Discovery Channel - Last One Standing Diaries

Final Entry: The Magic of Smiling and Finding Paradise Within

Corey’s Lesson in Java:
The magic of smiling.

The six of us were getting pretty used to traveling in countries where the people we met spoke very little English. Early in the show we had gotten into the bad habit of having private conversations publicly because people did not understand us. After several days of foreign travel, we arrived in London, but since we were still not back in the U.S. Brad forgot that the English, well, speak English. Riding on the Underground, Brad yelled to me across the cab, "Man, these cats are unhappy!" Shocked and embarrassed I looked sheepishly around the train at the two dozen or so passengers. But not a single one had reacted. They all stared straight ahead. "Wow! You're right!" I called back.

When we were welcomed in West Java, the local elders attempted to respect us by offering the traditional Western greeting, a hand shake. It was one of the most awkward greetings I have ever experienced. Less because the Javans weren't used to shaking hands, and more because the meaning behind our cultural greetings are fundamentally different.

In Java, whenever we passed someone in the village, their face gleamed with the widest smile you've ever seen. As if seeing us made them feel the happiest they have ever been. But this was true for everyone, every time. While initially smiling back seemed forced and contrived, their glee was contagious. Soon everywhere we went, every person we saw, I couldn't help myself from smiling at him or her.

There is something about smiling with another person that transcends individuality. I could speak with very few of the villagers and knew hardly any of their names. But when we looked each other in the eyes and smiled, we were sharing with each other, in one simple smile, something so much deeper. It felt as though we were exchanging how magical and wonderful it is to be alive and to be able to experience life with each other. Smiling removed any barriers and it discarded any value judgment about that moment. I felt closer to that community than any I've ever been in even though I knew it hardly at all.

It was very uncomfortable for me to return to Western society after Java. Most everyone I passed never looked at me, and those that did seemed creeped out by how long I looked at them. This is so sad to me. Just think of all the amazing stories faces tell; how incredible it is that beneath our lifetimes of diverse experience we are all on the same life quest. We see ourselves as separate, but each of our lives are entirely composed of everyone else. If we love ourselves, then we must equally love everyone else for they are us.

In greeting others with a smile we recognize our place together. We have no fear of opening our hearts to others because we know that love is not something that can be taken from us. You give it to yourself by being happy that you are on this earth and smiling. It is wonderful when you get a smile back, but that is not the most important part. There is no need to believe that one person smiling can change the world — only to know that your smiling will change yours.

Mark’s Final Thoughts:
My year of tribal competing, living and traveling has now finally come to a very surreal end. Many times over the year I have sat in places, gathering my thoughts and asking questions, comparing my life to each individual tribe visited, but the truth is you can’t compare them at all. I have been comparing them because my preconception of tribal life was that it must be so hard: living off the land; not having much money; no electricity, modern-day health care, television, music or even a choice of foods to eat. But what the tribes lack materialistically they gain in richness of family, community spirit, belonging and freedom.

It’s true, we all have stresses and pressures in our lives even though they appear to be so different. I suppose that’s the only similarity between our Western developed society and every tribe I have visited.

Everybody in this world fights his or her own personal battles. It’s what is and should be important to us, but what we must realize is that they are only truly important to ourselves and ourselves alone. It is our personal journey through life. I am continuing mine every minute of every day -- maybe it’s nearly over or maybe it’s just the beginning.

One thing that does stick in my head is that I may now be 28 but, hey, look what I have to show for it. I mean it when I say this everyone, I have enjoyed the presence of these places so much, from secretive sunrises to the dramatic sunsets, the daytime tribal echoes to the haunting evening whispers of the dark.

I know what you’re all thinking! “I bet it was paradise.” Well, not always.

Paradise to me is not a place but a state of mind. It’s who you are with and how content you feel at that particular moment in time, and although the amazing surroundings can help that state of happiness and contentment, it doesn’t always mean you will be happy.

Yes, I am very fortunate to have had this amazing experience, but for those who never will, it’s not the be all and end all. If you can obtain that mind-set of contentment and happiness no matter what it is that you do or achieve in your life, and even where you do it, then you truly will be in paradise.

I guess I will have to close with a final bit of advice that can help everyone in our modern-day materialistic world -- advice from a summary of my experience. It might just help.

Live for today as you may never see tomorrow. Treat every day as it’s your last and never put off telling the people that are closest to you that you really do love them. You should then look back at your life and think, “Wow! What a ride! I have no regrets and really couldn’t have done it better.” That’s paradise, everyone! That really is paradise.

Entry 10: Baring It All to Become an Inca in Peru

Richard Writes:
The second day in the Andes began with a wholesome bowl of guinea pig soup. Basilio’s homestead was put together with warmth in mind: the stone walls are thick, woolly hides hang about the place, and a fire rages continuously in the corner. The only thing lacking is a chimney, so we spend our meals draped in a choking smog, my unaccustomed eyes watering in the smoke.

Wrapped in my host’s poncho, and with a few boiled potatoes safely stored in my pockets, I joined my comrades for the day’s climb. From everyone’s coughing, I sensed the chimney situation was shared among us all, but we were all in high spirits. We were surrounded by mountains, which glistened in the sunshine. The weather was glorious and we set off in the merriest of moods. Picture us then: rosy cheeked and optimistic, hearty, even jogging at one stage, as we took on the mountain for the first time.

Eight hours later much had changed. The sky, which earlier had shone a faultless blue, now hung heavy and black and rumbled ominously. Freezing rain lashed down. The rocky terrain, once so steady, now gave way treacherously, sending us stumbling onto our knees. And our faces, earlier so eager, were now weary and grey. Brad’s lungs were on the point of collapse; Mark was enduring a raging headache from the altitude, while Rajko was lamenting his decision to wear shorts. I myself was powerfully hungry (my potatoes were long gone). Shivering and fairly dispirited, we pressed onward and upward, numb hands tucked under armpits for warmth.

At last, we reached a plateau, and in its middle, a small lake. Our guide announced that we had reached our destination, and nodded to the water.

“El lago sagrado.”

It was perfectly still, and even in the darkening light it seemed to glow, an astonishing turquoise hue. Though deep, at its bottom you could see plants and pebbles quite clearly, and I knelt by the bank and dipped my hand. We were close to the snow line but my numb fingers couldn’t feel the water. It was an odd sensation, mercurial almost, like I was brushing air.

My moment’s contemplation was interrupted by the sound of my teeth chattering, and I felt it was time we headed home. Our guide felt otherwise. Taking an orator’s stance, he declared in simple terms that to become Incas we had to swim in the lake. I was about to remind him that we had no trunks, but it seems that had I done so I would have missed the point.

We undressed quickly and obediently. Corey was first to dive, a flash of white skin darting through the fumbling crowd and off the bank with aplomb. Such decisiveness galvanized us all, and without prolonging matters I yanked off my trousers with shivering fingers, turned, sprinted, and leapt.

Now I am no nudist, but I can’t deny that I felt rather exhilarated. Naked as the day I was born, buttocks pointed skyward, I flew like a cold bird over the water. It was a glorious, exciting, uplifting moment. An albatross must get that feeling every day, but for me, that one nude leap into the Andean air was about as close to nature as I’ve ever felt.

In the next instant, I was in the water, and all was pain. Icy, confusing, strangling cold – the sort that tightens your chest and stiffens your muscles. Thrashing like an imbecile, I swam back toward the bank, and slipped on the rocks on my way out. Shaking violently, I dragged my clothes back on and blew air into my hands to give them some life. My head ached mercilessly, I couldn’t feel a thing, and all the joy of the dive had disappeared. I like to keep an open mind about most things, but if I ever dabble with nudism again, it’s not going to involve a freezing lake. The one greatest consolation was this: the cold would fade as soon as I got home to Basilio’s, whereas being named an Inca – that lasts for life.

