The idea for this grand roadtrip arose in my friend Jason and I’s discussions of filming a documentary and our mutual desire to move west. The more we mulled over possible subjects and locations for the project the more the idea of a roadtrip began to crystallize. The target of our documentary was of much debate. We considered filming it on the sad state of our higher education system, our aimless generation as a whole, the trip itself, the “Freestaters” in New Hampshire, the Minutemen on the Mexican border and many other possibilities. More and more, however, the idea of relocating via a roadtrip took precedence in these talks and one fateful night in February while taping index cards of documentary and story ideas to a wall I scribbled “March 1^st, Get the **** out” and put it at the top. The date stuck and we began preparations.

Suddenly it was the morning of March 5^th, 2009 and I had slept. This was surprising because it was the first time before any large trip that I’d been able to do so. Maybe that means I’m finally becoming used to these “first day” things. After a full week of mishaps, delays and frustrations the day had finally come. The “Great American Roadtrip” was about to begin.

As usual I woke up before my alarm. This always occurs when anything of note is happening the next day; my body just snaps into a certain mode and I wake up earlier and easier than usual. My bags were already packed from the previous night, so I had a small leisurely breakfast before checking my room over to make sure I didn’t leave anything vital behind. My mom and I loaded up her jeep for the ride down to a restaurant called the “Clock of Brevard” to meet my dad for lunch. Leading up to this trip my parents had seemed much more concerned about this one in particular. Even more so than my original round-the-world wanderings. I’m not sure why. I wouldn’t even be leaving the country this time and almost always within a phone call’s reach. Not only that but I would be with a friend the entire way and not completely alone as I was in Europe and South East Asia.

We pulled out of the driveway and started down the mountain on our gravel road. Near the bottom we ran across 3 men whose pickup truck and trailer had jack-knifed after sliding backwards down a patch of ice in a sharp, steep curve. They happened to be blocking the only road out. “Not today” I said to myself before jumping out to help them slide the truck around until they could unhook the trailer. After about 30 minutes of pushing, pulling, jostling and towing we were able to squeeze the jeep through and continue on. We rolled into the Clock parking lot a little late and met with my father. At the end of our lunch he presented me with the TomTom GPS unit he usually kept on his motorcycle. “Just press one button and wherever you are it will guide you home” he said tearfully. We exchanged hugs and goodbyes and parted ways as my mom drove me on to meet with Jason.

I’ve known Jason since I was a senior in high school. That would be about 8 years now, which is pretty shocking now that I write that number down. I think its fair to say that Jason is a lot like me, although smarter, a lot more cautious, and just a bit more cynical. He finished undergrad with a degree in journalism and wrote professionally for a few newspapers. He dove heavily into economics and philosophy before deciding to go to grad school where he quickly became disillusioned with the system and dropped out. He worked freelance for about a year in videogame journalism before this trip came about. It takes only one hand for me to count the number of people I trust as much as him.

My mom and I pulled into a familiar driveway and I saw Jason loading the car. He had filled exactly half of the trunk of his Honda Civic leaving room for all of my gear. Along with all of his clothes and such were the newly acquired video camera, shotgun microphone, mixer board and condenser mics, pop filters, a homemade steadycam and a laptop stuffed with media production software. We were a complete studio on wheels and along with all of that I piled in my trusty backpack with the tents, pots, propane stove, cooler and other useful items I had scrounged together the week before. We managed to fit all but one small bag in the trunk. The three of us chatted briefly before I exchanged hugs and goodbyes with my mom as I have so many times before. Its one of the few things that doesn’t get any easier despite how much practice you have at it. We promptly finished loading the the trunk and Jason’s step-dad snapped a picture of us in front of the car. We gave the house a quick once-over for anything we may have missed before piling in. We sat just long enough to take a deep breath and have a quick thought about what were were about to undertake. The car started and we pulled out on to the road. Our journey was underway.

Our first stop was Boone, North Carolina to stay with my brother for a couple of days and do some filming around the college to test out the idea of a higher education doc. The ride there was fairly uneventful save for the obligatory Dumb and Dumber jokes. “It feels like you’re running at an incredible rate!” I called my brother when we neared the city. He was out on a call so Jason and I parked in town near his old apartment and got coffee before walking the campus to pick good spots for filming. My brother called us back and we shot over to his work and picked up the keys to his house. I hadn’t picked the best time to visit as he was in the middle of a break up with his girlfriend who was still living at the house. Being the exceptionally good guy he is, he accommodated us without second thought anyway.

