Feb
Dec
Read “The Giving Trip,” in Outside magazine’s Dec. 2009 issue, about Roadmonkey Adventure Philanthropy’s 2008 expedition to northwest Vietnam. For two weeks, 11 Roadmonkeys – from New York, Boston, Los Angeles, Toronto and Madrid – cycled some 350 miles through rugged hills and valleys near the Chinese and Lao borders, then spent four days building a playground at an orphanage west of Hanoi.
The article’s author, Mike Kessler, an award-winning Outside writer and self-described skeptic of the trend toward “voluntourism,” came to see Roadmonkey as such a good thing that he joined the company this year.
More on that later…
Sep
Going back in time a couple days…
On Sunday, Anotonio (my driver) and I left the tourist-choked lil’ town of Chivay, Peru, at the eastern end of el Cañón de Colca, the Colca Canyon, at 6:45am. I arrived in Peru four days ago to scout Roadmonkey’s March 2010 adventure philanthropy expedtion.
We drove west to Cruz del Condor, where multitudes of candy-colored coach buses disgorge camera-carrying tourists at canyon’s edge to watch South American condors, the world’s largest flying carnivores, ride thermals looking for breakfast.
Condors are a huge tourist draw on this route, so there was a lot of French and Dutch and Germans snapping digital pix at a speck with wings in the canyon far below, presumably a condor. We (the tourists) saw a couple condors wing by, maybe 100 feet below the cliff. It was nice. I couldn’t help note, though, how many completely worthless photos the crowd was snapping.
Antonio & I hopped back in his Hyundai van and drove to Cabanaconde, a sleepy town on the western edge of Colca Canyon. I dropped my bags off at my hotel, sunscreened up, filled my liter water bottle and hit the trail down into canyon. I was in for a rough surprise.
Two solid, near-nonstop hours of very steep, rock-strewn downhill trail hiking. About 3,000 to 3,500 feet in total. Killer on the quads, and on any knees that have more than, say, 23 years of wear on them. This is one tough canyon climb, my friends.
My legs, fairly well-conditioned from Brooklyn-to-Central Park-and-back bike rides through the New York summer, were shaking 40 minutes into the 2-hour hike to the “oasis” at the Colca River’s edge. I made it down, after several pauses in which I mentally parried invidious “holy crap” thoughts, to the grassy, palmy oasis by 12:45pm.
The oasis was really pretty cool: a couple of cold but clear, blue swimming pools, framed by green, short thick grass that ran right up to the pool edge, and a basic bamboo-style cantina with drinks, surly young waiter/minder, and a single “menu” aka food offering: a plate of rice, a puddle de papas puras (ie, crappy box-made mashed potatoes) and, to top off the carbohydrate rush, one boiled potato. That was lunch. But it did me fine.
I drank two bottles of sprite and ate the carb plate from hell and swam and read my book, ¨Zeitoun,¨ which is excellent, and lolled in the sun, listening to the breeze in the trees and the rush of the river water in the distance and thought, If every sunday were like this, free of worry or electronics or the need to do 10 things or compete with peers or see anyone except the couple people one wanted to see…that would be alright with me. It’s the same idea that draws me, still, to the idea of a year cooking, eating, writing and surfing in Hawaii.
A simple but full life. The sun and breeze, and the unique feeling of a nature-nestled well being, away from most other human effects, were worth the hike down. Note to self: find places like this more often.
After two hours of rest and relaxation, I had — after another refreshingly crisp swim — to put on my dusty brown pants and sweat-dried merino wool Ibex long sleeve and strap on the backpack and start the slog back up that 3,000 feet or so. Another round of “holy crap” thoughts soon began filtering into my sun-baked head.
For perspective, Cabanaconde lies at 3,600 meters above sea level — about 10,800 feet. For all y’all Americans, that’s twice as high as Denver.
What a climb. Three hours. Often at a 10% grade, if not greater. It was everything I had to keep shuffling one dusty boot ahead of another, one…more…step….higher. There was a sense of urgency driving me: darkness falls quickly and promptly at 6pm; I had started climbing at 3pm. If I took longer than the prescribed three hours, I’d risk being caught on the side of this cold, rocky cañón in utter darkness.
