India’s Marwari horses, horses from the land of death, are truly a sight to behold.  Hardly bigger than ponies, the truly unique aspect of these animals is their ears.  Just like death’s scythe, they are crescent-shaped and when their ears are pricked forward they have an almost demonic countenance.  But even stranger, they can swivel their ears 180 degrees.   I have been fascinated by these animals for years and longed to ride them when I got to India.

More useful to riding, is that this breed is a gaited breed.  In other words, in addition to the walk, trot, canter, and gallop they have a fifth gait, the rehwal, or revaal.  Many of them have it naturally, but they are easily trained in this quick prancing, four-beat gait that covers a lot ground and is easy to ride.

Marwari horses come from Marwar, an area in the region currently known as Rajasthan.  Marwar is translated literally, the land of death which easy to see why, because this arid country of deserts, warrior kings, and cobras is filled with death on all sides.

The Marwar warriors had a grand tradition of horsemanship.  Polo masters hail from Rajasthan; even the riding breeches of old was named after Jodhpur, a city in Rajasthan.   But the most impressive thing to come out of this grand tradition is the unique breed of steeds.  These brave war horses fought in battles just like their European counterparts and

steadfastly defended their riders if they fell.  Even today their traditional Marwari horse “dance,” similar to Lipizzaners’ airs above the ground is performed at festivals.

Unlike their European counterparts, the horses most valuable and lucky in India were the ones with the most white on them.  In fact, Indian culture has an obsession with albino horses.  In North Indian weddings the groom must ride in on a white mare; for weddings in other parts of the country he comes in drawn by a carriage pulled by white mares and white horses are always more highly prized.   When I learned that Marwar meant “land of death” I just laughed.  It made sense that pale horses came from the land of death.

I was lucky enough to stay at Narinderjit Singh’s albino stud farm in Amritsar, Punjab, India and to ride his magnificent white stallion, Bhalo.  His horses were everything that Marwaris should be.  Bhalo carried himself with the appropriate arrogant self-assurance, and the mares were doe-eyed and sweet, though this could have had something to do with the fact that they were all pregnant.

I wish that I had had more time to work with, ride, and get to know more about these fabulous horses.  If you have the opportunity, I highly recommend working with these unique horses from the land of death if you have the opportunity.

Oh we had some fabulous rides on that trip.  Christian, a truck driver so ebullient he almost glowed with positivity, bought us dinner and invited us sailing with him in Rosario.  Another was with a taxi driver in training who gave us a ride from one town to the next.  And then there was the Punk Rocker and former junkie who gave me a CD of Los Vilodores, which is one of Argentina’s most famous punk rock bands.  These rides would have made an interesting trip, but by my favorite hitch happened in a little town in Northwest Argentina called Purmamarca.

A lovely Italian couple who were staying there for the night had dropped us off close to dusk.  We ate our dinner sandwiches on the sparsely-trafficked road sticking our thumbs out every time a car passed.

Cerro de Siete Colores - Purmamarca

We had all but resigned ourselves to looking for matches to build a fire and finding somewhere to camp for the night, which, without a tent and in the cold desert night did not sound fun in any way shape or form, when a large semi truck pulled over.

Now I would never hitchhike at night if I was alone, but with a partner, I felt comfortable taking the ride.  And I am happy that I did.  I am also overjoyed that Daniel was Argentine and spoke Spanish as a first language.  The problem with hitching with truck drivers is that often they are from lower economic classes and have extremely thick accents.  Though they may have fascinating stories, language can get in the way of being a good roadside therapist.

Thankfully Daniel was a good listener and relayed the better portion of the conversation that my intermediate Spanish didn’t pick up.

Pablo, the truck driver, was fascinating… he was a miner and had grown up in a huge Catholic family, with 12 brothers.  His family had been so poor they didn’t have enough money for every boy to have his own pair of shoes.  One brother would wear shoes half a day, come back and give another brother shoes for the second half of school.

