"We learn a great deal by new experiences"
- printed on a Sushi food cart in Nelson, New Zealand.

Feb. 16, 1999

The Pipeline. It's the largest bungy jump in the country of the country that invented bungy jumping, second largest in the world. It's 102 meters above a river, (that's 340 ft), the length of a football field. I was to launch myself off a bridge with nothing more than an oversized rubberband attached to my ankles. The same elastic holding up my underwear was now being used to stretch adrenaline from every willing soul. Bound at the ankles, I hopped out on the small launch pad. My mind seemed to go blank. I knew that I was not going to turn back. "5,4,3,2,1", the guy yelled out. "Here I go," I thought, and leaped forward, attempting to do a swan dive into the river 340 feet below. Thoughts flashing into my head were fractions of seconds. "I'm falling.... Oh God, I'm falling... Why am I doing this?" I feel the bungy pull on my legs after free falling for what seemed an eternity. "I'm safe, Let's try to milk this spring back up to 70 meters for everything it is worth...." boing..boing...another boing "That wasn't so bad." I did it, The Pipeline in Queenstown, NZ!!! Too bad the truck ride back through the winding canyon road made me carsick.

It was New Year's Day, 1420 AH. I stood on the rim of a volcano with at least 1,000 Indonesians at five in the morning awaiting a sunrise which would fail to happen in the grayed-out sky. Without the spectacle of the sun illuminating the lunar type landscape at Gunung Bromo (Mt. Bromo) the thousands of Indonesian students turned their attention and cameras on the next most interesting thing, an American and Englishman. I'm sure I was a site considering I had started that morning about 24 hours earlier leaving Bali, crossing to Java. I rode aboard a ferry, 4 different busses, and was awakened by a parade of military vehicles, a parade of political parties, a group of guys push starting our bus, and fellow traveler informing me to continue sleeping because we had just ran out of gas and the driver went hiking off into the darkness in the middle of nowhere. I arrived at a bed near the popular tourist destination at 1:00 am with the instruction that the bus will be leaving at 3:30 am to give us time to hike to the volcano for sunrise. Back on the bus in the darkness of the predawn hour, I met up with an Englishman, as lost as I. We hatched a plan to catch a ride on a jeep, into Mt. Bromo instead of the hour-long hike. Bargaining is a way of life in SouthEast Asia and the ability to walk away was a skill to help drop the price. Unfortunately, on unskilled bargainers, our walk away plan procured us nothing in the way of transportation except for two horses. (the villagers called them horses and I would be polite in referring to them as the runts from a litter of ponies.) If I had loosened the stirrups to the proper length, the runt pony would have had six legs for stability. The saddle didn't even contain a "holy cowhorn" I usually grip for better stability on Western style saddles. Sure enough, the six legs and the "holy cowhorn" would have been of great use as I heard an Old English accented scream come from behind. Both the horse and my new found partner had their butts planted firmly on the ground, which makes me think it wasn't an English style saddle either. Since the crowd was not being entertained by the sunrise, the Englishman and the American became the entertainment. "Hello Mister" echoed through the volcanic canyons. Slowly we moved about on the rim, from one group photo to the next, following the pleads of "Hey Mister." I'm betting that more photos where shot of the bleary-eyed foreigners than of the main attraction, a cloud covered volcano on the first morning of the Muslim New Year, April 17, 1999.

I have finally discovered the singular most sensational thing about traveling in a third world country. Unfortunately for women, it's a men-only activity.

I had found the place I was looking for, a saloon run by Indians. (not Native Americans, but natives of India) Reputation wise, the Indians are considered the best. To date, I've been served by an Indonesian in a parking lot, a Chinese woman in a back-alley business in Chinatown, a Malaysian with a love for ears, and a Thai in a fishing village built upon stilts out at sea. The saloon I walked into this day no longer had the swinging doors of the Old West, but had upgraded once the air conditioning was installed. I sat down and leaned back into my seat. A sparkle in my eye, I couldn't help but notice this saloon was decked with its very own disco ball. Awaiting the start of a Bee Gee's tune I was met by a Travolta-like Indian, for he was the king of this dance floor. I sat back and grinned as he started his all-too familiar dance. I closed my eyes to better see his moves, for that is the best way to really enjoy a shave by an expert barber.

