I stay away from motorcycles. 

Yes, I know I rode motorcycle taxis on my most recent journey to Liberia.  However, as a general rule, I stay away -- and off -- of them.  I certainly will not drive one by choice.   I can give you several reasons why.

I was a Peace Corps Volunteer back in the days when volunteers were given motorcycles.  That doesn't happen anymore and I understand that completely.  I am part of the reason for that policy.  Yes, I am the first to admit that I was not a good driver.  Combine that with Liberia's awful roads, and it was a recipe for a muddy or dusty disaster. 

On one occasion, I headed off to a nearby village just outside of Zwedru to see a Liberian friend.  Somewhere between Zleitown and me was a massive mud hole.  It was more like a trench.  I noticed it about the time my front wheel went in the hole and I flew over the handlebars.  Who knew motorcycles could cartwheel?  Who knew I could fly?

I could have broken something.  I should have broken something.  Instead, I had a rather nasty gash on my right elbow.  And, when you have a nasty gash, you also have a lot of blood.  I had to make a quick decision.  Should I return to Zwedru to a hospital that I really didn't trust or go on to Tappita to the Catholic mission?  I turned to God.  It may or may not have been the best decision in this case.  The nuns cleaned the gash but it really needed stitches.  I didn't get any but I did get a really nasty scar as a souvenir.  However, the best part of the whole situation was getting through the numerous police checkpoints along the road.  Usually, always, they were a troublesome annoyance.  But, no policeman wanted to delay a bleeding white man on the way to medical treatment.  It was the fastest I ever got through police checkpoints on my own.

As bad as that was, it wasn't my worst Liberian motorcycle experience.  That happened just a month before departing the Peace Corps.  I was in Zwedru when I heard an airplane approaching the air field.  That meant mail!  So, I hopped on my motorcycle and made a beeline to the airport.  It was a straight line and, yes, I was going faster than I should have.  I was going too fast to really swerve out of the way of the truck that ran a stop sign and turned right into me.

I went bouncing on one of the few paved roads in the country.

Peace Corps had a strict rule about wearing helmets.  I had my helmet on.  There were not so many rules about shorts and flip flops.  As I bounced along that pavement, I scraped a lot of things including feet, elbows, knees, hip and a long strip along my back.  But, I got up to walk away from it.  Again, lots of things could have and should have been broken.  The motorcycle was in much worse shape than me.  Once again, I give a lot of credit to my guardian angel. 

Sad to say, my motorcycle stories continued after Peace Corps days.  And, one of my more memorable rides took place in the mountain resort of Dalat, Vietnam.  This area was not damaged during the long war because both North and South Vietnamese officers had their private villas there.  Anyway, in one very charming restaurant, my path crossed with a delightful waiter who was thrilled to practice his English.  In fact, Chung took the following day off of work to show three foreigners all the sites that could be seen on two motorcycles.

My two previous accidents in Africa happened really quickly.  There was no real warning.  On this particular day, as I clung on from the passenger spot for dear life, I just knew an accident was going to happen.  Both of the drivers were madmen behind the wheels and I knew first-hand that there wasn't much protection between the wheel and me. 

In the process, Chung took us to places that we never would have found on our own.  The most serene spot was of the Buddha statue in the photo below.  The most charming location was a Buddhist complex with a whole lot of novice boys wearing woolen caps.  It's a mystery to me how or why anyone in tropical weather wears woolen caps.  I see it all over the world.  But, the bigger surprise was when the caps came off.  The novices had long locks of hair growing above their foreheads, but the rest of their heads were completely shaved.  It's a style I'd never seen anywhere else in all of my travels.

Then, the wild ride continued.  I managed to hop off the motorcycle before my driver completely spun out of control at one turn.  I cut my palms a little.  The driver banged and bruised a little more than that.  Enough with the stupidity already.  No need to challenge the dedication of my guardian angel any longer.  Although I may be a slow learner, I think experience has taught me to limit my time on two wheels to a bicycle.

The New Year started and I celebrated with a group of Peace Corps Volunteers in the town of Man, Ivory Coast.  Our Ivorian guide, in hot pink and lime green suspenders, took us to a waterfall for the afternoon.  Perhaps I should have taken it as a warning, but atop the algae covered rocks at the brink of the waterfall, I nearly slipped over the edge.  It's one of the many times in my life that my guardian angel stepped forward to save me. 
 
