River Bathing
by Skald

Grass-stained knees and body glassy with sweat... summer- in Athens, Georgia.

Just finished a game of Ultimate Frisbee and was drenched and dirty. Hopped in the Nissan , with Athena, and drove to Ben Burton Park. Once there, grabbed a towel, a bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap, and a clean pair of shorts.

We bounded out of the car and strolled through the park- made our way to the wooded area in the back where the Broad River widens- shallow- over rocky shaols. Found a little cove off the trail and hopped onto the rocks-- to the middle of the river. Athena followed, then waded in and sat down-- a contented plop.

It was early evening so the worst of the heat was fading. Kicked off the flip-flops, took off my shirt, and walked into the water-- next to a large rock where I put my clean shorts, towel, tevas, and soap.

Sank down and sat on the river bottom- cool water rushed over me. What a sublime sweetness- The Broad flowing over burning-hot body... sighed forcefully.. took a look around. The River spread out in front of me-- a wide green vista... foam rushed over rocks, curled and swirled, bubbled and danced. In the distance a white heron sailed just above the current.... meandered lazily and settled on an outcropping.

No one in sight. I glanced at Athena- neck deep and, seemingly, lost in the same sublime reverie: cool flow... a slight breeze rustled in the trees... leaves tickled by the wind whispered in delight. Blue sky overhead..... sank deeper into brown water... up to my neck.... to chin... and then under.

Came up with a sputter and an exhilerated WOOP. Stood up, grabbed the soap, lathered from head to knees--- rubbed soap into my shorts as well... a bit of laundry accomplished at the same time. Stood with goosebumps and then plunged into the river again.. beat and splashed and scrubbed the soap away.

I felt clean--- much cleaner, in fact, than after a normal shower.... perhaps the natural surroundings... the beauty of the place.. or my freedom...provided for a deeper cleansing-- something more than skin deep. Pondered this thought and sat a while longer-- watched the heron tip-toe among the rocks... watched the water flow.. listened to the gurgling and spitting. Athena panted gently.

Stood up, climbed onto the rock, toweled off, and scanned for passersby. Saw no one, so off with the wet shorts and then hurriedly dried and slipped on a clean pair. Once dressed I wrung out the clothes and towel and bundled them together... slipped on the sandals.. and made my way back to the car- wet dog, a very happy wet dog, in tow.

This is how I bathed that summer: The simplest and most sublime pleasure of that first hobo experiment. And so, when I travelled in India a year later I was thrilled to see hordes of Indians bathing in rivers....
and it seemed to me that they- rather than we- had the right idea.

Take the Leap
by Skald

Imagine what may be possible---
what may be crouching in that long dark alley--- the one not on the map.... where the shuck and jive of the tourist-trade gives way to blank stares... eyes squinting from shuttered windows... the smell of cardamon and hashish...

A hidden shrine, bathed in blood...
annointed with homemade bread, rotting fruit, and a swarm of flies...

Circled by a jangling procession....
a preambulation...
an invitation....
a blessing.

What might await beyond the pages of the books:
brushes with death? unexpected satoris? strange visions? lifelong friends? disappointments? violence? reverie?

Sitting here, reading this, you'll never know.
Debating, insulting, agreeing, defining, arguing, admiring... you'll never know.

Safe, comfortable, confident-- you'll never know.

What is a Hobo?
pirated from CyberHobo

A Quick Definition is:

A Hobo is a person that travels to work
A Tramp is a person that travels and wont work
A Bum is a person that will neither travel or work

The name "Hobo" first started appearing in the 1800's, one book says 1864. A Hobo is an independent and resourceful person who travels around for work. Most people look at the hobos. homeless and tramps, as being the same. That's like saying a Harley and Kawasaki are the same, they are both motorcycles or a BMW and a Yugo are the same!, hopefully you get the picture. A Hobo is a person who travels to work, but due to circumstance and/or desire is not tied to a permanent job or trade. They do what a lot of us wish we could do.

Jefferson Davis, who is believed to have once reigned as King of American Hobos, made his own distinction... "The hobo," he said, "does not believe that society owes him a living, but he does believe that society owes him a chance to care for himself..."

Well a CyberHobo is similar except in modern society instead of trains we have computers and the internet. Since 1992 CyberHobo's travel to work but use the Internet and computers as a trade. Being that trains are more scarce these day we don't always hop a train for transportation. We can travel and develop website while in journey to our new destinations, just as our brothers before us carved their famous "Hobo Nickels" for lodging or food. The work is different but the longing for the road is the same. We are just a much a Hobo's in our hearts as any has ever been.

The New Definition is:

A Hobo is a person that travels to work
A Homeless Person is a person who is at the moment is without a home, and it's not by choice!
A Tramp is a person that travels and won't work - they'd rather beg!
A Bum is still a bum... a person that will neither travel or work.

The Hobo's Boxcar
By Jon Stone

"The hobo's knowledge of the world is restricted by his lack of a television set, a radio, a daily newspaper. Consequently, he has much less to worry about. "

"Most people define themselves by the money they have; the hobo defines himself by the miles he's traveled. "

"All 'boes are different, all are alike - like the rest of humanity. "

Code of the Open Road
As inscribed in the Annual Convention Congress of the Hoboes of America held on August 8, 1894 at the Hotel Alden, 917 Market St., Chicago Illinois;

1.-Decide your own life, don't let another person run or rule you.

2.-When in town, always respect the local law and officials, and try to be a gentleman at all times.

3.-Don't take advantage of someone who is in a vulnerable situation, locals or other hobos.

4.-Always try to find work, even if temporary, and always seek out jobs nobody wants. By doing so you not only help a business along, but insure employment should you return to that town again.

