One of the few things I wish I had done while in S. America last month was visit the Amazon. There is a place in Colombia called Leticia which borders Peru and Brazil. Now, I may not be right in saying this, but I believe someone told me that the only way to actually get to Leticia is by plane or boat, they are, apparently, no roads which lead to this small southernmost Colombian town. From what I understand and have heard the Amazon experience there and the surroundings areas is the real deal.

Let’s be honest though, my “real deal” and the actual “real deal” are two completely different things. Had I had the pleasure of reading Grann’s The Lost City of Z before or while I was in Colombia there is a pretty good chance I would have made the trek to the Amazon, only if it had been for a couple of days. After reading this book all I want to do is get there and just have a taste, albeit a small one, of the Amazon.

The Lost City of Z struck the right chord with me in more way than one. Not only was it about exploration but it was also about mapping, two things which have always held my attention. It chronicles the life of Percy Fawcett and his adventures and exploration of the Amazon and his search for “The lost city of Z.”

Grann, in his attempt to tell Fawcett’s story, takes it upon himself to retrace the path that Fawcett last took while looking for Fawcett’s remains and the alleged “Lost City.” I must say that this was the least interesting part of the story. I almost felt as though Grann’s own interest in finding “Z” was some what contrived and was really only there for the purpose of the book, which makes sense seeing as he’s writing a book about it an, but at the same time I wanted to believe that he was genuinely interested. I’m confident that the reason he chose to go so far as going to the Amazon was only to facilitate Fawcett’s story and create his own, but at the same time the chapters that were about Grann himself were certainly the least interesting.

Oh, there’s more…

I was supposed to return to the United States today. I’m not.

Every now and then I get one of those cheesy “out of body” type sensations. At the moment I´m kind of dealing with that sensation. At this exact moment I´m physically on a bart train riding to the airport to begin my Colombian vacation. Mentally and existentially i´m anywhere but. I should be ecstatic, I should be thrilled and I should be full of adrenaline. Instead, I feel like a submarine that has just received a fatal, sinking blow from an enemy torpedo. That pretty much sums up the sensation I´m feeling at the moment.

It´s as though I´m looking down upon my dead and bloated body (I know, awesome image right?) right now. It´s amazing how quickly I’ve gone from feeling so alive to feeling so empty and dead.

I had great expectations that while I would be gone all the pieces of my life that I had been hoping to fall into place would. Instead, only 30 minutes before leaving for the airport, a person who I would say has grown to be one of my closest friends over the last 3 months told me that she really didn´t think it was a good idea that we continue to talk. In a way her reasoning may be right and I can´t or couldn´t argue with her, but it also left me heartbroken. Like I said, not exactly how I imagine feeling on my way to the airport.

It´s never been hard for me to correlate what I´m reading with what´s going on directly around me. Sometimes it´s a stretch (I`ll admit it) but other times it´s just a plain old coincidence. In this instance it´s half stretch, half coincidence. Stiff, you see, is about cadavers or dead bodies for those of you who live on mars.

But in an effort to turn things around (from that bizarre “out of body” sensation) I´ll start telling you how that experience, my travel to Colombia and and Mary Roach´s book are related.

In 1992 in the city of Barranqilla, Colombia a gentleman by the name of Oscar Rafael Hernandez was “bludgeoned” over the head while responding to a request to appear at the Universidad Libre. It’s reported Hernandez woke up in a vat of fermaldyhyde next to a handful of corpses that were to be used for “medicine.” Mr. Hernandez was fortunate, unlike the roughly 13 other people actually murdered at the Universidad, he survived, while those others bodies where used for dissection and who knows what else at the medical facility. At this point I’d really just like to thank Mary Roach for the advice to stay away from Universidad Libre.

This little story comes early in Roach’s book while she explains the art of human dissection for medical practice as well as the history of said dissection. Throughout the means of obtaining corpses for this purpose has always been questionable and Mr. Hernandez’s story just goes to demonstrate that murder for corpses still happens. That said though it shouldn’t really come as much of a surprise that physical dissection is a dying (no pun intended) educational tool.

While here in Colombia I had the opportunity to actually visit a medical school campus at the Universidad de Antiocha in Medellin. While I was not exactly vigilant about my safety I felt pretty secure that no one was going to try and kill me so they could see what was inside me. If they did, they’d probably be in for a shock anyways, I don’t think there’s much there anyhow. The campus itself though was really nice, I can’t say that I’d liked to be cut open there due to the lack of air conditioning and the patient which we say being moved around on gurney’s outside over speed bumps. But for the most part, it was quite impressive. And like I said the fact that there was no one lurking around ready to take my body and sell it helped, just a little.

