Malaria Vida

On Having a Threesome with a Turtle

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 03:23:00 +0000

Basia and I headed to the Guatemalan coast to help break our icecream addiction.

At a beach-side cafe in Monterrico, we were having a pleasant conversation with romantic Casio salsa playing in the background.
"Close your eyes and give me your finger," whispered Basia with a wink.

While similar but not exactly the same as what I had imagined, we commenced playing a game called, 'guess where your finger is in your fish dinner'.
"Um...in its gills?"
"Ah, now its in the eye socket."
"Ouch, yep, that's definitely his mouth."

An immediate consensus was reached that swimming was not to be had at the local beach.

The new plan was to get away from the conch smoothies and head down a dirty path to a turtle hatchery. So, we jumped into the local bus which was a post-apocalyptic soccer-mom caravan with both sliding doors missing.

We were too busy peeling salty human jerky strips off our over-gamma-radiated bodies to realize that we had missed our turn for the turtle hatchery miles back.

Ironically, while we were looking for the turtle hatchery, we had come to a dead end town that was in the heart of a thriving turtle egg industry.

A quick power lesson about the state of harvesting turtle eggs in Guatemala. At the time, buying and selling turtle eggs is not illegal in Guatemala so long as the egg harvester could prove that they had donated 12 eggs of their batch to the local turtle hatchery for conservation. But, if volunteers found a nocturnal turtle nest first, then the volunteers could donate the entire nest of 100+ eggs to the local hatchery.

While there was some innocent animosity towards foreign volunteers, our presence was endearingly embraced as we confessed that we were there to see a turtle.

As there was no real predictable pattern to the when the female turtle would come ashore at night to lay her eggs, we joined the handful of egg hunters who walked the beach all night hoping to spot a turtle laying her eggs.
"Any turtles?" we would inquire.
"No turtles."
All night, we'd have this same quick conversation. But, it was clear. Like prized secret fishing holes, no one was sharing turtle intelligence with us.

After a night on the beach with our failed turtle mating calls, we returned home where our host family was eagerly awaiting us.
"Did you find any eggs?" they giggled.
"Not tonight."
And then the family compassionately embraced us.

Here comes the second lesson in turtle harvesting. The demand for turtle eggs is created by a myth that the eggs are a powerful aphrodisiac.

The next morning, a fisherman I had never met before put a cracked, leathered hand on my shoulder, "Gustavo, you look tired. Did you not find any turtle eggs?"

Not only was it clear that our host family was not buying our little story about being conservation volunteers, but it seemed as if the whole town had started a secret prayer pyramid for my problematic romantic plumbing.

"They think you have an arousal problem!" howled Basia.
"Look, my personal problem isn't funny...trust me...I wish I were less aroused too." I playfully retorted.

We walked back through the town and noticed how the whole town had started an informal parade to cheer on my junk. Families had set up plastic chairs along the dirt road to be sure not to miss the opportunity to wish luck upon the phallicly crippled gringo.
"Low moon tonight. This is a good sign. Good luck, Gustavo!"
"Gustavo! Gustavo! The crabs are quiet...yes, good conditions tonight, Gustavo."

After spending the day receiving support from half the town for my lackluster libido, we returned home for a pre-turtle hunting meal.
"Gustavo...I cooked a big meal for you two. Ionized air tonight, yes, good chance for turtles," announced our giggling host mom.

After dinner we joined the turtle hunters along the beach looking for turtle eggs.
"Any turtles?" we'd ask anonymous dark figures along the beach.
"No, Gustavo. No turtles."

We were all but losing hope to spot a turtle. But after secretly celebrating our own fertility, Basia spotted some turtle movement on the beach. Obviously, we had inspired this turtle to come lay her eggs in the sand.

I"ll have to say that watching a prehistoric cervix drop and discharge sloppy turtle eggs is maybe scientifically erotic.

Turtle Dropping Eggs from craig downing on Vimeo.