Corey’s Lesson:
The commitment to honor

Peru was my location. It's hard to imagine an event that could be more catered to a Spanish-speaking Alaskan mountaineer than a race on foot carrying ice in the Andes.  With few locations left, I was embarrassed to be the only athlete with no wins, and saw this as my best and potentially my last opportunity to prove I deserved my company. My performance in practice gave my hosts great hope that I would win the prize llama for their family. Hiking every day beneath beautiful 6,000-meter (19,685-foot) peaks and then watching them cast in moonlight from the thermal hot spring, I was falling in love with this location. All until the locals pulled out the whips.

It turns out the sport we were training for was a hybrid Incan-Catholic reenactment of the crucifixion of Jesus where we had to whip each other to repent for our sins. Initially the whipping seemed playful, and I pretended to whip my partner (by hitting the ground at his feet) to be respectful of their tradition and try to remain nonjudgmental. It had been clear from our travels that a huge problem among developing countries was foreigners coming in and telling the people how they should live their lives, and I did not want to contribute to that imperious trend.

My simulated whipping fit appropriately until we made our pilgrimage to the sacred glacier. On the morning of the race, having tested the course and feeling very confident, I was suddenly asked to be publicly whipped.  We'd been through plenty of excruciating pain on this adventure and it should be clear that was not the issue. But by laying down on the snow and accepting ceremonial whipping, I would be choosing to participate in violence. The overarching teaching from every tribe that we visited was an ethic of compassion where they taught us to strive in every action to limit our harm on everything around us.  I desperately wanted to compete, but all I could think about was watching the look in my mother's eyes when she would watch me sacrifice my values for pride and personal gain.

I finished with the fastest time. But I did not race with the others. I was disqualified from the competition for my unwillingness to participate in the whipping ceremony. I sunk into wrenching regret as my host family and many of my travel companions expressed their disappointment for my decision. But while the zero on the scoreboard shamed me, hindsight soon proved that I had scored a huge victory for myself.  Despite hallowed tradition, the potential for personal gain, and the pressure of most around me, I had managed to listen to my heart and stand strong for what I believed. In the words of my late Boy Scout role model, "Without honor, a man is nothing."

Entry 9: Faking Desire and Dancing by the Fire With the Kraho

Corey's Lesson:
The Limit of Faking Desire
If this were a different television show where cast members got voted off, I can be fairly assured I wouldn't still be on it.  This was apparent even in the earliest of locations. Regardless, locals and even my fellow athletes kept pegging me in certain sports as one of the favorites. My task in Brazil was to discover why I was so intent on losing even when others were certain I would win.

My athleticism is not like the others. I compete because of the way it drives me to come in contact with the boundary between my existence and the world around me. I climb for the feeling of vertigo and the view. I ski for the addiction to speed. I scuba dive to explore another world. Whenever I perform athletic feats, it's always to reach some elusive goal or because my life is in danger, rather than to prove something. I didn't understand why the other athletes thought winning was so important.

In Brazil, the sport was anyone's game, so I decided to forgo my cultural pursuits and dedicate myself to trying to win. On a team with Rajko and Brad, when we weren't training with the locals, we trained on our own. Rain or shine, we practiced with heavier logs than we'd use for the race, perfecting trade-offs and communication. At night we spent long hours talking strategy.

Come race day, the sport was so much harder than any of us predicted. We set a pace so fast that passing the log to recover was really no recovery at all.  Surely apparent from the expressions on my face during the last couple of hundred meters of the log carry between Rajko and I, it was an excruciating task. But with the team's weight on my shoulders, I felt compelled to push myself to the edge.

The real decision came once Rajko and I had passed the log to the locals. I knew we'd won the team race, but now was my chance to win a location. It was my biggest competition, and Rajko was right next to me. All I had to do was suck it up for 15 minutes and all the pain would be over, and I might have a victory to show for it.

I continued running, but I didn't know why I was. We'd already won the competition that counted, now everything was just for pride. Rationality overcame me and my pace slowed. I finished the race, but not fast; surely not as fast as I could have if I'd cared. I thought that I'd convinced myself to care, but that day I learned that's not something that one can do in challenging circumstances. You can't fake desire, which is why athletes like Jason are so incredible. He defies physical odds because he lives to win.  I live to learn, which, in a top athletic world is a will to lose.

Richard Writes:
The third day in the Kraho was a cracker. It’s a two-parter, so bear with me.

First, it was the day I broke a personal best. It won’t surprise anyone who’s examined my physique from a distance that I’ve never really been much of a one for dumbbells and barbells and other bells of that nature. In fact, when it comes to gym time, I tend to stay clear of the metalwork and clown around with the skipping ropes instead, a tactic which didn’t leave me well-suited for the task in hand.

Moments before, a multitude of our diminutive hosts had trotted to the center of the village, passing a log between them as if were a relay baton. When I say log, I mean a thick slice of trunk, and as the last man dropped it at our feet, the ground noticeably shuddered, as did I. It lay solidly before us, an enormous hulk of wood, and the crowd watched to see if we would fare as well as their diminutive champions.

Never one to poo-poo a challenge, Brad stepped forward and demanded a try. I think we all expected him to carry the thing in one hand, especially since the locals, a fraction of his size, had born the weight so nonchalantly. But to our amazement, Brad didn’t look entirely comfortable, and after walking to and fro with an unusually stiff gait, he popped it off his shoulder and onto the ground.

“That’s about 300 pounds,” he said, with a detectable breathlessness. “Not bad.”

Three hundred pounds. I did the sums. Last time I’d checked, after indulging in tapas in Sao Paulo, I was just over 150 pounds. Mathematically, the prospect wasn’t enticing.

One by one the others performed the feat. Each time five would hold the log poised, the carrier would shout 'Got it!,' and we’d watch nervously to see how long they lasted; the same basic elements of a rodeo. All performed the Atlas act admirably, and the crowd seemed satisfied, and duly, when it reached my turn, it all started very well. Then I realized they were still holding it, so I ordered the release.

It was dazzlingly heavy, and I wasn’t a wieldy prop at all. I took a few steps forward, staggering more than walking, and then, with a new respect for gravity, committed the great thing to the earth. A short attempt, and ungainly, but I’d done enough to feel proud of myself; just enough pride to dull the curious new pain in my back.

That evening my enduring desire to partake in a campfire dance was finally satisfied. It may seem an odd fancy, but I had looked forward to this iconic scene in every society who’d hosted us. Gradually, over the eight places, I’d come to see that indigenous societies take many wonderful forms, and it was needless to attach such hackneyed hope to this one imagined event. Yet here at last was a true tribal campfire, and it was just how I’d imagined it on that first flight from London those many months ago. 

It was a large and lively fire, which licked 10 feet into the sky. The villagers sat around it, eyes shining brightly in the flickering light, and in this beautiful scene we were bidden to introduce ourselves. The throng numbered a good hundred or so, and they looked on eagerly, as we stood in turn to say our piece. They laughed heartily at the translations given by the interpreter, and applauded as we sat down. After we’d finished (and after I’d crudely explained Rugby by allusions to ‘Football Americano’) Rajko fetched the guitar and serenaded the night.

He did everything a good guitarist should – lots of breaking it down and tearing it up – before, in a state of childish excitement, he got carried away and announced: “And now, Richard Massey is going to dance for us all.”

