Trust? Empathy & Promises Broken...Coca-Cola a Staple Food for the Homeless...

TRUST, TRUST, TRUST…

I’ve been brooding on this word and its grand meaning ever since I set foot in Argentina, perhaps even longer.

According to Wikipedia, Trust is a personal prediction of reliance, in something… The degree to which one person trusts another as a measure of belief in the honesty, benevolence and competence of the other person.

Trust is a moral value most of us consider a virtue. We place our Trust in people and things with the hope our trust will not be betrayed. Each day we prove and test our notions of trustworthiness through our responsibilities and expectations.

So where is this virtuous gibberish leading?

Well… the South American journey is over now; it ended last Saturday with all the grace and meaning of a fixed card game that promised a million dollar pot but turned out to be untrue.

There was a weird, painful stench of dissapointment that followed me around on this journey. A dark and personalized stench that I didn’t recognize in the beginning when I wrote in the Authors Note, “ This trip might be so confusing and unpredictable that even I might not know what is happening. But what the Hell? Life is full of those moments. Right? Right!”

Indeed. In hindsight, it was an ugly thing to write. Now, it is a monument to everything I experienced and encountered over the last few months in this strange world we have built for ourselves in the name of words like “democracy, progress, equality, justice, mercy” and on a personal level “love, truth and trust.”

There were good times on this journey, don’t get me wrong. Many majestic places visited, friendships made, laughs shared and love found and lost in the sunset. But the darker, mostly ignored, side of society got the best of those good feelings…

Take the the homeless Bolivian man I watched hustling in an upscale Mendoza neighbourhood for pesos to feed his wife and three young children, only to be turned down again-and-again by rich folk in shiny $100k cars. And when he finally had enough pesos – saved-up from his nightly routine of reserving parking spots in front of an up-scale restaurant – he took that money and dissapeared into a nearby store coming out a few minutes later with a bottle of Coca-Cola for his family. Yes sir, folks… that was the family dinner for that night.

In retrospect I think that moment was the beginning of the end of my stay in Argentina.

My thoughts brought me back to the word Trust and what this man’s relationship was with that foul word. Who did he have to confide such a word in? The government? The church? The rich folk who sneered at him nighlty? Does he expect them to understand? No. But for his wife and kids it was obvious. He was thier meaning of the word Trust. Trust was his responsibility.

For most people in Argentina, and the world, (myself included) there is a deep and largly unrecognized need to overcome, at all cost, what ever it might be that oppresses us. Fair enough, we all have our own cause and meaning by which we live. But in today’s world it has become ever-more present that in our grapling to reach the so-called summit, we are leaving a path of destruction and broken promises.

On any given morning, in any given city, both the rich and the poor can be sure that by the noon-time the inescapable realities of their calling will have forced them to do something they would rather not have to explain, not even to themselves. The details will vary, but the essential need never changes. “ We don’t have a choice,” I heard both rich and poor say. “Society has made me what I am.”

This is a sad fact of living in any South American or 2nd , 3rd or developing country for any length of time, and some of my readers might agree, that these places have a tendency to twist the idealism and faith of Westeners who have been living far too comfortable lives in their own countries.

The simple,dumb truth is that as a Westener – armed with puritan pragmatism learned in universities and discussed in coffee shops – you realize very qucikly that you are in a country with different traditions and a different outlook on life.

It is an odd feeling being back in Toronto and reading the Star and Globe about World events. The problems, the issues and solutions suddenly become quite clear from the comfort of my home. Ha Ha Ha don’t they?

Looking back on the Homeless Man Hustle for survival in Mendoza, it is easy to see him as a beggar and cockroach of society. I recall how normal it was at the time for passersby and rich folk to sneer at him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a group of rich-folk decided to surround him and step on him like a cockroach as his family watched… I wouldn’t have been surprised at all…

After all, society has made us what we are… Trust in that.

Mucho Gracias to all who read my ramblings and emails of concern over the state of my emotional well-being... Mucho Gracias...


