Big Dogs

back trying to do the real website thing now. 

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The Hand of Macaque

This is some art I did this morning.  It is on sale for $100 USD.  Free shipping anywhere in the US and Canada.  No prints, only the original.  One of a kind.  Limited edition.  There is one of these that exists in the entire world, and there will never be another one (so, like $100USD is kind of a bargain).

The Hand of Macaque, by Mark Wetzler:



Click for larger image.  Also: picture taken before signed.  Actual copy includes signature.

Back Hjome

It has recently come to my attention that I have a lot of grey hair.  And by recently I mean “two minutes ago”, when I checked in the mirror, and realized that my once boyish lion mane has become a salt and pepper Steve Jobs disaster.  Is it the stress?  Probably not.  I’ve worked about four total hours in my life.  Is it the old age?  I mean, I’m only thirty.  Is it something with my diet?  I did eat about 1.5 lbs of gummy bears the other day, and though I felt terrible and vowed to never eat them again I’m thinking about grabbing a handful right now.  Who knows why I already have grey hair.  Maybe it’s genetics.  But like, who gives a shit, right? 

It’s wonderful being back in Seattle.  Seattle air has a distinctive smell: pine trees, saltwater and prosperity. There really is nothing better than summer in Seattle.  A close second might be spring in Seattle, followed by a close third, which would be fall.  There is no better place in the world to be.  Mountains abound!  Lakes around every corner!  An ocean!  Wildlife!  Smoked salmon!  Tech companies!  It would seem that the economy in Seattle is doing just fine.  Everyone and their sister is getting a job at Amazon, which is great for the city except for the little guy like me who can no longer afford to live in the trendy neighborhood because he’s barely making more than a Bangladeshy soccer ball sewer. 

It’s sunny outside, which is somewhat rare for seattle in spring.  On Thursday it’s supposed to be 80 + degrees.  People are going to freak out.  Old people are going to have heat strokes.  I guarantee there will be at least four girls at Madison Park wearing bikinis and at least 600 guys right next to said girls, showing off their tattoos and drinking Rainier brand beer.  I’ve always struggled a little bit with being home, because it seems like everyone is so cool.  I can’t get caught up in the cool race, because I will invariably lose.  I was winning back when 21 years old and skateboarding around the U-District, smoking cigarettes on the roof and going to parties.  That was when I was actually doing OK in the cool race, and I didn’t really care.  But now to care would just be pathetic.  I’m too old.  So I need to watch myself.  Sure having the latest iPhone is kind of cool, but it doesn’t make you cool.  Smoking cigarettes makes you cool.

I might move in with my sister.  Ballard.  Ballard is approximately 15 minutes driving from downtown and approximately 3 hours driving from Capitol Hill.  Unless you take the Burk Gilman, in which case it’s a 5 hour cycle.  But it’s good exercise.  The reason I don’t like Ballard is because the people who ride the busses to and from Ballard are the sketchiest people on earth.  94% of them are their way to donate plasma or go to a used needle depository.  The other 6% are 33 year old female professionals who are doing well and more or less have their shit together but for whatever reason are still riding the bus.  Maybe their cars are in the shop.  Maybe they’re totally green and realize that riding the bus is better for the environment than driving alone in their cars. 

What’s my plan for the summer?  Go to barbecues.  Go swimming.  Go surfing.  Go on camping trips.  Aka surf camp trips.  Go to Canada.  Go hiking in the Olympics.  And also work my ass off.  I owe my parents.  Not a ton of money, but kind of a ton.  Like, I need to start working right now.  Like in the next fifteen minutes.  Like, one of the 4 readers of this blog needs to donate somewhere between three to five-thousand dollars. 

But for the first time in a long time I don’t really feel like traveling.  When I was flying into Seattle it felt almost foreign.  I was gone almost 8 months.  The only thing that didn’t really feel foreign was being away from home.  Things that felt normal were meeting people in hostels and not knowing where I was going to sleep.  So Seattle was a welcome change.  There’s nothing like being away from home to make you appreciate home. 

And on that note, I will go out and appreciate Beautiful Bainbridge Island, where I am currently typing these very words.  I’ll get some vitamin D.  And maybe I’ll figure out this damn ear infection.

--Wetzler

Wetzler Guides: Top 5 Underrated Destinations in Washington State

5) Bremerton

The only city on the Western Seaboard to have both a naval shipyard, an ice hockey rink, and 16 Applebees restaurants, all within the city limits.  Stroll the leafy campus of Olympic Community College, home to such alum as Don McKeever, former Nobel Laureate and lead salesman at a Verizon booth in the Silverdale Mall.  Take a day trip to Gorst, where one has myriad car dealerships within arm's reach and can also spend a low-key afternoon at Toys Topless, where dreams go to die and men go to (sort of) cheat on their wives.

To get there: Accidentally get on the wrong ferry in Seattle.  Commence screaming.

4) Aberdeen

If you want to wear two-inch thick flannel shirts, slip into rote alcoholism and eventually lose your arm in a logging accident, you will not be ostracized in Aberdeen.  You will be the majority.  The town's slogan is "Come as you are", which means "come a decent person, live for 15 years and leave, like, really bummed".   Take a day-trip to nearby Hoquiam, where the most common thing State Patrol Officers hear while helping hapless tourists is, "Wait, where am I?  Seriously? Fuck."

3) Yakima

If majestic, rolling plains and drug violence are your thing, then pop over the Cascades for your own little slice of Central Washington paradise. In Yakima you can enjoy the pleasure of watching a thunderstorm drift in over the nearby Ahtanum Ridge and then seeing a young Hispanic man shot dead over a heroine deal gone awry - all in the very same night.  The town's nickname is "The Palm Springs of Washington", but everyone knows "Palm Springs" is just a fancy way of saying "Chula Vista".

