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If you’re looking for a beautiful, fun and diverse trek, the Annapurna Circuit trek in Nepal is one to consider. The area is well developed for trekkers and has comfortable and friendly guesthouses all along the way, many with electricity, so you can now charge your MP3 or eReader! I was surprised that a few even feature Euro-style bakeries, complete with Dutch apple pie and lattes! Despite a new road being cut into the area, which will benefit locals, roughly 50% of the old Salt Route is still intact. Yet the beauty of the area remains unmarred. I’ve trekked the Annapurna region twice, this time during the autumn when leaves were turning and fields were golden and nearing harvest. What I enjoy most about the Annapurna Circuit is the wide variety of landscape, everything from rain forests and desertscapes to glaciated peaks. In the same day, you can cross an 18,000 foot pass and end up that afternoon in a valley sipping fresh-squeezed orange or apple juice from local orchards. It’s tough to beat that!

The idea for this trip came about rather suddenly when plans for another trip began to fall apart. Now I’m not sure when they’ll reopen the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, but if I don’t get a solid travel fix at least once a year, then my mental condition will likely start deteriorating. That this was only a three-week trip as opposed to the two-three month one originally planned was simply a condition of circumstances. The overall plan is to visit every country in the world, and I’ve already been to 140 out of the 192 UN member countries, so options are limited to further that goal. Since I’d never been to Philippines, Micronesia or the Marshall islands, then this quickly became my favored option. The fact that none of them requires a time-consuming visa also helps. The fact that the most economical way to visit one island is to visit the others also is a contributing factor.

The fact that none of them are particularly suited to a farther-ranging tour is also a factor, though that is a debatable point now, what with multiple budget airlines in the Philippines. The original idea was to stop over on the way to Bangkok, but that’s about $1500 round-trip from LA on Philippines Air. Manila itself is only $800, Bangkok maybe $1000, IF YOU’RE LUCKY. A budget RT MAN-BKK for $300-400 changes the equation entirely. But that’s next time. This time Manila was my ultimate destination, with stops in Guam; Pohnpei, FSM; and Majuro M.I. on the way back, for around $1800 from LA, and I worked hard for that price. I probably could have stopped in Hawaii, too. A simple RT from Guam to Majuro and Pohnpei costs almost the same. Do the math.

The Philippines was something of a revelation, a return to a previous era when travel was just fun in the sun, winging it, show up and hop on the bus, no reservations and few plans. You’ll come out ahead that way there. This is the way I first started traveling, before all the hostels, before the Internet, before all the guide books even, fer Chrissakes! Hotels are plentiful and cheap and easy to find. Walk-in rates are generally better than reserved ones. This way you get to check the room first, too. Make sure there’s a window if you’re claustrophobic like me. Buses not only don’t book online, they don’t even book in advance, none of them (or hardly any, anyway)! Just show up. Good luck finding the station(s) in Manila. I hate to say it, but … ssshhh…ask a cabbie.

Manila sucks pretty badly, but the rest of northern Luzon makes up for it. Don’t let the street urchins in Manila get too close to your pockets. Other than that, I don’t think crime’s too bad unless you’re too stupid or too careless or too horny. The area around Malate and Ermita is just too congested—as is the entire country—so it’s easy to get into a foul mood, and from there things can degenerate rapidly. Use Manila as a hub for other destinations and that’ll probably be enough time on the layovers. Many budget airlines won’t connect directly to far-flung destinations, so use the big city for those overnighters. Don’t forget to wear protection. Intramuros is nice for a day trip, and Chinatown is not bad, but other than that there’s not much of interest. The slick new city of Makati I haven’t been to yet. The LRT is cramped beyond belief; avoid rush hours.

I used Baguio as a hub for the north of Luzon, and from there went first to Vigan, a UNESCO world heritage site for its Spanish colonial architecture and culture. It’s pretty nice and small, with access to the coast not far away. That’s coast, not beach. They even have some vestiges of the old Spanish cuisine, with their own style of empanadas and a hybrid Spanish/Asian rice soup called arrozcaldo, which is everywhere to be found in the Micronesian region now. About this time I had my second revelation: I’m the only tourist here, or almost anyway, same in Baguio. I imagine the beaches are different, but that’s not my obvious orientation. Luzon has some hill country second to none.