The truck rolled down the dark mountain road and then pulled over by buildings, an expansive pit, and white mounds.  I wasn’t sure what was going on until Daniel told me.  He had taken us to the salt mine where he worked.  He had to go to work but he would tell the other miners and we could certainly stay in one of the buildings for the night.

We played on the bright white salt rock hills, sliding down them in the bright-as-day full-moon reflected off of the salt and laughing until our stomachs hurt.  A salt banquet table and chairs, salt statues, and all sorts of salt-fashioned oddities festooned the yard looking like ancient ruins in the silvery moonlight.  But the chairs and tables were nothing compared to the salt house.

From floor to ceiling the entire building was constructed with huge bricks of salt.  Inside stood a large table, with salt benches, and even the floor was made of soft salt pebble sand.   This is where the miners told us we could sleep.

Now sleeping in a salt house, on a bed of little salt pebbles may sound cool, fun, and exciting and it really is.  Unfortunately, it is not quite as comfortable as it might sound, and the frigid mountain air made my  sleeping bag feel as if it were made of mesh, but these are the things one has to go through on adventures.  The experience was well worth it, and the chill air helped me wake up early to see the glorious sunrise over the great salt flats.

Sipping our morning maté at one of the salt benches, we soaked up the salt air and the morning’s beauty.

If the camp had been magical at night, by day it was resplendent.  Golden light spilled over the great plains beneath us and reflected off the standing water.   The white crystal mounds we had slid down the night before sparkled in the sun.  Only then did we see the sign warning against climbing or playing on the mounds.  We looked guiltily at one another and dissolved into laughter.

When I first heard the news I was aghast.  Who was the brilliant mind who thought up a publicity blunder like that?  Everyone knows the word Sol.  Who the hell has ever heard of a Spondylus?  Why on earth would the Ecuadorian Government change a perfectly good name?

Finally I had to ask.  I went straight to the source:  Carlos, a friend working for Ecuador’s department of tourism, and he did have an answer for me.  Route del Sol calls to mind sun-kissed beaches, surfers, and laying in beach chairs sipping cool drinks on warm sand.  There was so much more to Ecuador’s coast than just beaches.  This area is filled with archeological sites, artisans making intricate handicrafts, a diverse array of wildlife, and offers wonderful ecotourism and adventure sport opportunities.

The spondylus is a shellfish that indigenous cultures used as currency in MesoAmerica.  Now the deep-sea shellfish was being hunted to extinction for its prized meat.   Changing the name to the route del spondylus reflected the area’s history and culture stretching over 11,000 years.   Carlos was confident; the change had been a good one.

I didn’t buy it.  It seemed like most people in the Western world knew that sol meant sun.   No way would the Route del Spondylus attract as many tourists.  “Route of the Sun” sounds inviting, in no little part because many people tend to gravitate towards what they know, something they can translate, a taste of the familiar in a foreign land.  I do like change, but change for the sake of change is just silly.  But the change had been made.  I couldn’t win.

As diverse a coastline as Ecuador may have, I still say that its main draw is the beach and to me it will always be the Route del Sol.

Reuse, reduce, recycle… we’ve been hearing it for years.  Growing up my parents recycled from the start.  As a child I remember being grossed out by the compost pile in our back yard.  I wondered why on earth my mother saved egg shells, broccoli stems and other food scraps.  No matter how good the garden mulch was, having a big pile of rotting food in the corner of your yard was just gross.

It’s still gross; there’s nothing clean or tidy about composting.  They do have composting machines now that contain the mess and speed up the process, but for most people it’s still a hassle.   But icky and gross as it may be, yard waste and food scraps are a huge untapped resource.  Untapped by most, that is.

Seattle, the Emerald City, is green in more ways than one.  Not only is it verdant with parks, lush trees, and surrounded by mountains, lakes, and vegetation, but it also one of the most eco-friendly cities I have had the pleasure of visiting.   In this forward-thinking city there is actually a composting and yard waste pick-up right alongside the recycling program. The city in fact collects yard waste, composts it, and then sells it back to citizens to fertilize their yards.  One man’s trash is making another man’s treasure.  It’s all in the packaging.