2) Omak

Omak, in Washington's forgotten Okanagan Valley, boasts a skatepark built by prison convicts and a central business district whose stores sell live chicks.  Close to rural BC but far away from everything else, the countryside around Omak provides ample opportunity to hunt elk, camp, or get mauled by a medium-sized black bear.

To get there: Drive due northeast from Seattle until the people you meet stop having titles like "Todd, front-end software designer from Redmond" and start having titles like "Jon Dawson (but people just call me "Cutter"), front-end combine mechanic from Tonasket".

1) SeaTac

Q: What do you get when you combine Washington State's two most important metropolitan areas, an international airport, and 7,000 fast food drive-thrus?

A: SeaTac!

No, ladies and gentleman, it's not a typo: the "t" actually is capitalized in Washington's most underrated town. Most people just buzz through this "quaint" little suburb on their way to the airport or on their way to the Southcenter Cheesecake Factory to bury their faces in 54oz. of ribeye steak served to them by an overly cheery/hurts-himself-at-night-for-fun waiter named Clint, but if you stop to linger a bit in this town you'll see it's not just miles and miles of park-n-fly car lots and blatant prostitution, but rather an up-and-coming urban area with big-city aspirations and ties to international commerce.  Ask any realtor and she'll tell you "Location, location, location", and SeaTac definitely has its neighbors beat in this department.  Burien?  Garbage.  But SeaTac? That's like the creme brulee of garbage.  And the added bonus?  Anytime you get sick of witnessing stabbings as you sip your coffee/puddle water at the Denny's on International Boulevard, direct flights to Reykjavik are just a hop, skip and a jump away.

So there you have it, folks.  Leave your Lonely Planets at home, grab your car keys and hit the road.  With Wetzler Guides' Top 5 Underrated Destinations in Washington State you're guaranteed to have a good time.  Pick one at random and visit it on your day off, or do a tour-de-force journey to all five and get to know the "real" Washington.    Just remember: when you fall in love with Omak or SeaTac or Aberdeen and 30 years down the road find yourself living there and commenting to your wife, "Damn, Helen, I'm sure glad we took that trip", you heard it here first.

--Wetzler

Two Days in the Life

Here's what I'm going to do today: 1) go swimming in the ocean (aka right now). 2) make delicious breakfast burritos. 3) lounge by the disgusting pool. 4) get an early bus into nosara. 5) internet like a madman in search of jobs in Seattle. 6) get on flight (!) to San Jose. 7) walk into Alajuela for dinner/ to kill many hours. 8) lie on floor/benches in Juan santamaria airport, growling at passersby and periodically checking to see if I still have my passport.
End day one.
Day two: fly to Seattle. Have 9 (nine) hour layover in Denver. Get confused, accidentally land a job at the Denver International Airport Cinnabon, quickly get promoted after devising algorithm that calculates the prefect amount of frosting for cinnamon roll. Shy away from success, accolades, limelight, marry a girl named Jane, move to eastern Colorado, work on a ranch. Learn to break young stallions through a combination of rational dialogue and R Kelly music played at low to moderate volume. Get killed by a tornado.
End of life. Cheers!
-Wetzler

Caption this photo: Win 1000! *

My best effort: My new sandals: Perfect for poolside loungin' and cattle wranglin'

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*All amounts listed in Costa Ricancolones

Embarrassing

Ten minutes of writing. Lying here in bed. There's a guy from new Zealand standing next to me. When he first saw me he asked if I was a local. I said "no, I'm an orangutan. " Our conversation was short lived. I didn't really want to talk to him. And after talking to Hannah I didn't want to talk to her, either. She seemed vapid. I don't really know what that word means, but I'm pretty sure it's right. The only thing I want to go do right now is buy ice cream and candy and other goodies and go into massive credit card debt. I want people to talk about me, even if it's poorly. "did you hear about mark? He bought a car and 16,000 ice cream sandwiches and moved to Mexico. I don't think he's coming back". Sometimes I think bad decisions would be much better than not making any decisions at all. It's good to screw up. It's human. And everyone does it. And I suspect the most successful people screw up the most. But does that mean you should go blow all your money right now and burn bridges with your friends and then go jump in front of a car? Probably, actually. At least then you'd learn some things. Like hip replacement surgery. At least then your existence wouldn't be boring. I say it's better to go down in flames than to barely have the pilot light on your whole life. We are all capable of such greatness. Of such diverse forms of greatness. There is no reason to be vapid. Burn brightly! Burn brightly until you go out. Turn the knob on full blast and make sure the gas is on high.

Except I Know It's Actually "Hannah"

Because I heard her tell that to another German guy. And I know I probably sound like an eavesdropping creep, but the thing is, well, I'm kind of an eavesdropping creep. And then she stated taking to this one dude who was obviously interested in her. I say "obviously" because he offered to buy her a beer despite the fact that it was 10am. And I say "asshole" because he had an eyebrow piecing. Which last time I checked you're not allowed to have unless you're a 13 year old girl named Chloe who hates her parents. But he has one. Maybe he's a cool guy. Maybe I shouldn't judge. Though when I came in from surfing yesterday he asked how it was and I said terrible and he said yeah, probably better to go out around four or five. Really? Gee, thanks for the advice. I was under the erroneous impression that the sea was calmest in the middle of the day, when it looks like zeus has gathered the winds and waters just offshore to use as his own, personal swirling blender of awfulness. But I'll check later around sunset. Thanks for the advice. The cicadas are going crazy here. It must be some kind of once every 17 years bloom. I saw a guy last night picking then up off the ground and putting then into the pocket of his cargoshorts. I have idea why. Ostensibly to fry them. They are disgusting creatures and they are loud. Anyway. Time to go to the beach. And not lurk on Hannah. Aka she just walked by.