We drove up to his house in the mountains away from town and found his gravel driveway to be a muddy, snowy mess. The Civic slid around, but made it. It would become successively harder each time we left and returned. We grabbed some of our stuff and took it into the house minding his vicious guard dog ever threatening to lick us to our graves. We discussed a plan of action and since it was already a bit late in the day we decided to do some shopping for road food and take the camera out later that night. While on a roadtrip, keeping costs low is essential and food tends to take the brunt of those budgetary cuts. We drove back toward town to the Lowes Foods and went shopping for the most absurdly cheap food we could find. Sandwich supplies were at the top of our list and looking through the cheese yielded a particularly interesting find. At 99 cents the “Valu Cheese” was by far the cheapest option and hence our purchase. That isn’t a typo, by the way. There is no “E”; I like to think that’s how they increase the savings. From here on I will refer to it as “cheese” with quotations because the ingredients were highly suspect and didn’t necessarily indicate any actual cheesiness going on in that package. The sandwich supplies (no condiments) along with ramen and some assorted canned food wrapped up our first grocery visit. Upon returning to the house we made dry ham and cheese sandwiches. I used three slices of ham and when Jason attempted to use four I referenced our budget and jokingly tried to enact a 3 slice limit to which he replied “yeah okay. Comrade.”

We took the camera out for some driving tests and then after dark we headed back to town to see what we could film. We walked all over campus and got a few shots of the town and the college. When we walked back onto the main street I was carrying the tripod over my shoulder with the camera mounted to it. As we walked past Boone Saloon there were a couple of guys outside smoking. One of them crept up and, in what I image was the “toughest” voice he could muster, asked us “Where you think you’re going with that camera?” obviously joking as if he was going to mug us. When he realized we weren’t going to stop for his shenanigans his tone slid into actually asking us what we were doing with the camera. He had long hair, a beard and was obviously a few years younger than us. We stopped and explained that we were shooting a documentary along our roadtrip. His name was Will and he was very excited to hear this, informing us that he “had stories.” He was obviously high on something so we did what any right minded person with a camera would do: We set it up post-haste and let him rip. He then talked non-stop for 20 minutes about LSD, mushrooms, drug culture and various hallucinogenic trips. He even dropped a Timothy Leary reference for good measure and let us in on his astute political insights. I really can’t begin to describe the nuance of his mannerisms save to say that they were utterly entertaining. On our very first night of the trip, we had struck gold.

Our next day in Boone, however, bore significantly less fruit. We had hoped to get interviews with more, preferably saner students, but it turns out that day (Friday) was the last day of class before spring break. The few students that hadn’t already left were on their way out. By the afternoon there wasn’t really anyone there to film. We went in search of one of Jason’s old professors, but he was already gone for the day as well. On Friday nights in Boone they have what they call the Art Crawl. This is where all of the galleries downtown keep their doors open late and crowds move in and out of them to view the art. This also turned out to be a bust for filming. By this time were both running off of a pack of ramen and that awful sandwich the day before. We were exhausted, starving and and somewhat discouraged. We decided to hit Cookout where we downed burgers, onion rings and milkshakes. They say hunger is the best spice and they don’t lie. I was so hungry it was one of the best meals of my life. We left Boone the next morning bound north through Virginia.

Next time on Roadtrip USA: Funny smells in Folly Mills, Tyler gets sassed by a campground manager, and the pair lives it up in Philadelphia with presidential beer, live music and car chases.

-Tyler

“its time to leave this town

its time to steal away

lets go get lost anywhere in the USA

lets go get lost, lets go get lost.”

-Anthony Keidis (Red Hot Chili Peppers)

G.K. Chesterton once said: “The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.”  That is exactly what I did last September.  I had been away just long enough, and been living such a different life that arriving back here was nearly as foreign as any country I had visited on my way around the world.  And of all the countries I had visited I unfortunately found it to be one of the least agreeable, and with less freedom than I was now accustomed to.  Some people will undoubtedly be dumbfounded by those last couple of words so let me give you a small example.

Upon returning I had just run out of disposable contacts.  Previously I had always bought them online and, for reasons unknown to me, if you had a military address you didn’t need to provide a doctor’s information to get them.  I had enough boxes remaining after I left the military to last me until Thailand where I bought them freely from optical shops.  I give them my lens power and my money and they give me a box of contacts.  The end.  When I returned to the states however, things took a turn.  I was running out of contacts so I went about trying to buy a new box.  My prescription still worked fine and hadn’t changed in years, so I didn’t need an exam, but I had long since lost my previous written prescriptions.  Since I knew my contact lens prescription by heart, I naively thought that I could go to an optical center, give them money and they would give me a box.  In fact this concept seemed utterly absurd to every person at every store I visited.  This is because what I wanted to do was actually illegal, as it were.

