Vagabond Tales: A Bojangles Virgin No More

by Kyle Ellison on

In the eight months I’ve been penning “Vagabond Tales” I’ve written about experiences from all corners of the globe.

Some of them have been exotic such as swimming with elephants in Thailand, and others have been a bit more dangerous such as kayaking with Alaskan killer whales or nearly being kidnapped in a Borneo jungle. I have ventured onto floating islands in Lake Titicaca, roasted marshmallows over an active volcano in Guatemala, and snorkeled with irukandji – one of the deadliest animals on Earth – off the Great Barrier Reef of Australia.

Over that same period of time I’ve dined on everything from wine and cheese in the south of France to live clams in an underwater cave in Vietnam.

This past week, however, I went and did something I’ve never done before:
I ate at a Bojangles restaurant in the American south.

Wait. Are you kidding me? Bojangles? You’re calling this a travel experience?

As I explored in my article “Why Do We Take Pictures Of Our Food?” regional cuisine is as much a part of the travel experience as are museums, monuments, or UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Eating ceviche in Peru is as integral to the country as Machu Picchu. Pairing a Guinness with a pot of beef stew is as important to an Irish visit as kissing the Blarney Stone or staying in a Connemara Castle.And, along this same reasoning, ordering chicken and biscuits in the American south is right on par with touring Civil War battlefields. There are even some who may argue that a visit to the South is like visiting an entire other country to begin with. Though I won’t jump into that debate, from the copious amount of Confederate flags still flying, there are some who still side with the soldiers who once tried to make it a reality.

In fact, if you look at a map of Bojangles locations across the country (for the record, Bojangles is currently in 10 U.S. states and has one location in … Honduras?), with the exception of Pennsylvania the map could almost be mistaken for a map of the former Confederacy.

Given this regional dominance I feel fairly confident in saying that eating at a Bojangles can be considered an authentically Southern experience. On a recent stop in Weaverville, North Carolina, as I discussed the quality of the grits with an employee I’m going to call “Flo,” I realized that the experience I was having was no different than any first-time situation I’ve encountered elsewhere across the globe.

As someone who grew up in Maui, Hawaii, I have never eaten grits. I also have never had chicken mixed with freshly baked biscuits. With the same curiosity with which I scour remote and far-flung corners of the globe, I flung open the door of Bojangles and set to work exploring new culinary experiences right here in the U.S. of A.

So, in the spirit of the recent, viral review of a North Dakota Olive Garden, I hereby offer my rave review of the Weaverville, North Carolina, Bojangles.

The first thing I noticed once inside the door was that there were only three colors on the menu. Actually, that’s not true. The very first thing I noticed was the cardboard sign informing customers that the outdoor ashtray was not a trash can.

Comparing the menu with the food choices on display, I arrived at a curious conclusion. It appeared that the only colors on the menu were red, yellow and brown. Ketchup is red, fried chicken is yellow and the Bo-tato fries are pretty close to brown. The menu, it seemed, mimicked the colors of the food.

What’s notable about this is that there is no green on the menu, a nod to the fact that none of the sandwiches appear to be served with any form of vegetables. No lettuce. No tomato. Just brown and yellow; chicken and biscuits.

The next thing I noticed after the fried menu was that Flo spoke into her microphone like a contestant on “The Price Is Right.” Repeating my order one item at a time into the skinny black microphone, although the words coming out of her mouth contained phrases such as “Cajun biscuit” and “side of grits,” she may as well have saying “I’m going to say $1, Bob.”

Fully immersed in the experience and excited about the prospect of dining on my Cajun Filet Biscuit, Flo informed me there was a possibility I might not get my side order of grits.

“Oooh they’re really good today,” she confided in me with a smile. “I’ll put the order in for ya, but we’ve been eating them all morning and I’m not sure if there will be any left!”

My gut told me that Flo was just being friendly, but until the cup of grits materialized on my plate two minutes later there was a part of me that somewhat believed her.

With my tray of food in hand, the third thing I noticed after sitting in a surprisingly comfortable seat was that there was a flat screen television inside of the sparsely-filled dining area. Although I have since been informed that this is becoming common practice, it was the first time I have ever seen a television in the dining area of a fast-food restaurant. On the TV was an ad for calorie-free Splenda, although as a man in overalls filled his large soda cup to the brim with Coca-Cola, I doubted there was anything about his pour that was anywhere close to being calorie-free.