Her Name Is Probably Hilda

It has become glaringly apparent that kaya sol, the place where I'm staying in Costa Rica, is not the same without friends. I'm bored out out of my mind. I basically alternate between surfing, making trips to the mini market to buy things I patently don't need, and starting lasciviously at the gift-from-god German girl that just checked in. We had one brief encounter in the water. She took off on a left and I was sort of in the way and when she paddled back out I apologized. I'd say we're just about to date. Things are still the same with Rick. His side of the room still smells like a dumpster and he still spends the majority of his waking hours in bed with his laptop on his lap. But at least he doesn't snore. I will probably spend the rest of the day reading a semi crappy book by Dennis Leary, checking to see if the wind has died down, and trying to engineer scenarios that end with me in a mid to long-term relationship with said German goddess, living in a town in Bavaria, dining delicious cold foamy brews, threshing wheat, and populating the countryside with our countless progeny. The only thing I'm not over the moon about her is that she kind of sounds like a boy when she talks. But hey, I'm sure it's something I could deal with. Nobody's perfect. Except joss.

My New Friend Rick

Hello all!  I come to you from sunny Guanacaste, "Costa Rica", where it is currently sweltering hot and I am sitting in a an internet cafe that is not much cooler.  It's wonderful to be back at Kaya Sol, but a little weird to be there alone.  I'm used to getting out of the water after an evening surf and finding friends to eat dinner with, drink beers, and generally have a merry time.  But here my only motivation is to surf.  Surf and eat healthy.  This morning I made my signature meal: rice, garlic, onion, and egg.  Beautifully nutritious and low-cost.  And I'm even getting decent at cooking rice.

The worst thing about the current Kaya Sol hostel situation is a guy named Rick.  Actually his name is Chris, but in my mind his name is Rick and I swear he introduced his name as Rick when I met him last night for the first time (thyme).  Last night I was sitting in bed trying to fall asleep as Rick sat in the next bad with his laptop perched on his disgusting belly, looking at "alternative nightlife" option for God knows where, and every 5 minutes or so letting out a loud, obnoxious fart.  He didn't say anything after his farts, and I was too timid to say something.  What would I say?  "Rick, you are disgusting.  That was absolutely awful".  And of course he knows he's doing it.  But old people don't really care about farting in front of other people.  They're "comfortable with themselves".

So anyway it's hot as balls here and the waves are good. There's a considerably less amount of people here than in December, and thank God for that.  The water is clear and today it was blowing offshore, though by about 930am it was howling offshore and the only guys really getting into waves were longboarders.  Like Rick.  Rick's board must be 14 feet long.  He has a go pro.  He sits WAY out on the outside and when a wave comes that for a shortboarder would be possible to catch 100 feet further in Rick is already on it.  With his beer belly.  Probably thinking about sitting in bed and farting.  And offshore winds.

Before I go just let me explain to you the cost structure of this internet cafe.  The first half hour costs 500 colones, or roughly a dollar, and then after that it's 200 colones for every 10 minutes.  This is queer.  I told the girl so.  I said, "So wait, the first half hour is cheaper than the second half hour???  Why don't I just sit there for a half hour and then leave and come back again?"  Luckily she laughed and didn't get exasperated or tell me I was cheap.

Did I mention it's hot outside?

Slumber Party in Santiago

hello. I am in the Santiago airport. I have exactly 200 dollars in my wallet. I just brushed my teeth and read my favorite article I've ever read in a surf magazine. It was about surfing in the Aleutians. The waves were incredible. So blue. The article actually kind of sucked but I love the concept of finding prefect peeling waves in a place so remote. I love Alaska. And now I'm sitting on the ground killing time before my flight which leaved at 346 in the morning. It's almost 930. Over six hours to kill. I just ate a shit ton of candy, too. I've showered twice in the past week. And this considering I was working in customer service. It's actually kind of weird not to be at isabels house. I have lived and breathed the hostel the last week and a half. Almost every waking moment has been consumed by the hostel. It will be weird not to say goodnight to baco tonight. To worry if I forgot something at the other hostel. And what's coming is five days of beach paradise. Five days of surfing and doing whatever I want. I woke up at 8 this morning with the intention of helping with breakfast but Isabel basically told me to go back to bed, which I tried unsuccessfully to do. On my way out Isabel sheepishly handed me what looked like ten or twenty thousand pesos for my hard work and extra hours, and when I got to my room I realized it was actually thirty thousand. I was floored. What an act of generosity. I let out a small whoop as I walked to the bus terminal. The bus was seven hours and mostly terrible. It stopped so damn much. When we got to Santiago I took the metro to bellavista and then walked up San cristobal with my backpack, also terrible. But rewarding. I prayed to the virgin Mary at the top. Twice. Once asking for a bunch of shit and the second time just for help living my leyenda personal. There was a girl who sounded vaguely French talking about an ayahuasca trip. The sun was setting and then I went down. My dinner consisted of a salad mixed with mashed potatoes that I bought at Santa isabela and ate on a bench. Afterward I ate some gummies and got a bus to the airport, where I am now. Lying on the ground by women's restroom. Killing time. Wondering what's happening with a certain situation in Colombia. Wishing I would check my email. Wishing I had the loving arms of a girl to lie in. UPDATE: I'm an idiot. I was lying on the cold hard floor lamenting the lack of something soft to lie on when I realized I've been lugging my sister's camping mat all over south America and barely used it. Sound sleep for everyone! Slumber party in Santiago! Everyone is invited. It starts now and ends at approximately 11pm PST. Hurry.

Ach Du Lieber

There's a German girl staying at the hostel right now named "Mechthild".  If you switch the "ch" and the "th" you get "Methchild".  I cannot get over this.  

Witches, Anyone?

"The owner is the coolest man alive minus you and me."