It had been mandated by my government that, to purchase contact lenses, it should require basically the same procedures as the purchase of oxycontin or percoset.  That is to say, you visit a doctor, he writes you a prescription, you produce said prescription and are allowed to purchase drugs.  In the United States of America, for me to be able to see—to function, I am legally required to visit an eye doctor, pay him upwards of 60 dollars to tell me something that I already know and to write this something on a piece of paper.  Then I must produce this piece of paper to a clerk at Lenscrafters or what have you and I am then allowed to buy something that I utterly require.  I am allowed to see.  Well gee thanks Uncle Sam.  That sure is mighty kind of you.  Boss.

Luckily if you go online and provide a doctor’s info, however old your records at that office may be (I hadn’t visited mine in 6 years) , they will still ship your contacts.  At least they did for me.  I could, very literally, score cocaine faster, easier and probably cheaper than contact lenses bought legally in this country.  What possible reason could they have for placing such restrictions on contact lenses?  What business is it of theirs if I want to have fuzzy vision or headaches by buying the wrong kind?  Can you overdose on them?  The only reason I can come up with is that eye doctors really like that little bit of extra income that they get for selling me a piece of paper with their signature on it for 60 bucks.  I don’t really want to believe that even eye doctors have lobbyists for this kind of thing, but would it really be that surprising?  No.  And that’s the problem.  Lady Liberty is draped in red tape.

I’ve tried to readjust to this “American” way, but I’m afraid I may no longer be able to live what is so widely considered a “normal” life here.  Not with the knowledge that so much more exists out in the world.  Having tasted such real freedom, simply knowing that it exists and that it is indeed attainable…  it changes things.  It feels like the best I can do now is “play along” and pretend that I understand why people accept these things.  Pretend to understand why people can’t stop watching their televisions or buying useless crap.  Because not understanding seems to make me very odd indeed.

Admittedly, though, I haven’t seen as much of my own country as I have the rest of the world.  Perhaps I’m not qualified to make such sweeping judgments.  This is about to change though as I now find myself standing on the cusp of a new adventure: The Great American Roadtrip.  This time my journey is on entirely different terms.  Terms I’m not all that comfortable with; in fact in other situations I probably would not have accepted them.  Over the past few years I’ve become extremely independent, possibly even to a fault and the thought of having to depend on someone else for anything makes me very anxious.  I positively hate the feeling of not being able to do something for myself.  It can frustrate me into a sort of depression.  I’ve never been in debt and I don’t like the idea of owing anyone anything, especially money, but desperate times require desperate measures and these times are desperate indeed.

Even so, I am excited as I am before any adventure.  I can’t deny that the thought of returning to a life where I can’t know what the next day will bring is exciting regardless of circumstance.  Even if it is only for a while.  And thus this blog turns once again to a travel documentary.  The aim this time is the great American road trip.  My friend and I are going to criss cross the USA and end in the west hopefully with a new place to call home.  Where exactly that will be is anyone’s guess.  I’m just glad to be moving again.

-Tyler

“Ice age heat wave can’t complain
if the world’s at large why should I remain?
walked away to another plan
gonna find another place
maybe one I can stand”

-Modest Mouse

I know what you’re thinking: “Wait… this isn’t current.  Your roadtrip is already over.”  True, but its time to play catch up and start telling the story of what happened on this trip since I wasn’t able to while it was in progress.  Better late than never.  The stories and updates are coming and to help keep you tuned, I’ll give you some statistics:  We drove over 12,500 miles, crossed 32 states and 2 provinces of canada and our car was searched 3 times by various authorities.  We met good people, scary people and thoroughly insane people.  We gained new perspective on our native land and slowly, day by day, we realized that it was perhaps time to leave it behind…

Speeding toward it 11 months earlier I speculated as to how it was formed.  Sailing around it, it would seem as if a pile of giant granite boulders were thrust up from the ocean floor and vegetation began to grow on them.  The earliest account of human habitation that I can find is in 1852, though the inhabitants had obviously been there for some time as they had farms with cows and chickens, crops etc.  In 1933 it began to be used as a political prison, all inhabitants of which were pardoned in 1947.  Western backpackers discovered it in the 80s and its opportunities for diving would only become known in the 90s.  Early European cartographers knew this island as Pulo Bardia, Siam.  I would come to know it as Ko Tao, Thailand.

