Piranha I Caught in Peru’s Amazon. Eat ‘Em Before they Eat You, My Motto.

By Skip Kaltenheuser

Catching piranha is the ultimate fisherman’s no-brainer, though it does give one pause when taking a quick cooling-off swim in the same spot. The hardest part is hook removal. In the Amazon they use a hand-carved wooden phallus to pry open the mouth and hold the jaws open so one keeps one’s fingers.  It’s not the easiest image to get out of one’s mind. Here’s the occasion that took me there. The primary spice on my fish was a local pepper called Aji Pinguita, loosely translated to little monkey-dick, nine on the hotness schedule. The piranha were an interesting prelude to the quest that came after. We also ate varieties of catfish, of which there are a zillion species (at least over 1,300) in the Amazon, from armored ones that can waddle from one stream to another to ones big enough to swallow a small pig to the dreaded 5 mm candiru.

101 Things To Do with Cockroaches

By Ed Landry

I am thinking of a filthy, disgusting creature that wasn’t invited into your home and just won’t go away.  No, this is not a lawyer joke nor am I thinking about your uncle.  Because of the types of places I have gone, particularly third world destinations, war torn countries and disaster sites, I have come to expect cockroaches to be one of my traveling companions or at least my welcoming party. But at least let me begin with some good news. There are no cockroaches in Antarctica. If I come up with anything else I will let you know.MORE

Rattlesnake

By Richard Carroll

I was on assignment in Northern Arizona and booked at a hotel where a Native American Executive Chef was working. A confused Rattlesnake slipped into the kitchen and met his demise. A small piece of grilled rattler tasted like chewy chicken. I felt sorry for the snake and for sure that was my first and last snake tasting experience.

Fried Grasshoppers – Cooked to Perfection

By Ed Boitano

For me, traveling to a destination is to immerse myself in the local culture. This includes, of course, sampling regional cuisine. On a recent press trip to Mexico City, I stumbled upon a restaurant that specialized in pre-Columbian food items. When I saw the Aztec dish of Fried Grasshoppers on the menu, I knew it was to be a match made in happen. Yes, they were crunchy, but also a strong source of protein. Slipping them into a tortilla, slathered with guacamole (the avocado also from Mexico) and a little salsa, made my dining experience a delightful pleasure. And, of course, everyone at my table wanted a taste of the critters before their transition into the tortilla. It proved to be nice moment of bonding with my fellow travelers.

Okra Soup

By Richard Frisbie

Its base is the typical combination of pork and beef broth served to locals in Curacao, with shrimp and some fish added, then thickened to an almost mucous consistency with lots of okra. My table companions turned their noses up at the delightfully fragrant bowl of soup because it was a thick as honey and stickier. It looked most unappetizing. I learned that to eat it, the trick was to rotate my spoon in circles on the viscous surface, slowly raising it to break the bonds of the slimy, clingy liquid. Still, strings like melted mozzarella on a pizza slice stretched with the spoon to my mouth in a sticky web bursting with flavor. If the okra soup wasn’t so good I wouldn’t have worked so messily hard to finish it.

Fried Bees

By Fyllis Hockman

Fried bees are a delicacy in China but I was still surprised to find a plate of them on our banquet table. Having already tasted duck feet webbing and grimaced at some jellyfish, I figured how bad can a fried bee be. But when I picked one up with my chopsticks, I demurred. I just couldn’t bring myself to eat something with whom I had just made eye contact. I blinked first….

Bowl of Chinese Soup

By James Boitano

This is not the strangest food I’ve ever encountered on a trip. I’ve had snake in China, whale in the Faroe Islands and kangaroo and crocodile in Australia. But none of those were actually that exotic tasting. But one of the most surprising things I ate earlier this year was a simple bowl of soup noodles in Beijing. I was on a 10 hour layover there and decided to take a city tour of the Forbidden City. Arriving at 5:00 am from an overnight flight from Kazakstan, I spent the next five hours on a tour of the city. By late morning I was exhausted and most of all famished. The tour included a ‘traditional Chinese breakfast.’ I was ecstatic when I found out it was one of my favorite things: soup noodles.  I was led into a modest traditional restaurant where I was the only foreigner and the guide helped me order a traditional bowl of noodles.  Ready to savor the meaty broth and thick satisfying noodles, I tucked in… and it was tasteless. It tasted exactly as if you added boiling water to top ramen without the flavoring packet: limp noodles in hot water. I tried to add some spice to get some flavoring out of it but was admonished by the guide. No, we do not eat spicy for breakfast. I gave up after that, and thought I’d settle for tea. Oh, no, my guide told me. We do not drink tea for breakfast. So what did they have? A sprite. I know, I know: I was just another barbarian visiting the Imperial City. The city’s tastes were obviously much too refined for me.

Pickled Grasshoppers & Beetles Snack

By Raoul Pascual

When I was still in the Philippines, we had a friend who came from the Ilocus region (which is the northern most part of the Philippines). The Ilocanos (as they are called) are known for their industrious spirit and frugality. They survive even the worst drought. It is no surprise that they have this delicacy. I had never heard of it. One day our Ilocano friend received a gift from home – a jar of black juice with insects swimming inside. When I asked what it was, she readily handed me a soft, fermented grasshopper. The soup had the consistency of dirty water on its early evolutionary stage to becoming oil so it had the darkness of used motor engine oil. It smelled awful like soaked forgotten socks but my friend was excited to see me taste her favorite snack so how could I refuse? I took a bite and ripped its crunchy head off. It tasted like mowed grass dipped in a sewer. It wasn’t spicy – so there was nothing to deaden the taste. It was simply repugnant. I chewed it a couple of times hoping there would be a redeeming flavor in the mix. None came. I imagined its tiny antlers and little legs scurrying excitedly at their new home. I retched it out. My friend laughed. I had to gargle. Worst food in the planet.

Pizza Napoletana: Naples’ Gift to the World

By Ringo Boitano

My dream was about to become a reality. Based in Los Angeles, I was used to taunts from my otherwise wonderful East Coast friends, who were never shy about battering me with people in Southern California don’t know what REAL pizza is. Though I had eaten my way through New York, Boston and Philly in the past and had sampled their delicious pies – I would ask my friends countless times why it was a REAL pizza and others were not. The standard reply was It’s just better.

Now, as I stood on the shores of Naples, I was about to experience the real REAL THING. I had prepared myself with plenty of research for this sacred occasion. The word pizza was first documented in AD 997. Baker Raffaele Esposito from Naples is often given credit for creating the first such pizza pie. Unlike the wealthy minority, Neapolitans required inexpensive food that could be consumed quickly. Pizza, sold by street vendors or informal restaurants, met this need. The early pizzas (known to the world as Pizza Napoletana) consumed by Naples’ poor were prepared with simple and fresh ingredients: a basic dough, San Marzano tomatoes, grown in the volcanic soil of Mount Vesuvius, a splash of olive oil and some salt with no cheese, basil and fancy toppings. The pie was then baked in a wood-burning oven made of volcanic stones from Mount Vesuvius. MORE

Hot Goat Meat of Andhra Pradesh, India

By Ed Landry

My friend and I really love hot food. It was 1987 and we were on assignment in Southern India with a group called The Bible League. We had visited remote villages in the interior and had returned to Andhra Pradesh and needed a rest. This particular region of India has the reputation of having the spiciest and most deadly cuisine on the continent. Dog and I (yes, his nickname is “Dog”) were looking forward to a good meal. We needed a break from the village food, especially the rancid Ghee we ate sitting on dirt floors with cats crawling on our food. By the way, Ghee, when it is fresh, is clarified butter but Indian Ghee that has aged in the heat for years sitting open on a shelf has the flavor and texture of dog vomit so we were ready for a change of diet. It was good to get back into a city.