I shot him an accusing glance and recoiled into my seat, but the music had taken over everyone (Brad was beat-boxing, Corey rapping beautifully) and there was no way out. I took to the space in front of everyone and submitted my best Fred Astaire impression. Going for broke, I even threw in a thing I’ve heard referred to as the "worm." It was not a handsome worm, but it would have to suffice, and as I retook my seat, Jason was laughing uncontrollably. He offered the noblest compliment of my dancing career: “In a weird way, that wasn’t all that bad.”

Mark then gave a dashing Salsa demonstration, and after the Maltese hips had whipped the crowd into a frenzy, all joined together in a great line and danced our way around the fire. Children sang, old ladies grinned and clapped. It was a very exceptional moment, and for a while I think we all forgot that anything lay beyond the shadows, and all we knew was dancing and laughing and smiles lit up by shining fire.

Entry 8: Grub Hunting and Staying Afloat in Papua New Guinea

Richard Writes:
The canoe docked neatly on the bank, and Brad and I skipped ashore. Our companion, a middle-aged man of few words, looked at us with a paternal pride and handed Brad the ax. I must confess it wasn’t entirely obvious why we had an ax. I knew this was a hunting trip, but I hadn’t previously considered an ax to be a particularly deft weapon, certainly not light enough for the delicate practice of hunting in the jungle. Brad grinned at me, and his eyes lit up.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if we were going for gator?”
“How would you kill an alligator with an ax?”
“Easy. Just smack him in the head.”

In the end this turned out to be a purely academic discussion. Our guide explained that our prey was in fact considerably smaller than an alligator, and could be found nestling in the soft pulp of rotten trees. I’m not sure what scientific name the large maggot-like creatures go by, but "grub" seems to fit the bill perfectly.

A grub is about the size of a grown man’s thumb, and consists of a fleshy body with a hard pea-sized head from which miniature pincers protrude. Aesthetically at least, they are truly horrendous, and one of the strangest things I’ve ever been asked to collect. In all honesty Brad and I made heavy work of the process. We’d been sent off into the jungle with a large bag, with optimistic instructions that we bring it back teeming with the fattest grubs we could find. Having found the perfect log, soggy and rotten to the core, we started chopping away, but before long we’d broken the ax in two and resorted to levering the thing open with a fallen branch. After much toil and sweat, the rotting wood ripped apart from itself and lay neatly halved on the jungle floor. Dotted along the log, grubs poked out half-submerged, some with heads snapping curiously at the unwelcome air. We seized them greedily, plucking each one like a cork from a wine bottle. They wriggled in our hands and tried to bite us, but it was a shamefully one-sided encounter and they never stood a chance. Into the bag they went, one by one, until the log seemed to contain nothing more. We hadn’t collected as many as we’d hoped, but the lining of the bag now rippled of its own accord, which had to be a good sign.

As it was, our guide looked satisfied when we showed him the spoils. So satisfied in fact, that he picked one of the little fellows right out of the bag and bit into it with a loud crunch. After gulping it down, he offered the bag to us. I’d spent the last few days eating nothing but bat, and had long suggested to Brad that any change to the diet would be a welcome one. I could therefore hardly refuse when faced with a grub. It pulsated in my hand, trying to bite my fingers, and its movement was strangely mesmerizing. It’s never polite to play with your food, however; so in one quick movement I popped it into my mouth, where it wriggled for a moment in a last show of defiance. Then, with a swift crunch of my teeth and a hasty swallow, the aperitif was over. I thought I’d kept my composure, but given how hard Brad was laughing, I daresay my expression had given me away once again …

Mark Writes:
Day 1
My host greeted me, his name was Noah. A gentle guy about 5’6” tall with dreadlock-style hair, he shows me to his house, a wooden hut on stilts -- no segregated rooms and very, very basic. There are 10 people staying under the same roof, including both of Noah’s wives and his kids. He speaks basic English and sits me down. Then he says, “I am very honored to have you stay here. I want you to be like my son, so from now on your name will be 'Awi' after my father.”

This was the most touching and genuine greeting I have had so far!

Day 2
I woke up having had not a lot of sleep -- the rickety bamboo floor has left bruises over me bony hips. I get served breakfast, a strange, dark, tough meat with potato and soup.

The heat here is something I haven’t experienced yet, 95 percent humidity and temps over 34 degrees C (93 degrees F). We felt very claustrophobic. We were thrown straight into events, starting with machete training. Demonstrations of what to do and what not to do left me sweating buckets within seconds. I was just left wondering why we needed machete training?

Later that afternoon we were introduced to our sport; it was canoe racing but with a twist ... Rather than sitting down, we had to stand up and balance in a very slim canoe, which is a lot harder than it looked. The river currents seemed to be very fast as we were watching the branches flow above and below the water in the currents. So, when they told us that the race was over two days, 7 kilometers (4 miles) upstream on Day 1 and 14 kilometers (9 miles) downstream on Day 2, we were overwhelmed with the challenge that lay ahead.

It was our chance to have a tester session in the canoe and, oh my word, what a disaster! All six of us suffered miserably as we were practicing falling in more than paddling a canoe, and the scary thing is that the river is infested with crocodiles.

Day 3
OK, so fresh coconut juice is one of the things that I haven’t got used to over the past year doing this traveling -- it totally gives you a bad case of the runs, but for some reason my hosts keep insisting on giving me a coconut every mealtime. So far I have been cunning enough to pass it onto the guys to share around, but I know that will wear thin soon, especially when they get their coconuts. I must think of a new way now as in this case honesty is certainly not the best policy.

There were two canoe practices scheduled for today and the first one seemed a bit of a success for me. I was able to stand up and actually paddle be it only for about five minutes without falling in, but some of us are certainly getting the hang of it. Having spent a few hours in the water it was time to do the coconut passing ritual and then straight back into the water for afternoon practice. I am still receiving that strange brown meat at mealtimes, which seems to me to look like chicken but know that it can’t be.

Afternoon canoe practice was a disaster! For some reason, after an hour’s lunch, I forgot everything I had learned previously. It was basically a swimming session against current. I never knew getting back into a canoe could be so difficult but everyone else can do it -- Ggggggrrrrrrr. Seeing everyone else doing well meant I was getting frustrated with myself, so I decided to call it a day and go and sit in my hut with my host. A storm was coming and within an hour it had hit us. By my bed I had a window at floor level, so I could just sit there and look out over the river and watch the storm approach. Noah, my host, decided to join me and it was one of those bonding moments. We talked about our lives as the storm got bigger and before long the sun had disappeared, leaving flashes of lightning to guide the villagers back to their huts in the torrential rain. What an incredible sight. I wish you could all experience it with me.

Day 4
It was time to prove ourselves as men to the village. I was now about to find out what the machete training was for. We were each issued a pen knife, machete, lighter and mosquito net, and as we all had our jungle boots on were sent into a boat to head upstream with a few of the locals. By now we had realized that we were going to be spending a night somewhere, but had no idea where. The boat slows down and heads for a small gap in the undergrowth at the river's side. The rain forest here is dense with no sign of a living soul, and we get out the boat and follow the locals as they clear a path for us deep into the jungle. We hit a clearing and are told to watch and learn; the locals are teaching us how to build a shelter out of sticks and leaves. I didn’t find building a shelter between the six of us too daunting. We have intelligence and now a lot of travel experience, so the spanner [wrench] was thrown into the works when we were told we had to go out and do it alone. Out here there is everything bad for you that you can think of, i.e., dangerous snakes, spiders, crocodiles, ants, bees and anything else you can think of for that matter, not to mention that we had only three hours of daylight left to do it in. It’s incredible how disorientating the jungle is, a sea of green looking the same in every direction. It’s so alive! In the corner of your eye you constantly see things moving. We were each told to go to separate areas of the jungle so that we could not rely on each other, and when our hut was built we had to return to the tiny clearing to meet one of the elders. I have to admit it was exciting to know that I would be doing this, but at the same time I was worried that if I didn’t finish my shelter in time, there would be no other option but to use it after nightfall.