Finally, all peripheral distractions aside, the moment had finally come to try the food. The Cajun Filet Biscuit was arranged just as promised: chicken, biscuit – that’s all. The grits sat like a scoop of fine white sand. I skipped out on the mega-sized soda and opted instead for a coffee.

And you know what?

I loved it. I loved every bite of it. For $4.99 I was full, the biscuit tasted fresh, the grits weren’t as bad as all Yankees seem to make them out to be, and despite the lack of anything green, I could see why there was a line that nearly stretched out the door.

Actually, to be fair, the coffee was terrible and I poured it in the grass outside.

Nevertheless, I can now say with confidence that not only does a Mendoza malbec go swimmingly with a cut of filet mignon, but chicken does in fact go well with homemade biscuits and a side of unflavored grits.

Will I stop at another Bojangles on my road trip through the South? Probably not. The price sure is right, but I like seeing a little green on my menu.

Walking out into the heat of the summer sun, I passed Flo as we crossed paths while headed towards the door.

“Good aint it?” she smiled.

“Yes ma’am,” I could honestly say. “Yes ma’am it was.”

Want more travel stories? Read the rest of the “Vagabond Tales” over here.

Vagabond Tales: The Curious Case Of Indonesia’s Pulau Bintan

by Kyle Ellison on

Of course you’ve heard of Bali, but have you heard of Bintan?

Of the 18,000 or so islands, which make up the archipelago of Indonesia, the same five or six names invariably pop up when it comes to Indonesian tourism. Bali, the Gili Islands, Sulawesi, Java, Flores, Sumatra … but what about Bintan?

Believe it or not, in terms of overall visitor numbers, Pulau Bintan is actually one of the highest visited and most popular destinations in all of Indonesia. Located only 50 minutes by ferry from the urban metropolis of Singapore, Pulau Bintan is a favorite weekend getaway for Singapore businessmen and their families who are looking to leave the city behind and escape to Indonesia for a few days.

The only problem with this, however, is that Pulau Bintan isn’t really Indonesia. Well, part of it is, but then there’s a whole other part that simply, well, isn’t.

Just in the same way that the island of Hispaniola is divided into Haiti on one side and the Dominican Republic on the other, Pulau Bintan is likewise divided into Bintan Resorts on one side of the border and Indonesia on the other.

Wait. Did you say Bintan Resorts? That’s not a country.

%Gallery-161966%In what can only be dubbed a politically curious case of economic colonialism, Bintan Resorts is actually a sprawling, 57,000-acre mega-resort that is essentially an extension of Singapore. There is a direct ferry from Singapore, all transactions take place in Singapore dollars, and even the electrical outlets are wired to accept Singapore plugs.

The reason this is all very strange is that Bintan Resorts is not a part of Singapore. It’s a part of Indonesia. When you step off of the ferry from Singapore, you still need to pass through Indonesian customs and obtain an Indonesian visa. After that little diplomatic formality, however, everything reverts back to Singapore and Western modernity.

Shuttles transport you from one luxurious beach resort to the next. Infinity-style swimming pools lap calmly next to thatched hut bungalows. Waiters offer to bring you a wildly overpriced can of Bintang beer, all the staff speaks English, and there are golf courses, a Club Med, and no fewer than 12 separate day spas.

Ok, so that’s not that weird, lots of islands have overpriced resort districts. What’s your point?

My point is that Bintan Resorts also has a fence around it. That’s right. A fence.

There is a massive fence surrounding the entire Bintan Resorts complex, which separates the high-paying tourists from the low-income locals. There are checkpoints when leaving the resort complex, which are akin to a border crossing. There are guards, there is a guardhouse, and there is a fence.

You know where else has a fence? The border of the United States and Mexico. Fences are not welcoming. They are divisive, and they are meant to keep people out.

Granted, putting a fence around private property is not exactly a strange thing to do. What’s strange about the fence around Bintan Resorts is that it almost seems to have nationalistic indications. While the fence inarguably draws a line in the socio-economic sand, it also appears to draw a line between two nations: Singapore on one side of the line, Indonesia on the other.

What gives me trouble is that I’m not sure if the fence is meant to keep Singapore in, or rather, to keep Indonesia out.