I have seriously overworked my guardian angel.  And, this vacation through the Ivory Coast, Burkina Faso and Mali was no exception.  I became part of Peace Corps legend in Liberia after this trip.  Nobody could believe anyone survived.  Most likely, you will agree.
 
After the New Year celebrations, most of the volunteers returned to Liberia while three of us headed into our adventure.  Usually the first day of vacations aren't too eventful.  However, we were easily impressed.  After a year in Liberia, it was incredible to be in an air conditioned bus, with assigned numbered seats, a stereo and a VCR.   We hadn't been on such nice public transportation the whole time we'd been in Africa.   We were set to enjoy a scenic view and a peaceful ride.  

After an hour or so, I snuggled down in my seat to take a nap.  I'll never know exactly what happened, but it took place just before Daloa.  All of a sudden I was thrown around in my seat and then showered by two waves of liquid and shattered glass.   For some reason, our bus crossed over into the other lane, hit and oncoming truck that carried bottles of soft drinks and beer, ran down a steep embankment, and plowed through a briar patch into a grove of trees.   When we finally came to a stop, the first thing I remember was Amanda screaming, "Am I bleeding?" She didn't wait for an answer. Amanda climbed over a dozen seats and several people to escape out the back of the bus before it exploded.  (She'd seen too many movie explosions.)

We were lucky to be alive.  Most people were uninjured except for those seated near the driver, which is where we should have been seated as the first three passengers on the bus.  However, because we were a group of three, they seated us together in the first section with three seats. We were two rows away from the driver, but I never saw him after the wreck.  I never learned what happened to him but there was a huge tree where he had been seated.  A ten foot section of the bus was ripped off the driver's side.  The woman sitting in front of me was thrown out of the bus and into the trees.  Her arms looked broken.  There was someone dead on the road.  There could have been more.

Debbie and I climbed out our shattered window to locate the missing Amanda.  She was frantic -- a safe distance away from the bus.  Her glasses were missing.  Glasses?  As soon as she said that, I realized that mine were missing, too.  I went back into the bus to find them.   Amanda's were broken in the stampede out of the bus.  I found one lens.   One a second trip I found the other.  Mine were nowhere.  I searched around the wreck.  Nothing.  I made a third check in the bus and found them -- unbroken -- where the driver's feet should have been.
As the only foreigners at the scene (and the only victims covered with shattered glass and beer), we stuck out in the crowd.   Some people invited us to their village where we cleaned up and ate before finding a bus on to Daloa.  We stopped at the Catholic mission to see if we might be able to stay there the night.  They said they were too busy helping victims of a bus accident.  When we explained that we were on that bus, they found a place for us to stay.

Obviously, it was a few days before we could think of anything else to talk about.  We almost cancelled the vacation and returned to Liberia, but we knew no more disasters could possibly beat this one. 

We were sure.  

We were fools. 

Continuing on to Abidjan, we toured the very old African part of the city called Treichville.  There was a mosque that we were not permitted to enter.  Too bad, because I think we needed to pray for a safe vacation.  After the time in Treichville, we headed back to the main part of the shopping district called the Plateau.  A big bridge separated these two areas.   The guidebook said that it should be avoided at night, but we were there in the middle of the afternoon. On the pedestrians' exit ramp from the bridge were sidewalk vendors.  There were café tables with colorful umbrellas.  There were also two rogues (the Liberian term for lowlife ne'er-do-wells) who ran up from behind us and tried to steal the girls' backpacks. 

I saw Amanda running, screaming at the top of her lungs, as a man chased her.  It was like a scene from a horror movie.  The man held his arm high in the air as he raced after her, a knife in his grasp.  Well, my heart almost stopped and then I started to call for help -- in English -- which doesn't do a whole lot of good in a French speaking country.  When I gathered my wits, I knew it was up to me to rise to the occasion and be a hero to save my friends.  I ran over to Debbie. She struggled with her backpack but managed to pull it away from the thief by the time I got there.  Defeated, the thief ran off empty handed.

Since Debbie was okay, I had to locate Amanda.  I ran down the bridge not having a clue what I'd do when I found her.  I just continued running, running, running.  Then, I saw her at the end of the exit ramp struggling to keep her purse away from the thief.  I continued running and did the only thing I knew to do.  I took a flying leap into the air -- like Superman -- and tackled him.  We all three tumbled to the ground.   By the time I got to my feet, the thief was twenty feet away and running but Amanda was nowhere to be seen.  Although she'd fought long and hard to protect her belongings, as soon as she was knocked over, she "knew" she was about to die. So, she left everything and ran. Well, she possessed the clarity of mind to grab her new pair of glasses before saving her neck.   