Kudos to Seattle for taking the initiative.  I just hope that more cities follow suit.

When I got my ticket to India I’d never even heard of Kolkata.  When I realized that it was in fact Calcutta, India’s former capital, I knew exactly where it was.  But why did my ticket say Kolkata?

“Why did they change the name from Calcutta to Kolkata?”  I had been wondering it since I bought my plane ticket.

Antarin, my host smiled.  Kolkata was the Bengali name.  The British couldn’t pronounce it right so they had started calling it Calcutta.

But even Antarin wasn’t sure why they had officially changed the name.  “Calcutta is what you call it in English, when you’re speaking Hindi you can say Kolkata.”

Curiously enough when I do try to say Kolkata often Indians will correct me.  It’s the same with Mumbai, Indians say Bombay.  Residents of the city even call it by its former name.

A month and a half in India and I’m still not quite sure what’s politically correct or even proper.  There are some issues where Indians are divided, love versus arranged marriage, the caste system, but I have not met anyone staunchly opposed to calling the cities their old names.  There are so many more pressing issues in India, the litter problem, overpopulation, or poverty for example, that it boggles the mind that the government would waste its time and resources changing something so trivial as a name.

Healthy, delicious, sweet – but not too sweet, there is only one problem with kombucha.  At around $5 for a bottle in your local supermarket, it is a little pricey.  Especially if you like drinking it as much as I do.

When I went to Oregon, to my surprise and delight my couchsurfing host Corrina brewed her own kombucha and showed me how.

Though it’s time consuming, and not really possible when you’re on the road, making kombucha is pretty easy.   You do need the right ingredients though.

The most important ingredient, the thing that makes kombucha is the SCOBY (Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast).  Also called the mushroom or

mother the SCOBY is a little cake of bacteria that ferments the tea and makes

the drink fizzy and probiotic.

 
Drinking bacteria might not sound appetizing, but when you think about it all alcohol is fermented – the same principle is applied here.  

Kombucha is just a healthier drink.

For 1 gallon of Kombucha You will need:

1 gallon of water

1 cup sugar

2 cups juice

8-14 caffeinated tea bags (green, with, or black caffeinated tea bags or 2 Tablespoons of maté)

Kombucha culture, also known as the SCOBY, or mother

• Boil a gallon of water
• Put 1 cup of sugar in the bottom of a large glass jar (able to hold more than a gallon of liquid)
• Pour 1 gallon of boiled water into jar
• Add 8-14 tea bags of caffeinated tea (green, white, black) or 2 tablespoons of maté.  The tea needs to be caffeinated because the bacteria digest the caffeine.  You can use almost any kind of caffeinated tea but it can’t have strong oils (like earl grey) because the oils stunt the SCOBY’s growth.
• Let bags steep for 5-7 minutes
• Let tea cool to room temperature
• Add the SCOBY, and 1 cup of old Kombucha.  The old Kombucha increases the acidity and prevents toxic or unwanted bacteria from growing and spoiling the Kombucha.  Starter SCOBYs can be purchased from many natural foods stores, or if you have friends who make kombucha they will be happy to give you a starter.
• Cover with a towel and leave this mix for 7-10 days allowing the Kombucha culture to grow.
• Skim the hardened layer off the top, this is the new mother.  Place it in a bowl with diluted vinegar bath to clean it and kill unwanted bacteria.
• Scoop the old mother out of the bottom of the liquid and place in the vinegar bath.  You can use the old mother again for stronger kombucha or give it to a friend.
• Add 2 cups of juice to the gallon of the kombucha and mix.
• Strain and let kombucha sit a week or more in sealed containers.  The longer the kombucha sits the fizzier it gets, but also the less sweet.

Experiment with your kombucha, use different types of tea, and different juices until you find what you like the best.  Every batch will taste different.  Personally I am not a big fan of maté kombucha because it gives the drink too strong a flavor and I prefer a sweeter, milder flavor.   Whatever the case making your own kombucha is a lot of fun and a great experiment.