--Bo on the owner of the olive oil shop where he works

Greetings

I thought I was finding myself.  It turns out I'm not.  It turns out I have no idea what I'm doing.  My days in the hostel mostly consist of talking to German girls and trying to swindle the guests into giving me food.  Giving me whatever.  It's amazing the amount of alcohol you get offered while working in a hostel.  Everyone is always offering you wine and beer and pisco.  It's because they're all on vacation.  They have nothing better to do.  And I don't really have anything better to do, either.  I probably check the hostel email to see if new reservations have come in about 6,000 times a day. 

Right now there's a girl speaking Danish next to me on Skype.  There's a group of five people from Dallas who are in Chile for less than a week because their friend works for American Airlines and had a bunch of passes to kill off.  There's a Swiss girl surfing the internet.  Patty is in the kitchen getting ready to cook the arroz con pollo we'll have for lunch.  And there's a British kid from somewhere in Southern England, I have no idea where, sleeping in one of the cabins outside.  And me, a bearded gringo (heavily bearded at this point), typing away furiously on the outdated Apple computer inside, waiting for it to be 1pm so he can leave the hostel and go to the bank.

I think it's almost definite that I will be going back to Seattle soon. But going back to Seattle means I have to go back to Lima, which, for lack of a better way to put it, sucks.  I just came from Lima.  And between here and Lima there is nothing.  There are rocks.  There is sand.  There is a town that recently got devastated by an earthquake.  There is all of Southern Peru, which in a way is wonderful because the food is cheap and there aren't too many people, but which is mostly just wretchedly boring. 

Every time I think I'm "finding myself" it turns out I'm wrong.  But this makes me extremely happy. It means I've already found myself.

And most importantly, it means I'm not a hippy.

To Write or to Die

This is the question.  Some people would say it's better to write.  That way you don't have to die.  But maybe you could just kind of maim yourself, chop off a pinky or something to that effect. 

I could walk to the beach right now, but I probably won't.  I have decided I have to write on gmail.  But like, whatever. 

I already want to get the hell out of La Serena.  Working at a hostel blows.  You have the same conversation with the same 22 year old girls from Munich day in and day out, and you kind of want to kill yourself.  I thought I wanted to own a hostel at some point.  But the only people I really want to stay with me are my friends.  And hot girls.  And that's not exactly how it works.  You can't really have a screening process.  You have to take in every last asshole. 

So I can't decide whether I want to go south, east, or north.  I would love to go west.  I really would.  But it's not feasible.  There's a massive fucking ocean there.  But I would love to go to the Juan Fernandez archipelago, a group of islands devastated by the 2010 tsunami, or to Easter Island, where the only fun thing to do seems to be looking at really big rocks and paying 20 dollars for a plate of pasta.  So I probably won't go there. 

But further west, to Tahiti, to Fiji.  Honestly I'm thinking about just going home.  To Seattle.  To wonderful, wonderful, 'Merica.  The land of the free.  The land of the Big Mac.  The land of the grocery store lines that move really fucking fast.  At least compared to Colombia.  But I don't know.  Part of me wants to continue south to Buchupureo in Chile, camp, surf, and subsist on water, bananas, and soda crackers.  And part of me wants to go to Argentina, where the girls are as fair as daisies and the steak is as thick as a hockey puck (but obviously much more tender). 

What to do?  What not to do? 

Get the hell out of here? "Chillax". 

Hours to Kill

It turns out I was a much better writer two years ago.  Or at least more entertaining.  If you want to do something extremely unfulfilling, feast your eyes (neurons) on this: travelparty.wordpress.com

The Professional Traveler

One of the most nauseating things about the website "Couch Surfing" is the amount of people you find claiming to be "professional travelers".  I would say that it's roughly 25% of the people on the website.  Their picture invariably shows them atop Machu Pichu or some other well-known place, wearing a pancho and possibly a wool-knit cap, a beard of several days or in the case of a girl eyes that look pensively into the distance as if to say, "We're so small in this world.  Can't we just get along?  Go vegan or go home".  The professional traveler is, patently, not a professional travel.  It's like if someone claims to be good at surfing, it usually means they're not, and it usually means they're an asshole.  The professional traveler has a job in the states as a software engineer or an occupational therapist but at least once a year they pull their disgusting wool-knit cap out of the drawer, buy 14 Lonely Planets, and hit the road.  Mostly they hit the road so they can go to hostels and tell other people that they're professional travelers.  And also so they can get their picture taken atop Machu Pichu.

Now, of course, there's a shred of ridiculnous to this because I want to be a professional traveler.  I don't claim to be one (I'm a bum), but I want to be one.  I want to get paid to travel.  I want to do the raddest things possible at all times, basically whatever I want, and I want to be monetarily compensanted and in a slightly lavish way.  That's part of the reason I'm writing this blog, because I feel like if I learn to write about 79 times better than I currently write, it might one day happen for me.  But I know there are also other ways to do it, like working at a hostel for room and board and a small amount of money or doing a job that you can do remotely, like translating, which doesn't really count but obviously allows you to be more or less footloose and fancy free. Part of the reason I decided to leave Arica in the north of Chile a few days ago despite the fact that I had very little money because lately I've started to believe that you must find something you love, and do it at all costs.  You must be a person that puts "passion" before "comfort", to lamely paraphrase Macklemore.  But it's true, and I knew it.  I knew that there would be some shitty moments in the next few days, but I knew that I had to do it, because that's precisely how I want my life to be, and precisely what I want this blog to be about.  Which means that though I'm comfortable right now (and also pretty happy), I'll be taking my meager savings from this job and hitting the road soon, probably in the next couple weeks.  To wonder a bit more.  To be uncomfortable, but to have passion.  The professional traveler.  The professional asshole.  The wool-knit cap.  The eyes that look pensively into the distance as if to say, "This place actually kind of sucks.  When's lunch?"

