it reverberated around the concrete walls. Having been sitting at a desk for a few days, I was up for a bit of exercise. I walked backed to the soldiers and asked that they identify the hardest working shoveler. They pointed to one of their fellows and I demanded his shovel. I explained that as an office worker, I seldom had an opportunity to perform honest labor, then I started in on the pile. They were quite amused at this and I insisted that I was serious. I spent almost half an hour, helping to fill half a dozen barrow loads and twice as many buckets. That was enough for me! They had been at work for at least an hour and spent a few more hours labor moving the gravel. I really think that desk jockeys should be required to spend one day of every five doing physical labor.

My dorm is quite near the Romanian compound. It provides me with one of the best landmarks for finding my way home: an Eastern Orthodox chapel. When I first saw it, I thought it might have been left over from the Russian occupation. I later learned it was  prefabricated and put together soon after the war began. Some of the other countries wanted it gone, calling it a target, but the Romanians held to their guns, so to speak.


The fort is really a small town. In addition to office buildings and residences, there are recreation areas, barbershops, two gyms, a few large dinning facilities, and a "downtown" consisting of a ring of shops and restaurants. Yes, there are restaurants, including a Kentucky Fried Chicken and a TGI Fridays. All the restaurants are expensive, but people go there for variety. Inside the ring is a soccer pitch build by the Brits (and used by the Americans for football), a basketball court and a hockey rink (courtesy of the Canadians).

The recreation halls and gyms offer activities for down time. The recreation center is equipped with half a dozen large screen televisions attached to gaming systems. It is a very odd experience to watch four camouflaged soldiers, their rifles and machine guns on the floor beside them, intently playing "Call of Duty." Actual warriors playing soldier on a computer in a combat zone.

Some of the rules and regulations around the base are a bit frustrating. At night, we're required to wear a reflective belt. I don't like that, but I support it a hundred percent as the lighting here is terrible and it's quite easy to get run over. We're supposed to wear protective goggles when outside and most people comply with this (though I've forgotten mine on more than a few occasions) . At night, we're also supposed to have a "battle buddy" when walking around (I call them "pacifist pal" or "shrapnel shield"), but my schedule is totally different from anyone else. Fortunately, they don't enforce this so much (plus I try to walk within spitting distance of anyone going my way to placate the MPs). We're not allowed to wear gym attire in the mess hall. I can see them wanting to keep the place professional, but not being able to eat while wearing sweat pants or shorts is inconvenient. We can't take a bag into the gym or into the mess hall, so we don't even get a chance to change. We must go back to our room. Bags aren't allowed in the recreation center and that means no computer bags. We can't even take our computer in a plastic shopping bag or transparent sack. Everyone has to walk with it under their arms; Great for the mini-tablet crowd, but I'm using a manly 17" computer that's more desktop than laptop.

I missed a USO tour where three athletes and a runner up on American Idol did some sort of meet and greet (where's Kathy Griffin when you need her?). I did manage to catch an Air-Force rock band called "Total Force." I was surprised at how good they were. While most rock bands wear hip clothing, they wore their camouflage fatigues. They would do well in some of the more rowdy American venues; they performed while wearing their sidearms. No one was going to throw a beer bottle at this band!

A few days later another Air-Force group performed. It was a ten-piece pop/rock band accompanied by a score of singers. One of the security soldiers told me that he was impressed with this particular group because not only did they put on a show, but they were responsible for setting up all the lighting and sound equipment and then breaking it down and stowing it afterward. Their show consisted of a medley of rock and pop songs. One or two singers would take the stage backed up by the rest of the musicians and singers. Those doing backup performed a dance routine worthy of any variety show on TV or Vegas. Unfortunately, they were dancing in their fatigues and that really bordered on the absurd  Still, they did a great job, putting 100% into the show. I'm glad they weren't wearing pistols, that would have been too much.

There are lots of soldiers walking around and most of them are armed with a rifle or machine gun and often a pistol as well. Between the domestic and foreign forces, there's quite a variety of weapons. I must admit that it was quite unnerving to have so many guns wandering about. What's even more unnerving are the people holding them. I expect to see some serious, hardened, bad-ass soldier walking around, and there are a few of those. Most of the guys look like regular Joe's with baggy clothing and hair cut too short. For them it's a job and a job that requires they carry around a weapon. It's the women who really throw me off. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for women serving in the military and while I have reservations about them serving in combat (that's a discussion for a different time and place), that's not what bothers me. What throws me is extremely good looking women walking around in camouflage fatigues toting killing machines.