I remember a woman ran up to me and said in French, "You have a lot of courage!"  I really didn't know what she was talking about. But, later, I learned that thieves in Abidjan did not hesitate to slice up or kill anyone who resisted them -- including Superman.  It was one of the most dangerous cities in Africa.  It's probably best I didn't know it at the time.

Debbie arrived by my side, picking up Amanda's scattered possessions.  We watched as the other pedestrians chased after the thief.  They threw anything they could find at him, including park benches.  He didn't stay around.  A thief who is caught can get into serious trouble in West Africa.  One of my friends in Liberia had her house broken into.  When the thief was caught, as punishment, his foot was chopped off with a machete.  That Ivorian rogue didn't have any desire to remain with us and lose a body part.  We had no desire to stay in Abidjan either. 

There were no more major disasters, but it was only day three of the vacation.  I knew the experience deserved a song, which I finished in Mali as our vehicle was stuck in a partially dried river bed somewhere between Mopti and Dogan land.  But, you have to know a few more details of the trip to fully understand the lyrics.  "PCV" means Peace Corps Volunteer.  One day, as we strolled in a park in downtown Abidjan, we heard a crashing sound and stopped.  Then, just in front of us, a huge palm branch crashed to the ground at our feet.  Later, as we continued from the Ivory Coast on to Bobo Dioulasso in Burkina Faso, we had eighteen - count 'em - eighteen police checkpoints along the way.  Mostly I just shut my eyes and tried to endure the heat, delays and the dusty Harmattan winds that blew across West Africa from December to February.  Amanda saw no humor in the situation, but in one pickup taxi, a sleazy guy from Togo asked me how much I would sell her as his new bride. 

Now the song should make sense.
                                               
                                                   Harmattan All the While (to the tune of Gilligan's Isle)

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale that could make you cuss,
That started in the town of Man aboard this lousy bus.
Our fate wasn't all in our command, our sanity unsure.
Three PCV's set out one day for a three country tour.
The travels started getting rough.  Our great big bus was crushed!
If not for the luck here of our fearless few, the story could be hushed.
The trip was more than we bargained for as we crossed every mile.

In Abidjan, the rogues had knives,
The Bobo road, eighteen stops,
Attacking palms,
And if you please, a Togolese sleaze,
Harmattan all the while!
 
Now this is a tale of our PCV's.  They've been gone for ever since!
Through Ouaga, Mopti, Dogon land, some people think they're dense.
No roads and no mosquito nets!  Not a single luxury!
If this is a vacation, I'd sure hate misery.
Sojourns like this can be a test.  You'll die if you can't smile,
With PCV's in Africa, Harmattan all the while!
 
Even if you don't know the tune or can't sing a lick, certainly you'll understand why I was a Peace Corps legend in Liberia.

If you wander the globe and find yourself in Jordan, most likely, you have come to see Petra.  One of the world's most famous archaeological sites, Petra is located between the Red Sea and the Dead Sea at a crossroads between ancient Egypt, Arabia and Syria-Phoenicia (present day Syria, Lebanon and Northern Israel).

Petra is often referred to as "the Rose-red city" and it is no usual ancient city. Instead of free-standing buildings, Petra was hewn from towering sandstone walls. Once a thriving center of trade during the days of caravans with spice, myrrh and frankincense, the Nabataeans who built the city grew rich on taxes levied on passing merchants. But times changed, shipping routes replaced caravans, Romans as well as Crusaders came and went, and Petra became a forgotten outpost for about 600 years.

A Swiss explorer Johann Ludwig Burckhardt, disguised as a Moslem, was led to the ruins in 1812. Local Bedouins kept the place a secret. He came saying he wanted to offer a sacrifice at Aaron's grave. That got him into Petra but he wasn't allowed to explore. That would have gotten him killed. But the gates were opened. The lost city has attracted tourists ever since, averaging 2000 a day.

Leading the way to the city is the Siq. It is a path of 1.2 kilometers that looks like a canyon but it wasn't carved by water. The earth split apart by tectonic forces. It varies in width from two to five meters and towers 200 overhead. The Siq ends with the most amazing view of all Petra, the Treasury. And, whether you climb or ride a donkey, you must see the Monastery.

