More Traveler’s Diarrhea

By Andrew Bombeck

More Traveler’s Diarrhea is a sequel to my first book, Traveler’s Diarrhea. The book presents more true travel screwups while traveling around the United States, trekking Northern India, going to the Cook Islands, and traveling overland in Southeast Africa, New Zealand, South Africa, and Vietnam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984550408

Andrew Bombeck

I’m a retired elementary school teacher who often traveled during the summer. I am married to Shari and we have a 12-year-old son. When I’m not writing or traveling, I’m playing tennis, guitar and promoting organ and tissue donation.

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Copyright © 2018 by Andrew Bombeck. 770931

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018910344

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 09/04/2018

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

The Summer I Filmed a Documentary of the Interstate from Phoenix to New York City

CHAPTER 2

Climbing What Felt Like Mt. Everest

CHAPTER 3

The Cook Islands: The Only Country Where Sleep Is Considered Work

CHAPTER 4

The Summer I Traveled Overland from Kenya to Zimbabwe for Eight Weeks Without Becoming a Raging Alcoholic

CHAPTER 5

New Zealand: The Country with The Most Creative Ways to Kill Yourself

CHAPTER 6

South Africa and Vietnam During The Same Trip.

AND FINALLY …

Traveler’s Diarrhea

Andy Bombeck

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More true travel stories guaranteed to cause more abdominal cramps, more nausea, more exploding stools, and more occasional bloating.

Over 150 color pictures with smart-aleck captions—the perfect travel book for all the nonreaders!

"Once again, Mr. Bombeck shares even more travel disasters in More Traveler’s Diarrhea."

—Mr. Bombeck’s imaginary little blue friend

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More Traveler’s Diarrhea is dedicated to my wife, Shari Freddy Bombeck, and lifelong travel companion. Honey, I apologize again for dumping you out of our moving dogsled because I had to videotape us going downhill through the woods. Thank God you and the video camera survived. In that order.

I’m the only person who can’t get enough of Traveler’s Diarrhea, my first book and a metaphor I’m using for everything that goes wrong traveling. I can’t be the only person who finds travel screw-ups far more entertaining than hearing about a boring museum, landmark, natural wonder, beach, restaurant, or the worst—the freakin’ weather! Like I care how cold it was in Hawaii? Cut to the chase and tell me everything that went wrong! Face it, everyone knows most vacations aren’t like Gidget Goes to Rome! If nothing went wrong, you never stepped outside your comfort zone. If you have a sense of humor, you (like me) might find your travel faux pas amusing! That was my motivation for writing my first book, Traveler’s Diarrhea and the sequel, More Traveler’s Diarrhea.

In More Traveler’s Diarrhea, I continue where Traveler’s Diarrhea left off. My new adventure begins with the intention of making a documentary about why people chose to live where they live from Phoenix to New York City. Then join me in the Himalayan Mountains in Northern India where I discovered trekking is more like mountain climbing than hiking. Years later, out of sheer boredom, I visited the Cook Islands where boredom and comatose are the best two words to describe the Islands. I returned to Africa for an eight-week overland trip from Kenya to Zimbabwe. It’s a miracle I remember anything considering how much time we spent at the campsite bar. Shari and I then traveled to New Zealand, the country with the most creative ways to kill yourself. Finally, I always wanted to visit South Africa and Vietnam, so Shari and I did it in one trip.

Like my first book, I’m also including over 150 color photographs with smart-aleck captions so you can skim my book until you find an interesting photograph and read all about it.

There are a number of words used to describe More Traveler’s Diarrhea—misjudgments, follies, foolishness, slipups, blunders, snafus, bloopers, and boo-boos—but I’m hoping for entertaining! Enjoy!

Andy

CHAPTER 1

The Summer I Filmed a Documentary of the

Interstate from Phoenix to New York City

1991

36 YEARS OLD

I never planned on keeping a journal driving across the country during the next three weeks. I left Phoenix, Arizona, June 26, 1991, in a rented green Geo Metro I was promised would cost only $100 a week—until I showed up and got talked into spending $10 a day for insurance. Instantly, my $100 a week rental car went from $300 to $500. If you saw my 1973 blue Karmann Ghia convertible last year’s fifth-grade class nicknamed the Smurf-Mobile, I’d be crazy driving a car that barely gets me to and from school—and the return trip is mostly downhill.

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Phoenix, Arizona.

Sitting inside of The Smurf-Mobile.