--Wetzler

Gratitude and Goat Farming

SEMI-HIPPY ALERT: CONTENT INCLUDES TALK OF "FINDING ONESELF"

I am semi drunk on Pisco wine, Lucky cigarettes and life and have decided that writing a "blawg" post is absolutely necessary.  This blog post will (probably) be about being in your thirties and also about "finding yourself", but it might also just be about how the English girl in my dorm room is mildly attractive and how I'm becoming increasingly attracted to girls with Chilean accents.  Though tonight I talked to an Argentinian girl and found myself more or less enamored as well.  So there's that.

Soooooooo supposedly we're all supposed to find ourselves at some point.  Unless you live outside of a 50 miles radius of a major city, in which case you find yourself when you're 14 and become a farmer and never look back and live happily ever after.  But for the rest of us we have to go through this arduous process of self-identification, and I think I find myself fully living that process right now.  It probably has to do with having zero money and having taken several long rides with truck drivers in the last few days.  And also with drinking wine, cooking garlic over a low flame, and watching Hebrew movies dubbed into English.  There are so many factors I'm not going to try to get to the root of it, but the important part is that I'm going through it, which is the important part (errrrr).

The question is: What the fuck?  Shouldn't I have embarked on this journey like 7 years ago?  Why am I just going through this now? I feel like I may have been cheated out of a few years, but I also feel extremely fortunate that this is happening now and not a minute later.  You see, my twenties were interesting.  I consumed gross amounts of vodka and spent large amounts of time pining over girls I had talked to once or who I had never talked to at all.  I traveled quite a bit, I spent money poorly, but I do not regret it.  I feel like if you have the opportunity to live your twenties like that, you probably should.  And like I said, I don't regret it.  I'm pretty sure I don't regret it.

But now I'm 30.   It's supposedly time to grow up.  And I've figured out growing up means one things and one thing only: discipline.  Discipline has always been a little bit of a tough one for me.  Which is to say, I'm not disciplined.  Granted, I can be disciplined, but it usually has to involve someone breathing over my shoulder or a classroom full of students I absolutely can't let down.  Self discipline is what has proven difficult.

But with self discipline comes gratitude.  With self discipline comes delayed gratification, and delayed gratification is what (I think) has the potential to make you extremely happy.  You will be happier if you don't buy the pack of Skittles than if you do.  You will be happier if you don't eat the whole chocolate bar.  You will be happier, in short, if you deprive yourself in search of a greater good, in search of a good that actually means something for the longer term and that has the potential to make you feel good for a longer period of time.  In other words, grow a beard, become a hermit, and possibly become a shepherd.  If you don't find yourself in the command of a moderately large herd of goats in the next few years, you can't ever really find yourself.  At least I think that might be true for me.

So my current goal is to become a bit more disciplined.  I have been doing that lately by forcing it upon myself by being broke.  It's easy to be disciplined when you have no other option.  It's easy to not buy the candy bar when....you have no money.  But it's something I need to really learn, to really ingrain.  I can't just do it now when I have no money and then as soon as I have money go out and buy a bottle of coca cola and a snickers bar and smoke cigarettes until my lungs burst.  It's so easy for me to just say "fuck it" and do what feels good in the moment.  And I feel like there's a place for that, I really do.  But I feel like there's a much bigger place for discipline, and that is something I desperately want to learn.  Realizing this has made me think I might be finding myself, which has made me thinking I might be becoming a hippy, which has made me sort of loathe myself but has mostly just made me content with the fact that I've been wearing the same boxers for the last three days.  Because wearing the same boxers for three days in a row, that's discipline.  That's growing up.  That's.....well it's mostly just disgusting.

--Wetzler

Party.

Las 5 en punto

I have made it to La Serena, Chile, hitchhiking!  I have been extremely fortunate although one night I had to sleep a few hours in a busstop outside Antofagasta and I don't know if it was from the fatigue or the cold but I kept feeling like little ants were crawling all over me, biting me.  I had no warm clothes since I'm coming from Bogota, Colombia and no really good way to bundle up.  But I made it through the night and then a nice young portly truck driver took me to Chañaral where I was able to continue my journey.

Today I got picked up by the nicest man in the history of the world.  His name was Enrique.  I was trying to hitchhike outside a place called Copiapo and thinking I was going to be there for several days without success when Enrique picked me up.  He asked me if I had eaten breakfast and when I said no he opened up a mini fridge and took out yoghurt and some granola cookies.  Then we stopped by the side of the road and made coffee on his camping stove.  Later in the day we stopped for lunch and when I awkwardly told him I didnt have any money he pointed at himself and said, Obviously it's on me.   Then later he let me use his iPhone to find a hostel in La Serena and dropped me off two blocks from where I'm typing these very words.

I am now completely broke.  It is wondeful.  I just spent my last 20 dollars on a hostel here in La Serena, which is a gorgeous little town full of adobe roofed buildings and buganvilleas.  Being broke is a scary but liberating experience.  Tonight for dinner I plan on having a zucchini with garlic that somewhat left on the free food shelf.  And then tomorrow, well, I have no idea where I'll stay.

The hospitality of the Chilean people has been amazing.  I can't believe I'm almost to Santiago.  And speaking Spanish all day in the trucks and cars of the people who has picked me up has been great, too.  Tomorrow I will look for work and keep my fingers crossed.  Hopefully it will go well.  I know it will.  

CHILE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was in a funk this morning.  Thankfully, when you most need help, the universe usually provides it, and that help came today in the form of Where's Wetzler's first ever donation, a NIGHT OUT ON THE TOWN donated by Wetzler's good friend Esteban Gilberto, a native of Montevideo but resident of New Jersey (although he also spends a fair amount of time in Bogota, Colombia).  The NIGHT OUT ON THE TOWN will probably come tomorrow, as I have just made the semi life-altering decision not to stay in Arequipa, Peru, but rather head pretty much immediately to Arica, Chile, where the surf looks amazing and, well, Chile is rad.  Some have you might have seen that Chile was recently rocked by a succession of earthquakes resulting in six deaths.  Apparently Arica was affected but not nearly as bad as Iquique and some other neighboring communities.  Hopefully there will be no more quakes for a very long time and the towns are recovering well.

