The African Safari. For many it’s the pinnacle of a lifetime’s worth of wanderlust, wrought in the childhood dreams of far away places and exotic animals. Like a magnet, the pervasive pull of the cradle of life draws people from around the world to its savannahs teaming with life and its breathtakingly endless African skies.

While each of our dreams about African varies from person to person, I would guess that the spirit of all our dreams remains the same: the opportunity to encounter some the rarest, most beautiful and dangerous animals in the world, the Big 5. But the safari promises not just an encounter, for any of us could get that at our local zoo, but an encounter with the Big 5 on the animals’ terms, in their habitat, in their home.

But as I travelled across that mighty continent, I realized that there was a catch, one that put a damper on my entire experience: Safaris can’t always deliver on their promises.

At first blush tracking the Big 5 across Africa seems like the adventure traveller’s dream, reliving the experiences of the early Western pioneers on this continent; hunting some of the most elusive animals the land has to offer…only this time snapping photos instead of firing bullets.

It’s a once in a lifetime experience, to be sure, but while it may seem strange to say, unlike travel focused on cultural or historical experiences, wildlife encounters tend to be considerably more fickle, and distinctly more prone to disappointment.

You see, when visiting the ruins of Angkor Wat in Cambodia or the majestic pyramids of Giza you have a fairly reliable assurance that you will, in fact, see those things. Save for some civic upheaval, it would be rare to visit Cairo with the intention of seeing the pyramids or Siem Reap with the intention of seeing the temples only to find that the respective deserts and jungles had reclaimed their own.

It’s a problem made worse by the brochures and the documentaries, both of which show Africa in all its grandeur, implicitly promising the same experiences to anyone who journeys to the continent in search of the rarest of God’s creatures.

Couple that with the well-intentioned stories of the African guides, who spin tales about the pride of lions they spotted at this very spot only last week or the leopard they came across languorously sun bathing in that tree over there, and it seems to serve only as fuel for the disappointment that your experiences could have matched those, but didn’t.

Of course, my journey to South Africa, Botswana, and Zambia was not without its animal sightings, many of which were both awe-inspiring and amazing, but it’s the notable absence of the big cats—the lions, leopards, and cheetahs—that stand out in my memory. I left Africa with a gnawing feeling that the continent had failed to deliver on its implicit promises, failed to deliver the animals I wanted, and failed to meet my expectations.

But perhaps that’s really the travelling lesson to be learned out of all of this: travelling with expectations means travelling with disappointments, as perhaps its better to allow these countries, cultures, and animals to show you what they will, without imposing upon them your own wants, your own schedule, or your own to-do list.

Or perhaps it is that our travels simply can’t ever fully meet our expectations, a caveat of having to live with this insatiable wanderlust that will invariably lead me back to the cradle of the world, once again in search of Africa’s Big 5.

Its worn yellowish façade looked faded and weather-beaten from years of abuse at the hands of the harsh Tibetan elements. Juxtaposed to the polished ivory-white bone of its much younger counterparts, the bowl seemed to exude a sort of primeval energy, as if thousands of years of Tibetan history were contained within its brittle exterior.

But did I dare break the most sacred of western taboos, purchasing something made of human bone? Would such an act call forth the ire of the gods, cursing me for dishonouring a person’s remains, or would it, as thought in Tibetan culture, allow the person to continue to live on through use in religious rites and art?

Whatever the consequences, in that moment they were the farthest thing from my mind, as my only worry was that the dried and brittle bone would be too delicate to survive the rest of my trip through Tibet, let alone the arduous return flight home. But pushing away such questions, I began something I never would have dreamed of doing…haggling over a human skull.

Earlier that morning in the city of Lhasa, I embarked on the daily kora (circumambulations) around the famous Jokhang temple, joining the hundreds of Tibetan locals and pilgrims alike in this regular religious rite. Upon completion, as I lazily wandered the local market, not particularly interested in the baubles, trinkets, or other wares on display, I noticed one of my travelling companions nearby attempting to find a very particular bowl, yet the language barrier seemed too imposing to cross.