Recipe … if you dare!

The post The Good, the Bad and the Inedible: T-Boy Writers at the Table appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Joke of the Week

Thanks to Wyne of Mandaluyong, Philippines

Original Artwork by Raoul Pascual

Raoul’s 2 cents

Caricatures of Life

If you don’t want to ponder, move on to the Jokes below.

It is caricature week for me at my church during our Annual Summer Adventure Week where I am stationed at the Parent’s Lounge.I don’t know why but when I’m drawing people’s faces, I am transformed into their Father Confessor. They open up their lives to me. Couples share how they met and what they do.

I met a librarian who told me they have historical books not open to the public — 1st editions and drafts of famous books. (Remind me to steal those books later.) His wife studied in Washington DC and dreamed of writing national policies but children came, and she decided to be a stay-at-home Mom. There was an electrical engineer from Cuba who pointed upwards and said he designs the lamp posts in the city. His wife who is from the Dominican Republic got so excited when we talked about poverty around the world and said that in Cuba, they are so hard up that mothers wash and reuse disposable diapers. Ken is a classically-trained guitarist who carries a guitar pick wherever he goes in case he has an opportunity to perform. Nehemiah comes from an African village who suffered a whole year waiting to be reunited with family while he finishes his studies at Biola. Eleazer showed me a video of his dangerous work: hauling crude oil from the oil rigs around the city.

Moms and grandmoms posed with their little ones. And for the kids who could converse, I encouraged them with tips about life choices in an AI world. A teenager dreamed of being a professional basketball player but he didn’t grow tall so he shifted to soccer. In case he doesn’t make it professionally he wants to be a pilot. A strict grandma bribed her kids to get good grades and fined them if they didn’t. Today her kids are successful but she thinks she overdid her discipline because when she warned them of the dangers of an early marriage she didn’t expect they’d still be unmarried today. A radiant smile of a lady with two young kids hid her hardships as a single Mom. A Dad had his adopted twin kids jumping all over him yet the joy of having children never left him. Aren’t these diverse stories of so many people amazing? Many have told me that the caricatures I have done for them years ago still hang in their walls reminding them of what they were going through when we talked.

FUTURISTIC ARTWORK
Because of these encounters, I’m imagining I’m Tom Cruise in the movie “Minority Report” where I move colors around in this floating touch screen monitor — each smile, each story is like a splash of paint in this huge canvass of civilization. I’m waiting for the technology to allow me to create this multi-dimensional tapestry where touching each unique pigment tells a story that branches out to the stages of different lives complete with the music, movies and books they grew up with. Looking sideways, my digital sculpture will open up their ancestry. And the really cool thing is discovering how all the different races are connected to the original 8 people who survived the great flood. At the end of the journey, my artwork will narrow it all down to Adam and Eve. At the base of this his ginormous art piece will be the giant hand of God — He’s got the whole world in his hands! — get it?

Indeed, we are all related, each of our lives intentionally and lovingly placed — (with our own unique circumstances) by a Creator. We are free to make our own choices — good and bad. Some of us born rich, some poor, some loved, others maltreated. Some equipped with ten fingers and toes, others blind or handicapped. Have you ever wondered why God created so much beauty, diversity and even suffering? I’ve stopped questioning and suggesting a better approach to any of His decisions. I believe in a God of love, whose ways go beyond my understanding. I also understand there are consequences to our decisions and those who came before us. I’m sorry if you are going through tough times, but won’t you stop comparing and look upwards? (I know it’s more easily said than done). Accept that life wasn’t meant to be fair but to be a challenge leading back to our Creator. Though many try to be independent of Him, that was not part of the plan.

Of course this is just me. TGIF people!

Quotes of the week

“We were married for better or worse. I couldn’t have done better, and she couldn’t have done worse.” — Henry Youngman

“Marry a man your own age; as your beauty fades, so will his eyesight.” — Phyllis Diller

“No, please, don’t eat me. I have a wife and kids. Eat them!” — Homer Simpson

“Nothing better than spending an entire morning staring into my baby daughter’s eyes, whispering, ‘I can’t do this’.” — Ryan Reynolds

“I hate when new parents ask who the baby looks like. It was born 15 minutes ago, it looks like a potato.” — Kevin Hart

“For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition that I made to him.” — Samuel 1: 27

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” — Ephesians 4:2

“Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.” — Luke 18: 15

Memes of the Week

Thanks to James of Los Angeles, CA

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Thanks to Barbara of Pasadena. CA

Thanks to Brett of Alhambra, CA

Thanks to Joel of Alhambra, CA

Thanks to Tom of Pasadena, CA

Thanks to Norm of Encino, CA

I found these

My good friend (and jokester) Terry and I came up with these:
I hope I got you to smile.

SUBSCRIBE to Raoul’s TGIF Joke

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My friend and I really love hot food. It was 1987 and we were on assignment in Southern India with a group called The Bible League. We had visited remote villages in the interior and had returned to Andhra Pradesh and needed a rest. This particular region of India has the reputation of having the spiciest and most deadly cuisine on the continent. Dog and I (yes, his nickname is “Dog”) were looking forward to a good meal. We needed a break from the village food, especially the rancid Ghee we ate sitting on dirt floors with cats crawling on our food. By the way, Ghee, when it is fresh, is clarified butter but Indian Ghee that has aged in the heat for years sitting open on a shelf has the flavor and texture of dog vomit so we were ready for a change of diet. It was good to get back into a city.

Dog said he wanted to eat some of the famous hot goat meat of Andhra Pradesh. I told him I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But, he asked our guide where the hottest food in the region was to be found and we were led to this dilapidated, hole-in-the-wall eatery. As we were walking in one of the customers was being dragged out either drunk or unconscious with what looked like severe facial burns. It was really disgusting. His friends were all laughing. I reminded Dog that I REALLY didn’t think this was a good idea at all.

When we sat down Dog made it quick and simple. He ordered the hottest thing on the menu. Our guide was impressed. I was scared. I was sweating before we even started to eat. There was something acidic in the air. As a former firefighter, I remember thinking as we walked in that there must have been a fire next door in a battery acid plant. My eyes were burning just sitting there and it was getting hard to breathe. The waiter smiled as he carried out the food and gave a high five to our guide. Half the restaurant stopped eating and watched us since we were Americanos and no hotter food existed. Dog said, “Wow, let’s do it.” Oh, what the heck. How bad can it be? We dove in.

I want to try to describe the experience without scaring off potential travelers. But first, something needs some explanation. There is a pepper grown in India which is called Bhut Jolokia. In 1987 it was the hottest known pepper in the world. We call that pepper the Ghost Pepper in America. OK, back to our story. He ordered the hottest Ghost pepper, goat meat dish that they made. If you ever travel with a man named “Dog” don’t let him order lunch!

We began. By the time the first bite of the hot goat meat reached my stomach, I felt like I had just gargled Drano. You could actually feel the skin peeling off the throat and falling in sheets into the stomach. My bowels started cramping just for practice knowing they would be called on big time shortly. It soon developed into a rebellion of the entire body. I kept eating. Macho Ed was not going to wimp out. It wasn’t long before salty sweat stains covered my shirt and pants.