For those of you wondering…I never went against the conventional wisdom that preaches not to give money to beggars. The homeless Bolivian man never asked me for a peso. But I saw myself in this man, his position in society, his desperation, his will, his faith in goodness, his need for compassion, empathy, simply….a Lousy Fucking break… So I offered him and his family a meal at the restaurant he hustled in front of each night. It wasn’t a solution, but for one night in this family’s life they could rest assure their faith in the word Trust.

Watch out! The Shepperd has Something behind his Back... A Profound Question for the 21st Century

Hi Folks... I´m still in Argentina, my name is still Brendan and I´ve been away on a top secret mission, for an organization you all know but I can´t mention here for reasons of national security, but you get my drift, right? Right!

I apologize. And that is why I haven´t been writing much in the last few weeks...

Indeed I would like to write about the majestic treks and local cuisine I´ve experienced over the last few weeks, but I can´t. I´m not that type of travel writer. I learned this and many other things on my recent assignment to the North of Argentina, where I indulged in the local lifestyles of both the haves and have nots.

On this adventure I spoke extensively with policemen and women, misfits, business-men, clergy, farmers, community leaders and the homeless and forgotten, and all told me of their ills and dreams...´

But all shared the same concern about our world. How the world and local situation has has become so nervous and wrong these days that they feel like oppressed sheep who belong to a Shepperd who can no longer be trusted as he is holding a sharp, shiny knife behind his back that he tells you is for the wolves, but everyone trembles as the shadow of that long sharp knife casts its doubt and fear across the land...

Trouble can come at you from any direction these days, like being chased by a group of armed men shouting in a strange language, knowing they want to kill you, but not knowing why-- or being run over by a car, left for dead, when you are already broke and homeless...But that´s for another time and another story and it doesn´t really fit here.

Yes sir, this is what living in the 21st century is all about for billions...Not knowing why. It´s no different from living, in say, America or Iraq for that matter. Things are not that different from town-to-town in today´s world. The Shepperd is taking well care of his flock, or so he says...

We have all been here before, some born into it, some at the controls ... We all know the rules of the game. It´s fleece or be fleeced! Which reminds me. It would not be fair at this point to continue this thorny rambling without confessing that I also have been effected by the world situation.

My laptop crashed last week and I was told it would cost over $1000 Big Ones to recover my information. See what I mean folks, about this World Situation gone all awry. I´am being fleeced by Greedy Computer Geeks who role in Benzes and discuss the latest processor chip over Monday morning´s coffee break. Those Bastards! Life is Cruel.

Right, and so much for that, eh... I should lighten up with the preaching. After all I am talking to friends here.

But this is nothing, compared to the Monster like things that played out in front of me, and at times with me, this week. That is elementary Mr. B...My computer problems may dominate my mind, but nobody south of the Rio Grande seems to care. The contrast is like day and night. Right. And so much for that psychodrama gibberish, eh?

Let´s get back to the real reason I rant and rave here...

¨Why cant I travel like the rest of these tourist zombies and just forget about how cruel the world is?¨

I can´t. The forces that are inside me won´t let me turn-away from the world around me. I´m the sensitive type, a romantic by nature and I´ve got a highly addictive personality to go with that. Things are never dull for me. And these days the world isn´t looking so pretty, even for a rich Gringo like myself...

Ah, but we are running out of time here before my bus leaves for the south, folks. I must get to Bahia Blanca and spend some time with a fiery Argentinean woman. It is guaranteed to be a volatile visit, for sure... Ha ha. That´s it for now. Mucho Gracias and remember to watch your back because the Shepperd is always watching his flock.

It's the End of the World & that's When it Mattered Most...