Okay, yes, true...because we had found the nest first, we could prevent all the eggs from being collected and sold. The problem was, that at the time, we didn't really know what to do with the eggs. We didn't know if it were safe to collect the eggs with our hands. We didn't know if we should mark the nest and have the hatchery staff come collect them. So, we concluded that for now we couldn't risk disturbing the nest. We would just sit close together and block anyone from seeing the nesting turtle directly behind us.

"Craig someone is coming!"
"Quick. Ah, let's make out so they get all awkward and don't come this way."
"Right and grope my boob...that'll make them stay away."
"Good one. I'll grunt some too."

This was obviously a perfect plan. The approaching egg hunters would totally quickly walk past us.
Grope, grope.
Grunt, grunt.

"Here they come!" I mumbled into Basia's mouth.
Grope, grope.
Grunt, grunt.

This was a great plan. They totally weren't going to notice the obvious turtle tracks leading directly to us.
"They are changing direction. They are coming right for us."
"More groping! More grunting!"

We were foolish to not realize that egg hunters are highly adapt at identifying turtle tracks in the sand. The dark figures walked right up to us.
"Hey, Gustavo. Did you see a turtle near by?"
As a last ditch effort, we doubled up on the groping.
"A turtle? Here? Nope. No turtle here," I shared between grunts.

It was futile. They turned on their flash lights to reveal the bizarre scene: Two turtlephiles caught in the spotlight, 8th-grade-boob-groping with a huge turtle directly behind them.
"Oh, right, you mean this turtle," I confessed with my tongue still in Basia's mouth.

For some reason, there was a slow long pause. Then another long pause. I kept repeating, please let us live.

The egg hunting couple then offered a lucrative price for the eggs. But, we made it clear that the eggs weren't for sale.

Another offer was given. Again, we repeated that the eggs weren't for sale.
"Ah...I understand, Gustavo. You need all those eggs just for yourself. Oh, yes, we understand."

I released Basia's breast to protest, but the couple had already slipped off into the darkness to share this new update with the rest of the town.

Leaving for Rehab

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 02:36:00 +0000

Muna and I were heading back to Antigua so we could proudly brag to our friends that we had recently survived a near fatal digestive disaster.

In Antigua, I celebrated my new found freedom from intestinal incontinence by going on a photo field trip with Basia.

Stop. Don't let this cute Polish girl trick you. She is an enabler. She took clear advantage of the fact that recently I hadn't consumed anything but methane in the past four days. She knew very well what she was doing when she paid for that first gateway dose of double dipped ice cream.

At first, our photo field trips were personally enriching. We were present, engaged and aware of the photo aesthetics of our surrounding.

But slowly the, oh so tasty (focus!), ice cream was taking over our photos, our choices and ultimately our lives.

It became less about being creative and more about avoiding reality while hiding behind the false security and cheap thrill of ice cream. Before we knew it, everything revolved around the ice cream. It controlled us. We couldn't do anything without including ice cream. What started as an innocent treat became way out of control and now had become an insatiable need.

We had to free ourselves from the triggers. We had to rediscover our connections with people and our real surroundings. We had absolutely no choice but to leave Antigua and head to the Guatemalan beach coast to break this destructive cycle.
"I'll be back for work on Monday, right?" confirmed Basia.
"Totally. Two days--tops." I over confidently assured.

Mudslides and Maritime Disasters

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 03:46:00 +0000

I was at lake Atitlan, Guatemala to recuperate from my chicken bus cannonball run from the north. Sadly, the recovery was too late. Muna, our traveling OCD ambassador, broke her bouts of being bed ridden by dashing to our shared bathroom for digestive exercise. I had decided to celebrate dodging the diarrhea bullet with some pleasant tea in a local cafe.

"Yes, I'll take a refreshing mint tea, please," I proudly announced.
"Would you like--"
I didn't hear the rest of what the waiter said as, immediately in that very instant, everything changed.

I was experiencing the rapid onset of diarrhea-seizures of the bowels. A clammy wave of goosebumps rippled down my back. My pants felt humid. It was obvious that the barometric pressure in my manties was abruptly changing.
I interrupted the waiter, "Sorry. Better hold on that order. I'm not going to make it. I better leave before I soil my stool."