Limca soft drinkLet me introduce a very important word at this time – Limca. Limca is an Italian soft drink similar to a lemon-lime soda. Since they don’t often have refrigeration in the interior of India the bottles are kept covered in cow dung to keep them cooler. I gulped down the entire bottle in one breath. Chunks of dried cow dung flaked off onto my sweaty shirt. I restrained myself from drinking another Limca and decided to try some of the rice to calm my gurgling stomach. I like rice. This wasn’t rice. This was chunky style paint remover. There were pock marks on the ceramic plate. I went back to the goat meat. But before I started again I ordered another Limca.

I looked over at Dog and he was looking pale and his smile was gone. “You OK, Dog?” He looked kind of scared and then in a quick, manly recovery said, “Sure no problem.” But his voice broke and he sort of squeaked the words out.

I took another bite of the goat stew. At the table next to us a man had fallen to the ground unconscious and his friends were pouring beer all over him. I made a mental note. I don’t drink alcohol but somehow, I could see this happening to me. I kept eating…

I think it was the next bite that melted my lips off. If you have eaten extremely hot food you learn it is wise to observe how the locals do it. They never let the food touch their lips. Anyway, it didn’t matter now, I had no lips. My biggest concern began to be brain damage. I finished my next Limca without taking a breath. Our guide said he had never seen a Limca consumed that quickly. It was also the first time he had seen someone shake the carbonated beverage and hold his thumb over the bottle while spraying it all over his face. I was able to buy an ice cube and just wiped it over and over on my throbbing, missing lips while moaning. The pain and insanity increased for the rest of the meal.

It was then I noticed that Dog was not looking very good. He was bent over in pain with a horrible gas attack. His intestinal track resembled Mount St. Helens and when it erupted three minutes later he literally cleared the table. Two people eating nearby moved to another table.

Then my intestines started to send an equally urgent message. I excused myself to pay a visit to the local comfort room. As I stumbled past the table where the two had moved I grabbed an unfinished Limca from their table and poured it on top of my head. I barely had time to reach the bathroom and sit down when steaming lava erupted from the heart of the earth. We are talking about a Richter 10 caustic explosion. I needed another Limca to wash off but I had none. I wanted to sit on an ice cream cone. My eyesight was almost gone. I barely recognized Dog when I went out. He was leaning over the table waiting for something else bad to happen. His chin looked like he had been drooling paint remover. I think his mouth was totally paralyzed. The entire front of his shirt and pants looked like he had fallen into a restaurant grease trap. He asked where the Limca was and I just told him I was going outside to die in the alley. He said, “OK.” Both our brains were now gone. We had no lips, brains, bowels, or shirts left. We looked like we had been beaten senseless by a herd of rabid monkeys and dumped into a pig trough.

I went to see Dog the next morning in his hotel room. He was half conscious sitting on the floor in the fetal position. I noticed three empty cases of Limca scattered around the room. We both had trouble talking. We ate yogurt the rest of the week. Our lips did grow back and our bowels returned to normal pre-volcanic activity. I have never been normal since. I twitch a lot when I talk. Sometimes I just slobber when I think about it.

Recipe: Hot Goat Meat of Andhra Pradesh, India

To marinate:

• 1½ pounds Goat, cleaned, washed & cut to 1 inch size pieces
• 1½ teaspoons of Red Chili Powder
• ½ teaspoon Turmeric Powder
• 1 teaspoon Lemon Juice (or 2 tablespoons thick yogurt)
• 1 teaspoon Salt

To grind:

• 1½ inch Ginger, peeled & cut into small pieces
• 8 to 10 Garlic Pods, peeled
• 2 cm Cinnamon Stick
• 6 Cloves
• 2 teaspoons Poppy Seeds
• 1 to 2 tablespoons desiccated Coconut
• ¼ cup Hot Water for grinding

To season:

• 2 tablespoons Vegetable Oil
• 2 Star anise
• 2 Kapok Buds (Marathi moggu)
• 2 cm Cinnamon Stick
• 4 Cloves
• 2 Cardamoms
• 2 Bay Leaves

Other Ingredients:

• 1 large Onion, finely chopped
• 3 to 4 Ghost Chili Peppers (Bhut Jolokia), finely chopped (wear plastic gloves)
• A sprig of Curry Leaves
• 1 to 2 teaspoons of Red Chili Powder
• ¼ teaspoon Turmeric Powder
• Required salt
• ½ cup finely chopped Coriander, divided

Directions

• Marinate Goat with red chili powder, turmeric, a teaspoon of lemon juice and salt for about a minimum of 30 minutes. Longer the better.
• Grind ginger, garlic, cinnamon, cloves, poppy seeds and desiccated coconut in a blender to a fine paste, without adding water.
• Then add slightly hot water, soak for a minute and grind to a fine paste. Soaking in hot water aids easy grinding of the poppy seeds.
• Heat oil in a pressure cooker over medium heat. Once oil is hot, season with dry spices.
• To this add chopped onions, Ghost Chili Peppers and sauté.
• Add curry leaves and stir for a minute. Be generous in using curry leaves!!
• Once onions become translucent, add in the marinated goat.
• Sauté for 3 to 4 minutes..
• Add remaining red chili powder and turmeric powder.
• Now add required water till the goat immerses. You can adjust the consistency of the gravy to suit your requirement. Adjust salt and add in some fresh coriander.
• Close the lid of the pressure cooker and cook over medium high heat for 5 to 7 whistles, then simmer and cook for 5 minutes till the goat is fully cooked, soft and tender.
• Open the lid of the pressure cooker once the pressure subsides.
• Transfer to a serving bowl and garnish with finely chopped coriander

The Hot Goat Meat of Andhra Pradesh, India Recipe is done and ready to be served with rice.

The post Spicy Goat Meat of Andhra Pradesh, India appeared first on Traveling Boy.

On the side of a brick building, at the corner of E 7th St and North Arizona Ave, a mural greeted me. This particular block of North Arizona was more of an alley than a street. It was open to cars, with a few parking spaces at an angle to the alley, but the short block was better experienced on foot.

Beginning at the mural — Greetings from Tucson, it said — any aimless drifter could wobble dreamily down the alley, past streams of ants, weeds, splotches of motor oil and a yard of broken air conditioning parts toward the best speakeasy pizza joint anywhere. Street art and ghost signs were included in the pilgrimage.

One block, this alley. That’s it. No more was necessary.

I started at the mural, a tourist attraction painted in 2017 by Greetings Tour, an outfit started by muralist Victor Ving and photographer Lisa Beggs, who traveled across the country painting postcard-style murals in various cities.

Across 7th St, a sprawling sports restaurant with a thousand televisions, a huge patio and pickleball courts blasted “All Star” by Smash Mouth-an unsettling hellish combo of everything I didn’t want to experience. Instead, I needed a dingy, hidden side street that nobody would possibly write about, or even think about. My speakeasy pizza waited.

I shuffled up the alley, inspired by a passage from the foreword to Tucson Salvage, a book by local columnist Brian Jabas Smith. Tucson was an outpost for the lost and weary, a sanctuary for misfits, miscreants and misers. These days, even tourism professionals used phrases like “Don’t Fit Right In,” branding the city as a place where people just don’t fit right in. However, Smith was better than anyone else at capturing this original desert slacker town, his home town, a place to which he never wanted to return, but did. Tucson Salvage, his anthology of alt-weekly newspaper columns, was the definitive guide to the gritty underbelly of the whole sweltering mess.