Now I must take the time to thank Mary for my next vacation location. I think I would like to visit the University of Tennessee and their anthropological research facility. For this is where human decomposition is studied. Just lovely. I think a nice stroll through the forested grove behind the UT Medical Center would be quite romantic on a humid May afternoon, despite the people spread out lying on their backs in the grove. Or maybe a jaunt around the ponds near by would be nice. So long, that is, you don’t mind strolling amongst a bunch of decomposing bodies or jaunts around ponds in which there are bodies submerged for the same purpose, the study of human decomposition. Ah Mary, you’ve enlightened me so.

Unfortunately at this point in my review I must scorn Ms. Roach (after all, so far all i’ve done is trumpet her). I happened to be on an airplane while reading the chapter titles “Beyond the Black Box.” As you may be able to guess this particular chapter deals with planes crashes and how the bodies of the victims may be studied to determine the cause of the crash. As you can imagine it was pretty unsettling reading about that 35k feet in the air. Reading this chapter mid-flight was very much a kin to being the only gringo riding on a 12 hour night bus through Colombia during which the movie Hostel is played, not scary at all, I promise. Luckily in the case of Roach’s book this was a short chapter. And luckily for me on that bus I made it where I was headed in one piece.

At the end of the day I liked Mary’s book. So much so that I let my travel mate David borrow, read and consequently destroy the book (due to back sweat, I’ll tell you the story if you really want to know). After which the book was loaned to Elena a friend we made on our travels. The only thing I will be critical of is the end of the book. I started to get a little bit bored. It’s true, it happened. It almost felt as though Ms. Roach or her publisher needed a little bit more for the book to actually be considered a book and threw in some filler to make up for its length or something else. Honestly, I’m not really sure. Despite that though, everyone who recommended this book to me was right, it was good, good in a “some day I may read that chapter again” kind of way. So, there you have it, if you’re interested in medicine, corpses and a have that little organ donor sticker on your driver’s license, I recommend Stiff.

I’m am so relieved to have read this prior to my upcoming trip to Colombia. Even though the story takes place in Bolivia, it’s nice to know that should I be imprisoned in Latin America, there is a slight chance that I may be put in a prison such as San Pedro. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking to get imprisoned, but from what I gather, in Bolivia at least, being “locked up” has the potential to be a party.

Sometimes you read a piece of non-fiction and think it’s too over the top, too extravagant or too complicated to be a true story. Well, at least I do. Luckily, this book was written so simplistically that it’s obvious there’s a lot of truth to what’s being said. But, I kind of think this book could have benefited from some extravagances or complications in the story. I’m not trying to be arrogant, but I kind of think this book was written for sixth graders. Of course the content wouldn’t suitable for them but the writing itself certainly could.

The story revolves around one of the authors, Thomas McFadden, and his time spent in San Pedro prison in Bolivia after being locked up for attempting to smuggle cocaine out of the country. Seeing as I’m not even stupid enough to attempt something like that, this guy’s IQ must be in the single digits. A part of me thinks that while reading this story the authors were attempting to illicit a feeling of sympathy from the readers for the jailed smuggler. Really? Come on. My theory on this is that he committed the crime (or more importantly got caught) and therefore should serve the time.

For me this story was less about Mr. McFadden than it was about San Pedro. I’m not going to go out of the way and say that this prison is equatable to one of our very own federal “country club” prisons like Butner Prison, with their manicured lawns and cable television (where Bernie Madoff is incarcerated), but in terms of Central/South American jails I think it’s about as close as you can get.

Do Not Pass Go, Go Directly To Jail…

“In West Philadelphia born and raised, on the playground where I spent most of my days, chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool, and all shooting some b-ball outside of the school, when a couple guys, they were up to no good, started making trouble in my neighborhood, I got in one little fight and my mom got scared, and said ‘you’re moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Aire.’”

Errr, oops, rewind, wrong story. It should be a little something more like this…

“In South Philadelphia born and kind of raised, in the alley where I spent most of my days (and nights), chatting it up, grovelling, fighting like mad, and all smashing some skulls outside on the street, when a couple of friends, they followed me along, we started making trouble in the city of brotherly love, I beat someone silly and the cops got mad, and I said I’m going to Indiana to get away from it all. The cops caught up with me and sent me to jail, just like they said they always would, I made some new friends and tried to turn my life around and this here is the story I’m going to tell.”

In all likelihood you’re familiar with American History X. After all, it was a pretty popular and powerful movie. I don’t like to be cliche but it would be ridiculous of me not to recognize the similarities between this book and that movie. The book itself at one point actually makes a reference to this fact, but rest assured Frank Meeink is a real person unlike X’s fictional Derek Vineyard.