Baguio is the gateway to the hill country, itself almost a mile up, and a fairly large city. We Americans built that as a hill station escape from the sweltering tropical heat. There’s some entertainment, too, more like guys with guitars than girly bars, so good clean fun. It gets a bad rap from some travelers—I’m not sure why—but I like it okay. As a matter of fact on first arrival and transport to my upscale hotel—the only one I could book in advance—It clearly resembled the rarefied atmosphere of a mountain town. It was only later that I realized there was a nittier grittier “real town” on the down side. The market is huge and ample, with lots of crafts. After a couple days there before and after Vigan, I took the locals’ bus up to Sagada on the infamous Halsema Highway. It’s not as dangerous as it’s hyped up to be, though you might avoid a heavy meal right before the trip.

Sagada is backpacker country, custom-made for it in fact, complete with yogurt parlors and views from the terrace. The big attraction there are the caves, but you’ll need a guide for that. Other than that it’s just a hippie hangout in the classic style, banana pancakes and rumors of the kind stuff floating through the grapevine if not the air itself. There’s plenty of accommodation for the winter—a bit chilly, mind you—but it might fill up in high season. None of these places are bookable online to my knowledge, either in real time or back-and-forth e-mails, old-fashioned I’m tellin’ ya’.

If you get stuck with no luck, go down to Bontoc and reconsider your options, or continue on to Banaue, which is the best reason to be in the area anyway. I personally like it there better than Sagada, but I’m not trying to get blissfully stoned. Hotels in both places talk about a 9 p.m. curfew, but I’d be curious to know what transpires if you bully yourself past that deadline, with the requisite nod-nod-wink-winks. The Jamaican joints at Sagada might really rock. The jeepney from Bontoc to Banaue is a little hairy and scary on the brain cells. Be prepared.

Banaue may not be the only place in Luzon with beautifully terraced rice fields, but it may be the only one with a real town plopped down in the center of it. Others occur along the way with no fanfare, and Batad is the nearby option for those who want to hang in the area a while, and have had enough of Sagada and Banaue already. Access must be arranged—and hiked—but it’s supposed to be really nice. But my time was running short, so I headed on back to Manila, staying in a little bit different part of the Ermita-Malate area. That whole area seems to change from street to street, some places very upscale, others down at the heels. Local food seems to be more the ladle-over as opposed to stir-fry-it-up style, so maybe questionable by the end of the day. I ate late at 7-11 more than once, nuke some adobo or curry right up and eat. God help you if you’re vegetarian. These are Christians. There is no tradition of vegetarianism.

After the Philippines I went to Guam, a necessary connection point for the Micronesian milk-run, aka UA/CO flight #172 to Honolulu with stops in Chuuk, Pohnpei, and Kosrae, FSM; then there are stops in Kwajalein and Majuro in the Marshall Islands. So what takes six or seven hours direct stretch to twice that with stops, but like I said: at this price, the stops are free. UA is making a killing off this route, high prices and full seats. So I decide to take a layover in Guam for a couple nights, rather than take a red-eye and then connect straight out. Fortunately it’s not expensive, though it tries really hard to be, what with its hyper-malls full of Versace, Armani, Prada, and all that means so much to brand-conscious Asians.

You could be forgiven for thinking that Guam is a Japanese colony. What with tourists and residents factored in together, they just might predominate. The mixed-Micronesian “Chamorros” are the true locals, though, and as part of the Marianas Islands have a long history part Micronesian, part Spanish, part Asian, and now American, so something like Samoa of the North Pacific. Guam is not really in the South Pacific, you know, lying at roughly the same latitude as Bangkok or Manila, so north of the Polynesian heartland.

Except for a couple of Polynesian atolls, presumably settled last, and a couple of others of uncertain provenance, much of Micronesia seems to have linguistic affinities with Melanesia, so must have been explored at that early phase, before the major Polynesian migrations, possibly even before Melanesia become “mela,” that is dark-skinned, possibly by mixing with an earlier Papuan populace I reckon. Anthropologists don’t talk abut these things, nor apologists either, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. I’d bet you even odds they left the mainland to escape the southward Han Chinese expansion.

Next stop was Pohnpei, more or less the capital of the Federated States of Micronesia, which fuses together the four distinct island cultures of Yap, Chuuk (Truk), Pohnpei, and Kosrae. Flight 172 doesn’t go to Yap, so that wasn’t really an option. Chuuk seems to have an attitude problem—specifically to foreigners/divers—so I decided on Pohnpei. I’m not sure if I was aware that Kosrae was on the flight route, or I might have considered it further, especially since it has oceanic ruins that rival those at Nan Madol on Pohnpei. As it was I allocated four days to make sure and get to those ruins, which was at least a day too long, especially since the power was off almost half the time. Other than that the town was nice enough, small town thrills, drinking sakau and chewing betel nut.