The last few years, I’ve been living in a studio apartment on the sixth floor of a high-rise apartment building in downtown Phoenix where 99 percent of the residents are senior citizens. My friends swore I’d be evicted for playing electric guitar too loud, forgetting most of my neighbors are hard of hearing. Even living beside Jimi Hendrix wouldn’t pose much of a problem.

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Phoenix, Arizona.

My studio apartment.

I’m still dating Jennifer, a beautiful woman who reminds me more of Mary Ann than Ginger on Gilligan’s Island. Jennifer and I met last year in a post graduate education class titled How to Bore Your Class to Tears with Children’s Literature. The three weeks I’m gone, Jennifer has promised to keep my pets alive: three nameless parakeets who fly freely inside my apartment when they’re not pooping on the curtain and a Monitor Tegu Lizard named Freddy (named after Freddy Krueger for his long claws). When Freddy’s not creeping around my classroom floor, scaring the crap out of my fifth graders, he’s hunting for moldy old baloney sandwiches stuffed inside messy desks. Freddy spends his summers wandering around the floor of my studio apartment looking for food scraps, or sleeping under two giant pillows in front of my television. After a long hard day of yelling at kids, I have to remind myself not to plop down on the giant pillows unless I want a smashed Freddy. She’s also feeding the newest addition to my family, a low-maintenance bull snake named Peewee. One week following this last-minute trip across the United States, Jennifer and I are traveling Indonesia for six weeks.

Two summers ago, in 1989, my family and I traveled to Turkey and Greece. The night I arrived in Istanbul, a Turkish cab driver ripped me off driving from the airport to the Pera Palace where my family stayed at.

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Istanbul, Turkey.

Getting ripped off from the backseat of a Turkish cab.

Like always, I didn’t reserve a hotel room. Instead, I pounded on the door of my sister Betsy’s hotel room, the Julio Iglesias Room, inside the swanky Pera Palace. After waking her up, she let me come inside and sleep on the floor. The next day, I booked a room at a fleabag hotel across the street. Every morning, I took advantage of the all-you-can-eat Pera Palace buffet breakfast, exclusive only to guests staying at the Pera Palace or freeloaders like myself pretending to be a guest.

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Istanbul, Turkey.

My sister Betsy blocking the door inside the Julio Eglesias Room at the swanky Pera Palace Hotel.

Betsy, please open up the dang door and let me come inside!

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Istanbul, Turkey.

My dad paid this man a fortune to have his picture taken with a pet bear.

One night, Matt, Betsy, and I decided to treat our parents to dinner at a nice Istanbul restaurant unfortunately surrounded by feral cats. That’s when I learned my mom, at an early age, had a phobia of cats. She freaked out and insisted we leave. At first, I thought she was faking it, which only added more tension to a ruined evening. Another memorable night spent in Istanbul.

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Istanbul, Turkey.

Welcome to Asia.

Where is Asia?

We toured Ephesus, including one stop at the Virgin Mary’s house.

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Ephesus, Turkey.

The Virgin Mary’s house.

Still more square feet than my studio apartment.

I took a local bus to Pamukkale to sit in hot salty pools of boiling water on a blinding white mountainside.

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Pamukkale, Turkey.

I’m boiling in scalding hot water trying not to look left.

In Istanbul, I went to a Turkish Bathhouse that cost an arm and a leg. It reminded me of showering after PE class in high school. I tried hard not staring to long at the private parts of old overweight Turkish men lying butt naked on a giant round slab of heated marble.

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Istanbul, Turkey.

Standing in front of Turkish Bathhouse.

I’m so relaxed; I’m wearing this stupid hat.

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Istanbul, Turkey.

Even in the backstreets of Istanbul, my mom can’t pass up shopping for a new pair of shoes.

After Turkey, my family and I flew to the Greek island of Syros, where my parents rented a villa for two weeks outside the capital Ermoupoli. Also invited were Matt’s girlfriend Jackie, my friend Mark, my grandmother, and my parent’s obstetrician.

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Syros, Greece.

Our villa overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

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Ermoupoli, Syros, Greece.

Trying hard to make everyone feel comfortable at the villa.

Matt, Betsy, Mark, and I spent an unhealthy amount of time irritating the local population by putting around the island on noisy mopeds usually looking for secluded topless beaches.

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Syros, Greece.

The Greek Hell’s Angels moped gang flexing their muscles on the island of Syros.

Once, Mark lost complete control of his moped and crashed but somehow survived.

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Syros, Greece.

Mark looking happy just before he crashed and burned.

The villa came with a cook, a macho Greek man who could do everything, and two young attractive housekeepers. The obstetrician, who I’m guessing has seen his fair share of women’s anatomy, sat on the porch overlooking the Mediterranean Sea and, with binoculars, would watch both housekeepers sunbathing on the boat dock.