In other news I am down to my last $50 USD (not including the donation, which changes my financial situation drastically).  However, my hopes are high for Chile.  Arica has several hostels so I'm hoping I can work at one of them for room and at least partial board, and hopefully there are myriad of bright-eyed young souls  in Arica looking to pay a wildly-bearded gringo for his English instruction and general encouragement.  Time will.  About six hours will tell.  I'M GOING TO CHILE!!!!!!!!!

A Poll

I have literally reached a crossroads here at Where's Wetzler, and I have no idea what to do. Which is why I'm soliciting your help, faithful reader. I'm in a town called Nasca, Peru, famous for lines made out of rocks by people thousands of years ago that represent certain animals like parakeets, monkeys, and possibly even an orca whale.  My plan was to make it to Southern Chile and work for a guy who has turned out to be slightly insane (see: certifiably). So now I'm confused. The smart thing would be to try to get a job teaching English in Arequipa, Peru.  But I don't want to do the smart thing.  I want to get rad.  I want to surf.  I want to wear fake Raybans by the side of the road and grow my hair out and shower infrequently and play the guitar poorly. In short, I might want to become a hippy.

Now, if you know me, you know the words I'm speaking are blasphemy.  You know I hate hippies.  But we are what we hate, right?   Or, often times you hate something because SUPPOSEDLY it exists somewhere deep inside of you.  And I've always hated hippies.  So maybe deep down, way deep down in a part of Wetzler rarely explored (somewhere near my right kneecap), I desperately want to become a hippy. It's possible.  Horrible, but possible. So for now I'm going to make a big sign of cardboard that says "Santiago de Chile" and try to hitchhike my way south.  Who knows where I'll make it.  And who knows if I'll end up buying a guitar and fake Raybans.  Like I said, I'm at a crossroads, and the only thing to do when you get to a crossroads is start 'a walkin'.

Party.  

Ummmm, Like, Donate

So, you're probably wondering what the tacky PayPal donation thing is on the right side of this page.  And you're probably thinking "But this website sucks, why would I ever donate?" And faithful reader, I'm sorry, but I don't really have an answer  for you.  But I CAN tell you that you will benefit almost as much from your donation as I will (see: you will hardly benefit at all).  So loosen those pockets.  Empty those pockets.  Go on and buy Wetzler a drink.  Or a meal.  Or a smashing night out on the town.  Or a ticket to Rio....

Here's the donation scheme (all prices USD):

$5 -- A drink

For a measly five dollars hard American currency you can buy your pal Wetzler a drink.  Right now that drink would probably be Pisco, since I'm in Peru (and actually in the city of Pisco).  Not only will I drink this drink thinking of you but I will post a PICTURE of me drinking this drink with a caption dedicated to you.  So bomb.

$10 -- A meal

Same deal with the drink except I will eat a meal.  And probably a fairly nice meal, since $10 USD will buy you a nice meal pretty much anywhere south of the border.  Again, I will document the crap out of this meal (see: I will take one (1) photo) and dedicate it to you.  I can taste the ceviche already.  Or the empanadas.

$20 -- A night on the town

We're getting into the big bucks now!  For just $20 USD you can treat Wetzler (and yourself, vicariously) to a night out on the town!  I promise to get rejected by at least three (3) girls, drink at least two (2) white russians and post at least one (1) video of myself dancing, much to my embarrassment and much to the embarrassment of those around me.  And the night willl all be dedicated to you, faithful donor.  A souvenir you can show your grandkids.

$50 -- City Dedication (within 100k of current route)

Now, this one is kind of cool.  For the next donation price of $50 I will go to any city of your choosing that is more or less on the route I am currently traveling, stay there, write about it, take photos of it, and dedicate it to you.  That's right, it's like your very own city, except you've probably A) Never been there and B) Never will.  But that's why I'LL go there. So you don't have to take the trouble.  And I'll take a couple photos, too.

$100 -- City Dedication (ANYWHERE WITHIN 300K)

Same thing as before except here I will go anywhere you damn please as long as it's within 300k of where I currently am or 300k of a place I'm going (right now just to give you reference I'm in Pisco, Peru and headed South (see: Souf)).  It's a steal!  Get your city while it lasts!

$250 -- ONE WEEK OF ALL INCLUSIVE VACATION (for me)

For the amazing price of $250 I will treat yourself (see: myself) to one week of traveling.  And by one week of traveling I mean that for one week I will do whatever you want.  I will go to the cities you want, do the hikes you want, eat the food you want, speak the Spanish you want, and of course will document it like crazy so it will be like you did all these same things without ever having to leave the comfort of your La
-Z-Boy (or Girl).  There will be photos, there will be video, and there will even be an INTERVIEW with YOU so you can tell me why you chose the places you did and how unsatisfied you are with your donation.  So don't hesitate.  Start 'a clickin'.

$500 -- One week with YOU

This is pretty much the coolest thing ever (next to the one you're about to read).  For the limited time price of $500 you get one week of traveling A LA Wetzler with, you guessed it, Wetzler.  We'll hitchhike, we'll camp, we'll surf, we'll dance, we'll probably smoke at least one cigarette, and we'll have the time of our lives.   We'll go to my favorite places and basically live it up in grandiose fashion.  It will be the trip of a lifetime, that much I can guarantee.*

NOTE: COST DOES NOT INCLUDE AIRFARE TO WHEREVER I AM

$10,000 -- The OK, Fuck It tour

I'm putting this on here because, fuck it, maybe someone will go for it.  Some hapless soul.  But it really is the big bertha of all trips.  For this donation price we go to every single one of Wetzler's Top 10 Destinations for Radness.  Doesn't matter where they are.  Places like Lofoten, Norway; Barrow, Alaska; and Nuqui, Colombia are high on the list.  Places I've been to before and places I've only dreamed about.  This is it.  This is your life (or something).