5.-When no employment is available, make your own work by using your added talents at crafts.

6.-Do not allow yourself to become a stupid drunk and set a bad example for locals treatment of other hobos.

7.-When jungling in town, respect handouts, do not wear them out, another hobo will be coming along who will need them as bad, if not worse than you.

8.-Always respect nature, do not leave garbage where you are jungling.

9.-If in a community jungle, always pitch in and help.

10.-Try to stay clean, and boil up wherever possible.

11.-When traveling, ride your train respectfully, take no personal chances, cause no problems with the operating crew or host railroad, act like an extra crew member.

12.-Do not cause problems in a train yard, Another hobo will be coming along who will need passage thru that yard.

13.-Do not allow other hobos to molest children, expose to authorities all molesters, they are the worst garbage to infest any society.

14.-Help all runaway children, and try to induce them to return home.

15.-Help your fellow hobos whenever and wherever needed, you may need their help someday.

16.-If present at a hobo court and you have testimony, give it, whether for or against the accused, your voice counts!


Whatís the appeal of Hobo Life?
pirated from The Texas Madman, Grand Duke of Hobos

So what appeal to this kind of life is there really?, to the neo-phyte, imagine a way of life where you are not bound by time schedules, home owner bill, job expectations, the IRS, you can live where you want, sleep where you want, travel wherever you want as long as itsí in the continental US and Canada. Never pay a travel fare unless you want to, never pay rent, electric, gas, water, or cable bills, never pay taxes, and see places in the US and Canada others only see in the movies, or in a magazine. Sound like the
lifestyle of Bill Gates, or Donald Trump?, well hundreds of folks live that kind of life every day, in fact that kind of life/culture has been going on since just after Americasí Civil War. A lifestyle/culture so sweet, so addictive, so seductive, so intoxicating, that those of us who retire after 20, 30, even 40 years of are never really free of it. Because Lady Freedom has gotten too far in our blood to gotten rid of her completely. Freedom, complete freedom, and the ability to pursue that ultimate free life, and the vehicle to propel you ion such a quest, and a constitutionally base right to free movement.

Dachau
by Jen T

It hasnt changed much since i last walked here numb, bewildered and unbearably alone sixteen years ago.
ghostly companions cannot ease anything

Funny though, I dont remember the jail block for special prisoners.
those tiny rooms with their fake heaters must have been a luxury
compared to the barracks built for 200 and holding smashed and oozing up to 2000 living skeltons

details and information abound
i could write horror upon horror and soon we would be immune

never again. why not write inevitably again?
Now we just incinerate without the torture, the slow death by starvation, the disease dripping down from top tier to middle to bottom
is this progress?

work is freedom
death is freedom
solitude is freedom

slavery is freedom.
Oh Orwell, how did you know?
Why wont we know?

Dachau, Aushwitz (no i cant spell), Bergen Belson...

In the rain, in the sun, in the fresh spring breeze
where we all speak in whispers and i know finality and deadly folly

and there are neither tears nor sorrow nor shame enough to wash this carnage away

Swampiní it in Malaysia
An Educated Redneck Let Loose in Tasek Bera
by Matt Salleh


Every night when I lay my head down in the constructed comfort of my Kuala Lumpur apartment mysterious things happen outside. Tigers, tapir, mouse deer and cobras conduct their nightly rituals, invisible in the dense vegetation known as the Malaysian rainforest. Birds and bats flit about catching moths en route to chase the moon. Bird, bat and moth alike spread the germ of life from stamen to pistil. So it occurs, witnessed by few human eyes and largely unheeded in human thought, an endless cycle, night after night.

The events of the natural world take place without our permission and most often without our knowledge. We have to make special efforts to get out of our cities and into forests to witness these things. Malaysia offers an abundance of opportunities to visit wild places and see things that few have seen. That is one of the reasons I came to live here, to witness the miracles firsthand, to see local flora and fauna act out their daily dramas.

Tropical rainforests, coral reefs, mountains, wetlands, rivers, lakes and caves comprise the physical geography of Malaysia, one of the 10 most biologically diverse areas in the world. Each ecosystem is important and unique in its life sustaining capabilities. Each one should be experienced intimately in the deepest sense by every one of us if we are to truly appreciate the profound importance and mesmerizing beauty they effortlessly possess.

My passport tells me I am a foreigner in this country. My heart tells me otherwise. Deep inside I know I am a citizen of the world. Consequently, itís important to me to feel as at home in the rainforests of South East Asia as I do in the piedmont plateau of Georgia, USA. Wherever I go, I consider home. I belong here as much as I belong in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains or the backwoods of the Okeefenokee Swamp. As a citizen of the Earth, the places of natural beauty in Malaysia are in my care. So I go out seeking, reconnoitring for adventures of experience to reinforce my sense of stewardship. Today will find my friend Badrul and I in a wetland a few hours outside Kuala Lumpur.

I met Badrul a couple of months previous during a snorkelling trip off the island of Pulau Lalang. The trip was organized by the Malaysian Nature Society, which I had recently joined. While relaxing and eating, between the rise and fall of the tides, we chatted about our mutual interests. It was then he invited me to accompany him to a remote place in Malaysia where he was to begin work on an eco-tourism project. He spoke of native people living in traditional houses, mysterious wetlands and exotic wildlife. I was intrigued. He didnít have to ask twice!

We met around 8 a.m. at a Petronas station in Sri Hartamas and made a short visit to his office before we hit the road. Badrul works for Wetlands International, a team of folks working to conserve wetlands in various countries around the world. His office is typical of those dedicated to the preservation of natural places. Decorated with posters of fish and plants on the walls, it exudes a more casual feel than offices dedicated to business. Iíve been in many such offices, even entire buildings dedicated to ecological research, but I still havenít gotten over the irony of buildings with air conditioned offices full of computers and fantastic technologies dedicated to conserving things outside.