As wonderful as Petra is, and it is spectacular, my fondest memory of Jordan will always be the people.  From the wadi (valley) where Lawrence of Arabia once trekked past Bedouin women like this to local restaurants where owners overstuffed guests with mysterious delights, Jordanians were so very gracious.

The most memorable person crossed my way at the most unexpected moment. They (whoever they are) say that half the fun is getting there.  But when traveling at night, I can't honestly say I am in search of adventure.  I much prefer clearly marked roads and street lights. They were non-existent in the Jordanian countryside. At some intersections it just wasn't clear which way to go.

Of course, mistakes were made and my friends and I were completely lost. Hoping for the best, we continued on until the road ended at a compound in the desert. Someone spoke a little English, and when we said we wanted to go to Petra, everyone laughed.  Fortunately, one young man decided to escort us to the highway. We never would have found it otherwise, and he knew it. Unlike so many other parts of the world where we would have been taken advantage of, he refused any kind of tip.  He simply smiled and said, "Welcome to Jordan."

I never felt more welcomed.

If you really are familiar with my blogs, you may notice that most of this is a rehash of my very first blog, Chickens, Roads and Crossing the Globe.  However, it is the time when I took this photo.  After I reread the blog, I decided I couldn't have said it any better than I already did.  So, here it goes again . . .

I'm not really a chicken.

Some people think chickens cross the road to get to the other side.  I don't buy into that nonsense. No self-respecting chicken wants to cross the road at the risk of turning into cloud of fluttering feathers and a pile of smithereens.  Every time a chicken - or a person - crosses a road, there is a risk of an accident happening.  It
can happen any time, any place or anywhere.  Some day my number is going to be up.  Yours, too.  I am just determined that it shouldn't happen while crossing the street in Columbus, Ohio.  So, I can say I've ridden the trains in Madrid and the tubes in London.  I've sipped at cafes in Ougadougou, Casablanca and Manhattan.  I will not spend my life "hiding in the hen house".

I don't believe we're meant to live as chickens.  We are not meant to live in fear.  Yes, there are some terrible people "out there" who do horrible things.  But, the world is filled with so many more incredible people.  When you go out and meet them, you'll see that we are a whole lot more alike than we are different.  And, differences only make us more interesting, not threatening.  So, I cross the road and then I cross the globe.

After the Paris attack on November 13, 2015, chickens wouldn't have even stepped on to the sidewalk.  Forget about the road!  But, I had a ticket to Europe and it was non-refundable.  I crossed the globe.

I didn't go to Paris.  I would have if I had the time.  Instead, I went to Brussels.  If you followed the news on your smartphone on that weekend, you would have known that Brussels was on lock-down with the highest possible terrorist security threat.    Some kind of attack was feared imminent.  But, I don't have a smart phone.  With my dumb-ass phone, completely oblivious to the news of the day, you might say I was a dumb . . . er, uninformed traveler.  But in my defense, my phone doesn't work overseas.  My friends in Antwerp wanted to warn me. There was no way to communicate.

So, I hopped on the train to Brussels.  Apparently, buses and subways throughout the city were shut down for the weekend.  The trains worked just fine.  But, when I walked out of the station, parked right in front of me was some kind of military vehicle.  It wasn't a tank, but several policemen could easily have been inside, ready to protect and defend against whatever or whomever came their way.  I took a left turn.

When I go to Brussels, I head to two streets where antiques are sold. I didn't see anything I had to buy.  Whew!  But, I had a very nice stroll in my favorite part of the city.  Then, I decided it was time to wander towards the city center with its incredible marketplace. Things were entirely different the closer I came to the Grand Place.  Stores were "mysteriously" closed for the weekend.  I didn't know why.  Streets were blocked off so no cars could get to the center.  And police!  All kinds of police with all kinds of fancy guns were all around the market!

I finally approached an officer and asked if he spoke English.  I wanted to know if there was a specific threat or if this was just the "new normal" after Paris.  The young officer spoke English, with the most delightful French accent, and shamelessly lied through his teeth.  He said it was just the new normal.  Well, new normal or not, I decided it was time to return to Antwerp.  You may disagree, but my mamma didn't raise no fool.

Total time spent in a locked-down European capital city - one hour and a half.