On one hand, it was only 92 degrees, manageable for Tucson. The concussive blast-furnace weather had not yet arrived – this was May, after all – yet the heat became part of the experience. The sun-parched asphalt was cracked in a hundred places. To my left was a dumpster. Along the opposite building, yellow weeds grew at the bottom of a chain-link fence topped with circular barbed wire, bent in several places. Streams of large ants crawled in single-file fashion toward some unidentifiable destination beneath the weeds. Steps later, I saw more dumpsters, along with cars, all of which seemed haphazardly dropped onto the asphalt from above. They sat in front of another gorgeous monochromatic mural, a black and white image in a pulp southwestern style.

Opposite me, right where another back alley came off 6th Ave and ran behind brick buildings, I spotted a yard of broken equipment. Air conditioning ducts. A pallet of bricks. Ripped fiberglass. It was a glorious view. I sensed beauty in the mundane, the Zen of the forgotten and the discarded.

Just as Phil Cousineau wrote, “the art of pilgrimage is the art of reimagining how we walk, talk, listen, see, hear, write, and draw as we ready for the journey of our soul’s deep desire. Try and see your next journey as more than an itinerary, to see it rather as the slow accretion of details.”

And that I did, as the sun continued to fry the pavement. Throughout my visit, locals told me to carry a water bottle. Some janky storefronts even kept a multi-gallon water receptacle out on the sidewalk, perhaps on a chair, just for homeless people, or anyone, to walk up and fill their bottles. The sense of community-people looking out for each other-was prominent. I loved it.

At the end of the alley, as it dumped onto East 6th St, I arrived at the Promised Land, my new favorite speakeasy pizza restaurant. A cozy joint offering wood-fired, sourdough-crust pizzas with an emphasis on local ingredients, Anello was its name. The best thing? Anello did not have a sign. Nowhere. This was intentional. Just look for the red light above the window, I was told. I arrived before dusk, so the light wasn’t on yet. But I found the place.

Oddly enough, Tucson was the first city in the United States to become a UNESCO Creative City of Gastronomy. Wait, what? Yes, it’s true. In 2015. So now the food scene was something to brag about.

Inside Anello, there was room for maybe 25 people, half of which were at a long, community table in the middle of the tiny space, where I plopped down right next to several others I didn’t know. A great idea. Within seconds we were talking about all sorts of stuff. Behind the counter, employees toiled away at a classic wood-fired oven from Italy. Waitstaff answered questions about the wine list. A takeout window opened up into the alley, which I had completely missed.

‘The Verde pizza came with smoked mozzarella, a parsley puree and tons of pistachios. I added pepperoni. It was perfect. Just perfect.

Anello was small. Very small. In all the right ways. The bathroom included a small bookshelf where food tomes held court. Another great idea.

The Promised Land of Speakeasy Pizza was worth the short stroll through the garbage, the ants, the dirt, the grime and the weeds. UNESCO knew what it was doing. My longing was fulfilled.

The post One Alley in Tucson: A Pizza Pilgrimage appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Snowmobile Ride in Kirkenes

One of the best “travel thrills” for me, was relishing the ultimate excitement (!) of a Snowmobile ride in Kirkenes, Norway. Just the name of the company was intriguing – “Arctic Adventures” – and they offered up a gleaming, glistening, brand new (it costs well over two thousand dollars) sleek looking piece of machinery called a Snowmobile. Once seated, and fitted out in suitable gear, and yes, a crash helmet too, I pressed the little lever on the handle and was amazed that I zoomed away faster than a jet at takeoff. When our group of travel media got back to Base, we were treated to Ice fishing! Our host donned a wet suit, cut a hole in the thick ice over which we’d all just been snowmobiling, and jumped into the freezing, blackness of water below. 10 minutes later he surfaced with some gorgeous looking crabs. After cooking, we all knew how delicious fresh caught crabs could be. THIS is a unique travel experience, in a special location, that I know you’ll love.

Germany on a Trabant car

When you’re in Germany, give yourself a taste of what life was like under the Communists, and take a ride – or, if you have the courage, drive it yourself! – in a Trabant. What, you might ask is that? Well, as hard as this is to believe, that’s what East Germans’ (back in the day) paid thousands and thousands of their hard earned money, for a so called car that had a lawn mower type engine. Buyers waited up to – are you ready for this – 15 years to get one, and in E. Germany over a 30 year period, some 3 million plastic bodied automobiles, were somehow stuck together with a two cycle, air cooled engine that generated more smoke than acceleration. I was too chicken when I was in Dresden and Munich to rent and drive one myself, but I wanted to see what it was like. So I had the rental car folks take me. It was total fun. Google German Trabants. If you do ride in one – and when you return Stateside – send me an email with your comments. jd******@*ox.net

If you fly into London Heathrow Airport, and want to get into London Central real fast, do what I do every time I fly to London. Take the Heathrow Express. It goes from Heathrow Central, and gives you a fast 15 minute train trip to Paddington Station in the heart of London. It’s far better than a taxi, bus or even the Underground, and gets you there more comfortably – and faster – than you can say “I can’t wait to see the new Royal baby.” Here’s a money saving tip. Get your tickets online, as they cost LESS, and buy a RT. Your questions answered at www.heathrowexpress.com

If you were traveling around Europe by night, you could have done what I did a before 2016, and sleep in the lap of luxury. Here’s how. Take the Swiss based City Night Line. They specialize in providing sleeping cars for many of Europe’s best trains, and the accommodations are superlative – I thoroughly enjoyed taking a shower!!! The carriages, food, beds and all that includes, are so good you’ll want to stay in your cabin long after you’ve arrived at your destination. Sadly, at the end of 2016, CityNightLine stopped operating and carriages were sold to the Austrian Railways which extended their night train network under the brand Nightjet. Nightjet trains still connect Munich, Vienna, Zurich, Hamburg, Cologne, Berlin, Milan, Rome and other cities.

For breathtaking mountain scenery that DOES take your breath away, try this. A trip to the Swiss mountains of the Jungfrau and Eiger. Best bet is to stay in the charming postcard town (it’s more like a village) of Grindlewald. The cog wheel drive train takes about an hour to get to the top of the Jungfrau, and the views are absolutely awesome. Just over half a million tourists take this unique trip every year, and I’d do it again right now if I could.

TRIVIA that might surprise you – especially as it concerns the journalist for this travel column:
When Edgar Rice Burroughs’s originally described Tarzan as a British aristocrat, what do YOU think he called him?

ANSWER: He gave him the name of — (ahem!) John Clayton. (see below)

Tarzan is his ape name; his real English name is John Clayton, Viscount Greystoke (according to Burroughs in Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle; Earl of Greystoke in… Tarzan (1999 film) – Tarzan (disambiguation) – Jane Porter – Tarzan of the Apes.

The post 5 Offbeat Travel Destinations Then and Now appeared first on Traveling Boy.

JOKE OF THE WEEK

Thanks to James of Los Angeles, CA

Raoul’s 2 cents

The Gift of Healing

If you don’t want to ponder, move on to the Jokes below.

Every week I spend a lot of time wondering what I would share in this TGIF email. Sometimes the topic just hits me and writing magically comes alive. Other times the topic only arrives just before my Friday midnight deadline. Most often I have no idea where the story is going and just allow it to proceed to its logical conclusion. As I write this very article, I have no idea where this story will take me.

As I was walking our dogs, I see my neighbor’s right hand wrapped in fresh bandages. She had just had a carpal tunnel operation. I told her she should have gone to a chiropractor but she responded that she had already been to chiropractors, acupuncturists, etc.but none helped. She didn’t want any further discussion as she headed straight to her home. Too bad. If she had cared to listen, I would have shared my own experience.