“The dogs on Main Street howl cause they understand that I could take one moment into my hands…“
-B. Springsteen


So it’s another week come-and-gone and we’ve all found ourselves a bit farther into the journey… Some of us may have drifted a bit too far from the shore this week; perhaps into darkness, on a wave too big to handle like the long-arm-of-the-law or possibly in a secret thought. Maybe on one of those long 9-5 days, where your mind slips in-and-out of a dream as you stare at the computer screen dreaming yourself in some foreign land, speaking a different language, living a life you saw in some Saturday afternoon movie, smuggling contraband over a border in the dead of night. Who knows? But pretty soon someone or something is going to take charge of those thoughts. Right? Enchallah.

Ahh…But never mind those things... Some of us have been busy risking it all this week, spending the weekly pay-packet on that dirty, yet beautiful, whore who shares the same unmade bed as Desire and Lust – Experience.

Thank you to all those who’ve followed all my gibberish or just hit the link and closed the page…Bueno!

Yours truly spent the last part of this week at the “End of the World”, Fin de la Mundo”, in Ushuaia, Argentina, where outdoor enthusiasts pay big-bucks to try and find the best in themselves in waist-deep freshwater streams, but end up catching only lousy 10-ounce trout which they tell the folks back home was three-heavyweight-fighting pounds of endurance. Yes Sir that's what Life must be about...

Fittingly, I never considered myself an outdoor-enthusiast who put his faith in an ability to harness nature with $500 fishing gear or the latest North-Face jacket. Those are powers well beyond my comprehension, decisions I leave for rank-and-file marketing executives who sit in fancy offices, on some high-floor of some big-city tower, with a majestic view of the World and all its answers... It’s not my view folks, not my world…

Yes Sir I'm full of rash commentary this week...

Behind all that expensive camouflage, Mother Nature is a fine upstanding lady, believe me folks. I’ve been in her arms many a time. The warmth of her kind is rare and always picturesque. She taught me most of what I know about life, form and the moment of living in the meantime.

So to get to the point… I climbed another mountain today, literally. But not to the top, just three-quarters of the way. My shortcoming was a small Glacier known as “Martial”, that reminded me once again that running shoes on icy mountains are like Whiskey and Apple Pie after Sunday night’s dinner. They don’t make for a happy Monday morning. Do they?

But it’s easy to get carried away when you’re licking a sweet, sticky stick of honey dew… Isn’t it? You know what I’m talkin’ about. But the creature that I am knows where I stand. In one hand holds a hammer, in the other a torch. With one I’ve built with the other… Well you get the point as we’ve all been there…

What I learned today… Sometimes I find reasons other times I fall short. It’s like Venus waking up and finding that the Sun is gone, like winter not having a reason to end, like me knowing all the answers…

And that’s what I learned today.

I’m still learning…

BTD

Living in a Time of Love and Death and The Empty Shelve Crisis in Argentina… Justice is still a Word you Read on a Piece of Paper.

Since last week many things have happened in the world, my own included. Many strange, fate driven things like night and day, birth and death, and love and hate; the kind of things you know are bound to happen when you are stuck in fifth gear with nowhere to go but straight ahead. I have known this feeling my whole life. At times it’s a burden as I know bad things are to come. But I’m too much of an addictive personality to make that right turn and shy away into the sunset.

Not this week…

On Monday of this week, I was emotionally struck by the hundreds-of-thousands of Argentineans who took to the street to reflect for the 30,000 loved ones and friends who disappeared or where killed under the Gestapo like military junta that came to power for seven years from 1976-1983.

Coinciding with Argentina’s National Day of Remembrance is a nationwide strike entering its fourth week. Striking farmers have strategically blocked all major routes paralyzing the country’s transportation network, leaving supermarket shelves empty.

Meanwhile the nation is a bit worried at how the newly elected president is handling her first major issue. The local Wall Mart in Bahia Blanca, for instance, has empty shelves and no one, not even President Cristina Kirchner, knows when normality will return to the grocery aisles of the nation.

Things aren’t dull here. I can guarantee that. Argentina is a wonderful place to be if you’re taking a whirlwind two-week tourist excursion. But I won’t kid you… This country is deeply divided. Politics is a favourite pastime of Argentineans, history justifies this.