Unaware of the particulars of her search, I watched as she tucked into a local jewellery store, as one of the local vendors thought such a place may have the object of her desire. It wasn’t but a few moments later, however, that she exited back out onto the street, clearly frustrated by what she had heard.

Inquiring into her displeasure I discovered that she had been looking for a particular bowl and that, while the jewellery store had the bowl in question, it was far too expensive. It was a bowl made of bone, she explained, and something very sacred in Tibetan ritual and art. I naively surmised that the bowl was formed of yak bone, a common sight in Tibet, and too expressed my surprise at the exorbitant cost. “Its not yak bone,” she explained, “its human bone.”

As a scholar of religion, I was instantly intrigued by such a rare and unusual piece, a ceremonial bowl carved out of the top of a human skull. Could I afford to pass up this opportunity? Could I afford the rest of my trip if I didn’t?

A short while later I returned to that same vendor with my local translator in hand, eager to see what bone wares the merchant had. After making my wishes known, the vendor slipped out of the store, stating that he kept such treasures at his house for safe keeping. He returned a short while later with a number of pieces: 3 bowls of varying age, 1 oil lamp, and one ornate vase.

The process from there was simple, as I haggled and bargained, driving the merchant ever lower towards finding a mutually agreeable price. While I will admit that I still ended up paying the average yearly wage of a Tibetan farmer, my rule of haggling has always been, pay what I want to pay and don’t look back.

Today my Tibetan skull, named Larry by one of my travel companions, holds a place of honour in my collection of religious artefacts and antiques, its value augmented by the fact that this was once a human being, deserving of respect and honour.

For those perhaps seeking an ardent defence for your right to put up inflatable Christmas decorations (can we even call them decorations?) on your lawn, or festooning thousands of gaudy icicle lights from your roof, or otherwise uglying up the holidays with your over-the-top ornaments, I’m sorry to say, you won’t find it here.

That being said, nor will you find here an impassioned case for the traditional religious definition of Christmas, one that decries the consumer driven focus on Santa Claus instead of remembering the birth of Jesus Christ, mourning the fact that the  true meaning of Christmas may very well be lost forever.

Instead this post is a simple counterpoint to a holiday themed issue I raised last year, the issue of the changing language of Christmas; where it’s taking us, and whether or not we should be worried about it.

While I concluded last year that Christmas was, for better or worse, no longer a religious holiday, but instead a generic cultural holiday, as many diverse minorities choose to celebrate it in their own unique ways, I do believe that our culture has taken its rejection of the original roots of Christmas just a little too far.

In fact, one might go as far as to say that the language in both the public and private spheres this holiday is an example of cultural and religious tolerance run amuck, a veritable mine field of talking points that one should avoid lest they have some sort of holiday faux pas blow up in their faces.

While recognizing that seasonal phrases like “Happy Holidays” and “Season’s Greetings” are an attempt to respect the fact that we may not know precisely what holiday our neighbours are celebrating, letting them know that we wish them the same sort of happiness that we hope for this Christmas, the state of holiday language has gotten to a point where I feel that I shouldn’t–nay, can’t–wish someone a “Merry Christmas,” even when I see them engaged in what I would call, distinctly Christmas activities (i.e. buying presents, buying a Christmas tree etc…)

I find this overbearing need to be tolerant somewhat unsettling, as in our culture tolerance seems to be a narrow one-way street, where those looking to celebrate a distinctly religious Christmas are forced to recognize that other’s have different outlooks on this particular holiday, but who themselves experience no reciprocal tolerance regarding their overtly religious views.

Imagine for a moment if you will, that you lived in one of the many countries that celebrate the Hindu holiday Diwali, the festival of lights. Not being a Hindu, and perhaps not agreeing with the Hindu religious perspective on life, you nevertheless decide that you would like to celebrate something during that same time, to feel some sort of cultural inclusion. This example raises a twofold question: Would you expect the Hindu culture to change to respect your distinctly non-Hindu views towards their holiday? And, would you be offended if someone wished you a happy Diwali while at the store buying the requisite fireworks and oil lamp?