On November 24th 2007, I arrived on the aforementioned island expecting to stay for a week to do my Open Water Diving certification.  Eleven months later I left as an Assistant Instructor with over 500 dives and a mind stuffed full of new experiences and ideas.  The fascinating part, I find, is not how long I ended up staying or how many dives I amassed, but that my situation was so strikingly common for this place.  In all of my time on the island I met not one single person who lived there that came with the intention of staying.  The stories (including mine) were always the same:  People go to this island with the anticipation of staying a mere week or less.  They dive, explore and sample island’s simple ways of life, savoring it before realizing something inevitable:  They are in love.  Whether it be with the diving, the lifestyle, the people or the island itself matters not.  The attraction is simply too much to resist and they stay.  A month passes and they tell themselves “Just one more month”, but on it goes.  For some it may only last a few months and others never leave until that one fateful day, either through shear will power or circumstances beyond their control, they are pried from the island’s unrelenting grip.

But that is what makes this particular island so very special.  It is populated, for the most part, by people not too unlike myself; travelers with no particular reason to return from whence they came–all united by a common love of the ocean and the lives that they have found.  It is unique in the truest sense of the word; one of those few rare places left on this earth that can be labeled so.  But alas, there is no such thing as paradise.

As with any place the good is tempered by the unpleasant.  After living there long enough you eventually slip behind the well-kept curtain of tourism that hangs before most passers-through and you witness the stained, rusty machinery that makes the island chug forward.  Knowing these truths can range anywhere from delightful to scary.  From the handful of mafia-like Thai families that ultimately own and control everything on the island to the farms where trained monkeys scurry up palm trees and harvest coconut crops, the island is saturated with the texture and grit of life.  Crime in general is extremely rare, but the environmental problems make up for it.  Development is rampant and relatively unhindered.  As more trees are removed more rain reaches the soil and washes it into the sea, killing coral reefs.  In attempts to maximize their profit, fisherman drag their nets as close as they can to the underwater pinnacles where fish take refuge.  The nets are too often caught, torn from the boat and blanketed across the habitat.  I personally have had to help cut these nets away on more than one occasion.  The island’s tone is shifting, albeit slowly, as resorts are building larger, ever more elaborate complexes that cater to a much wealthier demographic than the backpackers that have been it’s base for so long.

There is hope, though, not only in that a large group of people are actively doing battle with these problems, but also in an elusive feeling that the “soul” of the island will never truly change.  For a place is not only what you see. A place is people, smells, sounds, the whole gamut of experience and every place to me has its own distinct feel; that intangible quality you get from this experience.  And there is something truly special that emerges when the right environment is populated with the right people at the right time.  Ko Tao is one such place.  Whether it will remain so or for how long, only time can say.

I am removed from the island now, but every night I am painfully reminded that the island is not removed from me.  Every night for a month, in fact, I have been plagued by the first recurring dream I have ever had where I return to “Pulo Bardia.”

-Tyler

“I was a quick wet boy
diving too deep for coins
…now I’m a fat house cat
cursing my sore blunt tongue”

-Samuel Beam (Iron & Wine)

This time I return to gas shortage, economic crisis, government bailouts of private companies with taxpayer dollars and presidential race that is the stuff of Saturday morning cartoons.  Much like a construction project, most people here see a progression so gradual that it is almost unnoticeable.  They ask “How did it come to this?”  I was born and raised in the United States, but I haven’t lived here for more than 1 or 2 months at a time since 2002.  I come back briefly every year from wherever I happen to be and have found things in an ever-worsening state each time.  Just as I suddenly see buildings where none used to be, I see sudden jumps in the state of degradation that our system currently propagates.  Idly by, we sit.

Recently in Bangkok the people had a problem with their prime minister’s corruption.  They took to the streets by the thousands, young and old, and they surrounded the capitol building.  They closed the airport in Phuket and they shut down train travel within the country in protest.  They took action and relatively mild action, given the region.  Yet here, where your utterly corrupt government walks all over you, smiling and lining their pockets and their friends’ pockets with your money all the while, you do nothing.  You complain in passing conversation before going home to sit in front of your television, mesmerized by the sensationalist media and empty promises that our next president will fix things.  McCain is a horrifying joke of a candidate, but likewise if you truly believe Obama can change things within a system so far gone then I believe your naivety is boundless.  May I remind you that two parties is just one more than a Dictatorship.  Normal, you say.