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Syros, Greece.

Our housekeeper working hard when not sunbathing on the boat dock.

When Mark and I weren’t thinking about the housekeepers, we went waterskiing for the first time. How could a sport that looks so simple be so difficult, especially for someone as athletic as Mark? No matter how often everyone encouraged Mark to stand up, that only frustrated him even more. The next day, I was so stiff, I couldn’t get out of bed even after our private masseuse gave me a massage.

Last summer, Jennifer and I flew to the big island of Hawaii. We rented bicycles in Kona to bicycle around the island. Halfway around, in Hilo, we shoved both bikes into the trunk of a rental car. Now we could see the volcano without passing out from smoke inhalation. Thank God Henry Ford invented the car!

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The Big Island, Hawaii.

Jennifer, How much longer until Hilo?

One afternoon, we watched molten lava drip into to the ocean. One woman taking pictures behind a barricade complained about all the smoke! I guess she never made a volcano for the science fair.

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The Big Island, Hawaii.

Mt Kilauea spilling hot lava into the ocean.

I wish there wasn’t so much smoke.

Two days ago, I bought a video camera to videotape the most important things while I’m driving across the country. I’m screwing my new video camera to the top of my dad’s tripod he’s reluctantly loaning me. I’m setting the tripod on the floor of the passenger side with the camera on top. Now I can videotape the interstate without crashing. Very clever. I’m also bringing fifty favorite cassette tapes. While I’m driving and videotaping the interstate, I can groove to Tone Loc’s Wild Thing and every song written by my guitar hero, Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Besides videotaping the interstate and listening to rock music, it will be critical to have a large bag of corn nuts, a large can of cheese puff balls, a bag of pretzel sticks, a package of those cute baby pecan pies, and a twenty-four-ounce Circle K iced coffee between my legs for quick and easy access. That way, I won’t have to worry about scalding my legs, hands, stomach, or worse, my testicles with scalding hot coffee digging deep for that last Cheetos puff ball stuck to the bottom of the can.

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Somewhere on the interstate holding a can of Cheetos.

The main reason I’m taking this last-minute trip isn’t just to kill time before Jennifer and I travel to Indonesia. While Jennifer is keeping my animals alive, I’ll be filming a documentary with my new video camera titled Why We Live Where We Live, interviewing people from El Paso to New York City, asking, So why do you live here? Making a documentary is the reason I bought the video camera.

Unfortunately, so far, I’ve only filmed Interstate 10 from the passenger window. The soundtrack will be loud rock music blaring from the Geo’s cassette player. I’m prepared to whip out release forms my brother’s friend, Rick, recommended people signing for legal reasons. Rick should know because he works in the industry. He promised making people sign release forms will protect my ass from getting sued for something stupid like defamation of character or slander. Now I can legally record and broadcast Chuck from Wyoming when he answers, "Chuck, why do you live in Casper, Wyoming?

Today, day one, I got a late start leaving Phoenix and drove south to Tucson. The only thing of interest I’ve seen a million times are the many billboards advertising The Thing, Mysteries of the Past. I assumed The Thing was a definite stop until I pulled into the parking lot and changed my mind.

I drove nonstop to El Paso, Texas, a city I never had reason to visit. I spent one night at a $20 hotel in the heart of downtown El Paso, a city I barely knew existed. After one night, now I know why I still know nothing about it.

The next morning, I walked across the bridge connecting El Paso to the Mexican border town of Juarez, Mexico. Juarez wasn’t nearly as tacky as Nogales, Mexico, another Mexican border town I partied at with my friend Bill.

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Phoenix, Arizona.

Bill and I planning another trip to Nogales, Mexico.

Bill and I would typically leave Phoenix on a Friday night around 7:00 p.m. and arrive in Nogales around 9:00 p.m. Bill parked his blue Toyota Truck on the US side in the Safeway parking lot. We’d go inside, and I’d and buy a quart of milk and drink half of it. After we crossed the border, I’d buy one bottle of Kahlua and pour it into the half-empty milk container, making an instant giant White Russian! Okay, it’s not like smuggling one thousand kilos of weed into America, but still. We’d walk to our favorite bar, The Cave, and have a blast until midnight. Around 1:00 a.m., we’d return to Phoenix, but not before eating breakfast at our favorite Denny’s just over the border. Bill’s blue truck didn’t have a heater, so we’d warm ourselves over a lit candle I’d hold while Bill drove.