Coming to Asia, I knew I had to have the experience of riding one of the colossal creatures.   Chiang Mai was filled with tour agencies, but I decided to wait.  After all, I was going to the land of 1,000,000 elephants next, to Laos.

On the slow boat to Luang Prabang, I met a group of backpackers from Spain.  The day after we reached Laos’ lovely city we signed up for a day long Mahout, or elephant rider, training camp.  We decided on the 1-day program which we bargained them down $50 because we had a group.

Meet the Elephants

There were two enormous elephants standing at a sort of gate munching on greenery.  Tien told us that these were female elephants, 30 and 35-years old.  They were fascinating to watch, wrapping their flexible trunks around pieces of food on the ground and stuffing it into their mouths.  The nearest cow wanted her food clean and smacked each branch against the fence many times to get the dust and dirt off before finally deigning to eat.

Elephants are all different, Tien explained; each one had his or her own personality quirks, likes and dislikes.  I’m sure they looked unique to people who knew them.  To me, on the other hand, they all looked pretty similar: large, grey, and wrinkly.

I approached the nearest one.  Her skin was wet leather  left baking in the desert sun to dry and crack.  The tough hide was and covered in sparse coarse hairs.  Looking past sweeping eyelashes into her golden eyes, I couldn’t see the timeless intelligence I had heard so much about.  All of that seemed to be stored in her curious trunk. I picked up a piece of food and offered it to her.  The inquisitive trunk wrapped around the stalk and pulled it from my hand.

Howdah

We were told to pair up: two people to a howdah, or elephant saddle or carriage.  Our group climbed up the steps of a large mounting platform and waited while mahouts brought one of the great beasts to the platform edge.   Two people climbed aboard one, then onto next, and the next…  Finally it was my turn.  The carriage seemed impossibly far from the platform and the ground gaped beneath.  I should step on the elephant’s back and onto the carriage.  With an audible gulp I swallowed my fear and clambered into the seat.

The elephant’s slow steps rocked the howdah violently from side to side.  Our train of elephants crashed through the jungle, down slopes which felt impossibly steep for such huge animals.  I gripped the wooden edges in order not to slide out when the howdah platform pitched steeply forward.  I felt like the intrepid adventurer exploring the jungles of Asia.  After an hour, we got back to the start of our trek and my fantasy ended.  It was actually quite enough howdah riding for me.  The earthquake-like rolling gait of elephants never seemed to get smoother.

Mahout Training

After lunch was Mahout training.  We had ridden elephants as royalty, as passengers chauffeured in carriages high atop the elephant’s back.  Now it was our turn to really ride the elephants ourselves.  But first, we had to learn the rules.

Mahouts are more than just elephant riders.  They have a strong bonding relationship with their animals.  After all, an elephant never forgets, or so they say.  And they don’t. Elephants remember kindness or injustice for years, Tien told us.  But we were just mahouts for the day; we only had enough time to get a taste of what it was to be a Mahout.

We sat in a semi-circle as Tien taught us how to be real Mahouts.  To control an elephant a Mahout uses voice commands and touch by kicking the ears to go, or go in different directions, or slapping the head to stop.  In the past he used an elephant hook, but hooks and knives still scared elephants through some collective consciousness from what I could ascertain, but these cruel implements are frowned upon and never used at this school.

Real Mahouts

When we came out of Mahout training there were more elephants waiting for us.  For the howdahs it was two people to an elephant but now we each got our own elephant to ride.

Elephants began training at age 5, working at 7 and could be ridden until about 65, but the oldest one here was 40, and most were around 25.  A healthy elephant could live until it was 125, Tien told us.  They were all female elephants with two exceptions, a ladyboy, and a small elephant with tusks.

In Tien’s limited English he tried to explain about Ladyboy; apparently he was male but couldn’t grow tusks and wasn’t completely male.  I didn’t completely understand why this huge elephant was a ladyboy but there was a lot I had to learn about elephants.