So I got stuck in and found myself a little spot to clear with my machete and as I was taught in both briefings started to clear the area. Within two seconds I stopped and looked down. Something had caught my eye between my legs ... “Sh**,” I said to myself as my body froze. Between my legs lay a coiled brown snake. Now, I don’t know a thing about snakes so I wasn’t going to take any chances -- my first thoughts were typical! “Why does this always happen to me?” Then my brain kicked into gear. We were warned of a snake called a death adder that lies still as its defense, until someone stands on it and then it strikes. Most snakes run away, but not this one ... My snake didn’t move, so I automatically presumed it was a death adder. In the jungle your voice carries quite well, so I blew my whistle as loud as I could. Luckily for me, one of the military guys was in the area just getting his bearings as to where we all were, so he came and within seconds cut the snake's head off with me at a distance. Caution was to be had from now on as I tried to build my confidence back by building an awesome shelter within the time constraints. This was to be my bed for the night so I had better make it as comfy as possible -- not very easy as the only thing covering you in these shelters is a sloping roof to the floor.

Proud of my building skills I headed back to the clearing with my compass. The other guys slowly appeared, as we grouped together to talk about our huts and experience. Corey was pestered by bees, Jason by a tarantula, and Brad and Rich by grubs, which they had in a basket. The grubs were about 2 inches long and very thick, exactly the same as the ones from the bush tucker trial in I’m a celebrity [huh? can we delete this text in red? is it some british tv show or something? mr] and, yes, we had to eat them. The wiggle on them was strong and before you chew you have to take off the heads because they bite as Jason’s tongue found out. They don’t taste that bad at all but the white gunk in the middle when they pop in your mouth was not a pleasant experience.

Having spent an hour round the fire with the elder telling us about his father head hunting and eating people from rival tribes it was time for bed, so I head back into the jungle following my compass again to my shelter. It’s amazing how brave you become when you're on your own and have to get on with things. I found my shelter and decided to do the scout thing and spend an hour starting a fire. A whole hour it took but when it got going I was so proud of myself. With the fire going I lay on my leaves under my mozzy net [mosquito net] and looked to the canopy. At night the jungle comes alive, the sound is nearly deafening. There is no silence as you would expect but the senses become alive. Within a few hours I found myself fast asleep.

Day 5
I wake up and the sun has come up, breaking through the tiny gaps in the canopy. I pack my issued gear, nipped behind my hut for a No. 2, and then headed back to the boat. As we arrived back the villagers greeted us with smiles and cheers as we had achieved our goals and then it was straight into canoe practice. In between water sessions I helped my host carve me my very own paddle to use for the race. I am in the bottom two so far with the canoeing but I have faith -- although during one water session I won the prize for the best fall. I lost my balance and put one foot out the canoe expecting to find a solid surface and I just disappeared straight down like something out of a "Road Runner" cartoon when the coyote steps off the edge of a cliff.

That afternoon was another of excitement. We were going hunting but not for the norm. I was about to go and catch that brown meat that has puzzled me so much. So, I want you all to do an Internet search on the word “flying fox” -- that is what I have been eating all week and that is what we are going hunting for.

Day 6
I shared a great moment with my family members. So far I have seen most of them just sitting round the hut, the people are so chilled out that they just walk round backward. I was sitting in my hut at the back looking out my little window when all of a sudden I heard and then saw everyone leg it out of the hut like lightning, all looking at the ceiling. I just sat there looking puzzled; I had never seen anyone move so fast, so I was left there looking at them all leg it. As they got out they called, "Awi, get out, get out!” My first thought was, “Sh**! There’s a dangerous spider in here or something.” But then they said, "The house is going to fall! Get out, get out!" It was hilarious. As I got out the house we couldn’t stop laughing about it as we're picturing everyone’s faces.

Day 8
My first time in Papua New Guinea was not a pleasant experience. I had a real hatred for the country. The cities lack beauty and are unsafe. The people are unfriendly as you always expect somebody to rob you. But then you peel back the wrappers and visit, to me, what is the most amazing country I have ever seen. I thought I had been there and done it all until this place. The people were the most genuine and friendly I have experienced; they cheered for us, cried for us and gave us everything they had. The farewell was moving and I will never now be complacent or prejudgemental about anything again.

Entry 7: Londres vs. Alaska—The Rumble in Djilor

Richard Writes:
The madness of the place! Perhaps my nerves had a part to play, it being the night of the competition, but everything seemed wilder than it had been a few days before. As I walked through the curtain into the arena, I found the ground throbbing with the vibrations of endless drumbeats, and from a tired loudspeaker the hypnotic wailing of the singers pierced the evening sky. The sound was deafening, the kind that leaves you with lasting ringing in your ears. A good thousand or so sat in a wide circle, watching eagerly. Rows of girls cooed to their favorites, while in the middle of the sandy arena men strutted like gods, every one looking like a champion, perfect physiques moving well to the rhythm of the thunderous band. Small children sat chattering in the front rows, and behind them the grown men sat and watched my entry with experienced eyes.

I performed my pre-fight ritual without a word. I’d rehearsed it so many times in my head that it was a simple process, and it unravelled without hesitation: I slapped the ground with my stick, lay my hand four times on the sand, showed my belt to the four winds, scattered sand about the ring, dug a hole in the center, filled it with water, ate the sand between my toes, filled it in, drew a star, ran to the four corners to do the same, poured vegetable extract on my head, and rolling my robe as the sacred seat I sat at the edge of the crowd and waited. Somewhere in the village my Marabou was praying for me, and there is no finer comfort than that.

Bout after bout went by. Heroes were made, and hopes were destroyed. Some continued to strut, others were dragged howling in despair from their defeats. When through the drumbeats I heard ‘Londres’ announced in perfect clarity, I sprang to my feet and ran to the middle, as Corey (at the bidding of "Alaska") did the same.

As Corey and I stood in that ring, silvery white and almost glowing in the floodlights, we must have stood out like a sore thumb. Two of the palest and lightest of the athletes, our presence in that ring showed powerfully how the people of Djilor had welcomed us fully. They didn’t laugh at us, inexperienced and clumsy as we were. Instead they invited us to perform in their competition, and with a generous modesty were willing us to do well. We could both feel the swell of expectation in the crowd, the intensity of good feeling and hope, and I daresay it buoyed us both as we crouched before each other in preparation.

His eyes looked focused and his position was strong. I watched him closely in return, and for a while that was how the fight began. Cautious, tentative, each analyzing the other’s every move with a fierce concentration. Camara had advised me earlier in the day, and one of his persistent themes was that I should fight like a lion. There was nothing leonine about my scuttling in circles, and I realized that I needed to drop this crab act and make a move. The next moment went by too quickly to remember every detail. All I know is that the chief ingredients were a stray Alaskan leg, a fortunate catch of the leg of the question, an explosion of sand as we both hit the deck, and eruption of applause from the good people of Djilor. The next moment we were on our feet, I bemused with the unusual feeling of victory, Corey typically sporting in his admission of defeat. And then, as quick as the bout had begun, we were on our seats again, and as friendly spectators patted me on the back I began to feel a real warmth and contentment. The purists may have argued our styles weren’t expressly "Wolof," but if we’re talking about Rugby tackles, I flatter myself that it was rather a peach.