And judging by today’s sentiment, Argentineans are fed-up; with the state of their economy, the growing divide between the rich and poor and the long-line of president elects who make promise-after-promise but never deliver.

This attitude doesn’t go unnoticed. I’ve been told by almost everyone I’ve met that this is how life has always been in Argentina. Ever since the Spanish first settled this country, passion runs dark red in the blood of Argentineans. To understand this all you have to do is turn on the T.V. and watch the reaction of football fans or the audience at a presidential speech. Politics in South America is a true blood sport, one that makes its North American cousins look weak and timid by comparison.

To the outside world Argentina may appear as a stable cool nation held together by world-class football talent and the best beef in the world. But inside, it is boiling and the temperature is rising with each passing day. The economy is still recovering from a 2001 collapse that saw the bottom completely fall out. Inflation is rampant; foreign debt as well as unemployment continues to grow at an unstable pace and the government is in panic mode with heavy-handed tax reforms and sale of state owned assets.

So it’s no wonder that politics is just as hot a topic in this country as its militaries history of human rights; which brings me back to my original reason for writing this week’s blog…

Argentina is currently on its fifth Republic. In layman terms… it’s had a long brutish history of going back-and-forth between military coups and civilian rule.

As much as politics gets my blood pressure up, Human Rights is where my heart resides…and it’s been beating there for a long time, even when I forgot about it…

So buckle up because this is not going to be pleasant…

Imagine walking home from work one day, its late evening, and the sun has just set. You’re walking-up a quiet, familiar street you’ve taken a thousand times before. But this time you feel someone is following you, two men and their pace is increasing. You speed up. Your thoughts start to roam; fear grips you. Your heart starts to beat frantically. You notice a car, a Ford Falcon pulling up slowly behind you, to your left. You decide to run but within a few meters, they catch you. You’re held tightly arm-in-arm, blind-folded, thrown into the car and brought to a secret place for questioning. You endure hours if not days of torture. You’ve lost count of the blows to your face, of pain, of time… You fear for your family, your friends, and your neighbours, anyone who knows you. You know they will go after them next. You realize it’s only a matter of time now. It’s time to go… They blind-fold you again; you have no idea where you are going until you feel the wheels leave the ground. Twenty-minutes later a voice screams “Stand up!” You’re legs are paralyzed by fear. They drag you for what seems a mile. All of a sudden it’s windy; the blindfold is taken off. You look down at the Atlantic Ocean… 10,000 feet below.

Welcome to one of the cruel realities of Operation Condor…

“In 1975 the leaders of the military intelligence services of Argentina, Bolivia, Chile, Paraguay, and Uruguay met, with Manuel Contreras, chief of DINA (the Chilean secret police), in Santiago de Chile, officially creating the Plan Condor.” From that point onwards the horn of South America would endure a brutality known only by its native population during Spanish colonization some 500 years ago. In approximate total; 50,000 murdered, 30,000 "desaparecidos" and 400,000 persons were incarcerated and tortured from 1976-1983.

The aim of Operation Condor was to deter a growing left-wing influence and its ideas before South America fell into the hands of Marxist Communists. After all this was the height of the Cold-War and with U.S. approval, provisions of organizational intelligence, financial and technological assistance, Operation Condor took flight and cast its shadow on world history.

My dear friend Margarita Fioriti, whose parents were political activists during the 1970s, knows all too well the brutality of the Operation Condor.

“I was barely a year old when my mother, Maria Elena Peter, and father, Armando Fioriti were abducted,” says Margarita.

The scars of this terrible moment in Argentinean history are still present and reside deep in the memory of the nation. I’ve lost a few nights’ sleep over the stories I’ve heard and while many people openly speak about what is called “Los Desaparecidos” which translates as “The Disappeared “, there still remain those who, out of fear, retribution, or loss of faith in the justice system, remain silent.