The other was a naughty little boy.  I liked him and his little tusks immediately.  The “little” elephant was larger than a draft horse, but the others dwarfed him.  He was just 10-years old, less than half the age of the others.

We were paired up with elephants and before I knew it I gripped one ear and scrambled aboard the naughty boy with my legs just behind his ears.  Luckily he was one of the elephants who did know how to lie down for mahouts to mount so it wasn’t quite such a climb.  Though he was small, riding with just the ears to hold me aboard did feel quite precarious. I braced my hands on his tough rawhide head, the spiky hairs poking into my hands. I had assumed that riding behind the head wouldn’t be as bouncy as in the howdah, but his body rocked with the movement of each one of his tree-trunk legs.

The naughty boy snacked on palm trees along the path and took his sweet time

along the way, but he seemed happy.  Still, I didn’t feel quite right riding such a small elephant.  It seemed almost like child labor.  When we got back to camp an hour later I was more than ready to dismount and asked if I could ride a different elephant for the next leg of our journey.

Water for Elephants

We fed our mounts some treats as a thank you for their hard work:  bananas and sugar cane to tickle their fancy.  Elephants and Laos people even have similar diets.  Both love sticky rice, bananas, and lemon grass.  They do have a bit of a sweet tooth though and love their sugar cane.

Then it was time to go to the river.  Though the Laotian mountain air was chilly we still had to bathe the elephants and get them home for the night.  I wasn’t entirely looking forward to taking a bath with the elephants but at least it was warmer than it had been that morning.

I traded elephants with one of my Spanish friends and climbed aboard Ring, one of the large cows.  Sitting astride Ring’s neck felt much more secure than riding her smaller friend.  She felt solid and like she knew what she was doing.

Heading down the muddy river’s edge Ring didn’t seem more excited about

getting wet than I did, but between me, and the Mahout guide sitting behind me on her back we convinced her to get into the water where the other elephants were submerging their Mahouts, spraying into the air, and enjoying playing in the river.

After a half an hour of bathing the elephants waded across the river to their jungle home for the night.  We dismounted, and floated on inner-tubes back down the river, before taking a little boat back.  We changed out of our Mahout uniforms and then all piled into the car waiting to take us back to Luang Prabang.

Incredibly smart, with great memories, and large enough to easily crush their opponents, no wonder elephants are treasured, loved, and revered as a symbol and protectors of Thailand, Laos, and India.

It certainly can be, and often is better to have these animals working on the soft ground of a jungle setting than on the hard pavement of cities.  In cities they can, and often are hit by cars, streets have collapsed under their weight, and the animals can have any number of accidents.

Here, they bathe daily in the river, are well fed, and have relatively easy lives.  However, I am still not sure that these elephants can be truly happy.  Rather than frolicking in large jungles, the elephants are chained at nights.  Not that an elephant does much frolicking, but the opportunity would be nice.

As interesting and wonderful an experience as spending a day as a mahout is, I think I’ll stick with riding horses.

On a side note, I did not participate in the Mahout training programs in Chiang Mai, Thailand, but I would recommend Thailand over Laos for Elephant riding if money is an issue.  The prices are almost always as cheap or less expensive.  The training course I participated in, for example, was listed as $85 USD, and only after intense bargaining did I get the company down to $50 USD. I did enjoy the mahout training camp I went to, but have heard wonderful things about the programs around Chiang Mai, Thailand.

Don’t ask me how a rotund guy with the head of an elephant fits on the back of a rat, but hey, he’s a god.  I guess if you’re a god normal rules don’t apply.  Either way, rats have a temple near Bikaner, Rajasthan where they are held sacred and given special protection.   India is a very special place.  I didn’t think it had rubbed off on me but one night I startled myself

Lying in my opulent bed in Jodhpur, Rajasthan watching a movie, I noticed that I had a visitor.  A small mouse had crept up to me and regarded me with whiskers quivering.  When he felt my eyes on him he scurried off the side of the bed, but a few minutes later he was back.  We went back and forth with, each time I made the slightest movement my furry friend dove over the side of the bed.

