Moskito Coast braces for hurricane

September 4th, 2007 | By Kelsey | No Comments »

Hurricane Felix is about to hammer the Moskito Coasts of Honduras and Nicaragua. I followed the tag of my favorite t-shirt to the region in 2005. I have fond memories from the trip, including:

Teaching an island village to play baseball

Trekking though the jungle

Playing soccer

Trying to get on a boat with lobster divers

My brother’s being bit by a malaria carrying mosquito

The storm strengthened to a Category 5 this morning and is likely to threaten the livelihoods and the lives of many of the friends I made in 2005, including Kaiser and his family. My thoughts are with them this morning.

I’ll post links to any relief efforts in the future.

World Vision Report interview - Part 1

August 10th, 2007 | By Kelsey | 6 Comments »

My first interview (1 of 3) with the World Vision Report’s Peggy Wehmeyer airs this week. I discuss the origin of the quest, searching for the factory that made my t-shirt in Honduras and the one that made my underwear in Bangladesh.

Go here to find the time and date a station in your area airs the WV report

OR

Listen to it online now

Where am I wearing? highlights

August 4th, 2007 | By Kelsey | No Comments »

Here are all of the audio slideshows and “Made In” summaries in order:

The Quest

——————————————————–

Made in Bangladesh - My underwear

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Made in Cambodia - My all-American Cambodian blue jeans

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Made in China - because going barefoot sucks

Honduras & The greatest job ever

April 2nd, 2007 | By Kelsey | 1 Comment »

Not only was my trip to Honduras a great start to my quest, it also helped move my writing career along. I broke into some nice markets and radio with material from the trip. Check out a few of ‘em:

In the Christian Science Monitor

On the World Vision Report

In the matter of full-disclosure, while I have published many of the stories from the Honduras trip, I have yet to recoup the cost of the trip. Not even close. Yesterday someone told me that I have the greatest job ever. I do, but it’s expensive.

My T-shirt: The Factory

April 2nd, 2007 | By Kelsey | 4 Comments »

I’m already living the next chapter of my quest so I figure I better wrap up the first. Below the cut you’ll learn what San Pedro Sula, Honduras, is like and how I was received at the factory that made my t-shirt.

Go here to read about the Honduras experience in its entirety

(more…)

The adventure begins…

March 26th, 2007 | By Kelsey | 4 Comments »

And so I’m off to discover Where Am I Wearing. The next time I post will be from somewhere far from Ohio. Until then, enjoy this audio-slideshow that introduces the quest.

WARNING: This feature is rated PG-13 for excessive body hair.

My T-Shirt: Soccer in the Jungle

March 23rd, 2007 | By Kelsey | No Comments »

Tired of reading? It’s your lucky day. Listen to a story about Kyle and me playing soccer in Mocoron.

A few notes about the recording:

- I sound a little like Joe Dirt. There’s nothing I can do about it. People from Ohio aren’t supposed to have a southern accent, but I do. Lucky me.

- I will be calling into the World Vision Report radio program during the WAIW? Trip. I’ll probably do so twice. Once, when I’m ready to leave Bangladesh from Cambodia and again when I’m back home. The format will be an informal chat with the host Peggy who sounds ultra-intelligent. Speaking of which…

- I think my favorite part of the soccer recording is when Peggy reads my bio at the end of my piece. When I wrote: “He lives in the middle of a cornfield near Greenville, Ohio.” I thought this would be kind of humorous. But with Peggy’s nice and clear, I’ll-believe-anything-this-lady-says voice, it sounds like I actually live in the middle of a cornfield.

My T-shirt: Welcome to the Jungle

March 19th, 2007 | By Kelsey | 3 Comments »

My T-shirt: Welcome to the Jungle

“Toss me the shampoo.” Kyle holds out a hand.

“Man, did last night really happen?” I reach into the dugout canoe and grab the Head & Shoulders. The bottle falls short of Kyle and begins to drift down river. Kyle grabs it. The shampoo oozes out warm liquid and he gets a good lather going.

A bony cow crosses upriver. A scrawny calf follows, having to swim in the middle. You can tell by the pathetic up and down gyration of its head. They climb the opposite bank and mosey into the jungle.

“Can you believe what he did?” My eyes are shut tight and suds run down my face and back. “I was scared shitless.”

We both scrub at our mud-caked skin, revealing scratches.

Kyle and I have been on plenty of adventures together, most imaginary. Kyle, three years older than me, usually called the shots growing-up. There were the adventures of Black Man and Red Man. Both characters derived their names not from skin color or ethnicity but from armor color. They were both human cyborgs blessed with superpowers. But all cyborgs aren’t created equal and Kyle always got to be Black Man whose powers and intellect were far superior than Red Man’s. I was always Red Man, a sort of Tonto to Kyle’s Black Man.

When Kyle was Batman, I was Robin. Sometimes he even made me be Aquaman. The ability to summon whales is a pretty lame superpower when you are playing in a cornfield in landlocked Ohio. If I complained enough Kyle would bestow upon me new powers – never to exceed his own – only if I drank a freshly concocted magic potion that he had mixed in a test tube. It was usually purple.

Many evil enemies had fallen at our feet. We overcame horrendous monsters, ruthless villains, and maniacal plans against all odds. Missions and world saving were only interrupted for lunch, naps, and bed time. Our blood red Kool-Aid grimaces were feared by the evilest of enemies. Death played a roll in our imaginary adventures, but was never something that magic or healers couldn’t right.

Last night in the jungle we saw Death. It was slimy. It had teeth. And our guide whacked it over the head. It was a real adventure.

