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.