If he had been a sleek cocky mouse, or one of Bikaner’s rats I wouldn’t have felt the same, but the tiny little creature seemed unsure of himself.  A curious youngster just finding his feet who seemed fascinated with the person who was in his bed.  His forays onto my space while the lights were on seemed more like overtures of friendship and they had endeared him to me.

Still, I wasn’t particularly a fan of sharing a bed with a mouse, so when I was ready to go to sleep, I ostentatiously shooed him off of the bed.  Just in case I put my electronics on a high shelf to decrease the possibility of any wires getting chewed.  He didn’t return for good 45-minutes.

Laying in the dark I couldn’t get to sleep.  What if came on the bed and chewed my hair?!  Just as I was thinking this I felt a faint tug on the tip of my index finger.  The rodent was sampling my fingernail!  I yanked my hand back.  Now sleep was all but impossible.  Several minutes later there was a pressure on my forearm.

I sat bolt upright in bed.  A cat or dog nuzzling my arm might be cute but the mouse weren’t on terms that close yet.  I pulled out my sleeping bag, and cowered inside for the rest of the night.

The next morning I told the hotel owner about my unwelcome guest and he groaned.  Mice had come in because of the cold weather and he had already killed 3.  He thought that he had gotten the last of them.

Thinking about it I started to feel pangs of guilt.  I didn’t want to kill the mouse; I just didn’t want to share my bed with him.  Probably other guests wouldn’t quite so understand though and the hotel staff would certainly bring about my mouse friend’s untimely end.  I had to do something.

Now I had several other mouse-trapping incidents under my belt.  Some people go in for poison, others for live traps.  I go for the hand is quicker than the mouse strategy.  In my apartment at university I had evicted several unwelcome houseguests slamming cups over them and turning them out into the cold winter night blocks away from my apartment.

The word must have gotten out in the mousy community because rodents never plagued my living areas again.  Until now.

I lay on my bed writing for almost half an hour before my roommate made his first appearance.  Once again, the moment I moved he scurried away.  I repositioned my arms and went back to work, in no time the mouse was back, coming closer this time.  Slowly I moved my arm, this time it didn’t seem to bother him.  I sat up, and still he remained on the bed.

Slowly, carefully, I put my hand gently over the tiny little mouse and picked him up.  He didn’t panic, struggle, or try to escape.  Quite the contrary, he seemed more than happy to just ride along in the loose fist I made.  Still, I wasn’t going to open my fist and give him the option to escape.

When I thought about it I wasn’t quite sure what to do with him.  He couldn’t stay in the hostel, but I didn’t really just want to turn him out on the street.  Still, the street was safer than a hotel where the owners wanted you dead, I supposed so I took my mouse friend outside.

I opened my hand to reveal a ball of fluff, hardly bigger than a quarter.  He sat in my palm blinking with bemused ink-drop eyes and a terrible case of mouse bed-head.  Not in a hurry to go anywhere, I asked one of the hotel employees to take a picture of me and the mouse.

the He would clearly make a wonderful pet but I couldn’t travel with him, and if my Jack Russell ever found out that I’d been moonlighting with a mouse I don’t think he’d ever forgive me.  But still, the dark alley I’d originally wanted to put him in just seemed like the mean streets.

Ideally I’d leave him in one of the fabric sellers’ stores where he could have a soft warm nest to snuggle in, but with everything closed and the gates shut I didn’t know what was what.  Instead I put my hand up to a hole in a nearby door.  Hopefully the residents were Jain and wouldn’t hurt any life.

Much to my surprise instead of scurry off into the dark hole, the mouse crawled further up my arm.  The hotel employee started laughing – “he wants to go with you!”

As cute as the mouse might be I wasn’t looking for a four-legged travel buddy and gently shooed him off my arm into his new home.