And with that I hopped down, leaving the confused waiter with a pretty decent pun as I made a mad rush for the the front door as a Guatemalan mudslide was rushing for my back door. I went left; my digestive system went right. For the love of God, pucker, Craig, pucker!

I was experiencing a high-velocity, category-5 digestive hurricane. Bolting down the street back to my hotel, I was caboose clenching so hard I was sure I was going to give myself scoliosis. Ah, rump cramp! I'd over done it.

To stall the digestive exorcism, I pressed my rump against a wall for some needed extra back pressure. I could see the hotel. Breath, Craig, breath. I gave myself a wedgie for insurance and just ran for it.

For some reason, I tried thinking about circular breathing. And, in that crisis moment I am pretty sure that I invented un-Lamaze. Craig--not here. Containment!

While almost bloating my pants, I burst through the hotel room door.
"Craig did you find any latex gloves or--"
"No time, Muna!"

I then made a mental note that my belt was not diarrhea friendly. I would patent the quickest-release, diarrhea-friendly belt. No, not here, not this close. I was fumbling with my belt like a starlet fumbles with door keys while being pursued by her killer. Come on! Come on! I was manically prancing and jumping to get my pants go down faster and then...

Porcelain. I had made it. My toes stretched then curled into knots, my lower lip unattractively quivered, and the backs of my knees released a never-experienced glandular sweat as I appreciated full excretal Nirvana.

"Impressive," mumbled bed-ridden Muna while trying to breath from inside her pillow case.
My rear fanny faucet wouldn't stop.
"What was that?" Muna hollered.
I responded over the high dB levels of BM flow, "I'm a little worried that if this doesn't stop, I'll die of dehydration."
"Can you at least shift your flow to the bathtub. My booty brakes just gave out too."

We spent the next three days tethered to our bathroom. Though, we found ways to keep ourselves entertained. For example, we timed the duration of our fecal leaks, dutch oven-ed the entire hotel, and we tried to get high off lethal levels of methane.

Our symptoms were ever changing. Sometimes we had the chills. Then we had moist fevers. Then there were times when our legs would have the chills but our arms would have a fever.

From our beds, we asked each other for updates.
"Anything solid?"
"Nope, still soup."

Watching the light change through the window, we counted the days. By day four, we were tired of being diarrhea prisoners. We were willing to risk a quick field trip. First we tried five steps in front of our hotel door.
"You good?"
"Yep. You?"
"Uh huh."
Then ten steps more.
"I'm feeling lucky."
"I'm good--wait...false alarm--just a methane fairy. I'm dry. Let's keep going."

Our ambitious goal was to make it to the dock for a quick jaunt to the other side of the lake. Our idea was that if we pretended we weren't dying from diarrhea, we would recover faster. It was a little thing I like to call mind over fecal matter.

We shuffled our way to the docks.
"Good?"
"My ballasts are empty. Let's do this."

We'd come so far that regardless of our hemorrhaging bowels, we were determined to get pictures of this panoramic paradise.

During our quick photo shoot, Muna found a convincing I-don't-have-diarrhea face and stuck with it.

I tried but couldn't stay focused.

"Muna, I'm sensing some seismic activity. We better get back to home base."

So, the diarrhea duo took the next boat back across the lake. Oh, heavens, you think yourself so very funny. I know, I know.
"Muna, why is the boat slowing down? Seriously."

And here, exhausted from sphincter stress, I kid you not, our boat runs out of gas. In the middle of the lake, we were equal-distant from any available bathroom.
"Muna this is bad." I stated the obvious.

Like good Guatemalans, everyone else on the boat was just going to patiently wait for the non-existent lake tide to take us to the shore as I was struggling to hold back a digestive tsunami. I had to take action.

I leaned over to the boat captain and quietly informed him that my friend there had an unholy case of diarrhea. I went on to share that Muna could easily produce a certain quantity not unlike the volume of this very boat to which we would all sink and die.
"Really?"
"En serio." I confirmed.

As everyone blatantly scooted away from her, Muna explained, in better Spanish than me, that I was lying and was suffering from delusional diarrhea. But everyone was too busy mad-dialing the diarrhea Make-A-Wish Foundation to get us some emergency boat fuel.