I never look at a guy and think "That dude looks awesome, he should be on the cover of some fitness magazine," but I do look at some of the women and think they should be in Vogue or Glamour (seriously). Anywhere else, I'd be tempted to approach them about doing a photo shoot, but doing so here might get me a ticket home (fraternizing of any sort is frowned upon). So, I'm biased or prejudiced or something, but at least I'm aware of the fact.

One of the shops on the boardwalk sells "tactical gear," military clothing and accessories. I noticed that they have a calendar of hot babes, often wearing a bikini top, brandishing assault rifles and sub-machine-guns. All the models have a generic look that leaves me cold. In one afternoon I could recruit a score of more worthy "models" who are better looking and are actually capable of using their weapons.

The fort is really an airfield, Kandahar Air Field, but it's really a fort with an airfield. Some afternoons we hear, then see, fighter jets doing low-level passes over the airfield (which begs the question of why we need fighters here, but that's another topic). The jets are tremendously loud, but it's nothing compared to some of the large cargo planes taking off. Stuck behind concrete walls, I can never see them, but they make a sound that I'm sure is very similar to being close to a Saturn Five rocket at liftoff. They often take off while I'm asleep.  My dorm is probably about a kilometer from the airport, but sometimes it feels like I'm sleeping in a hangar at the end of the runway. I'm convinced there is some sort of atmospheric conditions or acoustic properties of the base that amplifies the volume.

The previous occupant of my bed tried to make it more comfortable by stacking a second mattress atop the first. The result is very soft, but that's not particularly comfortable. You see, the mattresses here are essentially bags of springs formed into rectangular shapes. A softer mattress affords those springs more opportunity to poke into me. I plan to get rid of the second mattress and obtain some sort of pad as soon as it's feasible. Meanwhile, I'm usually so exhausted by the end of the day that I fall fast asleep by 9:30. It's not like there's much to do here in the evenings, so sleep is welcome!

My roommates are quiet and we all pretty much keep to ourselves. Unfortunately, two of them snore occasionally. One sounds remarkably like an old single stroke fishing trawler ("putt-putt-putt-putt-putt ... putt-putt-putt-putt-putt ..."). The other sounds so much like a coffee peculator that I was convinced he was making coffee on the other side of the dividing closet ("Khhhhh ... khhhhhhh ... khhhhhhh ..."). They have no idea why I call them Tugboat and Captain Coffee.

Ponhpei, Micronesia

I could tell you that Pohnpei is an island a couple thousand kilometers northeast of Papua New Guinea, but that would probably not tell you much. There are thousands of islands in that part of the Pacific, but few have a population large enough to warrant an airport. Pohnpei boasts a population of 34,000 and is the capital of the Federated States of Micronesia.

Although it’s a volcanic island, after a few hours of exploration you’d think it was made primarily of mud; Pohnpei is one of the wettest places on earth. The rich, well-watered soil gives rise to lush vegetation covering the entirety of the land. The place is an emerald expanse of green foliage. The inhabitants must constantly fight back the encroaching jungle plants.

Although the town of Kalonia is large, it lacks a distinct “downtown.” I spent a few hours wandering the streets, looking at shops and trying to find a restaurant open before 5pm. The shops were surprisingly well stocked with goods from the United States, China and Japan. There were no local products of any significance, unfortunately.

The island was discovered in 1595, but no European set foot there until the early 1800’s. The native population discouraged any visitors. Some did eventually manage to settle there and by the late 1800’s, the Spanish held claim to the island. The name of the capital, Kalonia, is derived from the Spanish word for colony. The Germans possessed it for a while then the Japanese took over in 1920. While the previous occupiers built churches and trade missions, the Japanese established a military presence. American forces all but ignored the island during the war, however. Japanese citizens were forced to leave after the war and their works were abandoned.

Despite being surrounded by the Pacific Ocean, Pohnpei does not have any beaches. The hills come down to the water’s edge where mangrove swamps take over. A barrier reef surrounds the island, protecting the coastline and discouraging the early explorers.

With a diameter of about twenty kilometers at its greatest point, it does not take long to drive the road encircling the island. Getting into the hilly interior, though, requires a considerable trek. I contented myself with road travel. I made a few sorties off the main road to find waterfalls, though.

Missionaries were the first to make any real inroads on the island, and their presence is very clear today. Ever few miles, there is a large church. Some are easily a hundred years old while other are large, modern and pristine. Only two radio stations can be picked up on the island (and only on the north side). One plays music while the other is a mix of Radio Australia and American televangelism broadcasts. Sadly, the televangelists get more airtime. 