Again, this is all very strange, because despite there being a border on most maps, which delineates Pulau Bintan into two distinct regions, the entire island is, after all, sovereign territory of Indonesia.

So while relaxing by the infinity pool was nice for about a day, I’m not the type of explorer who is content to sit and lounge. I traveled to Indonesia to see Indonesia. I wanted to see what was on the other side of the fence.

Three days later, in the island’s capital of Tanjung Pinang, as the 5 a.m. call to prayer exploded from the minaret of the local mosque, I suddenly knew I wasn’t in Bintan Resorts anymore.

Having already spent two days outside of Bintan Resorts on the muddy beaches of the island’s eastern shore, I now found myself in the frenetic capital of 200,000 people being woken in darkness to a city already teeming with activity. A motorcycle buzzed beneath my window, the muezzin seemed only to get louder, and my hungry stomach actively growled.

It may not be the beachside massage table from four days earlier, but Tanjung Pinang was a living, breathing, Indonesian city, and I was none too happy to go out and explore it.

Ambling to the waterfront amidst a constant swarm of motorbikes, I shouldered up to a food stall for a breakfast paid for with a fistful of rupiah. Despite still being half asleep, I was awake enough to notice the sideways glances and curious stares. There isn’t much Western tourism in Tanjung Pinang, and after having spent 30 minutes on the street I still hadn’t seen another foreign face.

While waiting for my food in a red plastic chair, I was approached by a man with minimal English who simply wanted to say hello. Through the broken words and awkward pauses, I came to understand that I was the first white person he had ever spoken to.

Ever.

Nervous but thankful, after a three-minute exchange, which could barely qualify as a conversation, the man thanked me for my time and continued about his day. The rest of the morning provided much of the same.

Squeezing my way down the motorbike-clogged streets, groups of local children would giggle and yell a “hello!” in my direction.

Men waved. A few took photos. Sure, there were festering garbage heaps in the alleyways, stray cats, clouds of cigarette smoke, a foul stench, the perfect combination of diesel fumes and fish, and a cacophony of motorbike mufflers, which provided an overall soundtrack to the squalor. All in all, however, this was still a port town with some charm.

Hours before needing to catch my ferry back to Singapore and modernity, I was lucky enough to watch local teams participate in dragon boat races down by the harbor. Expertly navigating their lightweight craft, crowds cheered as a different boat took the lead and groups of schoolchildren played on the rocks. A live band performed traditional music to an appreciative crowd of local passersby as a barefoot merchant did his best to hawk a bucket full of dried fish.

Sitting back and examining the scene, I realized that here, on the other side of the fence, I was finally nothing more than a fly on the wall examining the whirlwind culture of everyday Indonesia.

Maybe, it seemed that fence around Bintan Resorts serves a different purpose; it keeps the manicured luxury of Singapore out, and the authenticity of Indonesia in.

Want more travel stories? Read the rest of the “Vagabond Tales” over here.

Vagabond Tales: Dodging Toxic Gases And Peering Into The Center Of The Earth

by Kyle Ellison on

“You see that smoke?” asked Andreas. “Tell me if you see the smoke.”

Gazing towards the thin patch of smoke emanating from the icy summit, our group of volcano-climbers nodded in silent agreement.

“That smoke is very important,” he continued, his rapid-fire speech laced with a strangely casual lilt.

“Why?” inquired a British climber, his attention focused on cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his shiny new ice axe.

“Why?” scoffed Andreas. “I tell you why. Because that smoke will kill you. Right now the wind is ok, so we climb.”

“But what if the wind switches towards our direction?” chimed in a spunky, yet suddenly concerned Australian girl.

“Then you go to the ground, dig a hole in the snow with your axe, place your nose and mouth in the hole, and then you breathe into the snow. When the smoke passes, we climb.”

With that Andreas popped his water bottle into his backpack and continued forging his way up the mountainside, our intrepid and no-nonsense guide for climbing active Volcán Villarica on the outskirts of Pucón, Chile.

%Gallery-161699%At 9,341 feet, not only is the volcano covered with snow for the majority of the year, but it’s also one of only five volcanoes in the world to house an active lava lake at the summit. Plus, you can ski or snowboard down Villarica during many parts of the year, and the ability to say that you’ve snowboarded from the summit of an active volcano is an adventure simply too good to resist. Noxious fumes of death be damned, this is an outing unquestionably worth taking.