My point is simple: you don’t have to believe in everything the holiday stands for to enjoy it, which can be done without the need to necessarily change the language. So to those in the non-Christmas celebrating gift-giving demographic my question is this: Why does the language of Christmas have to change for you?

Truly I think that in this culture where tolerance has run amuck, the language of Christmas has taken on a life of its own; to the point where businesses avoid using overtly religious sounding language (like Merry Christmas) for fear of alienating potential customers or where people passing each other on the street struggle to find the appropriate politically correct phrase to wish their neighbours.

So with that said, maybe we just all need to relax a little, to find a middle ground where people are allowed to wish others a Merry Christmas without fear of reprisal, judgment, or alienation; a culture wherein people are allowed to celebrate the holidays in whatever fashion they so desire.

In the spirit of the season, therefore, let me steal a poignant phrase from Krusty the Clown (Simpsons episode: Grift of the Magi) and say, “Have a merry Christmas, happy Chanukah, kwazy Kwanza, a tip-top Tet, and a solemn, dignified Ramadan.” I hope I’ve covered all my bases.

The wind rushed down the barren valley, tearing through my layers of clothes, sending a chill through the very core of my body. I had foolishly climbed the exposed eastern slope of the barren Rongbuk valley, mesmerized by the subtle dance of a veritable field of green prayer flags flying in the wind. It was there, despite the bone chilling cold, that I took some time to reflect on my epic journey.

Looking down on the valley below, at the ancient and weather-beaten Buddhist Rongbuk monastery, I was amazed that it was from this exact spot that mountaineers, adventurers and thrill seekers the world over officially began the dangerous ascent up the daunting North Face of the tallest mountain the world, the one locals call Qomolangma, Holy Mother…the one we know as Everest.

Finding a spot amongst the flags, I couldn’t help but wonder what feelings of amazement, wonder, and relief that the sight of this monastery must have evoked in those early adventurers, for until recently Everest was considered to be so remote, so dangerous, and so difficult to reach that it may as well have been on another planet. But alas, for wanna-be adventurers like me, those days were long past.

In the days before 4×4 Landcruisers, traversing the worn and bumpy dirt track was done on foot, a journey that for one of my travelling companions who had visited Everest some twenty-five years earlier, took the better part of a week. Despite the fact that I was actually glad to find a 4×4 Landcruiser to drive me to the monastery, as my companion told his story of how things used to be, I felt that something was missing from my experience.

But then it hit me, the attraction of such remote natural wonders like Everest is not simply in seeing the tallest mountain or visiting the ancient Rongbuk monastery, but in the journey itself.

At that point, as the cloud bank covering the summit of the mighty mountain cleared, I could only imagine that what I was feeling was only a pale shadow of the wonderment felt by the likes of George Mallory, Edmund Hillary or Tenzing Norgay. You see, for those men the journey to Everest started weeks before, as traversing the difficult route to the Rongbuk monastery required almost as much planning and preparation as the mountain itself.

It was this sacrifice, I came to realize, that turned the experience of first viewing Everest from a tourist one to a subtly spiritual one, and the reason that the Tibetan locals referred to the mountain as the Holy Mother.

The reality, however, is that Everest that Mallory and Hillary worked so hard to summit has long since disappeared. Of course the mountain itself is still there, now summated regularly by almost anyone who can pay; but one of the many changes that has slowly robbed Everest of its majesty.

The once solitary Rongbuk monastery, for years a beacon of hope and salvation to all those looking to traverse the North Face, now but one of many buildings in a developing town; its sparse and austere guest rooms now replaced by relatively opulent guest houses, restaurants, and a Post Office.

The Everest Base Camp, once an achievement in itself for those not daring enough to tackle the mountain heights, now a tourist trap several kilometers removed from the real base camp, and the magical first glimpse of Everest in the morning light now sullied by hundreds of tourists chattering away on their cellphones—no doubt taking advantage of the fact that Everest is now completely covered by a local Nepalese 3G wireless network.