I passed several people on the trail. By passed, I mean I ever so slowly caught up to them, whispered “hi” or “ciao” or “hola” in a parched, non-accented throaty way and kept moving…glacially slow. The relentless sun, at this altitude, exacted its toll, in sweat and fatigue. Many times, I had to stop, sit on a rock and let my heart rate lower back down below its “gimme a break, pal” threshold.
The challenge was at least half mental. I had just enough water — I thought — to last me back to Cabanaconde. Rationing water on these kinds of climbs is, itself, an exhausting mind game. At one point I came upon a Peruvian guy with two mules on the trail. A female Euro-tourist sat on one of them. Her Euro-dude stood by, prepared to hike on foot. I asked the mule owner how much longer to Cababanconde.
“One hour,” he said. “You want a mule?”
I trundled upward. Finally, the sun dropped far enough onto the horizon to allow boulders on the zig-zag trail to create shadows in which to rest, ready one’s body and mind to continue onward.
When I got to the top of the trail, where it levels off toward town, the sun was 10 minutes from dropping behind the 20,000-foot peaks to the west. I sat down on a dusty rock and allowed myself a congratulatory 4-swallow chug from my near-empty water bottle. Soon the crepuscular sky was all but drained of light. I have no idea what came of the several people behind me, who fell out of my sight and must have been still climbing as the rapid cold of evening took hold of the region.
But as I was about 20 minutes from the top, I’d seen a second Peruvian guy walking two other mules down the trail….into a canyon of approaching darkness. I could only guess that he makes money by rescuing exhausted, grateful foreigners on this trail every day. Clever business model.
I ate dinner at the hotel, voraciously. Vegetable soup, two halves of an avocado stuffed with beets and chicken cubes (I scraped off the mayonnaise), and then a plate of lasagna. One huge Cusqueña beer, and one glass of marginal house wine. And now I’m at the hotel’s only computer terminal with another beer.
Cost be damned, I’m eating & drinking whatever the hell I want tonight.
Goodnight from Cabanaconde,
Paul
Sep
Just arrived in Cucso, the hilly city nearest Machu Picchu, this morning via overnight bus from Arequipa, in Peru’s canyon country to the southwest. Cusco is quite pretty in the early, early a.m.
I’m waiting for my room to be ready here at Hotel Marani, full of Dutch, Danes and Germs & Aussies….curiously not a Frenchie to be heard or seen in the breakfast area or in the hotel logbook. The hotel is at the top of a narrow, winding cobblestone street just off Plaza San Blas, overlooking the city….a city probably overrun with gringos y otro extranjeros como yo.
But there’s comfy armchairs, semi-cheesy “Andean” flute musicwafting about, weak instant coffee served in pleasant faux-Inca red-clay mugs, and a strong, free wifi signal. What more could a roadmonkey want before 8am?
Breakfast, perhaps. But that can wait. I have dried apricots and plenty of mixed nuts from the supermarket in Arequipa to keep me energized.
- Paul
Sep
Friday, Sept. 4, was my last day as a staff reporter for The New York Times. I left the paper after nearly 11 years to put my full energy into making Roadmonkey the premier adventure philanthropy outfitter.
The goals is to create something new, not copy something else. Check out all the best photos and videos of Roadmonkey expeditions to date, and become a fan of the Facebook page that the above link connects you to (there is no Facebook login required).
Life is a series of chapters. One chapter has now closed — mostly…I may do some freelance for the New York Times from various parts of the world.
Another chapter is now opening, boldly and quickly. Let us see how the story goes.
- Paul
Aug
We at Roadmonkey enjoy a long, irreverent laugh. This article in The Onion that was too funny to not post….
Socialites Without Borders Teach Rwandans How To Mingle
August 25, 2009
KIGALI, RWANDA—In an effort to provide relief to a people devastated by civil war, genocide, and poverty, members of the humanitarian aid group Socialites Without Borders spent several hours this week teaching destitute Rwandans how to mingle.