Majuro in the Marshall Islands is something completely different. Those are true coral atolls, not fertile volcanic islands, and the climate is accordingly breezier. Even though it rains frequently, it will usually clear right up just as fast and dry out quickly, which is good since there’s nowhere for the water to drain down to, the entire atoll being only a few feet above sea level. This is similar to another—but opposite—extreme climatic situation in Tierra del Fuego, where the winds blow so hard that you can have several changes of weather each day. And in the vast insular Pacific those breezes can be surprisingly cool at night. As usual you really need a boat to get to the prime diving or even snorkeling sites, but roaming around town is not bad. The atoll is more or less settled all along “long island,” and heavily commercialized by immigrant Chinese entrepreneurs. Still local village life endures and the natives are friendly.

Throughout the trip and presumably the region, there are problems with travel. Aside from the Philippines and Guam, the hard part is just getting there. United Airlines pretty much holds the monopoly on air travel they inherited from Continental, and they don’t intend to show any mercy, unless the frequent references to “pass travelers” means that locals maybe get a break. If so, that’s fine, but doesn’t do much for tourism. The airports don’t seem to have much activity otherwise, though they’re certainly capable of it. I wonder if Continental built them. Stranger things happen.

In the Philippines the transportation problem is the plethora of bus stations around greater Manila, which seem to show no pattern of consistency or logic. If you’re a local, then sure, you “get it,” but once again, that doesn’t help tourism much. What does help are the emergence of multiple budget airlines, which, given the population explosion and ensuing congestion there, is maybe just as well. So that’s good news for the outer islands, but less so for northern Luzon, which is truly worth seeing. Hotels in the Philippines are pot luck. Many of the nicer ones don’t have windows—AARRGGHH!—and many of the cheap ones don’t have electric sockets. Arrive early, no res, see the room first, carry a light bulb-to-plug adaptor.

Micronesia has different problems. FSM has no power. RMI has no water. I was able to borrow an Internet signal in Pohnpei, so lucked out, but in Majuro the price of a Wi-fi card was so high that I simply did without. The groceries in both countries are pretty bad and the restaurants not much better—they use the same produce—and pricey to boot. FSM has more fresh fish and vegetables; RMI has more fresh Chinese people. Take your pick. Guam is the great exception of course, retrofitted by Japanese tourism and American imperialism as a somewhat generic Asian-American-Micronesian mélange-a-trois. I guess traditional culture there has suffered, but it’s difficult to quantify without public transportation to the south of the island where it’s said to still exist. Rental cars should be an exotic option, not the norm. In Majuro, everybody takes taxis…everywhere.

Still the positives outweigh the negatives by far, and the region as a whole lures a jaded traveler like a siren in the night… in the water. I for one would be curious to see what the other non-Guam Mariana Islands are like. Maybe that’ll be next trip, or next year, or the next life. Whenever, next time I resolve to actually get into the water. I’ve already got a mask and snorkel. C U then.

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She took us through disaster to the summit of Alaska’s Mount McKinley in her book, Facing the Extreme. In her newest book, Walking the War Zones of Pakistan, Ruth Anne Kocour takes us to K2, and Pakistan’s tribal regions bordering Afghanistan, Kashmir, Tajikistan, and China. Readers will experience the topography that has led to isolation–physical and cultural–of people who for centuries have been kept in the dark by natural barriers, lack of infrastructure, lack of communication, and illiteracy. This simple tale of travel and adversity lends a face to news we hear every day and a glimpse into what we all have in common—our humanity.

Kocour’s adventures have been featured on CNN’s International Hour and the Discovery Channel. Her photos and stories have appeared in People, Harper’s Bazaar, Health, Sunset, Los Angeles Times, and San Francisco Chronicle. Ruth Anne has summited the highest peaks on four continents. She has climbed and trekked throughout Asia, Europe, Africa, and the Americas. Her background in art, science, and photography enables Kocour to bring to life battlegrounds of nature and cultures for her readers and speaking audiences.

Over the years, we have come to realize, depending on the nature of a city, some places are better enjoyed without the structure of an itinerary. Cartagena, behind the walls, is just that kind of place, a walking city beckoning you to wander its narrow cobblestone streets and allowing serendipity, and not a tour book, to be your guide. Historic Cartagena is a visual treat, a place where color takes advantage of every available surface, the character of the paint expressing the style of the owner or the passage of time. The grand buildings, expressing colonial and republican charm, are painted in soft shades of pink, peach, white and ochre and the smaller ones, usually one story, formerly occupied by workers and tradesman, are painted in a varied palette of bold colors.