Shortly, we were on the road to Tasek Bera, Malaysiaís only protected wetlands and home to the Orang Asli Semelai, an indigenous people who have lived around the swamp for nearly 600 years. The trip held promises of adventure, exotic plants and animals as well as conversations with Semelai people.

Tasek Bera is a slow moving, alluvial black-water swamp in the state of Pahang, a few hours southeast of Kuala Lumpur (KL). Flowing northward through a wide channel at an almost imperceptible rate it eventually joins the River Pahang and empties into the South China Sea. The wetland encompasses 25km x 35 km. Its sheer size makes it an important asset to Malaysia. The people that live there and their way of life are disappearing as modern society encroaches upon their world.

We bounced down the highway in a squeaky Mitsubishi Pajero through small town Malaysia. The sights and sounds were tantalizing. The pungent odor of fish-head curry simmering in a street stall and cili padi frying in a blackened wok blanketed the streets and flooded our vehicle. The diversity of people hobbling around chaotically buying the wide array of colorful products on the streets awakened my senses.

As we drove, Badrul and I chatted about world affairs and how people could become ìcitizens of the worldî ignoring race, nationality, politics, and religion in terms of relating to each other and focus on the fact that we are all human with human needs. We decided humans have more in common than different.

Around noon we stopped at a roadside stall for lunch. We ordered nasi goreng pattaya and limau ais to take away. We didnít linger to eat. Tasek Bera was within spittiní distance. The swamp was calling us.

We stopped in Pos Iskandar, a tiny settlement drowning in a sea of palm oil and rubber plantations, a stark contrast to the riparian flora of Tasek Bera. When we arrived, Badrul introduced me to our guides Yohanif and Rashim. They were short, lanky, and were clad in deep brown skin. They exuded backwoods experience. My first impressions were that they knew what they were doing and I could trust them to lead me into the swamp. Large smiles plastered their faces. They were eager to show us around and share their knowledge. Theyíd lived on the banks of Tasek Bera most of their lives. They knew this place. To them it was not an exotic locale; it was home.

Pos Iskandar is home to the Orang Asli ìofficeî for eco-tourism. The office itself is a fusion of traditional construction methods and modern materials. A tin roof rests on thin plywood walls. A traditional woven mat blankets the floor. With four rooms: a kitchen, bedroom, toilet and main living room, itís small, no bigger than 500 square feet. A perfectly efficient design. It reminded me of cabins I had seen in the mountains of north Georgia. Not really an ìofficeî by modern standards with only a crude desk marred with candle wax, a half painted chair, and a computer screen for which Badrul brought the rest of the hardware from home, the place is cozy. It is aptly described as the cradle for the Orang Asliís newborn eco-tourism project. I felt at ease.

After we swallowed our lunch, Badrul and I were itchiní to get to the swamp. Yohanif handed us our paddles and we carried them down to meet the canoe. We followed a freshly cut dirt trail and I noticed a little girl sitting near shore. I guessed her to be about eight years old. She was working on something of utmost importance. A large parang dangled from her side, at least half as long as she was. I thought it necessary to learn how to use such a knife at an early age if you live near the swamp. I wondered what else she might know that I had yet to learn in my 32 years of existence. She focused on her project to the extent that we walked by unnoticed.

Already, I could tell I was gonna learn heaps from these fellas. My thoughts were confirmed when I saw the canoe. A 12-foot tree had been hollowed using fire and adze and carved to a point on both ends a little wider than my hips. It reminded me of a blade of grass.

The paddles were a treat as sweet. They measured an arms length and 2-hand widths with sharp tips. Their detail exceeded that of the canoe with intricate designs engraved on the body. The handle fit neatly into the palm of my hand with indentations for the fingers. I suddenly realized I was holding six hundred years of ergonomic design evolved in the swamps of Malaysia. I was elated.

Back home in the States I had been a canoe instructor for several summers. I taught teens how to paddle flat water on Lake Chapman in Athens, Georgia. Once in a while we ventured into the realm of kayaking. I was familiar with watercraft, but this canoe was a different animal.

The canoe itself sat less than an inch above the water when loaded, at least partially due to the fact that they werenít built for the likes of me. In general, Orang Asli are much smaller in stature than I. Most of them rise to my shoulders when standing side by side. I am not large by U.S. standards at five foot ten inches. I hoped I could demonstrate a modicum of competence and not appear as a total dummy to Yohanif.
We pushed off and floated out. Yohanif guided us on the canoe trip while Rashim departed and returned up the bank.

A few basket-like fish traps floated near the surface with lines dangling in the water. Obviously, the Semelai use the swamp for food and fishing is one of the main sources.

We paddled upstream towards a kampung Badrul wanted to show me. Tasek Bera has a very mild current that flows ever so slowly and gives minimal resistance. Even so, it had been months since I had paddled and I could feel the demands on my shoulders and back.

The canoe trail was severely overgrown. In some parts we had to lie down in the canoe so we could pass under fallen logs.

As we paddled we passed impressive stands of pandanu whose sturdy leaves reminded me of yucca. They were pointed and thorny on the edge. More than once I was jabbed by a pandanu leaf in the shoulder or leg as we drifted near shore or crossed under the overgrown canoe trail. Later I learned that pandanu is an important plant for the Orang Asli. I recalled seeing a pandanu mat on the floor of the eco-tourism office.