But despite all that, as I cracked open my long-awaited Everest beer—carried for the better part of the week—the place known as Qomolangma still managed to retain a sense of magic and wonder; the highest point on Earth nestled away in the mighty Himalayan mountain range. Truly a natural wonder to behold.

A bolt of lightning tore through the tumultuous Tibetan sky, momentarily illuminating the dirt track in front of our Landcruiser. The driver glanced nervously in his rear-view mirror, understanding fully that an uncomfortably bumpy dirt track would turn into an impassable quagmire if the storm managed to overtake us.

But amidst that darkening scene the sky in front of us told a completely different story, as dark browns mixed with rich reds and vibrant yellows to form one of the most breathtaking sunsets I had ever seen. Then, after just a moment it was all gone and our 4×4 was once again plunged into total darkness. We were racing across the high Tibetan plateau, 5000 meters above sea level, in the middle of nowhere, and our journey to the immensely spiritual Mt. Kailash had barely begun.

Little did I know when I left the sleepy little Tibetan town of Lhatse earlier that day that it would be the last time I saw a paved road for the next four or five days. While I knew that completing a three-day high-elevation hike around Kailash, one of the most religiously significant mountains in all Asia, would take sacrifice, I had little notion the sacrifices would begin days before I actually laid my eyes on the mountain itself.

Another hard jolt roused me from my pseudo-slumber, my head slamming painfully against the roof of the vehicle as our driver cursed himself for hitting but one of the thousands of precariously deep holes that dotted the deviously titled ‘highway’ through Western Tibet. Long gone were the enjoyable daylight hours singing Tibetan songs we didn’t understand, and having our Tibetan driver replay the one song in English that he didn’t understand. It was the middle of the night, we were tired, sore, and disgruntled, and the end was nowhere in sight.

Fortunately for me, however, we arrived at a ubiquitously named Yak Hotel in a small Tibetan town I was never able to identify. It was close to 3am, our drivers were exhausted, and I would have to wait several uncomfortable hours in a hard dirty bed before resuming my pilgrimage to Kailash. There was a part of me that was secretly thankful I never saw that Yak Hotel during daylight hours; had I, I probably never would have slept there. But with a wakeup call that came a mere 4 hours later, it seemed like I hadn’t slept at all before we were back on the road.

As our journey took us closer and closer to the North Western edge of the mighty Himalayan mountain range, the scenery began to change drastically. Although the landscape around us was still largely devoid of life, looking more like the surface of the moon than Western China, as we climbed ever higher the soft rolling hills slowly gave way to the towering jagged peaks of Everest and his friends. 

With each turn in the road it seemed like we had reached the summit of some particular pass, with prayer flags festooned ceremoniously over top of the road set to capture the winds and send the prayers of desperate travelers up to the heavens. But even as our devout driver offered up a prayer for our safety, it almost seemed inevitable that there was more climbing to do.

But then, after what had seemed like an eternity, the paved roads reappeared, a sure sign that we were fast approaching our destination. Then, with the beautiful Lake Manasarovar sparkling beside us, the mighty Mt. Kailash came into view. In Hindu theology it is said that Shiva lives atop the perpetually snow-capped peak, and since rumour has it that no one has ever climbed the mountain, I’ll have to take their word it.

Significant not only to the Hindus but to the Buddhists and Bons (a shamanistic traditional Tibetan religion), words could barely describe the sense of awe and wonderment that accompanied simply laying eyes on the mountain. According to legend, one kora (circumambulation) around the mountain was enough to assuage the sins of a lifetime; thirteen (13) koras warranted forgiveness for a thousand lifetimes, with an unfathomable 108 koras guaranteeing the achievement of Nirvana in this life. While I didn’t have Nirvana in mind, as I prepared myself for the three (3) day hike, I offered up a prayer that I would, at the very least, be able to make it around once…and with that, I was off.