The trail up Villarica, however, isn’t exactly for the faint of heart. Carving our way up the mountain with the spiky tips of our rented crampons, the azure and shimmering lakes, which comprise the Lake District, gradually begin to fade in size beneath us.

“Over there,” points out Andreas, using the tip of his ski pole to gesture towards the horizon, “is the volcano Lanín. Beyond that, Argentina.”

A stiff wind whips up some loose snow and swirls in my face as I peer down the spine of the Andes. Considering this is the side of an active volcano, the overall hike thus far has been remarkably and unexpectedly cold. There’s something about a lava lake that’s covered in ice that just seems to defy some laws of nature.

Moving further up the flank of the mountain the weight of my pack gets heavier at about the same rate that the air gets thinner. Luckily, I’m no longer carrying a snowboard on my back as my wife opted to ride back down from about 3/4 of the way up the mountain due to a pestering pain in her hip. Sure, she was going to miss out on peering into the crater, but I’m venturing a guess that she’s warmer and breathing easier than most of us up on the mountain are.

With only a hundred vertical feet to climb to the summit, the cheeky Brit is leaning heavily on his ice axe while the spunky Australian removes her gloves to blow on her fingers. Just above them, Andreas slowly chews on a granola bar and jokingly tells the Brit to man-up. This is the sixth day in a row that Andreas has climbed the mountain, the weathered red of his eyes revealing a tiredness his fit body easily conceals.

Behind all of them a plume of smoke rises steadily to the sky, the slightest rumble of the Earth evident beneath our frozen feet. Though the mountain hasn’t experienced a major eruption since 1971, the threat of it waking up is a very real possibility. Should that moment be in the next thirty minutes, no amount of digging holes in the snow would do anything to save us.

“You ready?” Andreas impatiently inquires of the Brit. “We go the top.”

And just like that, with another ten minutes of pushing through the relentless wind, our haggard troupe of volcano climbers stands atop the mighty Villarica.

Something, however, is noticeably absent – the lava lake. Where on Earth is the lava lake?

Anticipating our question Andreas jumps into action.

“The lake level is very low right now. You cannot see. Do not go inside the crater. You go in there you die.”

With no more explanation Andreas excuses himself to take a high-altitude bathroom break, leaving the rest of us to gaze into the steaming abyss and wonder if the hole really goes down into the center of the Earth.

Furthermore, although you might not expect it, attempting to NOT walk into a venting abyss is not an easy thing to do. Like Frodo Baggins holding his ring, the open gap in the mountain speaks to you in demonic whispers and entices you into its depths.

“Come closer, now closer, just one more step … “

Despite everything in your senses telling you to not walk a step further, the open caldera gives the illusion that just a few feet further will give you a view into the center of the Earth. You don’t know why, but you can’t, stop, inching, closer.

“Yes, yes, bring me the precious … “

My foot loses traction on a patch of ice and sends a scree slope of pebbles shuttling down into the steaming abyss. In the profound silence at the top of the mountain it’s possible to hear the rocks as they bounce their way into the darkness. Softer, softer, until the sound finally fades away.

I grip my ice axe and watch shapes dance in the rising smoke. Then, as quickly as it vanished, reality once again returns to the moment. What am I doing here? Why are you standing on the edge of an active volcano? Why are you trying to climb inside? Why aren’t you down at your hostel eating a parilla of freshly grilled steak and sipping on bottles of Chilean red wine?

Taking one last look into the magnetic abyss, and another to peer south towards the horizon and Patagonia, I tighten the earflaps of my alpaca wool beanie and step back from the brink of the ledge.

There are more adventures waiting at the bottom of the mountain anyway, and while the view from this perch is nearly impossible to beat, the summit of this volcano is admittedly short on wine.

Want more travel stories? Read the rest of the “Vagabond Tales” over here.

Vagabond Tales: Cellphones And Candy Bars In The Floating Islands Of Peru

by Kyle Ellison on

There is a running joke amongst Peruvians that when it comes to Lake Titicaca, Peru got the “Titty,” and Bolivia got the “kaka.”

All anatomical and bathroom jokes aside, the world’s highest navigable lake does in fact stretch across the borders of both nations. When read from left to right on a map, it would appear that the Peruvians may have a reason on which to make their case.