“Justice in Argentina is a very long and winding road with no end in sight.” Margarita says to me as we head home from the local museum of The Disappeared in Bahia Blanca.

Margarita’s story is as much a story about the present as it is the past. It’s only in the last few years that she has learned new information about the courage and resilience of her parents. In particular her mother, one of the leaders of ERP -22 De Agosto (Ejercito Revolucionario del Pueblo) a political group made-up of intellectuals who conducted clandestine espionage operations against the military junta.

Her father, who at one point in his early years entered the seminary, was also a low-ranking member of ERP-22 De Agosto. But unlike his oppressors, he was a kind man who made wood toys for children.

“My story and my parents is a warning against indifference and inaction in the world,” says Margarita. “I want the world and Argentineans to never forget what happened and for those responsible to be brought to justice.”

It’s been a difficult and emotional week for Margarita. She spent March 24 in the small, quiet town of San Martin in La Pampa Province, where her mother grew-up. The governor of the province and the town’s mayor dedicated a park in honour of her mother, Maria Elena Peter.

Margarita is by no means naïve. She knows March 24 is nothing more than PR face-value for the present government. Like the rest of the victims, she knows that she may never find out what really happened to her parents but that isn’t stopping her from telling her story.

Currently she is working on “El Nombre de las Flores”, a film about a young girl who’s retracing her parent’s life in order to find herself. She says she isn’t interested in how the life of her parent’s ended. She has read countless reports about all the sick and menacing ways the junta snuffed out its enemies. Her pursuit is justice.

Today she is more concerned with educating a new generation of Argentinean youth, who seem to have no real concept about what happened.

I’m not a psychologist but anyone who spends five-minutes with Margarita gets the sense that whatever she is doing is right; that sooner or later she and her fellow Argentineans seeking justice will prevail over the forces of old and evil. The momentum of goodness and truth is on their side.

Final thought... Still I’m haunted by the stories I’ve heard, in particular her father. Who would kill a man that makes toys for children?

-- April 1, 2008

Watch out for Hippies... The World hasn't missed a Beat and Ham Sandwiches in the Woods are good for You...

Since last week’s blog, I’ve been traversing the diverse wilderness of Patagonia, discovering new experiences, thoughts and pondering a feeling about nature and our place in it. Ah but never mind that shite right? For a minute there I was starting to sound like some strung-out new-age-hippy discussing the virtues of nature. But I can’t pretend. I really did believe that this time the world would be a better place upon my return.

This week some big events happened in the world. Russia wants to do more business in Iraq, food prices are soaring worldwide, Bhutan brought down the curtain on a century of absolute monarchy and China finally let the war drums roll on Tibet… Yes sir the world and the statutory business of progression sure didn’t miss a step this week. Did it?


“Won’t someone save the world?”
--Ed Vedder.

I want to take this sentence, and the next, to thank the media for never letting me down, even when I try to escape from all of its senseless confessions and truths about the world. Thank you for reminding me that Vampires still exist casting their shadows on the truth for nothing less than a fistful of $100 bills. Mucho Gracias…

Well… so much for righteousness and big thoughts. By the time I left for Banos de Queni, a small and pristine lake nestled along the Argentine and Chilean border in Lanin National Park, the radio reports –according to the Wall Street Journal – said the Chinese were deploying armed forces to try to stop the biggest protests in almost 20 years spreading beyond the Himalayan region.

I sat staring out the window wondering if the radios of the other cars crackled with this news. Probably not. After all Tibet is worlds away when you are driving 140 km, risking life and limb, to get the best camp site by the lake before the rest of the holiday weekenders arrive. Yes the Long weekend Muskoka frame of mind also exists in Argentina…

Back to business… The mercury has been rising for decades and it was only a matter of time before the Chinese government decided to cure what it regards as a disease impeding on China’s natural right to occupy Tibet. I have a great fondness for Tibet, its spiritual leader his Holiness the Dalai Lama and deep appreciation for its culture and tradition.