Another time in Nogales, I bought one pair of cheap earrings for my girlfriend Ann. That night, I met an attractive Mexican woman at The Cave. I thought it’d be cool giving my senioritis one of the earrings, like Humphrey Bogart did, saying, So long, sweetheart to Lauren Bacall in Casablanca.

In Phoenix, I gave the other earring to Ann who is smart and put two and two together. Ann refused to wear it, knowing another woman in Mexico was wearing the other earring.

Nogales is also the only city selling a painting of the Pink Panther taking a crap on black velvet. I’ll never forget the day I searched the entire city for that masterpiece I mistakenly passed up buying. I learned a valuable lesson that day to never pass up a good find.

Anyhow, so the next morning, I woke up early and drove six hundred miles to San Antonio. I thought Texas was flat. On the way, I couldn’t ignore the road signs for Fort Stockton. I pulled the Geo into the parking lot and walked around the fort, which looked like a ghost town! I only saw one gardener watering plants and a lot of Do Not Enter signs because the Fort was being restored.

The fort was so impenetrable, all of the bathrooms were locked up. I had to pee on a barracks wall and worry about getting arrested for indecent exposure.

It’s day three and I’m sitting outside at a cafe on the beautiful River Walk in beautiful San Antonio, Texas, watching beautiful Texans sipping overpriced beers for $2.75. I arrived in San Antonio last night around 7:30 p.m. and, like always, didn’t know where to stay. Because I hate stupid maps, whatever city I’m driving to, I simply point the Geo toward the tallest buildings around and start looking for the cheapest hotel. Nearing San Antonio, I missed the exit sign and started driving to Houston. I asked a stranger on the street where San Antonio was and he pointed up the street.

Anything worth seeing in San Antonio is located downtown. All of the downtown hotels were too expensive or too dangerous, which is a bad thing, because I enjoy walking around at night. Eventually, I found a cheap hotel outside the city charging $22 a night. It had a bullet hole through the front window and three empty light sockets. I booked the room for two nights.

The next day, I tried to see everything San Antonio has to offer. I parked downtown, walked to the River Walk, and paid $2 for the River Boat tour. Our guide tried being funny. Floating down the river, he proudly pointed out the same Burger King he and his high school sweetheart ate at on prom night in 1984.

My prom night was also my first date as a senior at Camelback High School in 1973. My date, Susan, asked me to go. I was too shy and never had the balls to ask a girl out, especially to something as important as the high school prom. Everything was going great until we sat down at a fancy restaurant. After Susan ordered, I told our waiter I wasn’t hungry and that’s when Susan dragged me to the car. We returned to her house and ate pizza with her younger sister who also just returned from the prom. Years later, my competitive friend Mark said he once dated Susan in junior high school. Mark beats me in everything.

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Phoenix, Arizona.

Susan and I on Prom night.

I’m terrified in my Sears Rental Tuxedo.

Our funny river guide never knew I was videotaping the river tour. I should have blackmailed him into signing a release form before he or his 1984 prom date or lawyer recognizes his smiling face on Public Television airing Home Sweet Home or How I Chose a Dump like This Place to Live?

After the river tour, I paid one dollar to see the Circus Museum. The Tiny Tim exhibit was out of this world! I spent the most time in Clown Alley. The three-way mirror made Bob Marley’s face on my Bob Marley T-shirt look more stoned than Bob normally looks. After that, I followed the sweet sounds of mariachi music to The Alamo.

If you’re Texan, the Alamo is a great story with a great ending. Our Texan guide never mentioned how we stole Texas from Mexico. I’m waiting for the day Mexicans chant, Guess what you assholes, we do remember the Alamo, and guess what, we want all that land back you assholes stole from us!

I got so worked up during the Alamo tour, afterward, I went to watch my first IMAX movie about the Alamo titled All for Freedom at an IMAX movie theater. Everything about watching my first IMAX movie was too big and too loud! Texans had to be peeing in their pants from the excitement!

I walked to the tallest building in San Antonio, the Towers of the Americas, built for the 1968 World’s Fair. Who would have thought San Antonio hosted a World’s Fair? The elevator ride to the top was worth the two bucks. Walking back to the Geo, I stepped inside of one bar on the River Walk and paid $2.75 for one beer. I’d better pace myself. On driving days like tomorrow, when I drive to New Orleans, I’ll only spend money on gas so on no driving days like today, I can justify spending $2.75 for one beer.

I promised Jennifer I’d call her person to person every third day, so tonight, I’m calling. San Antonio is a place I’d return to. I got excited about visiting New Orleans while slowly sipping my $2.75 beer on the River Walk and watching families play with their kids.

JUNE 29, 1991

I just arrived in New Orleans, and