6/14/02, Luxembourg — It seems hard to believe that only a few days ago I was foolishly ranting and raving about Maastricht being the prettiest place in Europe. Somehow, the last time I was here I missed out on the scenic walking tour through all the old medieval stuff, which is several km long. Now I realize that, when compared to Luxembourg, Maastricht is nothing but a dismal, depressing ghetto that falls somewhere in between the black hole of Calcutta and Tijuana’s red light district in scenic beauty and culture. All this wonder here, and they even have a kiosk in town that gives free Internet service for one hour a day. Why would I ever want to return to my dismal and uneventful life in Azusa?

The only downside I’ve found so far is that the hills are about like those in San Francisco, which tend to cramp one’s bicycling style. I’m still not sure where I will go from here, that is if I ever decide to leave. I’m waiting for an answer to my emailed questions about the rail pass.

I’ve long been fascinated by how, mixed in with all the hucksterism, snake oil, knee-jerk ideology, inflated egos and just plain weirdness of California’s counter-culture, fascinating people doing incredibly interesting, vital work are out there to be found if you know what you’re looking for.  I have a finely tuned BS meter, and the charlatans usually come across loud and clear.  But I’ve learned that this is very much “one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor” kind of stuff.  Caveat emptor will always apply, but these days I’m less cynical than I was in my more idealistic younger years about the various motivations involved when money changes hands.  Far be it from me to judge what has true value for another person.

I’ve recently begun reading a book called Madame Blavatsky’s Baboon: A History of the Mystics, Mediums, and Misfits Who Brought Spiritualism to America, by Peter Washington.  So far, the author is doing an entertaining job of bringing a reasoned, empirical analysis to a history of alternative spiritual/religious traditions.  I particularly like the manner in which he shows how, despite hucksterism and fraud integrally woven in from the beginning, the cultural, spiritual and philosophical channels between East and West that opened up in the nineteenth century (precipitated by the Industrial Revolution) paved the way for legitimate critiques of the dominant culture(s) and provided fertile ground for new ideas and experiments to take root and grow.  The challenge, as always, is to find the grains of wheat hidden in the bushels of chaff, without despairing and tossing out the whole mess as not worth the bother.

N.B. In the summer of 2001, Bill set out for Central America on his fire-engine red BMW motorcycle, “Der Gegenchrist.” He also acquired a new travel email address inspired by his heroes from the film “Easy Rider,”: sleazyrdr@hotmail.com. I missed his first few emails on the trip because he sent them to my work address, where I was inundated with all things The Lord of the Rings and deleted them under the assumption that they were part of the voluminous waves of spam coming through (this was a handful of months before the first film in Peter Jackson’s trilogy was released). Fortunately, before long the light bulb went on and I decided to open up an email and see if the “Sleazy Rider” who kept writing to me might be my dear wandering brother. Lo and behold, it was!

6/25/01, Puerto Vallarta, Mexico – I’m in Puerto Vallarta now. This is a nice little beach resort town, but, since the last time I was here, 10 years ago, it’s gotten way too touristy, and of course the prices have gone way up. You’ve all heard the warnings about allowing minorities to move into the neighborhood. The damn gringos are already complaining about riding in the last four rows of bus seats, and soon will want to use the same restrooms and eat at the same lunch counters as honest, decent people. Read more…

10/8/00, Tangier – Death to the great satan America, and may the fleas of a thousand camels inhabit the undergarments of the godless heathen Western infidel.

I’ve finally managed to cross the treacherous European continent and have arrived safely in a holy land under the protection and blessing of our great prophet Mohammed, may the faithful sons of Islam continue to sing his praises for a thousand and one eternities.

Allah in his infinite wisdom and kindness has guided me to a hotel room directly beneath a minaret, where I am blessed with his divine wisdom and inspiration raining down upon my ears from the heavens five times a day, every day of the god-damn week, beginning at 6 AM. This happens whether I need inspiration or not. The mullahs don’t even let me sleep late on Sundays.

Needless to say, I’ve come in first place in the Amsterdam-Africa bicycle endurance race. Not only that, I’ve also gotten the awards for oldest rider, youngest rider, onliest rider, and dirtiest bicycle with baldest tires and foulest cycling shorts.

So far, Morocco seems sort of like a cross between Mexico and Thailand, with a lot of Indian weirdness thrown in. They even sell Aladdin’s lamps in the bazaars over here, and I think I’ll get a new one. The one I have from a previous Middle Eastern trip seems to have a defective genie.

There is also never a dull moment in the traffic over here. The Arab drivers are delightfully unpredictable, and every bit as entertaining as the homicidal truck drivers in India.

I have noticed one down side to life in an Islamic country, however. Sitting in a sidewalk café watching the chicks parade by just isn’t quite the invigorating experience that it is in France.

Allah Akhbar,

Bill

10/2/99 — I am due to turn in the bike soon, and after these roads and traffic it will be nice to take buses and trains for a change. I’m hoping that within a month or so my adrenalin level will be down to that of a kamikaze pilot.

Only a few more major stops in India, then back to Thailand, Malaysia and Singapore. I should be back in five or six weeks. After resting up for a month or so I still want to point my handlebars south for a nice, leisurely, safe ride to Costa Rica, to rest up and read all I can find about the stock and mutual fund markets. I have a few hobbies I want to get into, and I need to plan my next great adventure.

I still have a love-hate relationship with India. Next time I come back I won’t just rent a bike and go in almost any direction; I’ll research a few places that I think I might like and go by train or bus.

See you in a month or two.

Love,

Bill

9/22/99 — I was beginning to think of myself as India’s Easy Rider. After this far I’m too saddle sore to think of this ride as easy.

Road conditions could easily be described as somewhat primitive. Also, gas stations and most restaurants don’t have bathrooms, so it is not uncommon to see Indians relieving themselves, rather immodestly, by the roadside.

Being more of Western culture, I was at least discreet enough to go into the bushes, that is until I encountered my first cobra in the wild. I didn’t get all that close to it, but the flat head was unmistakeable. From now on I prefer to think of myself as Easy Flasher.

By the way, I had gone at least 50 km before I remembered why I had wanted to stop.

N.B. Bill’s first official Rogue Vagabond adventure, in the summer of 1999, was largely taken up with a motorcycle trip through India.

9/8/99 — “…I’d thought I had seen it all by now, but the other day I stopped for gas and walked down the road to the bus stop for a cold soda. When I got there, there was a hit-and-run victim in very bad shape. About 50 people were waiting for the bus and all seemed to be ignoring him.

“I tried to be of some help. He was in shock, and I almost got into a fight getting some gas cans to keep his feet up. I was at least able to slow the bleeding in his arm most of the way, but had to buy ice and dirty rags from the Coke vendor to put a cold compress on a very serious head wound. During this time two traffic police and three police patrolmen arrived. They acted like they were doing me a favor by radioing for an ambulance. I’m sure all the cops had much more first aid knowledge than I, but they just stood by. I couldn’t understand what they were talking about, but it sounded like it was probably last night’s cricket game or something of equal importance. Meanwhile, the crowd at the bus stop was getting more and more pissed off about the late arrival of the bus. Read more…