Not only is pandanu important to the Orang Asli, but is also an ecologically important species at Tasek Bera. It co-dominates the landscape with sedge known as Lepironia. Turtles and fish breed within the maze of pandanu and Lepironia roots safely hidden away from most predators. Birds and insects nest in the upper branches of pandanu. Both species provide camouflage for predators and prey such as water monitors and mouse deer. A complex web of life has developed in the swamp based around the pandanu and Lepironia. The Semelai are part of the web as they depend on the swamp for their livelihood.

As we floated, my mind drifted around thoughts of the complexity of ecosystems, the delicate balance of life in the world and the subtle beauty surrounding me.

Shortly, Badrul told me the kampung, a Semelai village, was nearby.

As we rounded a corner we encountered a tree that had fallen across the stream. It was too low for us to go under. The water was too deep and the banks too overgrown to portage the canoe. We made our way to the tangled mass of weeds, pandanu and tree trunk. In succession, we each perched precariously on the prostrate tree and slid delicately back down as the canoe passed underneath. Any slight movement in the wrong direction would mean a flipped vessel. I had to be extremely careful. I figured a wet mat salleh ainít a pretty picture and I didnít want to find out.

Badrul went first with no complications. I was next. Yohanif, of course, hopped over like a civet leaping after prey. Success! We smiled as we paddled away and continued upstream another 50 meters. I figured I had proven my worth to Yohanif. Something he never asked for and probably never thought of although it was of utmost importance to my male ego.

You can imagine our dismay when we saw another log in the same position squatting lower in the water with more tangled mess and fewer places to step over! We crossed again, with more confidence, one such obstacle already conquered.

We landed on shore and sauntered up a dirt road towards the kampung. As we approached I could see traditional houses with motorcycle parts strewn about the yard. Having grown up in semi-rural Georgia, I was used to seeing car parts in the yard. I immediately felt at home.

A wiry old man with beautiful bronze skin greeted us. Badrul spoke in Bahasa Malaysia and the man smiled, baring his teeth. Most were missing and the few dangling in his mouth were stained red.

He welcomed us into his home. A young woman began preparing coffee in the house while the men walked around the yard.

A homemade musical instrument, a gambang, stuck upright from the ground. It looked somewhat like a xylophone permanently held in place by the soil. Short wooden stobs poked out of the ground with string pulled taught between them. In between each stob were pieces of wood of varying lengths arranged from shortest to longest from left to right. The man picked up what looked like a xylophone mallet and lightly tapped the suspended pieces of wood. A beautiful sound resonated from the gambang. His bronze body convulsed like James Brown as he played a little tune. He proceeded to pick up 2 hollow pieces of bamboo and tap them on a stump. They resonated with a warm hollow percussive sound.

How sounds of different pitch and volume entrance us is a mystery I do not claim to understand. I am only a lucky witness to the miracle. Itís innate. We identify with it. Just as we need food as nourishment for our bodies, we need music as sustenance for our souls. Perhaps, deep within us lies a connection to the natural rhythms and cycles of the Earth. The ebb and tide of cycles constantly rising up and down, like a lung inflating and collapsing, seem to be embedded within our collective unconscious. Maybe that rhythm flows through our veins and music reminds us of our connection to the world in which we sometimes forget we are immersed. If we listen, if we remain silent long enough, we feel those cycles and become captured by the pulse of the Earth. It is grand indeed! We are part of the music. We are part of the magical orchestra of creation. So few of us know it and even fewer of us slow down long enough to truly connect. Being outdoors surrounded by wildness gently reminds us of the feeling of peace and belonging we often loose touch with.

Our host gave a brief speech about Semelai music, none of which I understood but listened intently the same. It was a treat to hear the melody coming from the instruments of the Earth. I imagined a whole chorus of instruments singing and twanging through the humid forest air during a ceremony or celebration. That would be the feast of which I had only been afforded a taste.

Yohanif, standing off to the side, picked up a stick about 10 feet long with a trident of metal secured to the tip. Badrul informed me it was a spear for fishing. I had imagined such. It looked like a frog gig I had possessed as a child. I had bought mine at K-Mart in the fishing section and dreamed of spearing fish with it. I never learned to use it properly but had imagined its use. Like so many things from childhood my frog gig disappeared into a void during a move from house to house. Or perhaps, I lost it out in the yard buried in the soil by now, an artefact to be discovered by a future archaeologist. Even so, the fact that I had owned one connected to me to the Orang Asli kampung further. I was at home and could feel it.

He used the trident to knock down a few round green nuts from a tree that was leaning like a red faced Englishman. About ten or twelve dropped quickly to the ground and rolled around like weebles wobbling. He quickly gathered them up.

A light rain darkened its attitude and pushed us to shelter. As the water pissed down like it was poured from a boot, the girl served coffee. We sat cross-legged on the porch while she placed a jug and a platter of crackers in the center of our circle. She sat off to the side with an older lady, I presumed to be the mother. Neither said a total of three words during my stay. I could only catch occasional glimpses of their smiles and heads nodding, as I quickly glanced, not wanting to stare out of fear of appearing rude.

The men were talking about things of which I had no idea in Bahasa Malaysia. Once in a while, our host rolled a cigarette on dried leaf. He had two types of tobacco, a green type, which I was informed, was more traditional, and a dried brown type, more like the tobacco Iíd seen before. He rolled a cigarette with the green tobacco and offered it to me. I accepted. Iím not a smoker but I figured I would give it a shot. I pulled a Clinton and didnít inhale. The flavor was surprisingly mellow, not offensive at all, even to a non-smoker.