Volunteers are hopeful future generations may one day know how to properly lift a champagne flute.“These poor souls, there’s so much we can do to help to them,” said Tinsley Rothschild, an event planner for the non-profit organization, while surveying the country’s bleak and arid landscape. “Just look around, there’s nothing here: no hors d’oeuvres, no towering ice sculptures, nothing. Nobody should have to live like this.”
“I bet most of these people have never even seen a Bellini, let alone know how to sip one,” Rothschild continued. “Unless we do something fast, these men and women stand no chance of surviving a high-society dinner party.”
Arriving on private jets from their headquarters in Martha’s Vineyard, volunteers from Socialites Without Borders touched down in northern Rwanda early Sunday morning. Following an extravagant luncheon held in their honor, the charitable luminaries were driven by limousine to a nearby refugee camp, where they provided impoverished villagers with emergency lessons in everything from making small talk, to name-dropping, to drastically improving one’s life by marrying a wealthy steel magnate.
“Always remember to keep things light and breezy when mingling,” Danielle Watters, a real estate heiress, was overheard advising a group of war-ravaged amputees. “Talk about where you recently summered, or what boarding school you went to. When you feel at a loss for words, perhaps try remarking on the stunning architecture of the tent you’re in.”
Ordinary Rwandans have been urged to put aside any latent tribal hostility and never forget to place water goblets to the left of red wine glasses.While the outreach program stresses the fundamentals of being a warm and friendly host, the socialites were reportedly concerned when several Rwandan villagers failed to make eye contact, exchange pleasantries, or offer flattering compliments when prompted. More disturbing was the apparent lack of effort shown by many of the emaciated citizens to appear fascinated by the conversations going on around them.
“What I witnessed was appalling,” said Adelina Thornton, an accomplished equestrian, who was moved to tears by the sight of a young orphaned child dressed in horizontal stripes. “Not a single person expressed any interest whatsoever in how long our estate has been in the family.”
Added Thornton, “The people here are even worse off than we could have imagined.”
Despite initial concerns, volunteers reported that some progress was made by Monday afternoon, with many pointing to the look of elation and joy on the faces of several men and women moments after being shown the proper way to hold stemware. In addition, the fact that many Rwandans seemed to already know how to speak French seemed promising, if nothing else.
Still, sources said, the work ahead of them was astronomical.
“That is not how we eat a deviled egg,” said volunteer Yvonne Chantecaille, playfully knocking the protein-rich appetizer from an elderly villager’s hand. “We do not gobble it up. We savior the complexity of flavor profiles, and leave the garnish around it alone.”
“Also, we do not bring up how a senseless genocide ravaged our family, leaving scores of dead as far as the eye can see,” Chantecaille added. “Not even over dessert.”
Due to Rwanda’s widespread unemployment and limited access to basic necessities such as food and clean water, Socialites Without Borders made it their top priority to rebuild the nation’s confidence. The volunteers reportedly boosted the self-esteem of poor Rwandan farmers by referring to them as “organic agriculture tycoons,” while women suffering from Hepatitis A were touched up with foundation to conceal their jaundiced appearance.
“See—all better now,” said Roberta Furlein, wife of steel magnate Michael Furlein, applying makeup to the face of a sickly Rwandan woman. “A little bit of color was all you needed.”
Furlein, who has donated more than $20 million to improve living accommodations for Columbia University students, blamed the sub-Saharan nation’s education system and illiteracy rate for many of its current problems.
“Reading is so important to bettering yourself,” Furlein said. “No one here seems to ever look at New York Times style section, or even Vogue for that matter.”
Added Furlein, “It’s scary, but I don’t think people here even knew who we were.” 
Aug
On Aug. 20, ABC News interviewed Roadmonkey founder Paul von Zielbauer, who badly needs a haircut, about Roadmonkey’s brand of physically challenging, culturally engaging, hands-on adventure philanthropy in Vietnam, Tanzania, Nicaragua, Peru and…soon…Cuba.
If anyone knows how to swap the goofy “intro” image of Paul on the screen above with a different, less dorky image from this same interview, please call +1-917-319-8070 immediately.
Thank you.