My mind didn’t spend too much time dwelling on this, however, as I motored across the placid lake waters for the first time. At 12,500 feet in elevation, even the slightest amount of breeze can create a frigid wind chill, causing me to tug my alpaca wool hat a little tighter over my ears while en route to Las Islas de Uros, the Floating Islands of Peru.

The thought which most occupied my mind as we motored away from the lakeside town of Puno – the Andean version of a seedy port town full of con-artists, liquor dens and ne’er do wells – was just how these islands even float in the first place.

A collection of 44 islands not far off the coastline of Puno, Las Islas de Uros are created from intertwined sections of floating bricks of mud, which are then covered in fresh, dry totora reeds harvested from the shallow parts of the lake. Thatched together in much the same fashion as palm frond draped palapas and tiki bars, the end result are islands no larger than a football field, which provide a home for the native Uro people of the lake.

And here’s the kicker: they even have an anchor to keep them from floating away. Seriously, islands with anchors – who ever would have thought it?

%Gallery-161058%Why, you might ask, would anyone choose to live on floating islands?

The Uro people, native inhabitants of the Lake Titicaca region who were conquered by the Aymara and later the Inca, opted to create floating islands as a defense mechanism in the event their part of the lake ever came under attack. Outside forces invade, pull anchor, move the village elsewhere, problem solved.

While the Uro may have lost their language to the Aymara and were subjected to enslavement by the Inca, a few hundred Uro residents still populate the floating, reed-strewn islands. Despite managing to somewhat maintain their culture, the Uro people inhabiting the floating islands are now being subjected to a new type of invasion generally known as tourism.

Arguably the lifeblood, which keeps the local economy afloat (pun intended), the hordes of tourists who flock to see these floating islands have subjected the remaining Uro people to an entirely new set of challenges.

For one, as more people come ashore to their islands and trample upon the reeds, the islands literally need to be replaced and rebuilt faster than before. Every step you take on one of the islands is accompanied by a loud crunching sound, and you actually sink about three inches into the island whenever you move. As the reeds are broken they are subjected to water and rot, and according to our local guide, the islands need to be “replaced” faster now than ever before.

Then, of course, there is the issue of begging children. Whether in the form of directly asking for money or by trying to sell you something you simply don’t want, for some reason, when a child lives on an island made out of sticks and the daily entertainment consists of a boat wake shaking the entire island, you feel a little more compelled to buy something from them, even though you know promoting child labor is wrong.

I mean, they actually live on an island made of sticks. How much can they really have? They probably take whatever money they make and occasionally venture into Puno for vital supplies such as quinoa grains or a used pair of shoes, right?

Let’s just say it would be nice if this thought were true.

From my perch on a “Uro yacht,” a two-story vessel made entirely out of totora reeds and bedecked in dragon heads like some sort of alpine, Peruvian Viking ship, I was witness to a reality-shattering event, which took place right in front of my eyes.

Having stopped for a lunch break on one of the larger islands, I had spent the last 45 minutes or so watching as traditionally dressed women sold souvenirs to camera-toting tourists and as small children demanded money for taking their photo. Pretty standard stuff, really.

From the number of tourists crunching their way around the island and the number of Nuevo Soles changing hands, it appeared the islanders were doing a pretty brisk business.

Then, in a moment I couldn’t make up if I tried, the island was approached by a wooden boat with a sputtering outboard motor and an oversized yellow sign. From the rush of children and local women headed down towards the water’s edge it was apparent this was a popular boat.

Taking a moment to tie his vessel to a metal stake wedged into the reeds, the floating merchant turned his attention back towards the women and children and indicated he was open for business.

Reaching into the deep pockets of their colorful, vibrantly flowing clothing, the traditionally dressed Uro women of the historic Islas de Uros then proceeded to grab all of their newly acquired fistfuls of cash and promptly spend all of it on …

Inca cola and candy bars!

But wait, that’s not all. Once the women had dutifully purchased no less than 14 liters of cola and about 40 candy bars for their soon-to-be-toothless children, they reached further into their pockets to grab some more money in order to …

recharge their cellphones!

Out from the depths of one of their six clothing layers came small, portable cellphones, and all the mothers proceeded to add more credit to their pre-paid accounts.