To Be Continued…

The temperature outside was an unfathomable 3461 degrees Celsius, or at least that’s what the information screen mounted at the end of my train car told me. Of course, minutes earlier the display had read -1340 degrees C, so either I was on the surface of Mercury or the device wasn’t to be trusted.

Regardless, the train was a welcome respite from the blazing heat I had experienced the preceding days as I had wandered the surprisingly Western looking streets of Beijing.

I had been in China for only three (3) days and while I quickly had become adept at dodging the ridiculously overpriced tea girls wandering the streets, I had yet to see anything that I would consider distinctly Chinese, or better yet, distinctly communist.

While my experience in rural China would be much different, what I discovered in the metropolitan hubs was nothing like what I had expected: Cultural seclusion had morphed into uncritical cultural adoption, a feeling of communist camaraderie had turned into egotistical self-interest, and the self-titled beacon of communism in the world had, as a matter of fact, become quite capitalistic.

In fact, as one particularly insightful guide had quipped during a tour of the Forbidden City, “the Forbidden City,” indeed much of China, I discovered, “…not so forbidden anymore.”

Over the course of my worldwide wanderings I have had the pleasure of visiting many of the world’s remaining communist locales. The interesting thing about those countries was that I immediately got the feeling that I was in a different place; a place where the economic, political, and social values were different from my home. They were countries that seemed more focused on developing infrastructure, providing for their fellow-man, and were certainly more resistant to the encroachment of Western businesses like McDonalds and KFC.

But in Beijing things were different. Much to my chagrin, every street corner in the downtown seemed to boast a high-end boutique, a fast food restaurant like KFC or China’s own Mr. Lee’s noodle house (notably opened by a Chinese-American busienssman), or, very much like home, a Starbucks coffee shop. There are few places on earth farther away from where I live that felt more like home; a feeling, as many who are plagued by the disease of wanderlust may already know, that is certainly not welcome.

Where has the communist spirit gone? Did it ever really exist? As I was jostled and pushed by the large and impatient crowd heading down the city’s metro, I guessed that wherever that spirit had gone, it had left quite a while ago. Call me naïve, but I had thought the largest communist country would be the shining example of the communist spirit; a country with a prevailing sense of egalitarianism instead of the me-first egoism that I experience on an everyday basis back home.

Instead, what I found was a national mindset of cutthroat competition, one prevalent not only in the business world, but in every facet of daily life as well. Waiting in line for ice cream? The Chinese want to be first to get it. Waiting in line to get kicked in the face? They want to be first for that too, not because they liked getting kicked in the face, but because they like to be ahead of me and you.

Does that mean that there’s something wrong with the metropolitan Chinese population? Absolutely not! In fact, what it means is that they’re just like you and me, and why would we expect anything otherwise?

Since the People’s Republic of China entered into Tibet over 60 years ago, the communist country has faced one particular lingering issue, one that it simply can’t get control of. You see, the problem for China since its “liberation” of Tibet is that the picturesque Land of Snow nestled amongst the towering Himalayan mountains has been, unfortunately for the Chinese government, filled with Tibetans.

For years the Chinese government has tried everything it can think of to placate the Tibetan masses. They’ve tried oppressing them, killing them, humiliating them, and forcing their politico-spiritual leaders into exile, but strangely none of those tried and true methods of winning the hearts and minds of a conquered peoples has seemed to work.

However, in recent years the Chinese government has instituted a different solution to the Tibetan question, an approach that is deviously simple and devastatingly effective…they’re breeding them out.

Reminiscent of the dubious (and most likely imaginary) practice of prima noctis, the divine right of medieval land owners to have sexual congress with the virgin girls occupying their lands, the Chinese have instituted a policy of Tibetan resettlement. It’s not that the Communist government is driving the Tibetans out; they’re simply driving the Chinese in. By employing a systematic plan of development, resettlement, intermarriage, and healthy tax breaks for good Chinese families that are willing to move to Tibet, the Chinese government is, in essence, enacting what the Dalai Lama has come to call a Cultural Genocide.