As small as he was, the mouse had made quite an impression.  In this land of reincarnation and spirituality it made me wonder.  Was my tiny friend really who and what he seemed?

call of the past.  Is there anything more tantalizing then the promise of sunken treasure?   The words just

paint pictures of riches, piracy, and intrigue.

On the 3^rd of July, guests had already started arriving for the ranger’s big 4^th of July blowout, but I couldn’t join in

the festivities just yet.  I was scheduled to volunteer at McLarty Treasure museum.
The museum is built on the site of the survivors’ camp of the disastrous shipwreck of 1715. On that fateful night, 11 Spanish galleons sank off the coast of Florida, which would fuel hopes, dreams, and imaginations for centuries to come.  This is why this stretch of Florida’s west coast is also known as the Treasure Coast. museum.

Since I had started volunteering at Sebastian Inlet State Park, I had heard tales

of beach combers finding ice-cube-sized emeralds, and divers finding treasure.  Other volunteers had no doubt that there was still treasure off of Florida’s Treasure Coast.  New discoveries happened all the time.

Even after working in the museum for a month, I was still skeptical.  On July 3^rd, that all changed.

I was sitting behind the clear display case when a jovial open-faced  man walked in.  It was a busy day, Fourth of July weekend, but when I told him that a ticket to the museum was $2 he smiled and stepped aside for other visitors to buy their tickets.

The man waited until I was free before introducing himself with a broad smile and a firm handshake.  He was Mike Brown, a treasure hunter with the Great Bounds Gold Hound Treasure Divers and wanted to stop by and update the museum on the latest discoveries.

Eyes sparkling, the diver fished out a stack of photographs from his bag.   Pictures of his latest finds.

Brown has been diving for 30 years, and diving for treasure for the past 4.  He works on contract with the Gold Hound Treasure Divers searching for sunken riches off of the coast of Florida.  For Brown, the treasure doesn’t seem to be dwindling.  Quite the contrary, Mike’s finds just keep getting better.  Hardly a week goes by without someone coming in with treasure.  He discovered his richest finds just this year.

Five of the eleven galleons that sank  remain unaccounted for.  Still more exciting is that the ships that are MIA are the richest ships and filled to the brim with millions in treasure.

Saturday, June 18^th, 2011 was the Brown’s best day to date.  He found an officer’s sword with the solid silver braided handle almost undamaged, and two rare gold coins.  The first picture of the sword handle pictured looked like a black pewter sword handle at best.  Then Brown revealed the shining polished handle.  It remained intact, down to the braiding on the handle.

Silver is exciting, but finding gold… now that is a different level entirely.  Gold doesn’t tarnish, fade, or get obscured by sea creatures growing on it.  Brown had been searching for the elusive gold coins for 30 years before he found his first and the rush of emotion was everything he hoped it would be.  Not only did he find more common gold coins, but he found two extremely rare gold escudos in fantastic condition.   His find was even featured on the cover of a leading treasure magazine.

The lure is undeniable; treasure-heavy ships sank in shallow waters; barely 10-12 feet of water… and just off the coast.  It is tantalizing.  But as easy as it seems, treasure hunting is not for the weekend snorkeler.  Time has buried the wrecks under 10 feet of sand where they rest on the ocean bedrock.

Commercial treasure boats like Brown’s carry huge machines that clear the ocean floor by blowing the upper layer away to reveal what lies beneath years of sand and ocean growth.  But even so, treasure hunting is not for the faint of heart.  Though the day may be sunny, beneath the waves it is another world.

Pitch black, with visibility barely a few feet in front of one’s face, divers must rely upon hearing, feel, and their Aqua-pulse underwater metal detectors.

Blowing sand off the bottom doesn’t merely churn up sand.  It also stirs up food, and this brings the predators.  I have heard time and time again that humans are not in a shark’s food chain, but when visibility is poor, and there are appetizers swimming all around then all bets are off.