Somewhat deflated, I boarded a separate wooden boat back towards Puno, excited to have experienced such a culturally unique corner of the world, but somewhat disappointed that even here in the middle of Lake Titicaca on islands floating somewhere between ocean and sky, the far-reaching tentacles of modernity had turned it into a place eerily similar to everywhere else.

Want more travel stories? Read the rest of the “Vagabond Tales” over here.

Vagabond Tales: Eavesdropping On An Elderly Soldier In A Rural Slovenian Café

by Kyle Ellison on

The great nation of Slovenia has a wealth of many things, but it only has one island.

No, it’s not located off of the coastline that some have dubbed the Mini-Riviera. Rather, it’s set up in the mountains in the middle of a pristine retreat famously known as Lake Bled. It is a teardrop-shaped island in the middle of a placid lake. There are no inhabitants, and the main building is a 15th-century church where it’s popular for a groom to carry his bride up the 99 steps, which lead to the bell tower.

To call the setting of Lake Bled magical is not only a cliché, but also a travesty of justice; this place could be the setting upon which Disneyland was founded – the Magic Kingdom a replica of this sanctuary tucked at the base of the Julian Alps.

As fellow Gadling blogger Meg Nesterov pointed out in her article “10 Reasons To Travel To Ljubljana,” Slovenia is also home to a charming capital city, which features canals to rival Venice or Amsterdam, great wine, tasty food, affable locals and a massive castle, which stoically towers above the city.

Unbeknownst to many people, Slovenia is also reputed to be the birthplace of skiing, a sport which emerged out of the rugged mountains, which blanket the scenic northwest.

More than any of this, however, Slovenia is the site of one of the most intriguing conversations I’ve ever had the chance to be a part of – and I wasn’t even playing a speaking role. Rather, from the corner booth of a small café in Lake Bled, I craned my neck away from my potato rosti in an effort to make out the conversation taking place between two European youths and an elderly American soldier.”This is my 35th year in a row of returning to Europe,” boasted the fully gray and heavily wrinkled man. “Every year I bring my wife to somewhere new and we see what a beautiful place this has become.”

Seated with him at the four-person table were his wife and the two aforementioned youth, two German boys of about 20 years old traveling together on a backpacking tour of Europe.

“It’s good to come back here,” continued the elderly American. “It wasn’t always like this, you know. I first came to Europe when I was your age.”

Seeing as we were the only two tables seated at the café on this misty day in early June – the throngs of summer crowds still a few weeks away – it was easy for me to eavesdrop on their ongoing conversation. At first, I was intrigued simply to hear an American voice; now I was intrigued by his story.

The man explained to his two breakfast companions he had first come to Europe in his early-20s once America jumped into World War II. He spent lots of time in Germany, not far from their hometown.

For over a year, he fought the Germans on a convoluted course across Europe upon which he admitted to being exposed to a lot of suffering. A lot of friendships were forged, he claimed, but many more were lost.

Surprisingly, despite all the horrors he alluded to being a part of, he exhibited no traces of animosity towards the men on the other side of the line.

“You know,” he nodded with a wink of his eye, “the boys I was fighting against really just looked a lot like you.”

Obviously humbled, yet wholly intrigued, from my vantage point, it was remarkable to see the genuine interest of the two German youth in hearing testimony from this living piece of history who experienced so much of what modern Germans consider to be a shameful past.

They peppered him with questions about Germany during the 1940’s, but at the same time were respectful enough not to pry.

Even if they had, however, it was apparent that enough time had passed in this veteran’s life that wounds had healed, scores had been settled, and in this nearly empty café in rural Slovenia, they were just four humans enjoying a hearty breakfast together.

Standing to leave after finishing half his meal, the traveling former soldier steadied himself with a hand on the table and used the other to push off his knee as he slowly rose to his feet.

“It’s been really nice talking with you boys,” he offered with a wink and a smile. “You two enjoy your travels and be safe. Don’t worry, breakfast is on me.”

Tossing a fistful of Slovenian tolars onto the table (Slovenia changed to the Euro in 2007), the group exchanged final pleasantries and went about their respective lives, almost certain to never meet anywhere again.

Want more travel stories? Read the rest of the “Vagabond Tales” over here.

[Image credit: globalclaire on Flickr]