Corey’s Lesson Learned:
The Truth in Silence
A baby can learn language, but it takes a lot of wisdom to know how to use it. The six of us had been together for almost a year now and not once had we ever gotten in a serious quarrel. Not until Senegal. In trying to make an insignificant point, I callously put down Jason. But Jason is hard knocks schooled and he knew just where to hit me back.  Before I knew it none of us were speaking to each other.  The other five guys are the closest thing I've ever come to having brothers, and with just one careless phrase I shook our whole foundation.

While spontaneous comments can occasionally make good jokes, making them is not worth the times that they hurt. I discovered the hard way that words can do in one sentence what one hundred kind acts cannot repair. Our wrestling coach shared with me a proverb that I'd heard before but never understood. He said that “wisdom is knowing and not saying.”  We must remember that language barely skims the surface of our experience and thus can explain very little and has a great opportunity to be misunderstood.  Senegal taught me to strive to speak less and say more.

That night, lost in our thoughts, we all ended up bumping into each other down at the beach. We didn't say anything for a long time and I didn't want us to. There was something in between us, within our silence that said everything that needed to be said. It was unconditional love. Sometimes it's just hard to hear over the words.

Entry 6: Trobriand Beauty and Pig Appreciation

Rajko Writes and Sketches:
Untoppable greeting
First arrival in the village was ridiculously good. Aside from the friendly mass welcome, we were then personally greeted by five topless local ladies who shook our hands and put flowers on our heads. THEN we went along a line of about 50 topless girls, shaking their hands and saying hello … after which they all sat down and sang us songs. No welcome could ever top that!

A night under the stars with Rich and Corey on the football pitch
The stars were so beautifully bright and clear that we decided to go and lie there and it was really, really nice. We joked around and I would say got to know each other better just through talking and hanging out. Two really nice guys and it will be good to get to know them more.

The dreaded axe!
Who’d have realized that an innocent walk out behind the village to cut a piece of wood for a cricket bat would end up so dramatic?

Chief Talaboa The father, Chief Talaboa, is surprisingly friendly for his position of authority. He comes around in his traditional pants, carrying his handbag of betel nut, and says some words in Trobriand to me. He smiles a lot and occasionally sings a local song in that beautiful way old people sing — gentle, emotive, almost strained, yet delicate and full of life. And the mum always has big smiles for me.

Editor’s Note: Check out Rajko’s new Web site: www.rajko.tv

Richard Writes:
I’m not someone who enjoys killing animals, but I’m definitely someone who enjoys a well cooked rasher of bacon. You’ll spot the conundrum then, when I was handed a spear and pointed in the direction of a large pig, helplessly bound to a branch of wood, and told to handle business.

It was hardly a classic case of man vs. beast, for the pig had no chance of escape, and what was worse, it knew it. Those well-informed about such things, vets and so on, tell the rest of us that goldfish are daft things without memories, yet they never cease to praise the brainpower of pigs. The clever beasts can tell when things aren’t looking good, and this one knew exactly what was coming.

Tirah pointed at its armpit, and gestured his instruction. It seemed a simple way of doing it: a sharp thrust of spear into the pig's heart, and I could only hope that it would prove efficient and quick. I gave the pig one last look; its eyes were rolled back and bore into me with an agonizing look of desperation. For a moment I thought of abandoning my duties, of handing the spear to Rajko or Corey, and asking them to deliver the blow. Had I done so, I might well have become vegetarian, for how could I have tucked into the resulting pork stew had I cravenly avoided the process by which that stew was made? To eat meat, there must be a prior acceptance of the death that delivered it. I thought of all the animals that died in abattoirs to fill our supermarket shelves, and how distant and sterilized a process it was. Here was death, in front of me. I had to face it, or I could never eat meat again with a conscience.

I can recall the exact feeling of the punctured belly as the plunging spear ran swiftly through flesh and sinew into heart, yet the accompanying noise is clearer still. A shrill and bloodcurdling screech filled my ears, the sound of blinding pain, and of fear. It was not over quickly. My nostrils flared as I pressed down with all my weight, filled with a deep wish that the pig would die quickly so its torment would be over. They later told me it lasted a single minute, but it felt so protracted, and as the dreadful screeching began to fade, and gargled blood frothed from its nose, I gave Tirah the spear. I sat down and watched the last breaths. In a daze, I gaped on as the islanders gutted the pig, working swiftly and precisely. They threw away the spleen to nearby dogs, and drained the intestines of the half-digested waste. Eventually I joined in, and was struck by how warm the hide was, how curiously it tore loose from the flesh, and how recognizable the organs were. It was neatly compartmentalized, and soon the pig bore no resemblance to the terrified beast of minutes before. It stacked smartly in piles: ears, tails, and trotters here, ribs, legs, and belly there. How easy it is, I realized then, to forget that meat once moved and breathed and played.

But I could not forget. As we sat several hours later, a bowl of pork in our laps, I was distracted from the buoyant conversation all around me. The meat seemed unnaturally warm, and with every bite I saw the eyes upon me as the spear came down. I was solemn and I had no appetite, but I ate a full two bowls with the most genuine and complete sense of gratitude I’ve ever felt. My appreciation was not for the beautiful weather, or to the splendid company that sat around, nor even to the kind man who handed me the bowl. It was to the pig. 

Entry 5: Dodge Ball, Yurts, Goats and a Broken Rib

Rajko Writes and Sketches:
One-Man Dodge Ball
We actually stayed the night in a tiny town halfway to our location (Mongolia) in a funny little hotel. It was a great evening! It started with the funniest little scene involving Jason, Corey, Richard and me playing a game of one-man dodge ball. Basically, I said to Jason that he could have three free shots at me with the volleyball as long as I could cover my balls and my face with my hands — and as long as I could have three shots at him. So he stood 10 meters (10 yards) away and launched one of them right in my face! It was only luck that my hand was there, so all that happened was that my hand slapped me in the forehead. Then I pounded him in the stomach and the arm. But it was just a funny game to play and typical of Jason and me. But it got really funny when Corey thought he’d get some close-camera footage by positioning himself right behind Richard, who himself was about to get pummeled. So there was Corey, peeking out behind Richard’s shoulder and Jason was preparing to launch one at Richard. As destiny would have it, the ball spun through the air and picked out Corey’s head with absolute precision! And before he could duck out of the way, he had an eyeful of video camera and the fastest black eye I’ve ever seen.

Mongolia
My sketches get better and better. I know why I didn’t take art too seriously in school. Anyway, this sketch shows pretty much everything there is in Mongolia: mountains, goats, yurts (i.e., tents) and nothing else. But literally, to get from the yurt that I share with Jason over to Brad and Rich’s where we train each day is a good 30-minute walk … and that’s our closest neighbor after Mark and Corey. They understand the idea of space here.

Mongolski Nadam
What an interesting day, but what a painful one! In fact, as I write this diary, my injured rib is horribly painful — in almost all positions. I guess that is the consequence of ignoring pain and wanting to prove something and being a “tough guy.” Frustration, I think, was the main feeling — frustration at being injured, frustrated at not being able to prove myself at wrestling, and frustration at not being able to do anything against the lard-a** in the ring with me. And now the frustration of having to begin recovery again — but enough moaning! I made the decision, so I’ll deal with the consequences. I’ll train, eat, sleep, ice, train, eat, sleep, ice … and somehow get ready for the next phase. But I’ve definitely disappointed myself and it's going to take a grand miracle to be 100 percent fit in 10 days — but I’ll do my utmost. What choice do I have?