Cartagena is a mélange of many cultural influences, a mix of people, Caribe Indians, Black Africans, Arabic, Spanish and other Europeans, who have been blending in an ethnic stew for over 500 years. Life here is lived out on the streets in a perpetual carnival pulsating with a vibrant Caribbean atmosphere. This city, with its seductive charm, is waiting for you to soak it up and to seep gently down into it. It is an emotional place that should be engaged, not so much studied; a place to be felt more than read about.

Historic Cartagena is divided into four sectors. Our hotel, located on Calle Santo Domingo, was in the Center or Calamari district and on our second morning in Cartagena, we set out on foot to explore this area first.

ON FOOT IN CARTAGENA
It was still early but the humidity here works 24/7and even before we could step into the street, it had us cloaked in a soggy wet blanket. Our immediate concern was to find a banco, a place to change money. We turned right out of the hotel and then took the first left, arriving at the Plaza Bolivar, a popular gathering spot with a storied history. The moneychanger was located on the west side of the plaza and we found him in a small office behind a thick wall of glass. Donald presented him two crisp one hundred dollar bills and in turn received several sheets of bureaucratic paper work to fill out. The man, without reason to hurry, slowly examined the money, held it up to the light, marked it with a pen and finally decided it was good enough to exchange for Colombian pesos. Apparently not trusting his calculator or his computer and relaying on nothing more than an invoice book and a sheet of carbon paper, he began to do the math by hand. Losing patience, I stepped outside and found myself standing in the former Arcade of the Scribes. In the past, illiterate people came here and paid a “scribe” a few pesos to write a letter or fill out a form. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Colombia’s most famous author, worked in Cartagena when he was a young journalist and used the city as the background for several of his books. Those who have read Love in the Time of Cholera will recognize this to be the place where Florentino Ariza, one of the main characters in the book, worked as a scribe.

With our dollars changed into pesos, Donald and I walked across the street and entered the Plaza Bolivar, already filled up with morning visitors. During colonial times, this was the center of political and religious life. The Cathedral, home to the archbishop, is located on the eastern side of the plaza and rebuilt after Sir Francis Drake’s attack in 1586. The headquarters of the Inquisition is located on the north west corner and during colonial times, this square was called Plaza Inquisition. Established by the Dominicans to guard the purity of the Catholic Church against heresy and witchcraft, the Inquisition was exported to Cartagena in 1610. However, it was not carried out in the Spanish colonies with the enthusiasm experienced in Europe. Today, their early 17th Baroque building has been restored to its former glory and turned into a museum explaining the Inquisition with exhibitions of the torture instruments used to gain confessions. The Gold Museum and the Central Bank are both housed in renovated colonial buildings, adding additional grandeur to the park area.

With the advent of independence from Spain, the hated Inquisition was closed down and the plaza was turned into a bull fighting ring. Then in 1896, it was renamed, this time to honor Simon Bolivar. In 1810, Cartagena tried to liberate itself and became one of the first towns to declare independence from Spain. However, by 1815 this attempt had failed and even though they were defeated by the Spanish army, Bolivar called Cartagena “la heroic”, the heroic city. Cartagena would eventually gain independence in 1821 following Bolivar’s defeat of the Spanish at the Battle of Boyacá near Bogota in 1819.

Today an equestrian statue of Bolivar is in the middle of the plaza and benches line the perimeter. It has been landscaped into great expanses of green punctuated with large leafy trees, palms and rubber trees, providing shade from the over bearing sun. Donald and I sat on a bench, joining the others in people watching. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone or something else, but for us the nothing that happened was done in a most interesting way. Food vendors pushed their carts through the park, offering a wide variety of freshly squeezed fruit juices, fried arepas, and ice cream. A young man’s small cart consisted of nothing more than one coffee thermos and a few cups. We were offered lollipops on long sticks, peanuts wrapped in newspaper and cigarettes sold one at a time. While children chased the pigeons and old men played dominoes and chess, Donald and I tried to discourage the shoeshine boy, no we did not want our sneakers polished black and we did not need any shoelaces. Armed policemen were keeping a close watch on the park. For us, the measure of security they provided was always mitigated by the thought of why they were still needed.