Once in a while, one of the other men would take a pair of wire-cutter-like pliers and cut sections from the nuts that had just been harvested. He would take the nut and wrap it in a leaf and chew on it. I finally recognized it as betel nut, which I had been fortunate enough to try at a Malay wedding. I had told Badrul about that experience on our drive to Pos Iskandar. He informed the guys that I would like a taste. They smiled as the old man cut off a bit and wrapped it in leaf. Everyone, including the women, watched intensively as I popped it into my mouth and chewed for a while. The taste was very bitter, rich in tannins. A mild tingling effect hit my tongue and throat as I swallowed. Chewing betel nut is something they do regularly here, especially with a tree 10 feet away. Which explains the missing and red stained teeth on many of the people. It wasnít the most pleasant taste I had ever had, but it also wasnít the worst. The physical effects were mild and not especially intoxicating. But a different sort of euphoria was taking hold. I was sitting on the porch in an Orang Asli kampung, drinking coffee, smoking hand rolled cigarettes on dried leaf, and chewing betel nut after paddling through a swamp in a hand carved canoe. I knew it was the stuff of dreams and I was living it! I was exhilarated, excited, and thankful to be living this life.

When locals ask me to try something new they are usually delighted and surprised when I accept. Itís fun and works to my advantage, meaning that I am readily and quickly accepted. Chewing betel nut was one of those experiences.

Many travellers, especially Americans, have the reputation of staying within a realm of ìsafetyî and comfort when travelling abroad. Often, Iíve witnessed Americans go to foreign countries only to eat at American food chains and stay in American hotel chains, getting rude and angry when things are different in a foreign place. What are they thinking?

As we chewed our betel nut and drank our coffee, one of the men displayed hand carved replicas of the canoe I had just paddled. It was in their plan to sell handicrafts as part of their eco-tourism venture. They were as exquisite and detailed as the real thing, beautifully simple. I bought two of them.

The rain subsided and Badrul, Yohanif and I reluctantly found our way back to the canoe. They informed me of plans to erect camouflage blinds and salt licks so tourists might see mouse deer or tapir if theyíre lucky and patient.

Night engulfed us as we paddled. The forest began to take on the mystical, eerie feeling that escorts twilight. The time of mysterious events when people see things they donít normally see was upon us. I felt my body slow down and settle into the magic as darkness crept in.

Yohanif whispered that two tigers had recently been spotted on the bank in the area through which we were paddling. That sent an electric sensation through my spine and put me on a cautious alert. I dreamed of spotting a tiger. Being in a place where you are no longer top carnivore can scare you out of your wits and send you running or put you in touch with a side of yourself that lies deep within your psyche, a place we modern folk rarely venture. It depends on your experiences and state of mind whether you flee at such moments or settle into the calm gentle waters of your mind, breathing deeply, thankful to be truly in touch with the experience of being alive.

After a silent float, we arrived at the rustic ìofficeî sad we hadnít seen a tiger. We collected a small pail and a bar of soap and went to a staircase that was built into the swamp where we proceeded to bathe.

For millennia people have bathed in rivers and lakes. Nowadays we hardly do at all. We prefer running, heated water in a safe sterile environment. Thereís something to be said for cleansing out in the open in a natural body of water. Water symbolizes the unconscious and by immersing yourself in it you are surrendering yourself to your fears, thereby making peace with them. I donít know about that, but I do know I somehow feel cleaner and my spirit feels freer when I submerge myself in a river and come up gasping for air after a good soaking. That night was no different. It felt good. I was more in touch with myself than I had been in ages. Those were the healing powers of nature that Badrul and I had come to experience and ultimately protect and conserve.

After our bath we walked up the hill to the office and changed into dry shorts. We hadnít eaten in quite a while, save a few crackers, and were famished. We possessed the kind of hunger you have after a good days physical labor, the kind that transcends your body and punches a hole in your stomach. We jumped in the squeaky Pajero and blazed down the dirt roads. I didnít know where we were going. About 20 minutes later, we pulled up to a house with a sign and a few tables and chairs. I guessed it to be a restaurant of sorts. They served nasi goreng, mee goreng, limau ais and milo ais. That was it, the totality of the menu. I ordered the mee and limau ais. Badrul ordered the nasi and milo.

A couple of minutes later the proprietor turned up the karaoke machine. Wait a minute!? The karaoke machine? We were sitting smack dab in the boon docks of Malaysia at a restaurant that only served two dishes and they had a karaoke machine? Not only that, but a damn fancy karaoke machine! It took a few minutes for that to register in my brain. I couldnít believe it, but it proved my point about music being sustenance for the soul, didnít it? Badrul said the music was Javanese. He disliked it greatly. It sounded a bit whiney to me, but what did I know? I was simply amazed that I was looking at a karaoke machine in the middle of hick-ville Malaysia. I would be less surprised to see an outdoor ice hockey rink in the Mojave Desert of Barstow, California.

Soon the restaurant was flooded with locals. Most of them walked up, a few rode in on scooters. I was the only mat salleh for miles, a novelty for sure. I was stared at, something Iíve gotten a little more used to since I moved to Malaysia. Itís not that I wasnít stared at before because of my super model looks, itís just that these were different kinds of stares.

The cook brought out fried tit-bits. I was anxious to give them a try. I didnít know what they were but I am certain that anytime you deep-fry something itís gonna be yummy. I wasnít wrong. There was a spicy dipping sauce on the side.

Turns out that the tit-bits were tapioca and the sauce was a chilli, garlic, soy-sauce. Man-o-man, I in heaven! I tossed down 2 slices before our food arrived and I had already finished my limau ais. I decided to do the unthinkable and order the other half of the drink menu, so I ordered milo ais. They asked me if I wanted my mee pedas and the vigorous shake of my head up and down inspired them to see how much the mat salleh could take. We both broke a sweat while eating. Meanwhile, the stares were not subsiding.