Memories of Trip
Wrestling in pants
Fresh goat's milk and cream
Going to the toilet (rock wipes)
Open-door policy in yurt (friends and neighbors always welcome)
Children, capable/hardworking, still kids!
Relaxed/peaceful people
Rosy cheeks
Fresh mountain stream
Fresh air

Brad’s Take:
All of our hosts definitely had us kind of like trophy stepchildren, especially in Mongolia. I mean, me and Rich were living together and we went back home and there were 20 cats chillin' in our little hut. I didn't even think the hut could hold 20 people, so me and Rich go in and make 22.

So they're taking shots of vodka and they just wanted me to come in and take my shirt off. They're feeling on me. And I've never had so many men touch me in my life. It felt really uncomfortable but then I'm like, you know, they're not doing it in a weird way, just relax, man. And then the chicks got up and started feeling my hair and telling me my hair is beautiful and I'm just thinking, “This is twisted. But, you know, go with the flow.” And me and Rich had a couple shots of vodka and we're feeling good. Everybody's chatting it up. I don't speak Mongolian. Rich doesn't speak Mongolian. Honestly, we don't know what the hell is going on the whole time but we're just going with the flow.

Then I get a cat that calls me outside and this champion comes from three villages over just to see me and challenge me to lifting a stone. You can't challenge me at my own sport, man. And he got the stone six times. I mean, he picked it up, pressed it overhead six times. I got it 18. Now what? Now he wants to wrestle me. I didn't know he was a champion but I went at it anyway and tore his pants. And he ended up beating me three times. But I beat him in the stones and I tore his pants.

But through the whole thing, it's kind of like, not only within our village, not only within my hut and within my village, word spread through other villages and they actually traveled to come see me and the others before we even competed.

Corey’s Lesson:
Patience
Mark and I were so grateful for the hospitality of our hosts. But six people living in one tiny yurt was just too much. Even finding a little space to breathe was a task -- not to mention trying to sleep, eat, train and maintain hygiene.  As the days passed we became more and more annoyed with each other and our surroundings until we snapped and winged at every inconvenient detail. The funny thing was Mark and I were only visiting a cramped yurt for a couple days, while our host Strong, his wife and their two kids LIVED there. During our entire visit they never shared a cross word, not even once. 

Our patience is tried the most with those closest to us, but it is these relationships that are the most important. Strong shared with me that the small things don't matter and everything is a small thing in the long run. He taught me to always have patience with my loved ones unconditionally, all the time, no matter the circumstance:
It’s easy enough to be pleasant
when life flows by like a song
but the one for me is the one who'll smile
when everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble
and that always comes with the years, but
the smile that is worth all the praises of the
earth is the smile that shines through tears.

Entry 4: Come in Peace, Smart Fighter

Mark Writes:
We arrive at an extremely basic Dimapur Airport in Nagaland and head straight off through armed border control into the green mountains. The people here aren’t your typical Indian-looking people, they are Far Eastern in their appearance. This is due to the land being taken away from the Naganese in the Second World War and in turn being handed over to the Indian government. Nagaland now wants to be independent, hence the place being very dangerous; it’s in a state of civil war but for the period of time we are here, a fragile cease-fire is in force. It’s very unstable and, believe me, being here you certainly know it.

Kohima is the capital of Nagaland. It’s situated on the edge of a very steep mountainside in a sort of horseshoe shape 1,500 meters (4,922 feet) above sea level; the roads are narrow and buildings are falling down. As we break the rules and wander the streets after dark we are constantly being asked for our papers and told that we shouldn’t be wandering alone. There are armed guards on every corner, people are staring, then the power to our side of the city goes off -- this was to be a regular occurrence. The temperature has dropped and it has become very cold very quickly, so we head back to the hotel. It’s bedtime and I am writing my journal under candlelight. We go into the tribe tomorrow and I am concerned as to how cold the evenings get compared to the daytime temperatures. Wish me luck!

Day 1
We set off east at 6:00 a.m. for a three-hour drive deep into the mountains of Nagaland. We pass through many strict armed checkpoints and continueon into windy jungle mountainside roads. The habitat is not like what you would expect India to be ... Well, I suppose it’s not really India. It reminds me of watching a 'Nam war film, especially seeing soldiers everywhere with artillery.

We climb higher into the mountains and finally arrive at our destination. Wow! What an intimidating greeting. This tribe engaged in headhunting only two generations ago and they let us know it. They were in war formation and danced toward us with their weapons and traditional tribal gear. The chanting and singing was aggressive as they surrounded us and started prodding us with their spears. There weren’t many smiles at this point, which was concerning. Did they not really want us here?

It turns out that it was all show but they were very convincing. They were a great bunch. I met my hosts whom I am very happy with, although they have a minimal grasp of English. At least it's better than having none. They are a couple in their late 40s with three kids, a little boy and two little girls with one of the girls being adopted. All of them are very sweet. I have my own room and access to two outhouses, one for washing and one for using as a toilet. The food is OK -- very spicy curry, and although I don’t do spicy, it’s another place I am having to learn to like something, It can only be a good thing.

Well, I am now sitting on my bed. The time is 7:40 p.m. and I’m done in. Training starts at 6:30 in the morning, so I had better get some shuteye. It’s freezing!

Day 2
First morning of training and I had a freezing cold night. I needed the loo, too, from about 1:00 a.m., so that didn’t help. But it was just too cold to do anything about it.

So what’s the sport, I can sense you all wondering?  Well, would it surprise you if I told you it was fighting again? I really didn't think so!  It’s a form of martial arts called Akikiti that only involves using your feet. It’s a kicking sport and once again it is a full contact sport, so there is a lot of potential to get hurt, although at least there isn’t going to be a stick swung at me at 100 mph. Training was hard and required the six of us to run barefoot around the section of the village over rocky and stony terrain, with the aim to harden our feet. Once running was over it was then over to a mudbank to kick it for half an hour -- yes, folks, also barefoot.

Lunchtime couldn’t come quick enough, or could it! My mouth was on fire and smoke was coming out my ears, turning them bright red, with sweat dripping. I couldn’t wait to get on with my afternoon tasks. Brad and I had to go into the forest and chop some bamboo, return it to the village, then make a fence for his host, which we were quite proud of. Well, I am now chilling back at my hut; there are misty mountains ahead of me, my feet are killing me, but, hey, the sun is shining and I am feeling nice and clean after a well-needed wash. The temperature is dropping rapidly but I am making no schoolboy errors in bed tonight as I am going to wear clothes.

Day 4
I was physically exhausted this morning but I still had to go to a long, heavy training session, which turned out to be quite good fun, although very painful as it all had to be done in bare feet. We had to compete at different athletic disciplines appropriate to the sport. First up was high jump, which I totally sucked at, and then long jump, which it turned out I was the best at. That's right, folks, I was actually the best at something! It's so interesting to see us all with such different strengths and weaknesses. I am now relaxing my legs and feet before I go and collect the firewood. I have just had pumpkin curry for lunch (it's my fav food here) but now my lips are on fire.

At 3:30 it was time for training session No. 2. In this session we were to put into practice what we had learned and fight each other. It wasn't a pleasant experience, especially when you're fighting the two biggest guys. I always get lumbered against Brad and Jason. I also ended up fighting against two locals but now my legs are stiff and bruised, very bruised. In fact, I can hardly walk tonight. I put my feet up back at my hut and stare up to the stars; it's so peaceful here, which gives me a lot of time to reflect.

Day 5
This morning hasn’t been the happiest of mornings; I have just found out that training has been cancelled for the morning due to the death of a 15-year-old boy in the village. I suppose it puts my sore legs and other limbs into perspective. One woman in the village has lost five of her eight children. When you hear of high mortality rates like that it sure makes us realize where we are in the world.