On one dive Brown felt his flipper catch on something.  He pulled to free it, and realized that he was missing half a flipper.  The other half was somewhere in a tiger shark’s stomach.  But to enthusiasts like Brown the finds make it worth every second of danger.

Though diving in dark waters can be an adventure, it takes determination, the right equipment, and a healthy sprinkling of luck.  This is fantastic for people like Brown, for the dabblers finding treasure on the beach seems much more fun.
After a hurricane is the best time to search because the high waves stir up the hidden wealth buried under the sand.   If you’re in Central Florida why not stop by McLarty?  You can learn about a fascinating chapter of history and hear about the best beaches to go treasure hunting.  Who knows… you may just find your fortune.The same day that Brown visited McLarty so did a man and his elderly mother.  She told me how she had been walking on the beach several days before and had found two silver coins.  Elated she told me it was the first treasure she had found, but she had taken them to an expert who had confirmed her find.

The McLarty Treasure Museum  is open daily from 10:00 AM – 4:00 PM

It is located in Sebastian Inlet State Park at – 13180 North A1A

I sat on one of the pillow-covered benches to the side of the festivities, entranced.

Before long a petite slip of a girl, her corkscrew hair pulled in a severe bun sat down next to me.   When she turned to me I cowered in shame.  At any time my French leave

s something to be desired.  When I flew to Morocco I felt the building excitement of going to a new country, but doubts tickled at the back of my mind.  By the time we had landed the apprehensions had coalesced into a tangible fear – I hadn’t taken or practiced French since University, years earlier.

Hajamina, my “Moroccan Mom,” who had taken me to the wedding couldn’t speak any English, but she was patient with my dreadful Fren

ch.  More than that we had spoken in the quiet of her home, not surrounded by drums, wild ululations, and noise of a wedding.

To my surprise and delight, not only did the girl speak English fluently, but she embraced the opportunity to practice it.  I laughed when she told me her name was Salima, which is apparently a common name in Muslim countries.

So Sally and Salima sat and talked.   A few minutes later a sweet-faced middle-aged woman came over and introduced herself as Salima’s mother.  When I marveled at the intricate designs on her hands, she

told me that it was henna, and that there was a woman here at the wedding who would gladly decorate my hands.

We looked around but the woman had already gone home.  I was disappointed, but the spirit of the wedding carried me away and I forgot about the henna.

Later that evening, after hearing that I loved the henna, Hajamina told me that a woman who did henna designs would come to her home in a few days.  This was better because I would see the whole design process.

True to her word, on Saturday a short plump woman, her hair tightly covered by a thick black head scarf ca

me to the apartment.  She went directly to the kitchen to prepare the henna paste, heating herbs over the stove with a little water.

When the thick sepia-colored paste was prepared she brought it to the living room and sat in front of me.  I watched, fascinated as she picked up a little syringe and stuck the needle into a spoonful of the paste and sucked the mixture into the plastic body of the syringe.  With a deft movement she took my hand.

The paste felt strange as it went on my hands with light touches, the needle point never touching my skin.  I watched entranced as leaves, flowers, and flourishes appeared on my hands as she free-handed an intricate pattern.  The woman gazed intently as she worked, confident in her art.

When palms and backs of both hands were covered, and the woman finished, Hajamina brought a blow-dryer to dry the wet henna more quickly.  The hot air blew over my hands front and back, front and back for five minutes.  Was it done yet, I wondered?

Not even close.

The henna artist painted over the drying henna with a clear fluid.  It would set the dye better, Hajamina explained.

Then back to the blow dryer for a while.  But I had plans in the evening, how long until I could wash the paste off?

I should leave it on as long as possible for as much of the dye as possible to seep into my skin.  If I could I should sleep with it on.  When the paste was completely dry it would flake off by itself.  To make the color last even longer I should spray my hands with perfume.

I didn’t have any perfume, but even so the color stayed tenaciously through camel trekking in the Sahara, trips to hamams, or bath houses, and all sorts of other adventures.  The beautiful artwork on my hands lasted more than three weeks before the colors faded away.