After we finished, we paid and saddled the squeaky Pajero, for yet another harrowing ride down a pothole-ridden road. Badrul drove at unthinkable speeds in the pitch-black Malaysian night while bird-sized moths flapped spastically in the headlights. As we pulled off, I mentioned that for the first time since I arrived in Malaysia I had felt uncomfortable. I had been stared at more than usual. He casually said ìOh, theyíre all Indonesians. They work here on the plantation.î

What?! No wonder. I was an American surrounded by Indonesians! Since the events of September 11th and the protests by Indonesians worldwide against America, I was leery and cautious. Right about now, I figured, theyíre plotting on how to rip my eyes out! Not really, but for a brief moment my CNN induced paranoia kicked in and made me feel like it. Despite the current state of affairs none of the Indonesians Iíve met harbor any ill feeling towards America or me. Theyíre just like the rest of us, trying to get by, earn a living and put food on the table. I never felt threatened at all. Now at least I knew why they were staring at me so curiously. They were wondering why Brad Pitt was eating at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere.

The next morning I awoke at daybreak as Badrul slept in. I didnít want to wake him so I sneaked out of the room. I boiled water and scraped one last spoonful of Nescafe from the jar. I was wide-awake with nowhere to go in the middle of a Malaysian wetland. It took a few minutes to come to terms with the fact that I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Itís amazing how we are so geared toward constantly busying ourselves that we have to make a conscious effort to slow down and live life as it comes.

I remembered my binoculars. I pulled them out and sat on the front porch to watch birds and sip coffee in the cool Malaysian morning. I was elated when a Racket-Tailed Drongo scooted by.

Shortly, Badrul awoke and we breakfasted on crackers and peanut butter. Hashim showed up an hour later and we followed him down to the staircase where we had bathed the night before. A motorboat was idling. We loaded up.

Today would reveal another part of the swamp. Badrul wanted to show me huts for eco-tourism because I was interested in bringing high school students down for a visit. On the way we discussed the possibility of refurbishing an old building at Pos Iskandar and converting it into a nature center. I was excited and honored to be a part of the plans for Tasek Bera.

We motored through the swamp gawking at lotus, lily, pandanu, and Lepironia. We managed to spot a cobra swimming curly-Q, parting water like Moses in its path. A giant catfish rolled in front of the boat prompting Hashim to spring forward, spear in hand, with a futile jab at the murky depths.

We toured the huts and talked of the endless possibilities Tasek Bera offers to students and tourists interested in the outdoors. The day was growing old and we still had a drive back to KL. We decided it was time to get back to Pos Iskandar and the squeaky Pajero. Barn swallows raced and dipped in front of the boat as we skimmed back to our vehicle. A raptor carved itís way through effervescent clouds high in the sky. It felt incredible to be out of the city where swallows, cobras, raptors and pandanu replaced taxis, sidewalks and skyscrapers.

Our tour lasted several hours in the direct sun and I was now the proud owner of lobster pink legs. Hashim noticed and giggled. He looked at his bronze thighs and with a few gestures we both laughed out loud.

We arrived back too quickly, exhilarated and energized as well as exhausted. A contrasting state of affairs only achieved if mind, body and spirit have all been engaged simultaneously and exercised to their fullest capacity.

Our adventure concluded with a lightning speed trip to K.L. As Badrul and I parted we decided that we would do it again sometime, sometime real soon.

In Malaysia at the Start of the War
by Matt Salleh

The day was a bit weird. It started off OK.. We've been writing and practicing a puppet show about sea turtle nesting in my 1st grade ESL class.

About noon we got word that the war had started.

During my recess duty I scanned the rooftops and windows of nearby apartments. Halfway expecting a sniper. Paranoid, I know... but everyone is a little tense.

Guards patrolled recess.. where there were none before. Our last staff meeting dealt with security issues and our response to potential media.

A jet buzzed our school somewhere in there... oiling the wings, fleexing their muscles? Who knows.. it was unnerving.

You can imagine the thoughts in my head..

The day was normal aside from that. But I saw the kids running around, playing soccer, playing chase... and the background chatter in my mind.. and me scanning rooftops.... it's crazy to think about.. so I'll try not to..

a car just backfired and I jumped... a lot more skittish these days!

In the vein of normalcy...

I am including a list of birds I saw this past weekend up in Fraser's Hill.. a less crowded and developed version of Cameron Highlands.. It was an incredible trip I took with the birdwatching group of the Malaysian Nature Society... we only had a bout 2 hours of birding due to foggy weather.. nonetheless we saw a LOT of birds including the semi-rare Sultan's Tit and Crimson Oriole... about 20-something species total of which about 15 I had never seen before!

I will carry on with everyday life.. and I hope you can too.. but it is a bit weird here.. strange.. not dangerous.. just nervous tension in the air...

Thinking of you all!

-Matt Salleh


March 15th
Telekom Apartments
6-7 p.m.

1) Fire Tufted Barbet
2) Black Browed Barbet
3) Orange Bellied Leafbird
4) Crimson Oriole
5) Lesser Raquet Tailed Drongo
6) Bronze Drongo
7) Silver-Eared Mesia
8) Long Tailed Sibia
9) White Bellied Swiftlet
10) Streaked Spider Hunter
11) Sultan Tit
12) Abbotís Babbler
13) Orange Breasted Leafbird
14) Grey Chinned Minivet
15) White Throated Wagtail
16) Asian Flycatcher

March 16th
Road to Sultanís Palace
10-11 a.m.