Rinsing off is easy. I hold my breath and submerge. I dig my hands into the rocky river bottom and hold fast against the current. The shampoo washes away. Pebbles and suspended sediment sneak into the lining of my shorts. I emerge soap free.

A naked boy stands on the near bank watching us. I wave to him and he runs off towards the village.

“Dude, for a moment, I thought you were a goner.” Kyle splashes water on his face and slicks back his hair. He tosses me the shampoo. We grab our extra-absorbent travel towels and walk up the bank to the village of Mocoron.

—–

Want to know what happened that night? Listen to the Audio slideshow or continue to Chapter 1: My T-shirt where you can read it yourself.

My T-shirt: MADE IN HONDURAS

March 16th, 2007 | By Kelsey | No Comments »

A line of tourists stretches out from the ticket counter. They wheel their luggage - double-stitched, stain-proof, Kevlar seamed - a foot closer to the counter. And then they wait patiently.

A family of four smiles and laughs. Newlyweds lean on each other. When they booked the flight, the vacation in the Caribbean sun and sand seemed eons away. They thought the day would never come, but now that it has and they can look out of the terminal and see rain forest, they stand in line content.

The newlywed bride points to me and laughs, “Great T-shirt. Fantasy Island, right?”

“Yep, Tattoo.” I spare them the tragic story of Herve.

“Da plane, da plane,” says the groom. His bride giggles, melts in his arms, and begins to stroke the chest hairs poking out of his flowered, seersucker shirt. Their line moves forward and they wheel a foot closer to the counter labeled ROATAN.

“Where you guys going?” She stops giggling and looks from me to my brother Kyle with some concern.

Our line is made up of dark-skinned locals. Their luggage - woven plastic shopping bags that appear to be cut from picnic table covers, and cardboard boxes sealed with layers of duct tape - sits at their feet. Kyle and I started somewhere in the middle of the line, but are slowly losing ground. Those that were behind us would strike up a conversation with someone in front of us. Then they would grab their bags and scoot their boxes around us. We just might be invisible.

“Puerto Lempira.” I say as two older men cut in front of us, leaving us at the end of the line.

“Oh.” The bride turns her attention from us back to her husband’s chest hair. “Anyhow, love the shirt.”

“Thanks.” For a moment I consider explaining our situation. That my Tattoo shirt inspired this trip to Honduras and we are following him to his tropical paradise. That I had called Delta Apparel, the manufacturer of my T-shirt and they told me it was stitched together at a factory south of San Pedro Sula and I would try to visit it. But before doing so I want to experience Honduras and when I think of Honduras I don’t think AIDS ravaged, polluted industrial center; I think jungle. So we are off to one of the most isolated regions in North America. And while we are there we just might join a biologist on his quest to locate the elusive American Crocodile. That I was spending a couple of grand pursuing stories that would be lucky to pay me, in sum, a few hundred dollars. Or, perhaps I was just running away. That Kyle had been in college for 12 straight years studying exercise physiology and had put his studies on hold for a few weeks to accompany me on what everyone thought to be a silly quest. That mom probably made him come.

I considered explaining all of this to her, but decided she wouldn’t believe it. Hell, I can’t believe it. Besides, Kyle doesn’t know about the croc hunt.

My T-shirt: A Quest is Born

March 9th, 2007 | By Kelsey | No Comments »

(Note: This is a continuation of the My Shirt narrative. The events below took place in 2005. To read the narrative in its entirety to date GO HERE.)

From our tiny apartment, I continued to weave the tales of my travels and try to sell them. I was published on a website which paid me $20 and then the Raleigh News & Observer published a story I wrote about spending the night in Castle Dracula in Romania. I was giddy. I got paid $150.

I have made less than $300 writing.

I want a career as a writer. Annie wants a commitment. We’re doomed.

We’ve lived in this apartment for a year and a half. Annie has decided she doesn’t want to be a nanny anymore and is going to move back home. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I guess I’ll move back home too.

The bathroom is a sauna. I stare down at the floor. Tattoo from the early 80’s TV-hit, Fantasy Island, smiles up at me from my T-shirt that sits atop the pile of clothes at my feet. It’s my favorite T-shirt. I wear it more than I should, often smelling it before putting it on. Annie thinks that’s kind of gross, but it’s something you get in the habit of doing when you travel a lot and have to do laundry by hand.

Tattoos eyes sparkle with mischief; his smile is too wide for his small head; his comb-over is perfect. “COME WITH ME TO MY,” hangs over his head and “TROPICAL PARADISE,” sits just beneath his dimpled chin.

My cousin Brice bought it for me when I lived in Key West. People that remember Fantasy Island and Tattoo’s catchphrase “Da plane…Da Plane,” get a big kick out of my shirt. A bit of Nostalgia, a dash of light-hearted humor, it’s a perfect T-shirt. But the life of Herve Villechaize was quite tragic.

Herve was a dwarf. Ridiculed throughout school in France, he moved to the USA to pursue a career in the arts. While living in New York City he worked as an artist and painter before turning to acting. His breakout roll was as Nick Nack in the James Bond film Man with the Golden Gun, which led to a roll as Tattoo in Fantasy Island. Destined to forever be a sidekick, Herve wanted to be paid the same as FI star Ricardo Montablan. The producers wouldn’t and he left the show. He turned to alcohol and killed himself at the age of 50.

But all of that is easy to forget while looking at his smiling face and the text beckoning me to follow him.

I pick up the shirt.

“Tattoo, where is this tropical paradise of yours?”

I look at the tag: MADE IN HONDURAS.

Call it the birth of a quest or a crazy escape plan from the rural Ohio lifestyle that waits, but something clicks - as long as I keep moving, reality can’t catch me.

I get in the shower and, for the first time in a long time, start to whistle.