I don't know if it's a mix up in translation or pronunciation, but a saloon in Malaysia is the same as a salon in the US. Ever since my first shave in a parking lot off the back of a guy's motor scooter, I've been addicted to this pure-pleasurable experience which costs less than one US dollar.

Each barber has his or her own rituals and methods of accomplishing the same thing. The poorer street barbers tend to use the old straight razor that is sharpened on a piece of worn leather. Nowadays, I try to shy away from these razors for they tend to pull the whiskers out instead of cutting. The more established barbershops use the straight razor format but are designed to use replaceable razor blades. The Indian not only used a new, super-sharp blade, but replaced it halfway through with another blade during the second shave, which made sure not one stubble survived.

The Thai tend to do a massage on the head and shoulders, the Malays use powder during the second shave, and the Indian rubbed my face with something for ten minutes. I didn't know if he was doing a wax and shine on my face or what, but he told me that it was an ancient Indian medicine only available in India. Whatever it was, it made me feel like my cheeks had been pumped full of novocaine. I walked away in numb amazement. It would be three days before I could feel any growth.

Some of the barbers use hot towels on my face while others have pulled wet cold towels straight from a refrigerator. In my final days in Malaysia, was the first time I had ever had my ears shaved, inside and out. Any stray hairs growing on my forehead were history. I've given up on trying to figure out when everything is finished, for some trim my hair, comb my hair, shave my neck, and even go up my nose with a pair of scissors. Now, I just wait to be kicked out of the seat.

I'm thinking the shave is why the Andy Griffith-like characters of the past hung out in the barbershops in America. The last time I asked about a shave in the states, the barber said that it was $15 and he didn't even have a disco ball. No wonder they have disappeared in the US, losing out to the more stylish salons. I'll take an Indian saloon over an American salon any day of the week- for a shave that is.

Within 48 hours of entering Thailand, I was staring at the ceiling while a lady had me in a backbreaking position, lifting me off the ground. If she had a little more strength, I would have been screaming for mercy. Instead, I was trying to come to terms with the fact that I was paying her to do this to me and more importantly, that this was supposed to be relaxing. Well, this was relaxing compared to the two instances in Indonesia that left me hobbling off in pain. Just an hour earlier I thought I had found the paradise I was searching for, as I lay back watching MTV while receiving a very long foot massage. Of course, that was until the "Thailand Terror" decided she wanted to do a little WWF on my body. It was amazing to see the giddiness come over her as different bones of my body made loud popping sounds.

Sure enough, when all was said and done, I got up slowly with regret that it was over. In Thailand, the massage is so revered that at one point the government created an agency, the Ministry of Massage, where the best techniques from differing styles were combined to create an official Thai Massage. Now, though, the M&M has been converted into a private school, teaching the methods of making people melt in your hand. I was so intrigued by the thousand ways she bent my body without breaking it, that I signed up for a course of my own, learning the neighboring Burmese Massage style. Following three days of popping and cracking, stretching and smacking, I had come to the conclusion that the old saying holds no credence when it comes to massage, for it is far better to receive than give. However, I did enjoy one of the highest honors bestowed upon a student from their teacher; I was skilled enough to make her snore.

Well, response from family and friends was amazing! It ranged from admiration and suggestions of places I’ve gotta see to some actually questioning my sanity. Sanity put aside, one man’s remark struck me kind of funny.

He said, “do it now when you’re young, so you can get it out of your system,” I had to ponder on that remark, knowing it was somewhat a positive statement but carrying with it a bad taste in my mouth. I asked myself, what in life do you enter with the intention that you should go ahead and do this now, so it will be out of your system? The only thing I was ever able to come up with was Chicken Pox.

You get the pox once and then it’s history. The verdict will be out for a while on whether my one time infection of the World Traveling Bug will build up immunity from further cases. However, the one thing I do know, is that it feels great to chase after some dreams every now and then, rather than living in regret later on in life.