Some of the touristic sites have signs indicating their presence, but once off the road, you’re on your own. Finding my first waterfall required dealing with a forking road. Thankfully, there were usually a few locals nearby to point the way. The path to the falls was well marked with a sort of monument. No sooner had I left my car when a man approached me and asked if I was going to see the falls. He then asked me to pay the one dollar entrance fee. I upped the ante by asking if he had coconuts for sale. He agreed to three coconuts for a dollar. They would be a welcome drink after my hike to the falls.

The entrance fee was well worth a dollar if only for the well maintained path. The caretakers had planted broad, red leafed tropical plants and flowering Hibiscus on both sides of the narrow trail. It was a pleasant, although wet, walk.

The falls consisted of two cascades. The upper falls poured into a large basin that looked just right for swimming; in fact, there was a ladder leading up from the bowl. One end of the edge of that basin, however, dumped into the next falls, making the edge rather dangerous.  The lower falls were easier to photograph as I was able to get close to the water’s edge. There’s something so alluring, so primeval, about a jungle waterfall.

I drove along the western side of the island, moving slowly over the old pavement, avoiding people walking alongside the road. Much of the road had jungle growth creeping onto the surface, which made for an interesting visual effect. Wherever a few homes clustered close to the road, there was usually a little convenience store, which was little more than a booth with a window from which to pick the items you wanted. They sold only the basics, no sign of touristic crafts or local products.

I spotted the sign for the pepper farm in time to turn off the main road and head down the side road. The intersection had a few homes so I expected a full scale plantation. Eventually, I came to a small sign that said “Pohnpei pepper farm.” I was still in the jungle and the only building was a family dwelling not much more advanced than a shack. The road continued, however, so I kept driving. I came upon a low stone wall, so that was very promising, although the plant life had remained unchanged. The road came to an end at what was obviously a farm. It was a poultry farm, however. There were no signs of any farmers and no signs of anything that looked like a pepper vine. Mind you, I’m not exactly sure what a pepper vine looks like, so I could have been standing in the middle of grand pepper station. With no one around to speak with, I drove back out to the main road.

My next stop was the abandoned city of Nan Madol.

When Europeans found it, some thought lost Greek sailors built the place more than two thousand years ago. Admittedly, the stone structures are impressive, but nothing like anything built in Europe.  Constructed with of alternating layers of prismatic basalt, it looks like something made with old Lincoln Logs.  Archeologists date the structures to the thirteenth century or older. This long-abandoned city consists of a series of small, artificial, stone islands adjacent to the island of Temwan. 

Getting to the location was a bit of an adventure by land. I managed to find one sign leading off the main road, but had to get assistance from locals after that. When I found the final sign leading to the site, an old woman came tottering out of her home looking for a one-dollar entrance fee. It seemed a bit cheap, but I didn’t argue. She instructed me to drive down the road to the site. A few minutes later, I found a sort of parking lot with two other vehicles. The only thing I saw was a large farm house and several people milling about. One of the men approached me.

“Is this Nan Madol?” I asked. He smiled and said it was. “I was expecting something ... older … and made of stone,” I said, gesturing to his house. He laughed and told me I had to take a path on the other side of his house. He then asked me for three dollars. “I already paid the woman up there.” Apparently she was collecting tolls for driving over her land, not for the entrance fee. “So, how do I know there’s not someone down there looking to collect more money from me?” I said, pointing down the path. He shook his head and smiled. I paid the three bucks and began my hike.

I walked only a few paces down the jungle path when I noticed the first wall, overgrown with vegetation. It was high and dry on land, not in the water. Did they build on land, or has the water receded  leaving this bit high and quite dry?


I continued down the path of built-up stone and coral. I knew my three dollars was a good investment as this walkway took some considerable effort to build. In some places, there was water on both sides and small wooden bridges to let the briny water pass through. Despite the afternoon sunshine, it was quite dark in that mangrove swamp. The occasional fish that splashed and darted away as I approached, turned out to be mud skippers. They would climb onto the rocks to sun themselves!

Finally, I broke through the trees and saw some of the Nan Modal structures rising up from the water. The path took me directly to the largest of the walled islands, a sort of temple burial site. I could see a couple of tourists on the island, but I was a stone’s throw distance away on the mainland with no boat apparent. The canal was only waist deep, but I did not trust wading across with my camera gear at risk. I hoped that there was a boat somewhere nearby which I could employ for a tour.

The two tourists came into sight and called out to me to cross over. They had waded across and assured me that it was navigable.  The local woman with them waded across to help me with my camera bag, but I was still apprehensive. I capitulated and, with my bag balance on my shoulder, waded across the warm water to the steps of the islet. It was then that the local woman asked for three dollars as the site entrance fee. “What about the three dollars I paid to the guy back there?” She told me that was just for walking across the land. Sheesh. I gave her three bucks and began my exploration of the ruins.