Aug
Laugh now. Pay later.
Collywobbles, n. / KALL ee wob ulls / Intestinal distress characterized by cramping and diarrhea.
Jul
British newspaper columnists have gone frothy mad over the Chugger explosion
Over food and drinks yesterday with book agent and mujer fabulosa Madeleine Morel, I learned a new word: Chugger.
Chugger, as Madeleine explained in her droll manner, a sweating glass of Sancerre in her hand, is what you get by compressing “charity mugger” into two syllables.
And, she added, a chugger is one of those people you constantly find on the sidewalks of Manhattan — and maybe also San Fran, Chicago and even L.A., if L.A. had “sides” where people actually “walked” — who stand around with clipboards waiting to mug passers by on behalf of some charitable cause. Thus, the slightly derisive appellation, Chugger.
I don’t find them too annoying, actually. Partly because I don’t find them too often, and because I live in Brooklyn, where fewer Chuggers roam the broken concrete in search of tax-deductible donations.
So thanks to Madeleine Morel at Bookhaven. That was a good one.
Almost as good as Gongoozler. Which the book, “Depraved and Insulting English,” by Peter Novobatzky and Ammon Shea, defines thusly:
Gongoozler. / gon GOOZ ler / a dimwit who stares at unusual things.
Come to think of it, I may frequently veer into gongoozler territory, myself.
By the way, this post has nothing to do with Roadmonkey, adventure philanthropy, or our upcoming cycling & farm-building expedition to Vietnam in November.
Be kind to Chuggers. They obviously believe in what they’re doing enough to risk scorn, abuse and, worst of all, indifference.
Paul
paul@roadmonkey.net
Jul
Vietnam 2008: Roadmonkey expedition co-leader Brent Wexler & new semi-friend.
When I launched Roadmonkey last year, some people told me to change the name. “I can’t see CNN or ABC News doing a segment about a company called ‘Roadmonkey’,” one person in the PR business told me.
Well, he turned out to be wrong.
But other people asked, and rightfully so, what “adventure philathropy” was supposed to mean. It’s a long, gangly phrase, after all, that combines two words that are well known on their own but not exactly comfortable when enclosed together in quotation marks.
Adventure philanthropy. It also doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. Yet I named my company after this idea. Why?
Because, for one, I liked the idea of bringing the idea of old-school philanthropy – with its musty image of wealthy people sitting in parlors with fireplaces deciding how to dispense millions of dollars to charity – back to the common woman and man, where it belongs. As Roadmonkey expeditions to Vietnam and Tanzania have proven, anyone can become an adventure philanthropist, if they have the gumption, fortitude and curiosity to get out into the world and get their hands a little dirty.
Also, for-profit adventure travel companies were more or less invented in the 1960s, when no one knew if people would pay you to take them on ass-kicking adventures in foreign lands where – get this – almost no one speaks English. And by spring 2008, when I launched the Roadmonkey website, it was high time to push the adventure travel paradigm to the next level: Adventure philanthropy. I hope that in 20 years the phrase will be as much of a no-brainer as “adventure travel” is now.
Finally, can you think of a shorter word for philanthropy? If I could have, I would have used it. (Adventure Volunteering is even longer.)
But I’m open to suggestions, comments, criticisms, ridicule, derision, verbal threats, encomia and cheeseburgers.
More from the road, which will include Roadmonkey scouting trips to Nicaragua and Peru in July & August, soon.
- Paul
Jul
I’ll write more about this over the weekend, but the short answer is, adventure philanthropy is the brand of travel Roadmonkey offers to curious people interested in pushing their personal, physical and cultural boundaries on challenging overseas expeditions.
Adventure philanthropy means opening one’s mind and spirit to a new adventure with a small group of like-minded explorers.
Adventure philanthropy is Roadmonkey way of exploring a country by integrating ourselves into its daily fabric.
Adventure philanthropy means breaking the rules when necessary to thoughtfully help people in need.
Adventure philanthropy means getting your hands dirty to build something useful…and having fun doing it.
More on this over the weekend.
Paul
director, Roadmonkey Adventure Philanthropy