Meeink’s story is exactly something that you would expect to see a 20/20, Dateline or 60 Minutes news story on. It’s got all of the right elements. Obviously you start with the hatred, move along to addiction, followed by fathering children, turning around, returning to addiction and eventually becoming whole again. But, I will say that reading it in autobiographical form was a lot more powerful than a short television vignette. Sure you may not get the actual visuals but they’re really not necessary. The words are themselves all the visuals you need.

It’s really quite a scary story. For me one of the hardest things was reading about Frank’s upbringing. It was physically hard for me to continue reading about his mother and the way he was treated in her home. If reading something like that doesn’t make someone grateful for the way they were raised I really don’t know what will. This is of course the beginning of his story and as you can guess it only gets harder from there.

Don’t stop believen’

When this book was first given to me I got a little worried. Was the person who gifted this book to me trying to tell me something? Do I need to search for “meaning?” I honestly wasn’t quite sure what to do with this book, I was perplexed. Having never heard of the book before I looked at the title and took this book to be in the self-help genre. A genre which I typically steer away from. Of course, things are not always as they seem.

The first word out of my mouth upon finishing reading this was “intense.” I’m not quite sure that another word could amply explain the way I felt. My fear of it being a self-help book was quickly put to bed and in it’s place was a fear that perhaps I, myself, am not quite adequate.

The book itself is not a story but gives the reader an inside look at “how… everyday life in a concentration camp [was] reflected in the mind of the average prisoner?” If you were to try and answer that question from an outside perspective (by outside I mean from the perspective of someone who was not actually in a concentration camp) you would maybe have some ideas of how life was reflected. In all fairness, you’d be wrong.

In what is a juxtaposition of psychiatry, philosophy and religion, Viktor Frankl imparts on the reader why there is a “reason” to live. This book is broken down into two sections, the first of which is the section on the concentration camp circumstances and the second is that of Frankl’s theory of Logotherapy.

It’s for your own good that you keep reading…

I like airports. I like airplanes. Do you like airports? Do you like airplanes? (Don’t worry this is not a Dr. Seuss themed post, but come to think of it, you may see something like that in the future.)

I’ve had this book on my list to read ever since I visited William Stout Architecture Books a while back. It’s a bizarre choice, I know. I guess it was something in the title that encouraged me to pick it up, you know two things I like “naked” and “airport” (if you didn’t know I like the word or the implications of the word “naked” now you do).

Ok, this book is actually not about airports at all. Ha, got ya. Of course it is! Not only is it about airports it also dives into a bit of the history of flight, airlines, routes and pretty much everything related to aviation. Personally, I was kind of hoping the book really would just stick to airports, even though that wasn’t the case I did still find it incredibly interesting.

I really do like airports. I know some people dread them but honestly, I know of no other place for better people watching. You get all types of people in one place. The wayward traveler, the businessman, the family (with mother dragging small child), the geriatric, the cute brunette (my favorite), the lovers and of course the distressed. Take for example my most recent trip the airport this past Sunday. While waiting in the security line at Lindbergh Field (San Diego) I nearly saw a fight break out when a woman tried to cut in line. Whether or not she really did try to cut I don’t know but the verbal battle was pretty entertaining. It was really just a lot of huffing and puffing but I couldn’t help but chuckle a little as I observed this going on. Airports are truly one place where you can see it all.

Book stuff, this way…

“You Can’t Win,” possible theme for 2010, could very well be. That very first week of the year, I thought, no one can beat me. I almost thought about screaming “I’m on top of the world” while standing on the bow of a ship, but I didn’t. And damn, am I glad I didn’t. Right about now “you can’t win” pretty much sums things up. I’m not gonna wallow and look for pity and sympathy, it’s not my style instead I’ll just start kicking some ass, taking names and stay out of jail, kind of the same way Mr. Jack Black did. Oh, and before I delve too far into this review I should mention that this is not the big boned Jack Black from Nacho Libre, this is Jack Black the professional hobo, born in 1881. (visual comparison below)

If you didn’t know it you could almost mistake this book for fiction. Yet, it is not. It is a true account of this remarkable professional hobo/outlaw written by the man himself. Originally written in order to help dissuade criminals from continuing on their downward spiral this book has never faded (after all the book has been reprinted).

His lifestyle and the adventures therein as displayed in the book are very representative of the times. Here is a guy who grew up stealing, freight hopping, doing stints in jail, escaping from jail and for a time getting hooked on opium. Of course it’s only representative of the “yegg” community (criminal brotherhood) of the time but at the same time displays the futility of the justice system and the prisons in early America.

Can you win?