Before smart pads and touch screens became a fad, I used to awkwardly draw with my computer mouse (ergonomically a bad idea). It wasn’t long until I started to feel sharp pain … as if a vein or two had fallen out of place. I asked a nurse friend what to do. She said take pain-killers and get one of those adjustable wrist braces. It wasn’t a cure. It only covered the problem. It was either that or I would need an operation. Worry occupied my thoughts.

A few days later, as I joined a business breakfast meeting, Dr. Mark the Chiropractor, noticed the “trophy” on my hand. He knew exactly what was going on and, with my permission, he discarded my brace, massaged my wrist – up, down and sideways for about 5 minutes. Did it hurt? Well, yeah!! Of course it did! 😫 But after a few days my pain was completely gone … and it has never returned.

There were two other recent instances here in Los Angeles when gifted hands removed my pain. One was on my left shoulder and the other was on my sciatica. I am totally convinced there is something Western medicine can learn from centuries-old Eastern treatments like chiropractic, acupuncture, deep tissue massage, etc. The comparison is similar to using an abacus vs long multiplication. Of course, not all these eastern experts are the same. Some are better than others. Some chiropractors specialize in the spine while others specialize in fingers. (Dr. Mark was so good, he walloped a dislocated hip of a race horse back in place). I think the really good doctors are born with the gift of healing.

MANGHIHILOT

In the Philippines, there are healers called “manghihilot” (pronounced: Mang Hee Hee Lowt) which literally means “The Mender.” Superstition says: if a person is born in the breach position (ie. the baby comes out of the mother with legs first) that’s a sure sign that person is a born-manghihilot whether he/she realizes it or not. Pretty wild, huh? But so far (at least in my experience) this prerequisite has proven to be accurate.

Growing up, there used to be a manghihilot in any given town. None of them had any formal training but they were able to heal … usually with just one session. Typically, they never charged for their services because, if they did, God would remove their power to heal 😳. It is left to the patient’s discretion to pay any amount that feels right — which explains why none of the healers ever got wealthy. (Oh, but the fake ones did get rich! 👺)

THE PROCEDURE

When one gets sprained, one either goes to the healer or the healer makes house calls. After rubbing the area with coconut oil, the healer feels the bones and knows exactly which ones to put back in alignment. Then the healer wraps that area with guava leaves … topping it off with a cloth bandage to keep the leaves in place and to allow the sprain to breathe. Soon the sprain turns purple — partly from the sap of the leaves and partly from the internal battle of the veins mending in place. I have had several “fixes” from different healers growing up because I played a lot of basketball.

In another world, I believe I could have been a healer. I think it’s in my DNA. My grandfather was a doctor. But he never got rich from his practice. In fact, he got poor because of it. My noble granddad studied medicine to cure people … not to make money. So many of his patients were poor. They would pay him with chickens and pigs — good for the tummy, but bad for the wallet (this obviously didn’t make my grandmother happy). Maybe this is why none of his children ever ambitioned to become a doctor. 

Did you know I give a good massage? Nobody taught me … it comes naturally. I never took anatomy classes but I just have an inherent understanding where muscles should go.  One time, my little pinky was hit so hard by a basketball that the 2 outer bone segments landed on top of the 3rd segment. I looked at it in shock and, before the pain set in, I held my breath, and pulled the bones back in place. Yup! I really did!  😬

If you had the gift of healing, would you keep it a secret? If you had the cure for cancer, wouldn’t you want to share that to the world even if it meant being ridiculed by scoffers? Maybe this is why I share my Christian faith so easily. It’s a different kind of healing for sure … a spiritual one. Go ahead, throw stones at me if you like but that’s what I believe. I don’t force it to any one but I am always available to share. 

Okay, that’s it! End of today’s lesson! Pass your papers!  I didn’t know where this story was leading to but somehow it just landed here. You can go back to your normal life now. TGIF people!

If you like my emails, please do me a favor and spread them around. Thank you!
You can read all my previous emails here in TravelingBoy.com

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Quotes of the week

“Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.” — Mark Twain

“Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals dying of nothing.” — Redd Foxx

“It’s no longer a question of staying healthy. It’s a question of finding a sickness you like.” — Jackie Mason?

“I am dying with the help of too many physicians.” — Alexander the Great

“He heals the brokenhearted and bandages their wounds.” — Psalm 147: 2

“My wayward children,” says the Lord, “come back to me, and I will heal your wayward hearts” — Jeremiah 3:22

“Then Jesus said, ‘Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls.'” — Matthew 11: 28-29

Memes of the Week

Thanks to James of Los Angeles, CA

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Thanks to Barbara of Pasadena. CA

Thanks to Joel of Alhambra, CA

Thanks to Jacob of Whittier, CA

Thanks to Norm of Encino, CA

I found these

My good friend (and jokester) Terry and I came up with these:

I hope I got you to smile.
See you next Friday!

SUBSCRIBE to Raoul’s TGIF Joke

The post No Exercise appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Story by Fyllis Hockman. Photos by Victor Block. Originally published on May 2013.

The endangered white rhino. The elusive silverback mountain gorilla. The rare tree-climbing lion. Hippos, elephants, crocodiles. The massive shoebill? Yup, him, too. These are just a few of the multitude of wildlife we cavorted with during our ElderTreks’s safari and trekking journey to southwestern Uganda. But the visit to the Kibale Chimpanzee National Forest to see the ever-playful chimps in the wild was one of the more delightful surprises.

A quick briefing introduced us to the chimps said to share 98.7% of their DNA with us humans. 98.7! Already feeling an affinity, we split into smaller groups with an assigned guide carrying her assigned rifle. Were our relatives in danger? It seems elephants and buffalo also roam these grounds and are more aggressive than those seen on game drives where the animals are more accustomed to people in vehicles. The guides, we were assured, shoot the rifles only if necessary to scare them away

Also armed, so to speak, with a number of rules governing our outing, we were told to stay 25′ away, if lucky enough to find them on low-lying branches, to be quiet so that the guides can listen to the calls and not to mimic the sounds of the chimps – as if that were even possible – because you don’t know what you might be saying. I couldn’t help but think the chimp would probably turn down a date if I made the mistake of coming on to him.

Finally we took off through very dense forest. Lots of tweets and trills, whistles and warbles, cries and caws produced a symphony of sound which accompanied our walk. I knew our guide recognized every note and was thankful she didn’t feel compelled to share all that information with us. I’m pretty sure the resident bird watcher in our group would have preferred otherwise.

Our tracker did point out a variety of monkeys in the trees above but they were so high as to be indistinguishable from the leaves unless the branch was moving – and then, of course, it was already too late. Clearly, I would not make a good tracker – or birder.

The troop of chimpanzees we were tracking numbered 120 but because it was the end of September, our guide lamented that the chimps were harder to find because much of their nearby food supply had been exhausted. You might want to check ahead of time to see when the fig trees are bearing the most fruit – that apparently determines how many chimps you’re likely to see.

Due to this added challenge, we were diverging from the more standard trails and were pretty much blazing new paths. It had been over an hour and we were no closer to finding chimps. I, on the other hand, was more worried we’d never find our way back.

The guide, unfazed, claimed to have found our sought-after prey though those of us less technically proficient in chimp tracking could not yet see any. Still, ten pairs of eyes looked eagerly toward the tree tops, seeming miles away, to catch some movement, any movement, to justify our presence. Suddenly a cry of “There he is” erupted, quickly followed by a disappointed sigh of “Maybe not.”