While a strategy like this lacks the coordinated hatred of the Holocaust or the unbridled rage of the Rwandan genocide, it is no less effective. In fact, due to its subtle, even clandestine nature, the Chinese plan to breed the discontent out of Tibet has a distinctly high probability of success.

Speak to the many Chinese about the Tibetan problem though and the situation is quite different. As one particularly insightful guide mentioned to me during a tour of the Forbidden City in Beijing, the Chinese government acts in a way that they feel is right, the only problem is, is that they never stop to think if others—like the Tibetans—feel the same way.

For many Chinese, the ‘magical’ land of Tibet is full of strange, wondrous, and not to mention backward practices, many of which are still alive and well in this post-liberation era; which leads to the reason for the Chinese occupation of Tibet in the first place…liberation. While I have yet to discover any compelling explanation of what the Tibetans needed to be liberated from, it’s abundantly clear that the official line of thinking is that they had to be liberated.

Behind all the propaganda, the misinformation, and the fanciful tales peddled to the Western visitor, it seems that the truth of the matter is that the Tibetans, from the Chinese perspective at least, needed to be liberated from themselves; freed from the shackles of their backwards shamanistic existence, their antiquated traditions, and their fanciful religious notions of the world. Simply put, they needed to be woken from their slumber of religious ignorance.

The problem, as that same insightful guide mentioned, is that the Chinese never stopped to ask whether or not the Tibetans wanted that sort of liberation, and as I wandered through the country, is was abundantly clear that they did not.

In the end though, I can’t argue that the Chinese presence in Tibet has brought some distinct benefits to the country, as the development of the country’s infrastructure has brought improved the overall lives of many Tibetans. The problem, however, is what this development has cost the Tibetans. While it’s clear that the Tibetan people are desperate to cling to their traditions of old, the question remains, for how long?

I fear that the death of the current Dalai Lama may spell the end for a true Tibetan way of life, as it’s not so hard to imagine the communist-controlled Panchen Lama choosing a distinctly pro-communist 15^th incarnation of the Dalai Lama who will then attempt to lead Tibet into a new age of enlightenment.

Just one more step towards the inevitable cultural genocide of the Tibetan people.

Upon my arrival in the lost city of Petra, a local guide had regaled me with tales of the secrets of the ruins that lay off the beaten path, and as I wandered through the rocky cliffs of the Jordanian back country, the merciless sun beating down on me, watching the buzzards circle ominously overhead, I understood why so few would venture out to see the hidden treasures of this Nabataean capital. 

Lost in thought about what my final meal had been earlier that day, I finally crested the rise of the last hill and before me sat what may have been one of the most important religious artifacts in the ancient Nabataean culture, the High Altar of Sacrifice. While the altar itself remained plain and unadorned, to an imaginative wanderer it was the veritable pot-of-gold at the end of the rainbow. 

But then, as I stood before the altar, the heat radiating off the sun-baked stone, I did something I rarely do when confronted with objects from antiquity, I climbed on. While I never actively promote touching, trampling, or collecting samples from the many ancient sites that litter the globe, I will admit that some of my deepest connections with the historical world have come through such wanton and verboten acts.                    

I closed my eyes as I lay back on the altar, the scorching heat of the blood-stained stones becoming a mere afterthought in my pseudo historical-spiritual experience, and it was then, in that moment, that I encountered the spectral visage of a Nabataean high priest. 

An imposing presence, the priest stood over me, his dagger held menacingly aloft, his face contorted in righteous anger, ready to strike the final blow in service to his gods. In that brief imaginative encounter I felt a little like the unfortunate sacrificial victim in the movie Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom; strapped down, helpless, waiting for the priest to reach into my chest and remove my still beating heart. 

While I did manage to escape the clutches of a high priest that had most likely been dead the better part of 2400 years, the experience got me thinking, not only of the hundreds of thousands of unfortunate victims that have been sacrificed in the name of religion in an effort to appease countless numbers of gods over the course of human history, but of the sacrifices that we make in the course of our own lives. 