OK well that's all for now.  If you have any more questions about donating don't hesitate to ask.  And of course PayPal is secure and all that stuff (it's PayPal).  I look forward to drinks and meals and nights out on the town!

Yours,

Wetzler

*OK I guarantee it will be rad but that's about it**.

**OK I guarantee nothing.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.......

2014 Playa Makaja Shred-Fest

I'm in Lima hydrating like a bastard and trying to recuperate from the 16-hour Peruvian coastal bus marathon I just disembarked from. Now, I'm no stranger to long-haul bus rides, my longest still being a 27-hour hell-fest from Arica, Northern Chile, to Valparaiso, in which 30 minutes into the ride I went to the out-of-order bathroom and accidentally flushed shit water all over myself.  The main things I've basically found are A) Never look at the clock, ever.  B) Don't drink alcohol either before or during (go nuts afterward) the journey and C) Limit fluid intake, limit food intake, and try to basically be as inert as possible.  You want to be in a coma-like state throughout the majority of the ride, and any kind of digestion your body has to do will detract from that.  Plus sitting there thinking about how bad you have to pee really sucks.

But this is not an article on how to succeed on long bus journeys (that comes later).  This an article to exalt the wonders of stepping off a bus after 16 hours, the wonders of going surfing in a strange city and not knowing where you're going to sleep that night.  The wonders of papas guacaninas and leading a healthy life that involves great deals of water consumption and laying off the beer, cigarettes, and chocolate cookies.

But article is also over.  Time to shred!!!!!

--Wetzler

Relájate

In less than one hour, I'll be in the water. In the Pacific ocean, paddling. What the hell happened. I'll tell you want happened: I quit my job in Bogota. Quitting jobs might be the best decision anyone can make. Quit your job! Drop out of school! Find yourself. But try not to become a huge hippy asshole in the process. Try not to accidentally grow dreads and start using pichuli oil. Try not to start using the word "mellow". Less than one hour and I'll be in the water. One of the longest lefts in the world. Lobitos! Aaaaaaaaaaa......

Home Sweet Northern Peru

I am now in a town called Tumbes in Northern Peru.  Last night I went out by myself and drank a half a liter of beer and ate chicken and french fries smothered in ketchup and mayonnaise and generally reveled in not being on a bus and being able to walk around and sleep in a bed. Thirty six hours is a long time to be in buses.  But I'm in Peru now and everything is great.  It's hot (see: omg) and today I'm going to the beach!  I'm going to a place called Lobitos which supposedly has "long, mechanical peelers" and where hopefully I'll be able to rent a board and wetsuit for relatively cheap and have a sunset surf tonight.

The money situation is not wonderful.  I have about 225 USD.  Which means I've spent about 100 bucks so far.  In a couple days.  But I've come far, so I'm trying not to despair.  At this rate I could easily make it to Chile, though I could also just as easily find myself living out of a dumpster in Lima.  The good thing is I can always get a job teaching English.  If you're remotely qualified and are in South America English teaching jobs are more or less a dime a dozen.  They also pay about a dime per hour.  

Looking back on my life in Bogota, it feels a little bit like I've left home.  I feel like I'm on vacation, but in a few weeks I'll be back in Bogota teaching English to executives who care much more about texting their girlfriends than about adverbs of frecuency.  South America almost feels like home.  I feel like I'm in an exotic place (Northern Peru is a vast wasteland of desert and Cusqueña beer) but at the same time I feel like I'm taking a road trip through Eastern Washington or down to California.  In other words, I feel like I'm just on a short trip.  On  a little jaunt.  And not several thousand miles away from all that I love and cherish*.  

Today the plan is to go to Mancora, and then Talara, and then a little town called Lobitos where there is a hostel and supposedly the perfect waves I mentioned before.  Part of me wants to start another marathon trip, to go hard for another day and make it to Lima, or go hard for another two days and make it to Arequipa.  Or go hard for another week, light my hair on fire, and make it to Ushuaia.  But I need the ocean, and that is where I'm going.   Because as the honorable Arthur C. Clarke said, "How inappropriate to call this planet Earth when it is quite clearly Ocean." 

Too true Arthur, too true.  

*It occurs to me that this is one of the worst paragraphs I have ever written.  So I will try to make up for it by leaving you with some quotes from Kevin, a kid sitting next to me on the bus yesterday from Guayaquil to Machala.  

(to no one in particualar) "It must be hot over there." -- Kevin looking at the setting sun

"You know about the dollar?" -- Kevin asking me if I was familiar with American currency

"People speak Spanish in Bogota?"  -- Kevin on the linguistic tendencies of the Colombian capital

Two Images That Hopefully Sum Up the Trip So Far

A Year of Wandering

A year ago to this day I was kneeling in the garden of a woman named Amy on Bainbridge Island who was paying me $15/hr to weed her garden.  I think it took something like 18 hours total to weed.  I had just gotten back from Chile, was underemployed, and trying to feel productive and be a contributing member of society.  Now, a year later, I am in Bogota, Colombia, and about to start wandering all over again.  Except this time it's for real.  I don't know exactly what's different about it, but something is.  Tomorrow I will board a plane for Cali, a city in Southern Colombia, and from there I will commence a series of bus journeys and hitchhiking which hopefully -- hopefully -- will take me all the way to Southern Chile.

I have $300.  

Now, someone quite famous once said that not all who wander are lost, and I believe this is true.  I feel most at ease when I am wandering, most like I have a purpose.  So to commemorate the wanderings that commence tomorrow I would like to take you on brief tour of some photos taken from wanderings in the past year or so.  They were all taken on my cell phone so quality is slightly low.  Hopefully the pictures from the new wanderings will be better.  But anyway....

