I know someone named Rambo. Do you?

I have now spent four days in Den Haag, which is a cool city because it's not that touristy, people are nice as hell, the beach is really cool with nice temperature water, there are parks, etc. But I have been chilling full time at this place called Cremer's, after the hostel girl recommended it and I found out I could pick up Internet for free.

I have been here like six times now. I'm here right now, actually -- for two hours before I take a train to Berlin, and then on to Copenhagen Thursday.

In my many hours spent at Cremer's, I have met some interesting people. But the pattern has pretty much been crazy Dutch acid cartoon character guy, cool person not born in Holland, crazy Dutch acid cartoon character guy, cool people not born in Holland, and so on.

Geop (pronounced Joop!) and the other guy whose name I can't remember were the cartoon character people -- these types of crazies have one main sentence that they will tell you, and continue telling you in 30-second intervals until they finally depart from your presence. Geop's was, "I plan on studying in WisCONsin, I heard there's a uniVERsity there" (8 times). Where he picked Wisconsin, I have no idea. My money is he saw some MTV Spring Break special on some chicks from Madison. The other guy's was, "Everyone in Holland speaks ENGlish! We learn it in SCHOO-ule!" He seriously went through this for five minutes with me, and then capped off this brilliant oral dissertation with, "Soo....I guess that's why we speak ENGlish in HOLLand!"

But Rambo was one of the cool folks. He's from Turkey, but came to Holland in 1976.

He rolled up next to where I am sitting right now, in his wheelchair, and asked if he could sit with me. Soon, we began talking. Then, Lebanon came up.

"Too much killing, too much fighting. I do not support this."

Rambo sure wasn't living up to his namesake.

"I am Islamista," he said. But his form is Islamism did not sound too familiar. "Do you know why they fight us? They are scared of this..." Rambo searched for a pen before even trying to find the words, his English not refined enough to express the dream.

On the back of a coaster, he wrote one word.

ISLAM.

Then, a downward arrow. From that point, five arrows all pointing downwards, separated by about fifteen degrees each to give them their own, distinct directions.

Rambo took another coaster.

1.

It was an alpha & omega story, and only one word had to be written. Coaster No. 1 was today's Muslim world, divided by ethnicity, geography, language, culture and some pretty violent arguments between the Shia, who think Ali, Islam's fourth caliph, was all that and a bag of chips, and the Sunnis, who think he was just one big-timer in a list of many.

"They are scared that we will form this," he said once it became clear that I understood Coaster No. 1. Rambo was pointing at Coaster No. 2.

Islamists have a simple goal: the reunification of the ummah, the worldwide Islamic population. But Rambo didn't sound like he was too anxious to harken the reign of sharia in Holland. And he sure didn't sound like someone who wanted to see infidels die en masse. Rambo, who could probably still put a beat down on me despite having lost the use of his legs due to polio, was not your typical Islamista.

"You know what Quran say?" I couldn't say that I did. "It say you must respect the Bible. You no know that, see. Ahh," he waved me away, acting disgusted by my ignorance.

But his message intrigued me.

It was almost like a "We Are the World, We Are the Children" form of uniting all Muslims to live as brothers, just like Muhammad wanted it to be like. But not to be attained through violent means. A Muslim...Islamist...hippie?

Far out.

As he continued to pontificate, I got that feeling. You know the one. Like you've met this person before. In another life?

It was the way he spoke -- the way he said his words, the types of ideas he had...he sounded like Bob Marley would have had he grown up in Trenchtown, Saudi Arabia.

"Excuse me, Rambo, do you know who Bob Marley is?" I had to ask.

Rambo started to chuckle, as if to say, "What kind of question is that?"

"I learned English from listening to Bob Marley."

Holy God. I cannot describe the amount of restraint it took to not scream -- loudly.

"More, more," I said, wanting to hear the story.

"I started listening to him in 1982..."

"...One year too late!" I interjected. Rambo shook his head in dismay -- Bob Marley died in 1981.

"I learned one word at a time. I listen, and I ask my friend, I say, 'What is this? What is this?' And I learn that way.

"The beat really," he struggled for words, and just patted his heart with his fist, "...for me."

We talked about this for obviously another 30 minutes, exchanging favorite songs, phone numbers and the like. And when it was time to go, he insisted that I photograph him with something "very special to him."

Rambo was easy-going and very non-threatening the entire conversation, but it wasn't until he got on his scooter that I saw a real smile.