“Chuck, it’s over. We’re through… Yes, I am breaking up with you, I’m sorry.” Yep, I said that back in my review of Pygmy. You can’t blame me though, I thought it was a bad book and really didn’t think I’d enjoy any of his other works that I had yet to read. I suppose what I really need to do is break up with his fiction side cause after reading this book I don’t want to break it off with his non-fictional tendencies.

Two and a half years ago I was living in San Diego at home (that means with my parents). Two and a half years ago I wanted nothing more than to leave San Diego and move out of home (that means away from my parents). I love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but do you have any idea how hard it is for a guy in his mid twenties to bring a girl home to his parents house? Yeah, you get my drift.

When I was researching where my next move would be I had a shortlist of cities. They included Seattle, Portland, San Fran, Austin, Salt Lake and Denver. Eventually whittled down to the first three I had a decision to make. Of those three cities I had been to Seattle and San Fran and knew people in each, as for Portland I had neither visited nor knew anyone there. Portland would have been the adventurous, spontaneous and scariest of the choices, I’d already did that when I moved to New Zealand and therefore justified choosing San Fran. I still have yet to visit Portland despite it being the one city I would consider moving to now.

Sweet home… Portland…

Ok, I’m not going to lie, nor am I embarrassed to say it, the cover of this book got me. How could anyone resist a bad ass skull? Just look at it! Once I actually read the leaf though I thought it would be a pretty interesting read. And as someone kindly pointed out to me would be somewhat relevant given the current crisis in Mexico (admittedly, I hadn’t really thought about that but was grateful it was mentioned).

Mexico and the history therein has always been pretty fascinating to me. My experiences in Mexico are probably much like many other gringos this side of the border, having been to most of the resort spots and very few of the rural and historical locales. I must say though, I learned more about Mexico growing up in San Diego on the border of Tijuana and from all my Hispanic friends than I did on any of those trips or in any classroom. Some of those all night, school night trips to the clubs in TJ taught me some things I can’t repeat here since my mom and dad read this, nor do I really want all of you knowing either. And that school trip to Ensenada where el gordo befriended Karl and I, I was forced to eat two disgusting sandwiches (thanks to Karl), our host mother used “milk” as a euphemism for the alcohol Karl and I reeked of and Laura’s abandonment of her cigarettes in a tampon box will most likely always remain the most important history of Mexico for me.

But this book is not an all encompassing history of Mexico. Instead is more specific, it examines the history of one of the largest cities in the world, Mexico, D.F. When you think of Mexico City what do you think of? The first things that pop into my head are enormously large in size and population, traffic, smog and danger. I hadn’t really ever considered the history of the city though and how it came to be so crowded. Well, John Ross has taken it upon himself to tell us in El Monstruo.

Honestly, this book did not grip me the way I was hoping it would. Somehow I actually found myself just reading the words on the pages at times without really paying any attention to what they were saying. At times I found it too broad and at others too dense. Of course I can understand that writing style to a degree given that Mexico City has a longer history than of those in the United States. And I do I completely and utterly respect the work that Mr. Ross put into writing this book yet I can’t exactly tell you that you should go read it.

“El Monstruo” por favor, por su salud…

The way I see it, my last book review, Run, had none of the personal stuff so you can pretty much assume you’re going to get more than your fair share here.

It’s been about 7 years since I last went scuba diving. Pretty sure I was taking in the Great Barrier Reef in Australia and I remember it being incredible. There are a couple other dives I have etched into my memory including shark diving with my brother in Nassau, night diving with my friend Mike, playing hang man on a slate with Mike sitting on the ocean floor 100 ft. below, and unsuccessfully lobster diving. Ok, those are quite a few dives that are etched. It’s amazing, yet not at all surprising, how much a book about diving can spark in me all these memories and give me the urge to want to dive again.

If you haven’t already figured out that this book has something to do with scuba diving I recommend you bow out now. I’ll only be a little offended. Shadow Divers is a true story of men on a mission to discover the undiscovered, underwater, at depths which were previously thought to be unsearchable.

When Bill Nagle, diver and boat captain, is given a set of coordinates of a location just off the coast of New Jersey where a fellow captain believes there to be a sunken something or other, he gathers a crack team of divers to do some exploring a la Indiana Jones. What they discover 200+ feet below the surface is a wreck divers wet dream. A WWII era U-Boat that no one had known was there. I know, I too was hoping that it would somehow have been the cast of The Jersey Shore but I think that’s a bit too contemporary.

Similar to other treasure hunting type stories there is the ever present sense of competition. Just as Tommy Thompson had to deal with Wally Kreisle in Ship of Gold, Nagel and his cohort John Chatterton had to deal with another boat captained by Steve Bielinda.

Dive right in…