1) Chestnut Capped Laughing Thrush
2) Grey Chinned Minivet
3) Golden Babbler
4) Grey Wagtail
5) Brown Shrike
6) Ferrunginous Flycatcher
7) Golden Babbler
8) Magpie Robin
9) Large Billed Crow
10) Long tailed Sibia
11) Fire Tufted Barbet
12) Bronze Drongo

Jack Kerouac's Rules for Writing

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You're a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

I love Kerouac's rules for writing.... because they are rules for living as well. From every direction we are told that our experience is unimportant and that we are not good enough. The newscasters and movie makers and advertisers want us to be afraid, insecure and discontented. They feed us stories of celebrities, rock stars, the rich and the famous. They define beauty and sell it to us. They define genius and sell it to us. They define art and sell it to us. They define music and sell it to us.

But Hakim Bey is right: The artist is NOT a special kind of person; every person is a special kind of artist. So "Be in love with yr life", however bold, magnificent, or wretched it is.... have "no fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge". For artists, poets, and nomads in America, this can be tough-- but it is vital. We must reclaim the dignity of our own lives. "Write in recollection and amazement for yourself".... WRITE FOR YOURSELF! Not to be discovered. Not to make money. Not to show everyone how cool you are. Do it for yourself-- in celebration and in mourning for your own experience.

And most of all, no matter what those uptight bastards say, never forget that "You're a Genius all the time".

Write. Write. Write.

Homeless Essentials
by Skald

I'm an avid backpacker and have been drawing a lot of parallels between lightweight hiking and homelessness. It occurred to me that I must carry everything I need into the woods with me. Because I have to CARRY it, there is a natural tendency to reduce what I need to the barest essentials. This approach applies to homelessness as well. So I decided to make a list for Urban Backpacking (aka, homelessness). Note that this is a "three season" list. A cold winter would require the addition of gloves, a warm hat, a scarf, a sweater or two, and a warm coat (none cotton)... and probably a good sleeping bag (expensive and bulky). Here's my list:

1 bookbag(A normal bookbag won't draw any sort of attention, as a bigger pack might)
1 pair mid/heavy weight hermal underwear (NOT cotton, preferably thermax or something similiar)
2 shirts (NOT cotton, preferably nylon or another quick-dry fabric)
2 convertible pants(NOT cotton, again nylon or something similiar is best. Convertible pants have a zipper on the leg and can be converted between shorts and pants)
3-4 sox(NOT cotton. Wool/synthetic blends are good, as are hiking or running sox)
6 ziploc freezer bags(To store clothes and things and to keep them dry)
Compact umbrella

Multi-purpose soap(Such as liquid Dr Bronner's... can be used as body soap, shampoo, even laundry. Must be in a sealable container).
Toothbrush(and floss if you are good! Dr. Bronner's can be diluted and used as toothpaste too!)
2 quick dry towels(for sponge baths, one to scrup with, one to dry with)
Deoderant "stone"(available at health food shops, one stone will last a whole year!)

For sleeping/camping:
8x8ft plastic sheeting (2-4mil)(This is the clear kind, used as drop cloth by painters.... we use it to make a tarp).
7x3ft plastic sheeting(As above, used as a ground cloth to sleep on)
20ft rope(Used for the ridgeline and four corners of the tarp. Sticks can be used for stakes and trees/limbs can be used as support poles
3ft "Z rest"(Used to sleep on- provides insulation and padding between the hips and shoulders. Leaves, clothes, bookbag, cardboard, etc... can be used under the legs and head. "Z rests" are very compact and thus ideal, though any sort of closed cell foam would do)

For cooking:
Soda can alcohol stove(Super small and compact and cheap. See here,Pepsi Can Stove, for how to make a stove. )
Denatured alcohol(available at hardware stores, this is the fuel for the can stove. Store in a sealable, completely air-tight container).

To keep things compact, all clothes should be rolled up tight prior to packing. By using a small bookbag, you remain stealthy. It's easy to take it into a bathroom (that can be locked); then quickly take a sponge bath with the soap and quick dry towels. When finished, wring out the towels and put them into a ziploc and then back in the bookbag. Put on clean clothes, clean up the bathroom with paper towels, and then exit. No one will notice. I've done this many times and it works great. Dry your towels at a different location.

The above method is great for laundry too. Nylon and other quick dry clothes are easy to sink wash. Plug the sink with a paper towel, quickly wash your clothes, rinse them, and then wring them out thoroughly. Put everything back in the bookbag and be sure to clean up after yourself. Dry the clothes out at a separate location.

One last note, I recommend doing only one of the above things at a time. If you spend too much time in any one bathroom, you will draw attention. So bathe and do laundry on different days, and at different locations. Of course, in the summer a river or creek is also an option. One of my greatest joys last summer was bathing in the river. Truly a wonderful experience!

Finally, a note to volunteers, advocates, and the like. Any of the items on the above list would make great gifts for homeless folks. Often people get caught up in the trappings of middle-class ideals, and don't realize how such simple things could help. In fact, the above items could be assembled, stuffed in a bookbag, and given as a care package. Please note-- never give cotton clothes to a homeless person, cotton holds moisture and sucks away warmth. The backpackers adage is "cotton kills" as many people have died of hypothermia as a result of wearing cotton in cold and wet conditions.

More Joy at Barnes and Noble
by Skald (10/18/02)

A couple of corporate slime came down to the store yesterday and fired our manager without notice. Of course he deserved it-- true believers are always the first to get it in the back. Still, the incident enflamed my rage towards work and corporate America.

Those scum drone on and on about loyalty, obedience, policy, service and yet they discard employees like trash. They "expect" two weeks notice but give none themselves.

But more maddening is the pathetic simpering of fellow employees. They whine a little but are amazingly slavish and docile. No one had enough dignity remaining to even get angry. They just ducked low and hoped they wouldnt be next.