The Chinese government says the Dalai Lama is to blame for all this unrest and violence. The exiled Tibetan spiritual leader is attempting to take this summer’s Olympic Games hostage and force China to make concessions on Tibetan independence.

Perhaps China is right about the Dalai Lama’s strategy. Maybe the Dalai Lama is dabbling in some cheap thrills, but I doubt it. Anyone can see through all this PR gibberish spewed out by the Chinese government.

And how is the International Olympic Committee handling this horrible situation it got itself into?

Well… IOC president Jacques Rogge said he is engaged in "silent diplomacy" with China on Tibet and other human rights issues in advance of the Beijing Olympics. Rogge also reiterated his –long-standing position— that the IOC is not a political organization and cannot interfere in the internal affairs of China. But he stressed that he is involved in private dialogue with Chinese leaders and insisted the human rights situation has improved since Beijing got the games seven years ago.

What the hell is Rogge thinking, or is he thinking? The Olympic Games in China are and always have been a political event followed by a sporting event. These games are going to be fun; and whoever is the PR agency-of-Record for the 2008 Olympics, take heed. All the positive publicity in the world cannot erase China’s human rights record. Just ask George Bush about his holiday camp in Cuba.

Speaking about camping, all is not lost. I did have a wonderful experience at Lago Queni. I have lived through 35 summer camping seasons, a few wars and natural disasters but I’ll be dipped in shit if this wasn’t one of the sweetest moments I’ve spent in Argentina or camping for that matter.

I was minding my own business, eating a ham sandwich, when she came along meowing, hungry and overly friendly. After all I was holding a ham sandwich and in this neck of the woods that’s a royal flush Buster! But more than just sharing my only food for the day with this beautiful being, I realized my place in nature and what truly moves me.

If only the leaders of our world could break- bread with each other and realize it’s not about prices or commoditizing and owning everything. It’s about sharing, making that connection with a being and playing the game fair enough so when it’s all said and done we were good to each other.

Sorry I lied. Those hippies got to me…

Thanks to the Associated Press and Bloomberg news for the footnotes on this week’s events and for Queni for reassuring me that outside of wars, the media and ham sandwiches in the woods there is goodness… You were good for me.

Upwardly Mobile in NY and Blissfully Unaware in Bahia Blanca...

I can see Tonta, my newest friend, on the other side of the glass wall -that holds the hand written poem from Giaconda Belli's "Los Portadores de Suenos" - separating me from another Argentinian night and the possible promise it holds. I've been fascinated by her all day. She’s beautiful in her own way. She's her own person, intelligent and care-free in that Betty Davis way, living by her own set-of-rules in a world that is nothing short of Cruel.

Strategically, she eyes her food, making sure the next bite is perfect for chewing. Piece by piece she pulls her food from the pile, finding one she can carefully fill-up on without swallowing too many of the ants crawling over tonight's dinner. In anything short of riot conditions this situation would be an Avant Garde walk in the apple orchard.... A scene made for a World Vision infomercial...

Ah--but this is real-life we are talking about here Buster! Look around you. Things aren’t what they used to be for millions tonight, especially for disgraced New York Governor Elliot Spitzer. Yes sir, it's time for the once sanctimonious crusader of Wall St. to face the same firing squad that he once sent many a mover and shaker who didn't play the game by the rules. In the political spectrum March is always a good time to say you're leaving town. I would feel very nervous right now if I was in Spitzers inner circle.

Muhammad Ali once said that "There are no jokes. The truth is the funniest joke of all."

Where the fuck did Spitzer think he was, in some back-woods political scene? Not only that, he was brazenly spending thousands of dollars on a call-girls in some fancy Washington hotel on the night before Valentine’s Day.

Among the possible charges that the former Sheriff of Wall St faces: soliciting and paying for sex; violating the Mann Act, the 1910 federal law that makes it a crime to take someone across state lines for immoral purposes; and illegally arranging cash transactions to conceal their purpose.