High Altar of Sacrifice

Over the past several years, as I’ve travelled through many exotic and foreign locales, I’ve adopted quite a following of people who, I discovered a short while ago, live vicariously through my adventures. Initially I was surprised at the thought, for my adventures were neither complicated to organize nor particularly expensive to undertake. But since then I’ve come to understand why the vagabond life of the world traveler is so appealing, it still takes considerable sacrifice. 

While the Nabataean gods demand blood from their devoted supplicants, the gods of travel demand almost as much, they require for your unwavering commitment…and sometimes a little blood as well. 

For you see, unlike most other people my age I have forgone the usual trappings of a so-called normal existence. While I have copious amounts of education I have always shied away from jobs that would interfere with my one true passion, thus opting for jobs that invariably paid me less but offered more flexibility to travel. Further, while most of my contemporaries find themselves trapped underneath a weighty mortgage, with the additional joys of raising children, I have sacrificed these things too—at least for now—in pursuit of what I love.   

But for those that look longingly and jealously at those of us who find ourselves perched high above the lost city of Petra, waiting with bated breath to see if we’re sacrificed to some unknown gods, know that we’ve sacrificed dearly to get there, a steep price not everyone is willing to pay.

I sat on the front porch of my small island bungalow, sipping a Piña Colada served in a fresh young coconut and watching the soft waves of the turquoise ocean lap gently over the golden sands of the pristine beach. Nestled comfortably among a lush and thriving coconut plantation, on the back side of the world-famous Thai island of Ko Phi Phi, I had discovered a small and secluded resort, away from the ever-present din of the bustling city life; a place that seemed to naturally exude a sense of relaxation.

In that little corner of the world, where luxurious massages, world-renowned dive sites, amazing snorkeling adventures and some of the finest Thai cuisine were available only a few feet away from my front door, I found myself truly in a paradise on earth, a veritable Garden of Eden reborn. It was one of the first times in my life when I felt no concerns pressing on my time, and the only worry I had weighing on my mind was to avoid getting brained by falling coconuts on my way to dinner.

But while the indescribable beauty of Ko Phi Phi has left an indelible impression upon me, the image I just can’t shake from my mind’s eye is what I found when I accidentally stumbled out the backdoor of that island paradise.

It was the afternoon of my second day in that hedonistic oasis, and like any good world traveller, I was getting restless. It was then that I decided to embark on a journey of discovery, an adventure to find my way to the other side of the island. My intention was to hike to Ko Phi Phi village proper, the hub of all backpacker activity on the island and a great place to experience the island‘s reputed nightlife.

The resort’s concierge assured me that there was a foot path, but encouraged me to engage one of the local boatmen to ferry me to the village. However, being a man who has always firmly believed in the power of his own two feet, I felt emboldened, firmly confident in my ability to traverse the trail, and thus I set off on a hike that would change my perspective forever.

As I walked along poorly defined trails out the back of the resort I passed signs that read “Visitor Entry Not Recommended,” an ambiguous warning to say the least, one that seemed to create more curiosity-driven questions than it answered. But as I stumbled through a dense thicket of brush, I accidentally came upon the dark secret of my secluded Thai paradise; I had discovered the employee living area.

Before my eyes lay a ramshackle shanty town; a confusing mix of dilapidated shacks and drab communist-style dormitories long fallen into disrepair. The sharp juxtaposition of poverty and paradise that I experienced stepping into the clearing was, quite simply, enough to momentarily take my breath away.

But there, in a small village that could only be described as hell in comparison to the paradisiacal garden that lay less than 100 yards away, I discovered the true essence of Thailand, and fully realized what it cost others to provide me with the sublime escape I had been enjoying to that point.

I strolled through the village, briefly stopping to play soccer with a group of local kids and saying ‘hi’ to several people I recognized as being employees at the resort. It was there, in a place of abject poverty, however, that I found myself feeling truly relaxed, truly welcomed; certainly more so than I ever felt lying on the beach sipping Mai Tais. The only stipulation, however, was that I was asked not to take any pictures, lest I ruin the fantasy for the other guests.