And then an ear-splitting onslaught of a barking/howling/screeching shriek indicated that yes, in fact, they were around. This gave us all hope but still, without any precise sightings. However, the periodic wailings breaking out in every direction were so loud and disconcerting as to be sufficiently exciting in themselves. When all of a sudden two chimps scrambled past within several feet of our group, we knew we had arrived. “Now that’s more like it,” someone declared!

We literally followed in their footsteps through the bush to find what our guide later insisted was a rare occurrence: an 18-year-old adolescent lying upon the ground in apparent repose, head resting on hand, taking time out to occasionally scratch and snort, totally ignoring our large semi-circle of astonished gawkers. We all forgot how frustrated we had been just moments before. Watching this young lad – whom the guide identified as Enfunzi – so close up did make me question a bit that 98.7 DNA statistic. Not that we don’t scratch…

Although our overall excursion took three hours, a number of very satisfied “wows” punctuated its end. And I was wrong about the tracker – she did indeed know the way back!

And if seeing the chimps in the wild only whetted your appetite for a little more chimp exposure, an hour-long boat ride to the Ngamba Island Chimpanzee Sanctuary near Entebbe just might do the trick. Home to 48 chimps rescued from a multitude of adverse conditions, whether as orphans, victims of illegal activities, or needy of medical attention, these guys roam free on 95% of the 95-acre forest. The other 5% is devoted to feeding the chimps and keeping them safe at night.

Our approach to view their 2 p.m. feeding was vociferously announced by loud guttural screeches, either as a chimp welcoming committee or an entreaty to leave – it was hard to tell. As it turns out, the greeting wasn’t for us at all but for the large alpha male approaching from the opposite direction. I was relieved we had not been the ones to elicit such a thunderous response.

Okay, you’re not seeing them in the wild exactly but you’re seeing a lot more a lot more openly – and they are indeed fun to watch. In between eagerly devouring their lunch of carrots, oranges and pineapples, they scratched themselves and each other, chased each other around, fought over food and generally entertained their human luncheon guests.

Another rowdy fracas erupted when a larger chimp stole food from a smaller companion who loudly called out to his friends for reinforcement – and they rapidly responded forcing the perpetrator to relent and give back the food. Hey, they’re just like people.

As soon as the guys had ingested a sufficient amount of munchables, they headed back to the forest to play, gambol about, climb the branches or rest free of human intrusion. And we got to leave with new respect for our closely aligned cousins with whom we share so much DNA – except, of course, for all that scratching… For more information, visit eldertreks.com which promotes “Exotic Adventures for Travelers 50 and Over.”

The post Chimps Ahoy: In Search of a Brother in Arms… appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Eight hours sounds like a lot of time, until you factor in the walk from the pier and the queue at the taxi rank, that is. There may even be an unexpected detour when someone in your group spots a nearby market stall.

Whether you’re stopping at a single Caribbean island or you’re working your way through a few Mediterranean ports on a 3-day cruise, planning before you step off the gangway is super important if you want to make the most of your time (and budget) in paradise.

Start Planning Early

To get the most out of a port day, start thinking about it a few days (or weeks) in advance. Research your port stop before you set sail, and find out where the pier is relative to the main attractions. You’ll also want to check how long it takes to reach the town center and what the port layout looks like.

While some ports have nearby attractions, others are a little further from the action and require a shuttle or water taxi to get there.

Once you know the lay of the land, you need to decide what really matters to you. A day that’s set aside for a beach trip is going to look very different from an itinerary that’s built around a local food market stop.

Committing to one or two activities will give you a more realistic schedule where you don’t need to rush.

Choose Valuable Shore Excursions

Not all excursions are created equal.

Sometimes, the cruise line’s version isn’t always the best fit for your interests, and that’s okay! Generally, the main advantage of booking through the ship is the return guarantee. If a cruise line excursion runs late, the ship waits.

On the other hand, independent tours can cost less, although they carry risks like transportation issues and unexpected fees. You always need to weigh that tradeoff for yourself before you book an activity.

Whatever route you go, read recent reviews. Look specifically for comments about times and how the operator handles unexpected problems. A low price isn’t worth the savings when it’s attached to complaints about late returns.

Stretch Your Budget Without Missing the Highlights

The easiest way to pay less for shore excursions is to book early. Booking before you board the ship can almost always guarantee lower prices and better availability for popular tours. In fact, some cruise lines even offer online discounts that disappear once you’re onboard.

Remember, popular excursions with limited capacity sell out well in advance. There are even experiences that sometimes require bookings at least 4 to 6 months ahead.

Shared tours tend to cost less than private ones while still offering a more personal experience than a large coach tour. They’re worth keeping an eye out for, particularly in busier tourist ports where excursion prices are higher because of demand.

Build an 8-Hour Port Day That Works

Transport burns time in both directions. A port-to-town transfer that looks like 10 minutes on a map can be at least 30 when traffic or queuing is involved.

The rule of thumb here is to leave at least 45 to 60 minutes before the ship departs. Getting left behind means covering your own travel to the next port, which will cost much more than any other excursion.

Pre-booking tickets saves you a ton of time at busy sites. Skipping the entry queue at a popular attraction can even reclaim an hour of your day. Just remember to pack smart so you don’t waste time trying to find your sweater once you dock, as you want to be one of the first people off the boat.

Enjoying More of Paradise for Less

A well-planned port day doesn’t mean you have to spend more. You just need to be more deliberate with where you go and how you plan.

One experience that you enjoy properly is worth more than four rushed experiences done badly. And just be sure to plan for hidden costs so you don’t get caught off guard.

The post Port-Hopping on a Budget: Making the Most of 8 Hours in Paradise appeared first on Traveling Boy.

David ‘Honeyboy’ Edwards has been in fast company for most of his life. His running buddies have included the seminal roots of Delta Blues. Charley Patton, Robert Johnson, Son House, Willie Brown, Tommy McClennan, Tommy Johnson and Robert Petway were just a few of the musicians that Edwards called friends. He’s spent a lifetime sharing street corners, working juke houses and rolling the dice with the legends of blues, both past and present.

Edwards has outlived his peers, and most of his friends, but shows little sign of slowing down. When pressed, he’ll admit to some ‘pretty good action’ as far as his guitar work is concerned, but even more impressive is his phenomenal recollection of dates, events and first-person accounts of the blues and its originators. According to Edwards, his introduction to the road began one fateful weekend in 1932 when, at the age of 17, he heard a blues man perform at a local house party. His life would never be the same.

“Joe Williams was out there playing for a country dance on a Saturday night and I went over there where he was playing. I kept looking at him and he said, ‘Can you play?’ I said, ‘I can play a little.’ He passed the guitar to me and I started to strum ’cause I had a good lick, you know? And he said, ‘Yeah, and I can learn you, too.’

So, he come to my father’s house that Sunday morning, we eat breakfast and sat around. He played guitar and he asked my father, ‘Can Honey go with me out to Greenwood?’ We were only about two miles from Greenwood. My father said, ‘I don’t care, he ain’t nothin’ to do on the farm. He can go if he want to.’ I got my brother-in-law’s guitar and followed him. I never did brought his guitar back, I kept a-going with Joe Williams.”

It would be the beginning of a journey Edwards, now in his nineties, finds more rewarding than ever.