This media has you distracted, striving for an impossible goal.  Groping for the bigger house, the better car, the more possessions.  Buy this, spend on that.  After all, isn’t that what life is about?  Stuff?  I’m not sure you understand how disturbingly materialistic this society has become.  Or maybe its just me that has changed.  In Thailand I lived in a small bungalow where you could see light coming through the cracks in the boards on the floor and the walls.  My toilet flushed by pouring a bucket of water into the bowl to wash everything down and my showers were cold because I had no hot water.  I had no television nor stereo and the electricity was weak, cutting out regularly.  But, the more things I got rid of, the more I realized how little I needed to be perfectly happy.  Creature comforts are nice, I love having a computer for music, entertainment, writing and sharing, but in the end I didn’t need it.  Having it didn’t make me any happier, it was just convenient.

It was to the point that I didn’t even realize just how austere I was living until I returned home and putting on tennis shoes felt like a new experience.  Consistent electricity and hot water feels like utter luxury.  But I can’t stand watching television anymore.  A friend of mine tried to show me a program called America’s Best Dance Crew and when one of the judges opened her mouth it felt like my braincells were euthanizing each other.  The “news” is depressing, biased and feels designed to make people afraid.  I feel very out of place here now and I don’t know how to readjust.

I don’t know if I can, but moreover… I don’t know if I want to.

-Tyler

“There is a war going on for your mind
if you are thinking you are winning
resistance is victory
defeat is impossible
your weapons are already in hand
reach within you
and find the means with which to gain your freedom
fight with tools
your fate and that of everyone you know depends on it.”

First I read Into Thin Air for no particular reason.  It is the firsthand account by Jon Krakauer of the disaster that unfolded around him on Mt. Everest in 1996.  Quite incredible.  Then I read a stinker called Last Light, some thriller about a hired mercenary in Panama.  To make up for I then read the very tiring Walden; or, Life in the Woods by Henry David Thoreau.  Actually I’m still reading it in the background of all the others because its taking me so long.  So far he has some incredible things to say on many subjects, but curiously a few points of striking ignorance as well.  “I have lived some 30 years on this planet, and I have yet to hear the first syllable of value or even earnest advice from my seniors.  They have told me nothing and probably cannot tell me anything”, he says.  Bullshit says I.  The verdict is still out on Walden, what I have read is much more good than bad, but I can understand where Bill Bryson is coming from when he calls Thoreau “inestimably priggish and tiresome” in the next book I picked up:  A Walk in the Woods.  This is Bryson’s comical and throughly entertaining account of his attempt to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail.  Its also peppered with lots of trail history, botany and the life; not really my bag, but the rest is grand and I would recommend it.  Thus concludes this episode of the Tyler Capps book club.

Another up/downside of my smashed laptop is that I have to actually “write.”  You know, with a pencil and this old stuff people are calling “paper.”  I bought myself a little notepad to write my entries (or whatever you want to call them) and record thoughts and things that pop up whenever and that’s nice.  I can foresee it becoming just as indispensable as my camera, but the problem is this:  My typing is nearly fast enough to keep pace with my thinking, but my handwriting is utterly hopeless.  My hand has to scribble as fast as it possibly can to keep up with my head and I still have to stop and let it catch up.  This leads to my speedy scribbles being hard for even myself to transcribe unless what I have just written is still fresh in my mind.  God forbid anyone else ever has to try to read this notebook.

With the loss of my computer and my ever-dwindling money supply the time has come for me to return to the States, if only for a while.  With the slow season on the island approaching many people are leaving and I could probably walk into a job pretty much anywhere, but it is so slow that I wouldn’t be able to sustain myself regardless.  With the riots in Bangkok making international headlines people, sheepish as they are, are canceling their trips to Thailand.  90%, in fact, of the people traveling to Thailand have canceled and this is going to amplify the quietness here until things fall eerily silent on the island.  The sad part is that Bangkok is completely traversable with hardly any other areas of the country being affected.  Why must people in the modern world let the media hold such sway over their fears?

I have to say, though, I’m rather looking forward to going back at this point.  I miss my family, I miss cold weather and mountains and snow.  I’d like to stay over the winter and save as much money as I can, do some hiking and skiing with my brother and perhaps make a trip out West for some real skiing before I depart on my next adventure.  What that adventure will be, I’m not too sure yet.  Right now my thinking points me towards South America.  All of it.

-Tyler