While I never did actually find a path leading to the other side of the island, that short accidental adventure opened my eyes to what a $700 all-inclusive resort vacation really means to the average Thai person, and I’m here to say, it doesn’t mean very much at all. Although tourists like me allow those people to afford their dilapidated shacks, my money by no means pays them a wage congruent with the amount of work it takes them to create the paradise I enjoyed that week.

So the next time you’re enjoying your resort escape in Mexico, the Caribbean or whatever third world country you find yourself in, take a moment to consider how the people serving you live…and then maybe leave a bigger tip.

With the eve of the World Cup 2010 upon us, I’ve taken a few moments to ponder the success, or lack thereof, of professional soccer in North America. Many of this continent’s diehard sports fans struggle to comprehend the draw of such a game, one that often requires more tactics and strategy than a game of chess…and sometimes moves at the same pace too!

It seems that soccer has none of the ferocity and skill that fans regularly witness on the gridiron in American football, has none of the speed and flash exhibited on the rink in hockey, and none of the strong beer that makes baseball games even remotely bearable, so why does soccer [hereafter football] have the largest fan base in the world?

While the answer, in my mind, is deceptively simple, one thing is clear about the people that ask these sorts of questions about football, they’ve never actually seen a match. Now I’m not talking about watching a match on television, as I’ll be the first to admit that unless it’s a final of some sort or a game featuring one’s home country, there’s very little draw for the average sports fan. However, if you ever have the opportunity to witness a live football match, especially in Europe, I guarantee that you’ll be hooked for life.

Back in 2004, on my honeymoon no less, I found myself in Portugal during the Euro Cup, surrounded by throngs of football mad fans, with tickets to eight different matches in my hand. While my wife will probably tell you that it wasn’t the football she remembered during our month long stay in that beautiful Iberian country, I will admit that what I witnessed there changed my life forever.

As I sat (although there was very little sitting that actually occurred) in the stands during the England-Portugal quarterfinal match, overwhelmed by the constantly fevered pitch of the crowd, by the ever-present banging of the drums, and the overall intensity of the game, I recognized what every football fan around the world has probably known all their lives; there is no other game on earth that draws out the level of passion and commitment from its fans that football does.

You see, when watching American football, baseball, basketball, or hockey, I have always found the crowds to be quite fickle. Just listen to the roar of the crowd change to a whimper when its home team’s quarterback throws a particularly untimely interception, or when the crowd’s favorite goalie fails to make an easy save. In football things are quite different, if your teams falls behind you don’t lose heart; you cheer louder, bang your drum harder, and if the game looks out of reach, well you shed a tear and toss a smoke bomb at the opposing goalie…it’s just that simple.

Never in my life have I witnessed such a spectacle, as for over 90 minutes the passion of the crowd swelled higher and higher, and when David Beckham’s right foot launched a misguided penalty kick so high over the net that he still wouldn’t have scored had there been two nets stacked on top of each other, well, tears were shed, condolences were doled out to English fans, and everyone went home knowing they had just witnessed one of the reasons why football is known as the beautiful game.

What makes this game the beautiful game is quite simple; it’s a potent mixture of passion and pride, of simplicity and egalitarianism, that draws all people, rich or poor, from around the world to the pitch week in and week out. It’s a way for people to stay connected, to rally around a common cause, and a way for people to lose copious amounts of money betting for their hopeless home side.

So with the World Cup 2010 almost upon us, isn’t it time you explored the draw of the beautiful game? What you’ll find is not only unrivaled passion and enthusiasm for a game that employs unmatched skill and pose, but a rabid fan base that is more dedicated to the sport than to any religion; a fact that net me a cool 1500 Euro back in 2004, as I sold my tickets to the Euro Cup final to some unfortunate Portuguese fan looking for a once in a lifetime experience.