The island had a large outer wall and smaller inner wall, surrounding what looked like a small tomb (which I later learned was the case). The large wall held a number of openings, which had either collapsed or had been filled in at some point. The central tomb had a very small passage leading to the water, from what I could see. Outside the inner wall, I saw further evidence of this water passage.

Beyond the little island on which I stood, smaller structures rose from the water, now overgrown with vegetation. Some had stone walls; others were just platforms where, I imagine, wooden structures once rested. I could see the surf beyond the boundary walls. I wondered how much effort it took to collect the great stones around me, sail them to this little corner of the island, and construct these great structures with no metal tools. The Polynesians were masters of watercraft and the island provided an abundance of food, but the scale of the project was daunting. 

I knew there was a Japanese battery somewhere near Nan Modal, but I saw no clues indicating where it might be. I stopped some teachers on their way to school and discovered that I was very close. They told me to take a road just a stone-throw away. The road was not very road-like. It was more a cart path leading into a very dark jungle. The ruts were not too bad, though, so I ventured in. I drove carefully for about a kilometer when the road branched. The path leading up the hill was much too overgrown while the path leading down was cluttered with large rocks. I started down but soon abandoned my car to go on foot. Just around the bend, I discovered two homes; a normal island-style house and a more traditional "outdoor house" that was open on one side. I asked the fellow there if the Japanese guns were somewhere nearby. He went to the other side to fetch his brother-in-law, the owner. 


Robert, a police officer on the island, agreed to guide me to the battery. I didn't think a guide was necessary, but I was very, very wrong. We walked back past my car to the road leading up the hill. It was so overgrown that he needed his machete to cut through. When we reached the top, he pointed out the first of four gun emplacements. It was totally hidden by the jungle but the entrance through the overgrown concrete was a visible. 


We toured the other three batteries. I wondered at the effort it took to build the fort and haul those great guns up the hill on an island that was mostly jungle seventy-five years ago. Although it was nothing like Nan Modal, it still took considerable effort. In the end, the guns were never fired. 

Robert pointed out what I thought was a mound. It was a mortared stone cone with steps leading up the side. From the top, I could see the hollow, unfinished interior, but it's purpose escaped me. My guide didn't know either. We took a different jungle path down, Robert whacking the jungle back with every second step. He lead me to an ammo bunker built into the hillside. The walls were a foot thick and it once had heavy steel doors. The interior was small, maybe the size of a small bedroom. It was now the home of a few hundred bats ... who excited flew out as I approached.

We continued back toward his home were we saw a small artillery piece and what could only have once been a shrine. The Japanese had also left him two great cisterns. One had a hole blasted in it's side—apparently the soldiers had converted it into a defensive position—while the other was still being used to store water for Robert's home. 

Not far from the Nan Madol site, I found the gorgeous Kepirohi waterfall. It was a short walk through the jungle and well worth the trip to the other side of the island to see.

The dive master relaxing after the first dive of the day.

One of the biggest attractions of Pohnpei is for the diving. The atoll has many beautiful coral formations and I was fortunate enough to get two days of diving in while I was there. On the first trip, my fellow divers and I drifted through an underwater grand canyon near Ant Island. The tide was flowing so we had only to hover in the water and let it carry us along that great wall of coral. 

We stopped on the island for lunch afterward. We were in the middle of nowhere. There was no sign of civilization from horizon to horizon. I was just starting to appreciate this degree of isolation when another boat came around the island. The beached and a dozen locals decided to picnic right next to us, ha, ha! 

Being on Ant, I had an opportunity to explore a real deserted isle. As I made my way into the interior, I spotted the biggest hermit crab I've ever seen crawling over a fallen branch. His shell was the size of a baseball. I grabbed him to take him back to the beach for a proper photo. While most hermit crabs are somewhat shy, this one wasted no time coming out and letting me know what he thought of my plan, by grabbing my fingers with his pincers. Before he could grab me, I tossed him toward the beach, but he fell short. I spent the next several minutes trying find him in the brush, but he eluded capture a second time. That was one impressive crab!


It's tough to know which is more photogenic, the island ...

... or the surrounding atoll.


Despite its famed diving, Pohnpei does not get many tourists (mostly due to the excessive cost of flights). The hotels are rather worn and the choice of restaurants is limited. One exception is The Village, an eco-hotel built back in the seventies that is still going strong. The rooms are individual huts built along a ridge. The result is that each cabin feels like it's alone in the jungle.


See more photos of Pohnpei here.