“When I first started out with Joe, I played some in the streets, little clubs, cafe’s and joints, just everywhere, anywhere you can make something. Joe couldn’t read or write or nothin’, but he had a good mind and he could think of songs to sing. He had a good mind but didn’t have no kind of education, but he could think good and he wouldn’t forget nothin.”

In order to further his own education, Honeyboy would soon find company with another blues traveller.

“After I left Big Joe the last of ’32, in ’33 and ’34 I was with Tommy McClennan. I was around Greenwood and Tommy was around Greenwood too. Tommy and Robert Petway, we all just go in and out together. Sometime I’d work with Tommy, sometime Tommy’d work with Robert. We all know’d each other, played with each other, you know?”

While Edwards, McClennan and Petway were just getting started, one Delta elder, Charley Patton, was already considered a living legend. Patton was one of the most versatile and influential delta musicians of the era, and Honeyboy was a quick study.

“I was with Charley Patton a little while before he died in ’34. I know’d him in ’33, he was at Marigold, Mississippi out from Dockery. He was still on the farm at Dockery Plantation. He married this young girl, Bertha, that was his wife Bertha, and the year he died, in ’34 they had went to Jackson and Bertha had recorded the ‘Yellow Bee Blues.’ She sung and that was the last recording he done.”

The Sweet Life

When Honeyboy reflects on his early days in blues he has to laugh.

“Before I married, I didn’t do nothin’ but play guitar and gamble. That’s all I done. I had a gang of women’s, you know. I had two or three, they was working and had good jobs.”

Living the sweet life was nice but David Edwards was never very far from the music or the players who created it.

“I used to live in Memphis and I used to play with some of the Memphis Jug Band, Big Walter Horton, Will Shade, Son Brimmer, Little Frank Stokes and Old Man Stokes. I was young then but I know’d them all. Me and Big Walter Horton was pretty close together. I was two years older than Big Walter but he was a good harp blower ever since he was 14. I met him in Memphis, Tennessee, he was maybe 15 years old. I met him in Handy’s Park.”

Charlie Musselwhite who also credits Joe Williams and Will Shade as influences, once described himself as ‘slack-jawed’ the first time he saw Walter Horton blow. So it shouldn’t be surprising that harp players, to this day, still try to match Horton’s technique and tone. Honeyboy doesn’t think it will happen.

“Can’t do it. Both of them Walters had a good tone. Little Walter Jacobs had a tone that Big Walter didn’t have. Little Walter had like a Louisiana style, down on the bayou music but he had his own style of playing harmonica. He had a good, full sound. Little Walter had a better, fuller sound than Big Walter had, but Big Walter played more harp than Little Walter played. You understand me? He knew more riffs. But Little Walter had the best tone.”

Gone too soon, Little Walter would die from injuries suffered in a fight and Honeyboy remembers only too well, Big Walter’s life-long suffering.

“Big Walter was sick all his life. He was sickly, puney-like, you know? He drank a whole lot of whiskey. Oh, he was a heavy drinker.”

Speaking of gone to soon, Edwards spent a short period of time playing and touring with the bluesman considered by most to be the ‘King of the Delta Blues’ players, Robert Johnson.

“In 1937, Robert was 26 and I was 22. Robert was about four years older than me. The first time I met him was on the streets. I didn’t really know who he was ’cause I hadn’t ever met him, but I heard about him. I got a cousin who lived in Tunica, Mississippi, she was Robert’s girlfriend, and every time I go to see my cousin she’d tell me about Robert. ‘Do you know Robert? Robert plays guitar.’ I say, ‘No, I don’t know Robert.’ She say, ‘Robert Johnson, he goes by Robert Johnson, Robert Lonnie Johnson, he wears so many damn names, I don’t know.’ (laughing)

And so, when I met him on the streets and he was playin’ he told the people he was Robert Johnson and he had just came from Austin, Texas. That would have been the fall of 1937, and he was playin’ on the streets. A lady come up there, she said, ‘Listen sir, play me Terraplane Blues and I’ll give you a dime,’ like that. Just country people standing around drinking whiskey, listening to that music and he said, ‘That’s my record, lady.’ She said, ‘Well play it then for me,’ and he started to playing it and she said, ‘I believe that is that man’s record.’ He played it just like the record, you know.”

Tragically Johnson would be dead within a year, but David Edwards’ career was just starting to pick up speed.

“I was so fast myself, I went around a whole lot myself, but as long as he (Johnson) was around Greenwood I’d hang around with him. I’d go where he was playin’ at and we’d go to a couple of whiskey houses there in Greenwood and whore houses where they sell whiskey, you know? Two or three woman’s there at Greenwood had good-time houses, women’s be hangin’ around and men drinkin’ a lot of white whiskey and we sittin’ there playin’ for them, you know? Good time houses, good time Charlie.”

It wouldn’t be until the end of WWII that Honeyboy would finally make his first trip to Chicago.

“I carried Little Walter Jacobs with me in 1945, he come there with me in ’45. In the winter of ’45 I went back south, I was scared of the cold weather. Walter told me, he said, ‘Well Honey, he say, I ain’t goin’ back. I’m gonna’ lay around and hang around here awhile.’ He liked it up there. And I left. In ’46 in the fall I heard Walter’s records. Walter had recorded with Muddy Waters. I said, ‘That boy’s done recorded’…I say, ‘I’m goin’ back’ I say, ‘I’m going where I can do me somethin’. So when I come back Walter was hooked up with Muddy Waters.”

Everyone who heard Little Walter play, knew he was ahead of his time, but those who knew him personally realized his time wasn’t long.

“Walter could play that harp, the boy was good, but he lived too fast, too fast. He got down to Chicago and was makin’ money. He was a nice-lookin’ boy and had a lot of women’s and a big Cadillac. It went to his head.”

Throughout his travels, Edwards has witnessed both the rise and demise of some of music’s most dynamic personalities. But in his eyes, it was just a part of life on the road.

“I used to go so much, I wouldn’t stay nowhere,” but Memphis became Honeyboy central when his sisters moved to the area in the late ’40’s and early ’50’s. With family close by you could usually find him “playing West Memphis every Friday and Saturday night. I used to play with B.B.King in 1950, ’51. He was in West Memphis, Arkansas. He was broadcasting over there in Memphis at WDIA station, but he was living in West Memphis. Me and my wife used to go over there every Friday and Saturday night and I’d sit in with him. He had one little old number he’d made about Miss Martha King. He made that for Sam Phillips too, I think. Sun’s.

And I was in Memphis when Elvis Presley made his first little record there. Presley was working in Memphis driving a construction truck. This white boy got famous, he come from Tupelo, Mississippi. He made one little old number for Sam Phillips, Sun’s. It didn’t do nothin’, but when the song got out here (California) someway it made a hit when it came out here.”

The Delta-born Presley knew firsthand the appeal and heart-felt emotions of blues music and would start his career by covering some of the era’s most prolific black artists. It would be those Elvis remakes that would eventually expose a segregated white America to the music of Arthur Crudup, Willie Mae Thornton and Herman Parker.

Honeyboy remembers Elvis “shakin’ and goin’ on, but he couldn’t play nothin’. Doin’ the swing dance and people went for it and he got famous, but he didn’t learn how to play guitar for a long time. I run in on him but we never played together, I run in on him several times. I know’d him, I used to see him when he was workin’. He used to come out to Jackson Ave. sometime when he was laying steel back in 1950.”