Whenever I see unnecessary death it takes me back to the day my father passed away eight years ago. It’s still hard for me even today. When he was around I used to be an underachiever; I was young after all, but I felt like it, too. We didn’t get along all that well, not like a father and son really should. The reason I know deep down but I am a different person now, just as I am sure he would be, too. I like to think I am achieving everything he would want me to now, if not more, but I always feel I should be pressing further and further until I hear those words that he is proud of me. That will never happen. I guess for that reason and for the rest of my life I will always be chasing shadows.

Day 6
This morning I was up at 5:30 for an early training session, then home to change and straight to church. It’s a Christian community and the service lasted two hours between 9 and 11 a.m. It was a very surreal experience and they take their religion very seriously -- long sermons and people speaking in tongues. I didn’t really buy it, to be honest. Well, the church service is over now. It was a nice experience but I don’t think I will be attending again. I now have an hour before training session No. 2 of the day.

My village has called me “Viowto.”  It means "to come in peace," but I have another name, too, and that’s “the smart fighter.” I am the favorite in the village to win the tournament -- yes, you heard that right, guys, the whole tournament. They say I look like them when I fight; according to them I have the best technique and move well. The people here like me and want me to do well. Even as a person that’s a big compliment.

Rajko’s Perspective (and sketch, at right):
My house here is brilliant. It has a great view of the misty hills and a balcony that gets sunshine all day. It looks something like this from my seat on the balcony, next to the beehive:

The perspective is all wrong, but in essence, I have the misty Himalayan hills out to my left (where the sun rises a beautiful orange/crimson); the village in front and behind me; the side of the valley dropping off immediately to the left of my balcony; banana palms in the sloping garden at 11 o’clock direction; a little courtyard directly in front of me that becomes a pathway to the main track through the village; and up ahead, on top of the hill, the church — about 100 meters (or 100 yards) away. It’s funny how difficult it is to draw because the scene is so simple, yet so detailed.

Nagaland Funeral:
We had the funeral for the local boy yesterday and it was very sad as all funerals are, but strangely it’s as if people have moved on already. Women who were beside themselves with sadness, clinging to the coffin in the moments before it was lowered into the grave, are today smiling and happy and normal. Perhaps it is because their way of mourning is so physical and intense (all night and half a day of crying and wailing) that the major sadness is all but purged from the body. Or perhaps, it is because life is lost more easily here and there is slightly less expectation/demand that every life should run the duration and last 80 years … Somehow I feel neither of these answers is true and therefore I have to conclude I don’t know how they deal with death. But it is different from us. I was honored to be able to sit in the room where the body lay before the burial and sing hymns with many of the older women. There was a peacefulness and dignity about how they sat around and selected random hymns to sing, while the close relatives (sisters) of the boy cried desperately and touched their brother’s hair and face. The singing broke the horrible silence that is often present at a funeral and in a way allowed the mourning to be more personal. Like how a song on the radio can allow you to lift into a completely different place and just let go of your emotions without the nakedness of silence. So, I just followed the notes and sang in Sumi, and tried to quietly and humbly be part of this sad event in our village. I feel like I could learn this language quite easily and maybe one day, if I stay here longer, I will.

Entry 3: Bad Brew, Blistered Feet and Bungled Rules

Mark Writes:
Arrival at the Tribe - Mesa de La Yerbabuena
The tribe lives in a small Tarahumara village called Mesa de La Yerbabuena; its living conditions were basic but comfortable. No hot water, no toilet, etc. But we are used to it by now. I was introduced to my host and his wife -- neither speak English and I certainly do not speak Spanish, so you can imagine the most intense, uncomfortable silences ever. My host's name is Ramone; he is a short guy and I’m sure in his day a handsome one. He is wearing their traditional clothes of a white skirt with a bright orange-colored, frilly, poncho-style top and sandals. I didn’t get the name of his wife and I think they have two kids, but I haven’t confirmed that one either. Once again I can pass as a local, and if I grow the right moustache I think I can get away with being Ramone’s younger but bigger brother ... I think I will give that a go.

First Full Day With the Tribe
Having had a good 11 hours sleep, I woke up feeling pretty good. I still have my chest and throat infection but am getting used to it. I have just finished working in the cornfield. I am wearing just shorts, top and sandals, and if I am honest, it’s a pretty stupid thing to do. Out here in the mountains is prime snake and spider country and where I am working is where I am most at risk. There is also a massive risk of getting a little parasite called hookworm. It lives in your feet and legs but, to be honest, what will be will be; it’s all treatable, so I just ain’t going to worry about it. The children here are really cute, although I haven’t been able to make them smile yet. But then again I haven’t been able to look in the mirror in ages so I suspect a pattern.

Today, we have been given our sporting event that we are to take part in. It’s known as Tarahumara running. Basically, you run as a team of six people while kicking a small wooden ball around a circuit 1.9 kilometers long (a little over a mile). The total race length has been set at 27 laps or just over 31 miles long.

Our first training session consisted of a five-mile run -- not that bad, I know, but remember we are 5,500 feet in the mountains and the temperature is well over 32 degrees C (90 degrees F). It’s hard rock up here, no grass or tarmac footpaths, and it’s mega hard work. After the training session I went and had a wash under the hose pipe in the back garden and within half an hour of finishing a tropical storm hit us and is still going now. I think the roof is going to blow away. It's all very exciting and spectacular.

Day 2
It’s morning and I am busting for the loo but it’s raining outside and I can’t be bothered getting wet. My cough that I have had for the last six weeks is getting worse, too. I am trying to spend as little time with the guys as possible on this trip as it is forcing me to integrate more, which in itself is very hard anyway. The people here are very shy and when I am in the same room as them there is silence. They look to the floor and wait till I leave, then there is fun and laughter and a great family environment. I am starting to think maybe it was not such a good idea but I will stick it out. The language barrier here is the toughest so far as we have been separated into individual families. We cannot rely on each other to get us out of situations, if you know what I mean. It’s very, very intense.

The translators have arrived so I am about to find out what the day has in store for me. It’s still raining. Booooooo! There is not a lot we can do in the rain, as to run up here in this weather would have been dangerous. Instead we were given our sandals for the competition. Let me describe them to you: bits of car tires and some leather strapping to go round the ankle, a lot like Roman gladiator sandals -- that was it! We had to run this competition in bloody Roman sandals.

Because the rain has halted proceedings for the day I have decided to sit and read my book in the doorway of the house. I am not lonely here but am very much alone. It’s quite strange, however, that I haven’t once thought of home!

Day 6
This morning I woke up and had breakfast -- yes, beans and tortilla. I was then required to go and slaughter a cow for sacrificial purposes at the church. They placed a knife into the throat of the cow, blood poured out like water out of a hose, the cow died slowly, very slowly, but in a strange way very peacefully. Once it had died our trainer Mariano threw cow's blood into the air -- yes, all over me (eeewwwww) -- and then cut it open and prepared each piece for the feast we would have later that evening. I had better get an early night. It’s the race tomorrow and I have now come from nowhere to be one of the favorites to win this race. How has that happened?

Day 7
I wake up and have beans for breakfast, then washed all my clothes. I want to be as chilled out for the race as possible. I got dressed in all my traditional clothes, a nice purple top with a hat, sandals and a skirt. It's time for the race! It’s complete chaos at the start. We didn’t know what was going on; my team consisted of Corey, Jason and three locals, one a 35-year-old bloke who smoked and was pissed for the training sessions, a young lad of 13 who last night was wasted and weed himself sitting in his own purple vomit, and a guy who just didn’t turn up for any training sessions. It wasn’t looking good.