Perhaps Spitzer got bored of the clean-cut lifestyle and decided to drift over the edge for some cheap thrills...

When I first read the headlines, my own reaction was bafflement and hysterical laughter. The more I brooded on it, the more I reaffirmed my belief that his fate was sealed a long time ago when he romantically thought he could clean up Wall St., make a name for himself among the big boys and get away without retribution. The media, at the time, were whores to Spitzer's circus of persecution. Today the table has turned. Spitzer is no longer the Ringmaster and the media will make him March’s whipping boy. And why not?

Politics is the only true blood sport in the world and when that time arrives for you to decide that you're big enough to eat whatever you like and from whomever’s dinner plate... Well, let's face it. That is when the joke is over Buster because the cook will poison your dinner.

It was not the vice but the binge that dealt the death blow. After all Spitzer had his own nonsensical set-of-rules for living and another set for the rest of us. So really it’s just a matter of good old fashioned Karma, which makes this whole event kind of special, like stumbling onto the heart of a Saturday night when you don't remember what day it is.

The inevitability of these real-life nightmares happening to the rich and powerful is what makes them so reassuring to the rest of us, including Tonta. Life will go on for us, for good or ill. But some things are forever right? In time Spitzer will fade into obscurity and his legacy will go down as another righteous man corrupted by his own moral undoing. Perhaps if Spitzer read Giaconda Belli, he might have known what the rest of us have always known... What separates them and us?

It's not just Spitzer that got exposed this week, but once again the whole rotten corrupt and fraudulent political scene. The ugly truth is that this same nightmarish mess could happen anywhere in the world, and the result would be the same.

So to get to the heart of the matter concerning tonight’s blog…Tonta and Spitzer have much in common. Both are care-free, independent, highly intelligent, strategic and living by their own set-of-rules. And last but not least, if you gave them both a bone, they'd be your best friends forever... But only one you could really trust to call your friend… If we all took the time to open our minds we could learn from man’s best friend. Perhaps that’s what Spitzer needed…

Author's Note

Dawn is coming up in Toronto now: 5:30 A.M. I can hear the rumble of the early morning traffic outside my window and the chirps of a hundred starlings waiting for their morning feed. The big-city engine is starting to rev and any minute now the masses will be in teeth-grinding frenzy as everyone and everything is getting ready for the race to begin...

In any given city, on any given day, you can find hundreds-of-thousands of people scurrying here and there, desperate to get ahead, to make it on time, to meet whatever deadline that hangs over their head. Perhaps there is a comfortable kind of consistency, some sort of solace, found in the daily Rat Race. Any $200-an-hour psychiatrist could probably explain this to me, in eight or nine sessions, but I don't have time for that.

I have spent enough time in the Rat Race to know that most nine-to-fivers lead pretty dull lives. They are bored with their daily routines: wake, shit, eat, work, sleep and fuck every now and then. It's no wonder some of them drift over the edge into cheap thrills once in awhile: Vegas, cards, hookers, drugs and of course adventure travel. There has to be a powerful adrenalin rush in breaking the dull existence these zombies call living.

Why not? Anything that gets the heart pumping like a locomotive is good for the reflexes and keeps the cholesterol down... but too many adrenalin rushes are addictive and it's only a matter of time before the zombie starts raving and babbling in a blog about things that only a person who has been there can possibly understand.

Some of the gibberish in this blog will not make sense to anybody except the people who have been over that proverbial edge. Living by your own set-of-rules has its own language, which is often so complex that it borders on a secret code. The trick is learning how to translate - to make sense so the readers will stay in tune.

The point I meant to make here - before we wandered off on a tangent about zombies and adrenalin- is that everything in this blog will be written about my travels and experiences in South America. A trip that might be so confusing and unpredictable that even I might not know what is happening. But what the Hell? Life is full of those moments. Right? Right!