Fifty-eight years later, Edwards is a blues survivor. His road continues to run through every type of blues venue imaginable. From small bars and clubs to huge fairground and festival events and the occasional recording studio. It’s not a lifestyle for the weak of heart and Honeyboy insists he’s going to slow down. He’s also the first to admit that the blues were here before he was and will still be around long after he’s gone.

“Blues is not gonna’ go nowhere. You take years ago when a lot of disco’s slowed the blues up a little bit. But the disco didn’t stay in long, see? And then the blues come right on back, alive, and it got worser. It got worser. There’s a lot of young people playing the blues too, now. They’re gettin’ right into it. And a lot of festivals bringin’ in some of the young people to the blues.”

The never-ending cycle of human suffering ensures that the blues, in one form or another, will always endure.

“Blues come along ways to what I’ve been experiencing because I’m old, I’ve been here a long time. Blues come from slavery time and what I mean by slavery time, the people’s used to work in the field and sing holler songs. Ohhh, Ohhhh, trying to make the day. In the 20’s they started recording like Mama Rainey, Bessie Smith, Ida Cox, Blind Lemon and they named it the blues.”

“In the early days, it was players like Texas Alexander and Lonnie Johnson and then they just come on in the 40’s and the blues got wide. I came up playin’ the lonesome, slow blues. There’s two or three different ways you can play the blues. You can play a slow blues, the low-down dirty blues, the Mississippi blues or you take the same blues and make it up tempo, a shuffle, up-tempo beat, you know? In the later years I worked a lot of taverns and I started playing some of the up tempo blues. Just raise the tempo on it. See what I mean? Still it’s the blues.”

David ‘Honeyboy’ Edwards is a living, breathing piece of American history. A National Treasure who sums up his life as a blues journeyman, philosophically.

“Blues is a feeling. You can start playing the blues and the feeling comes down on you sometime. It’s a feeling, from the heart. Mine. And when I was young, I used to start playing the blues and I’d play a couple of numbers and I’d get right up and put up my guitar case and start to walk, go catch me a ride and go to the next town. They wouldn’t let me stay nowhere, that’s what the blues do for me. I wouldn’t stay no where, that’s why I went so much. I’d be here this week, and next week I’d be somewhere’s else. That guitar just kept me goin’, wouldn’t let me stay.”

Lucky for us.

The post Honeyboy Edwards: A Witness to the Blues appeared first on Traveling Boy.

Thanks to James of Los Angeles, CA

Original Artwork by Raoul Pascual

Raoul’s 2 cents

America: Land of the Blessings

If you don’t want to ponder, move on to the Jokes below.

My wife and I waited for our grandson to be dismissed from his last day of Middle School. Earlier, his older brother celebrated his Promotion Day (from Middle School to High School) with several academic medals hanging from his neck. It was a proud morning.

As I stared at the school campus with the American flag and the California flag waving at us, I turned to my wife and said: “Doesn’t this school remind you of the first time we registered our kids to an American school?” Our son’s first friend was a Hispanic kid named Carlo. They had just met but they played around the campus like best buds. (That was their first and last time to play together because they wound up in different school districts.) We fondly remember that happy day because we knew that assimilating to the culture was going to be easy. Looking far beyond, where the clouds merged with the majesty of the Sierra Madre Mountains, I thanked God for allowing us to be here. With tears, we left friends, family and church to start this adventure.

The 15 hour flight aboard Northwest Airlines was the first time our kids rode an airplane. We were allowed to bring 10 huge boxes of favorite toys, videotapes and lots and lots of clothes. In retrospect, we shouldn’t have bothered because they were practically rags compared to the quality of US garments. People at the airport stared at our family as we rolled 5 carts through the maze of LAX but I didn’t care. I recall my brother in Washington DC exclaimed “the Eagle has landed!” Indeed, it was like we had stepped on the moon.

It was a small miracle that all of this junk fit in my father’s Nissan Van: “Welcome to America … welcome to your new home!” A feeling of disbelief overwhelmed us as the van navigated towards the four-lane 10 freeway. “America is so big! Look at those tall buildings! Look at all those brand-new cars! Look at how fast everyone’s driving! Smell the clean air! There are McDonalds everywhere!

My parents prepared a spare room … a tiny room just big enough to fit one king-sized mattress on the floor and a dresser. (Don’t we need mosquito nets? Where are the mosquitoes?) Our family of 5 lived there for a few months until my wife pushed us to rent an apartment in the hopes that we would find a decent income. She eventually started as a bookkeeper while I worked for a very small graphic design shop. Even though I was hardly paid enough, I enjoyed my work and was grateful for any kind of job. I was too happy being here in America. I didn’t understand labor rates, living costs, insurance, health benefits, taxes, and the US economy. My dreams were simple.

One of the first things we searched for was a good church. It was funny how fellow Filipinos suggested we go to an all-Filipino church to feel more at home (which we did for a while) but we enjoyed discovering other cultures … we came here to assimilate into the culture. We deliberately instructed our kids to make friends with all kinds of ethnicities.

Our first church was the First Baptist Church of Alhambra, California. The congregation doted over us. They gave us furniture and clothes, taught us where the discounts were and they invited us to their homes. They taught us what Americans do for Memorial Day weekend, Super Bowl Sunday, the 4th of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Black Friday Sales, Christmas, New Year, Easter, and Summer Camp vacations. In turn, we taught Sunday School and helped out in the church. We learned how Caucasians, other Asians, Blacks and Hispanics lived. Each group did things differently for sure — ate different food, dressed differently and spoke differently. Different meant diversity in a good rich way. We were color blind and proud of it.

TODAY

Our kids are grown up now. They all have well-paying jobs. Our grand kids are older than our kids when we first arrived. We have lived here longer than we had lived in the Philippines. We have food. We have cars. We have a home. We are living the American dream. We are headed down the mountain of success and walking towards the sunset.

To be part of America is an honor I will never take for granted. That’s why I am amazed at the arrogance of some immigrants. Wants are now demands. Blessings are now expectations. They forget the little miracles that led them up the mountain. They compare the mountains above and below. Never satisfied. Always looking for a fight. They don’t recognize my America.

America — the land of free speech and ideas. A land established by Judeo-Christian values. What other country passes its blessings to the rest of the world like America? Someone asked me why I spend so much time preparing for this Friday email. I don’t do it for the money. It is my part to pass the blessings I do not deserve.

TGIF people!

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Quotes of the week

“The White House looked into a plan that would allow illegal immigrants to stay in the United States. The plan called for a million Mexicans to marry a million of our ugliest citizens.” — Dennis Miller

“The police pulled me over and asked me if I have anything illegal in my car. I looked at my cousin and I ran.” — Felipe Esparza

“Do you know what a foreign accent is? It’s a sign of bravery.” — Amy Chua, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

“I received a letter just before I left office from a man. I don’t know why he chose to write it, but I’m glad he did. He wrote that you can go to live in France, but you can’t become a Frenchman. You can go to live in Germany or Italy, but you can’t become a German, an Italian. He went through Turkey, Greece, Japan and other countries. But he said anyone, from any corner of the world, can come to live in the United States and become an American.” — Ronald Reagan

“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.” — Numbers 6: 24-26

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” — James 1:17

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” — Isaiah 41:10

Memes of the Week

Thanks to James of Los Angeles, CA

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Thanks to Barbara of Pasadena. CA

Thanks to Tom of Pasadena, CA

Thanks to Jacob of Whittier, CA

Thanks to Norm of Encino, CA

I found these

My good friend (and jokester) Terry and I came up with these:

I hope I got you to smile.
See you next Friday!

TGIF Joke Archives

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