With Garcia Marquez’s Florentino Ariza as our guide, we walked in his footsteps to the Plaza Fernandez de Madrid, finding ourselves in the San Diego district, formerly an upper class neighborhood, home to wealthy businessmen and high ranking military officers. In the novel, Florentino’s love for Fermina would go unrequited and just like him, we sat on a bench under what I hoped was an almond tree and stared at the white house across the street which Garcia Marquez used as the model for Fermina’s home. Just as he described it, there was a large balcony and a doorknocker in the shape of a parrot. Called Gabo by his friends, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, now in his later years, returned to Cartagena and built a house. We were walking in that direction until the sounds of music filling the air caused a small detour and we found ourselves in the nearby Plaza de San Diego, adjacent to the School of Fine Arts. A jazz band was practicing a Latin version of “Falling Leaves”. While listening to Roger William’s piano version reinterpreted into a salsa beat, we viewed an unexpected student art show.

We finally made our way down Calle del Curato and at the corner, near the walls of the city, we stood in front his Gabriel Marquez’s house. It is an artful arrangement of cubes and arches designed by Rogelio Salmona, Colombia’s foremost architect who clad Bogota in red brick. Keeping him in or keeping us out, the house is hidden behind a high forbidding wall painted the color of rust.

Donald and I walked through the San Diego section, back to El Centro and to the plaza adjacent to the city’s main gate. Along the way, we marveled at the beautiful balconies where brilliantly colored flowers cascaded over the railings. Using our eyes to peel away the encrusted layers of time, we knew the wooden balconies were constructed in colonial times and the stucco ones constructed after independence during the time of the Republic. A cacophony of sounds filled the streets, a group of young men sitting on over turned crates strumming guitars, vendors crying out, advertising their fruits and vegetables sold from wooden carts. We passed the palenqueras, Caribbean women dressed in their traditional colorful skirts and blouses selling fruit from baskets balanced on their heads. They seemed to sway down the street to the sounds of Caribbean music pulsating through the thick air, once again from unseen sources. Cartagena’s private life goes on behind high walls and heavy ornamental doors. Nevertheless, I interpret a door left open as an invitation to step inside and we were often rewarded with scenes of courtyards filled with fountains, flowers and shade trees.

Thick walls surround historic Cartagena and the main entrance, facing the bay, is through a triple arched gateway guarded by a drawbridge that is no longer there and a clock tower that forms part of the iconic scene. During the latter part of the 19th, it became fashionable to place clocks in public buildings and one was placed in this tower in 1888 giving the gate the name, Puerta del Reloj, Clock Gate. In the area in front of the gate, Plaza de los Coches, there is a statue of Pedro de Heredia, the founder of Cartagena. This plaza is the site of the former slave market, the largest such market in the Americas, and by the time slavery was abolished in 1811, over one million people had been processed through here. A series of buildings face onto the plaza and underneath its arcaded façade is the El Portal de los Dulces, stall after stall selling candy presented in glass jars. When we arrived, the plaza was alive with activity, people walking through, construction workers restoring an old building, and bus tours gathered around Pedro de Heredia. At the edge of the plaza, a man was standing on a wooden crate waving a Bible in the air, apparently preaching to a small crowd that had gathered to listen. Several days later, we returned to this plaza in the late afternoon. By that time the famous restaurant and bar, Fidel’s, had set up their chairs and tables and even though we never felt a cooling sea breeze and the sunset was hidden behind the clouds, we enjoyed a cold beer while listening to music and watching the local dance troupes that perform each afternoon in the plaza.

We walked to the adjacent square, Plaza San Pedro. It is named for Peter Claver the 17th Spanish monk who was appalled by the inhuman treatment of the slaves and while attending to their needs, managed to baptize over 150,000 of them. For this work, he became the first Spanish churchman in the Americas to be canonized. The nearby church is named for him and its ochre colored cupola can be seen from most parts of the city. The day we were there, we had the entire plaza to ourselves and spent time looking at the metal sculptures depicting people at work on traditional crafts and trades. Their Modern Art Museum is nearby and stepping inside, we gratefully welcomed the air conditioning. While cooling down, we wandered through their collection of Colombia as well as Mexican artists. The art was abstract and expressive and the air was chilling. The building is an excellent example of how their historic buildings are being renovated to accommodate modern needs while still maintaining their original façades.

As anyone knows who has spent time in tropical heat, the siesta exists, not because the people are lazy, but because it is necessary to get out of the sun. After enjoying the museum, finding a place for lunch and walking back to the hotel for a rest seemed a good idea. As the days past, we would tour in the morning, siesta in the hotel and then come out again in the early evening. Was it inevitable that the cloud cover would persist or were we fated to enjoy a sunset over the Caribbean Sea? We never knew, after all, we were in Cartagena.