Before the race we were told the rules: You get disqualified when any member of your own team laps you with the ball. OK, so with this in mind we had our tactics ... These were to race like tortoise and the hare, with us being the tortoises. We knew the others would race off and probably burn themselves out so all I needed to do was keep a steady pace and outlast the whole thing. Well, it didn’t turn out to be that simple. While we were running someone decided to change the rules and on Lap 7 tell me and my team that we were disqualified for a rule we didn’t know about. The rule was that we were not allowed to be lapped by any other team more than twice. So, now, officially we were disqualified, but were told to keep running anyway. OK, so at this point in the race two Americans had pulled out, and Rajko had managed to win the competition because his team had apparently lapped us twice. However, at the point of disqualification, Rajko hadn’t even lapped me, which would mean that he was lapped by his own team before we were lapped twice by his team. Are you still with me? Rajko won because he ran the farthest even though the race was cut short. I did complete 13 miles though, up mountains in 34 degrees C heat (93 degrees F) in sandals made of car tires and that had blistered my feet after Lap 1. I was happy with my achievement though I had never been more determined to win something. I know I would have completed the full 31 miles, but such is life.

It is now the final few hours of the last night. I’m tired and need some sleep but feel emotional. The week with the tribe has been amazing. It has brought out the best in me, my character and what I stand for.

Jason's Take:
Mexico was this huge confusion.  Nothing ever was really set in stone. The rules were always kind of up in the air. And when it came down to it, it was, you know, there was this race involved, but at the end of the day, all the tribe members wanted to just go get wasted.  So in the middle of the race, they kind of changed all the rules.

And I was the only one left doing the original rules, which forced me to be slower, because I was the only one kicking the ball at the end of the race.  So when they announced Rajko the winner, because he had run more laps than me, but yet he didn't kick the ball, it really frustrated me.

I probably haven't been that angry in a long time.  That's probably one of the most angry parts.  Because when you spill your heart out, and my 21st birthday was at that location. And I'm not an endurance athlete, but I wanted to prove to myself something that day, that even though I'm not an endurance athlete, I might be able to push through all the pains, and, you know, aches and all that, and maybe pull off a win. And so I was really pressing.  And I felt like I was the only one who did the right thing there.

 

Entry 2: Finding Strength in Brake Fluid

Richard Writes:
Perhaps sensing I needed a leg up, Kamikladze pointed in the direction of a decidedly unusual hut. Where most Zulu huts are high-walled with sturdy roofs, these walls came only to my knees. The rounded roof was the dominating feature, and its thatch sloped down on all sides. There was no door, the entrance being instead a small gap in the thatch. Through this hole I stooped and ducked, and thus began my first encounter with a witchdoctor.

“Muhusi,” I said. I had been forewarned by Kamikladze, my excellent host, that this was the appropriate introduction when making the witchdoctor’s acquaintance, and even though I garbled it awkwardly, something seemed to work. An ancient hand stretched from the shadows and bade me take a seat.

At closer range I placed the man in his early 70s, and as I sat I saw he was markedly different from the other Zulus. Even the village grandfathers were a muscular bunch on the whole, but this man was gaunt and withered. From his chin a tattered gray beard spiralled floorwards. He sat cross-legged and hunched, dressed in a fantastic ensemble of beads and robes. Ornaments dangled from his neck, a splendid headpiece sat upon his head, and from this head his eyes, bloodshot and wild, stared out like cinders from a dark cave.

“What can I do for you, young fellow?” he asked in a tired voice. (I paraphrase, of course – the translator who had accompanied me gave a blander interpretation.) This was a good question. Up until now, I had treated the idea of visiting a witchdoctor with a cocky buoyancy, but face-to-face with this fascinating man I was humbled to the point of faith.

“I would like strength for the competition,” I said in a near-whisper. “Indeed? Then I can help you.”

Everything seemed to be going very well, and I watched eagerly as he began concocting a particularly juicy potion. At first it looked like a fine jug of Pimms’ (a British ginger beverage) with just the right amount of fruit, but then he added what were unmistakably decaying vegetables. Worse still, as I stole a glance around the shady edges of his clinic, I noticed with alarm some discomforting labels on the scattered bottles. Brake fluid sat next to a carton of bleach, and many bore foreboding warnings of toxins within. Into the bucket these were merrily sent, and all the while the product looked less and less like Pimms’. He divided the one substance into two bottles, and gave me them one by one.

“Take this, and wash yourself with it. But do not drink it, whatever you do.” Then, reaching for the other bottle of the same: “This you must drink. All of it. But first pay me or it won’t work.”

Some men you can accuse of double standards. Witchdoctors you can’t, so I paid the fee and looked at my purchase. It was a full two-liter bottle, and it smelled formidable. The scent of decay and ferment quite overpowered the original fruit. What would Kamikladze do, I wondered, and therein lay the answer. If I was staying with Zulus, I would do as the Zulus did, even to the point of accepting their medicine over what I was used to. When in Rome, as they say.  The fact that Romans never had to drink brake fluid is perfectly immaterial.

The day of the stick fight I baptized myself as instructed. Stinking powerfully of putrid cabbage, I took up the next bottle, and sank a hearty few mouthfuls. It was vile stuff, as I expected, but I overcame the rebellion of my taste buds and forced it down. Closing my eyes, I tried 10 gulps in row, and made impressive headway down the bottle. About one liter in, my stomach started spasming, and with half a liter to go, I felt a disconcerting rumble. If I stopped now, I’d never finish, so breathing heavily through my nose I pressed on and finished the last dregs. It was all gone. For a moment my stomach sat quite still. A short moment.

It never feels good to vomit, but it is far worse when one is losing some damned expensive potion. It came out violently and angrily, and left me feeling pretty spent. I surveyed the vegetables sadly, as my stomach made strange noises of relief. When it comes down to it, it seems the sacred can be just as ugly as the profane. I had asked for strength for the competition; I could only hope that my opponent had got the same kind of strength, and that he too was staring at his own vomit in a village somewhere over the hills.

Mark's Account:
Day 5
Morning came quickly and as I got up off the floor breakfast arrived. It’s 6 a.m. and the temp outside is already blistering. At 9 a.m. we were to be down by the river to prove that we were men. The river is about a two-mile walk away and on arrival we were greeted by the village warriors all sitting around a fire. This a real big tradition. Basically, there is a piece of cooked meat placed into the middle of the field on a stick, and one man then chooses to go and claim that piece of meat. Everybody wants a piece of this meat, so you then have to go and challenge that person to a fight in order to have it. It was our opportunity to compete at full speed with the locals; yes, we did have padded sticks but it was hard all the same. We all stood our ground really well but for me -- I don’t feel switched on. There isn’t a hunger or desire to compete; my mind isn’t there.

On that evening Brad and I were taken to a witch doctor to receive magic potions to give us strength, speed and agility. Hmmmmmm, I think they are trying to tell us something. It was a very strange but comical experience. All the same, I don’t think I will be trying them.

Day 7
This is the final day before the competition. It was time for our final test: three fights each with a local champion without padded sticks at full speed but no head shots are allowed. This was a big deal as for the first time we could potentially get hurt. I felt good and pulled out the best three fights of my life. My mind was on the ball with concentration, I only got hit once and that was on my thigh. I have a perfect stick mark remaining there, too! Ouch! It hurt but this guy went easy on us. All the same I had achieved the Zulu stick fighter status; I was in their eyes a man. All six of us passed the test, but I received a glance and a shake of the hand in acknowledgment for my tough fight. I earned his respect!

After the fights, in interview, he pointed me and Jason out as the better fighters on the day. I had come from the back to be at the front! I definitely have nothing to prove now, but my confidence is growing …