Carelmapu, Chile.  

"Beach not suitable for bathing."

Rest stop near Osorno, Chile

The night shift at Hostal Benavente.  

The other night shift worker.  

Some guy named Kristoff and some girl whose name I don't remember, walking to the beautiful, deserted beach which you will see.....

...here.  Carelmapu.  Paradise.  

My old wetsuit.

First day (first minutes, actually) of work at Da Alessandro.  Puerto Varas, Chile. 

Pablo.

Coco-mat where are you now?

Magda. 

On the way to Cole Cole.  

Trevor's most prized possessions.  

Dougs.

Camp Doug.

Camp sunsest. La Push, WA.

Supermarket. China.  

Petronas Towers.  

Fay.  Elm Lodge Hostel, Dunedin, NZ.  Fay!!!

Sea Lion.  Stewart Island, NZ.

Doug.

American School Way.

Stay tuned for more!

--Wetzler

Wait, Wha....?

Coming soon..... (in about four hours)  Where's Wetzler like you've never seen it before (aka exactly like you've seen it before).  NEW PHOTOS!  NEW POSTS!  NEW RADNESS!  And.....A new template!

Where's Wetzler will be relaunched today for about the sixth time in wake of my upcoming "We poor" trip through Ecuador, Peru, and hopefully Chile.  Stay extremely tuned.

--Wetzler

Wetzler Guides: Getting a Job in a Foreign Country

Wetzler Guides: Getting a Job in a Foreign Country

At some point in your life if you travel enough you will find yourself in foreign lands and faced with two distinct possibilities:  1) Do I buy a ticket home with my credit card and get a job so I can make enough money to go traveling again?  Or 2) Do I stop where I am, set up shop, and attempt to get a job.  Some would consider the first prospect "the easy way out", though it's probably also the smart way out.  The second option is definitely the more difficult of the two, and there's always a good chance you'll fail, in which case you can always resort to option one (which 50% of the time may or may not involve waiting tables at Red Lobster in Silverdale). But don't despair, because option two is definitely doable.  All it takes is a little tenacity, a little creativity and a little inspiration.  AKA a "Wetzler Guide".  

Option 1) Use Your Skills

If you studied something that's actually practical and in demand in college like computer science or electrical engineering, chances are you'll be in demand.  Even if you don't necessarily speak the language, there's a good chance you'll land a job.  When I got to Bogota I asked myself: What's my skill?  The answer: Spanish.  The problem:  About 9 million other people in Bogota not only share this skill, but are BETTER at it than me, and approximately 40 times more motivated, since they have absolutely no problem working for 20 dollars a day.  So I had to ask myself, What is my other skill?  Answer: English.  Now granted, if you've never left the United States or been to West Virginia, you might not realize this is a skill.  But you get to Colombia and people would kill to speak English like you, making you suddenly very employable, something we will discuss later in Option 3.

Option 2) Work in a Restaurant

This actually applies to all service industry jobs.  When in a foreign country, service jobs are some of the easiest to get since they will often pay you under the table, you need very little skill, and many restaurants (especially high-end ones) appreciate having an English-speaker (It makes them "cool").  In this case, however, speaking the local language is much more important.  When I was in Chile I had three dollars to my name and went to a posh lakeside Italian restaurant in Puerto Varas called "Da Alessandro".  They hired me on the spot and at the end of my first day (an 11-hour "try out") the boss, Alessandro, handed me a dirty 10 dollar bill and said "you're hired".    I then commenced working 13 hour split shifts making pizzas and getting berated for not properly distributing the oregano on the large Prosciutto and Piña pizzas.  But it was amazing. I loved that job.  The other waiters were wonderful and everyday after work we'd smoke cigarettes and drink piscola and talk about how big of an asshole our boss was.  And the best part?  I spoke Spanish all day, every day.  Restaurant jobs might not be the best, since the pay can be miserable and the hours can be long.  But at least you can sneak a slice of pizza while your boss isn't watching, and at least (in some places) you get tips.

Option 3)  Teach English

This is the most obvious option, but an option I have always, always resisted because I abhor the idea of being in a foreign country and speaking English all day.  But on this trip I have had to bite the proverbial bullet.  That's right, ladies and gentleman, Wetzler is now officially an English teacher.  Yesterday I had my first student.  His name was Nelson and the only thing he wanted to talk about was Kurt Cobain and the city of Aberdeen.  I asked him if he knew the words "alcoholism" and "logging".   The lesson was about indefinite pronouns, a term I had never seen before, and I was just glad to make it through the hour and twenty minutes without running out of material or doing anything massively disappointing.  The rest of the day was spent talking to the other teachers and playing with a rubix cube, for lack of students.

If you have a Bachelor's degree and even a milligram of motivation, finding an English teaching job is the easiest and arguably one of the best options in a foreign country.  In Colombia, just for being a native speaker, you make almost twice as much as the locals, who most of the time are MUCH more qualified than you.  It's actually kind of terrible, but in many respects you'd be a fool not to do it (watch the construction site scene in Goodwill Hunting).  The other options are good, too, and I would argue that in many respects the restaurant job is the best option, since you'll speak Spanish and make local friends who also speak Spanish (and possibly also meet "Catalina", the love of your life).  Though that's of course if you don't have a skill.  If you have a skill, Option 1 is definitely the best, since you'll be making the most money and be able to afford to not live in hostel where everyone speaks to you in English, gets drunk on Poker, and snores like 5000-watt generator.

I'm sure there are other options, but these are the three that most readily come to mind.  The most important thing is to be motivated, and usually, to be broke.  And also to resist just buying that plane ticket home, since as soon as you step foot in Sea-Tac you will long for the mocha-skinned beauties of Latin American and the three dollars delicious lunches of carne asada, rice, and fried plantains.  You just have to hang in there, which is what I'm trying to do now.

Wish me luck.

--Wezler