I was furious and wanted to pound the shit out of that corporate cock-sucker Mark.... I desperately want to kick that bastard into unconciousness (some Buddhist I am!). He's the epitome of a Burroughsian "shit"... a rule quoting meddler... a policy hound. The sad fucker lives for Barnes and Noble and swells with orgasmic joy because of the ounce of authority he gets there. He'll be a perfect regional manager someday.... though he'll get it in the back eventually.

I despair for America. Are there any Men or Women left? Is anyone free? Are there any "Johnsons"... those upstanding folks who mind their own business and live as they please?

Once we had Thoreau, Whitman... Henry Miller,.... Hemingway.... Kerouac and Ginsberg.

What remains? Fat money grubbers. Docile corporate slaves. Obedient Christian fanatics: A nation of retarded TV addicts. God Bless Us. God Bless Us all.

The Joy of Work
by Skald (10/16/02)

Piss and scorn in my chest- I'm angry. I'm angry because I'm sick -- vomitous-- from working at Barnes and Noble-- tied to a cash register for 8 hours-- knees and ankles aching-- non-stop standing.... mind dulled by repetitive motion idiocy,

Weasel-managers harassing me to sell more membership cards,
The same goddam music on the intercom every fucking night,
Hawk-eyed supervisor-wannabe on my back-- looking for each and every deviation from company policy,

"not allowed" to sit, nor relax, nor chat with co-workers excessively,
"not allowed" to make a decision of any kind,
Shuffle to the intercom to call a manager for EVERY return, EVERY exchange, EVERY decision,..

If memory is accurate I had greater autonomy at my very first job with Arby's,.. when I was 16. I'm now 34.
I'd wanted a mellow job with no responsibility. I don't have responsibility but I'm hounded and chained like a fucking violent felon. I detest the place and the people who work there-- especially the smug morons who quote "policy" like religious fanatics. These trained monkeys inspire violent and wild fantasies--- I want to crucify them in each corner of the store. I want to dance and burn the place down.

This is sad-- corporate drones like this aren't even respectable villians. Those rapacious, black-eyed bastards in India-- they were scoundrels-- lying, hawk-faced bastards... they screwed me again and again but there was style to their theivery and blood in their arteries.

But the pale fucks at Barnes and Noble? How can you respect THEM? They are more akin to ticks than hawks.... ticks who suck and suck and suck but never draw blood. Bloodless, dis-satisfied, disease-carrying parasites. Their disease is desperation.

I want to slap them, piss on their books, spray semen on the computers, shout like a beserker, bite their grey necks...

Their humiliation enrages me- what does it take to sink that low? How desperate and fearful do you have to get? How empty must your life become? At what point did they surrender their dignity? When did the "Readers Advantage Card" become integral to their lives?

Its terrible to realize that the likes of Thoreau, Whitman, Basho, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Miller, etc... are housed in that place. I imagine they would prefer to be elsewhere. I certainly would.

Kristin In an Indiana Coffee Shop
by Skald

Kristin is scratching her bare feet- she looks soft and warm and comfortable--- loose tan jeans, burgandy shirt with white fleck spots and a large "Ganesh" sitting on the front;

Her auburn-brown hair hangs loose around the shoulders, soft smooth skin, very inviting......
She's sunk back in a deep cushioned chair-- clutching a book with her left hand... nibbling the fingernails of the other one.

Her nose is in profile (I want to squeeze it)-- the tiny silver stud is to my side. She has a thin thread bracelet on her right wrist.

Her left leg is crossed over the right, left foot bare... toe nails tipped with orange henna-stains. The other foot is still in its plastic flip-flop---- henna toes are exposed. She curls her feet while nibbling nails and turning pages.

Thoughts About Jessica
by Skald

She was always smiling-- so much so that I strain to find synonyms for the word-- for she had as many smiles as eskimoes have snow.... such a simple thing yet she could express surprise, curiousity, ecstacy, warmth, concern, irony, enthusiasm, sadness, innocence, and seduction with subtle variations of her grin.

Optimism was a decision for her- her chosen route out of a painful childhood. At some time before I met her she decided not to surrender, not to give up, not to follow the path of bitterness, not to wallow in anger, not to despair. She beat everyone who stood in her way-- teachers, bullies, grown ups, critics, her boyfriend--- she beat them with a relentless determination to be happy.

She beat them all.

HoboJournal, 9/30/02 entry
by Skald

I continue to mope and fret about money and do nothing about impending poverty--
I've given up... have no motivation and must be thinking I'll be magically rescued from this situation. What to do? I know I'm depressed and have much more to work through regarding Jessica... and jobs and life. I just don't know what to do.

What a sorry state I'm in-- I'm tired, I'm fat with a fat gut, I do no exercise, I have no spark- no fire.

For Jessica, June 4th, 2003
by AJ

Today, on your birthday, I remember you and honor you. I honor your joy, your exuberant spirit, your love of life.

May you live on through me-- and through every life that you touched. May we keep you alive by living joyful, exuberant, loving lives.

You are missed.
You are loved.

Vipassana
by Skald

How to describe the extraordinary experiences of the last two weeks? Being essentially wordless, it is near impossible to illustrate with words. All I can describe is the effects of the 10 day Vipassana course I completed. I feel lighter, more balanced, more harmonious... Happier! I feel I passed through a purifying fire. My mind and body hum with energy.

What a tremendous gift these courses are... absolutely free to any who are willing to make the commitment and work diligently. As promised, there was no collection plate at the end... only a table where you could leave donations if you wanted to. I left a very small one, as it was all I could afford. I wish I could have given more, as the benefits were truly priceless.

I look on those 10 days as a sort of spiritual "basic training".... a wonderful foundation for a deeper and more meaningful life. I encourage all Hobopoets to investigate this technique for themselves. Courses are held world-wide: Vipassana Courses.