Three speed boats scrambled to our aid.

When we arrived at the dock, everyone insisted we both disembark first. We thanked everyone for their understanding. I then promptly took both of my hands and held my rear flanks pressed together as Muna and I shuffled back to our diarrhea dungeon.

Hygiene Mugging and 13 Surgical Stitches

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 02:32:00 +0000

"Hand-Sanitizer Rape!" I protested as our friend Muna was cornering me with two pump-action sanitizer bottles.
"Craig, when you sit on my bed, your perineum secretes oils onto my bed!" complained Muna.
Looking at her itchy trigger fingers on the approaching antiseptic lotion bottles, I questioned, "What--you gonna sterilize my perineum?"

With Muna almost being an institutionalized obsessive clean freak and me suffering from attention to hygiene deficiency disorder, in reality, we weren't doing that bad while we shared our travel space.

We had just arrived in Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. We were going through our daily negotiation for the rules of where I could sling my jock-itch socks and my explanation of why it was unnecessary to use hand sanitizer on the room's Television screen. An agreement was reached and we air shook hands--real handshakes spread Japanese Encephalitis.

I was then off on a mission. See, I had recently discovered that the end of my shoe was developing a hole. I would never admit this to Muna, but the hole in my shoe couldn't have been a more clear reminder of the fact that I needed to clip my Appalachian talon toe nails. Shhh!

So, not wanting a hygiene lecture from DJ OCD, I secretly dashed off to purchase, this thing called, a toe nail clipper and to make an appointment for shoe surgery. Thirteen stitches later, mission accomplished!

Ironically and, well, not surprisingly, Muna was bed ridden and feeling ill when I returned. So, I was left to wander around the little town of San Pedro.

Sometimes I get so focused on trying to find the perfect nachos, the fastest dial-up internet, the cheapest tour package, and the best place to get mugged that, honestly, I sometimes forget why I love traveling so much. So, I was completely travel t-boned when I got sideswipe by a spontaneous spectacular parade.

I had no idea what the parade was about. But, from the looks of it, neither did the locals.

Minus the fact that it looked like a gang had looted a costume shop, the event was a fusion of every secret society and world celebration compressed into one exciting parade. It was part Mardi Gras and part Illuminati.

Fireworks were cracking, people were clapping, and musicians were singing to this unique music. It was so true and real. I laughed imagining another me tied to my office chair with CAT5 Ethernet cable secretly looking online for a cheap escape airline ticket to travel bliss. The whole event in the street was so authentic and unpretentious. Sure enough, and I hate it when this happens, but I started to cry. But really, I didn't have a chance. The event was so beautiful and real.

I thought being the only tourist there it might be a problem. But, everyone was so inclusive with me. I don't know why, but as I followed the parade, people randomly started giving me high fives. And then the alpha pirate priest nodded invitingly to my camera.

Some dude was lugging car batteries for the parade's 3-ton tsunami speaker. There he was dancing an almost levitating jig. How could I resist buying him a bag of water. He was grateful as I watched him catch it in his mouth, puncture it with one of his canine teeth and hydrate without ever using his hands.

Wait! Then for a second, within this hokie small-town tradition, I was afraid that everyone was giving me high fives because the secret society had picked me to be the honorary annual sacrifice.
"Who cares, silly! Keep taking pictures!" demanded my camera.

I followed the razzmatazz royal parade for a bit longer and then ducked down an escape ally to go back and check in on Muna, our travel cohort.

"Yeah, and then, Muna, get this! They were giving me high fives and--"
"--Craig, wait. Did you first clean the water bottle cap with antibacterial baby wipes?" questioned Muna.
"Kind of...and then, wait. Where was I? Oh yeah. At the parade, they had masks on and--oh right. Look! I fixed my shoe--"
"--Nice...but did you actually wash your hands before you used the antibacterial baby wipes on my water bottle?"
"Oh, Muna. Seriously, you are so, so, so OCD."
"And, Craig, you are so, so, so ADD."
"Air high fives?" I offered.
"Air high fives." agreed Muna.
Swoosh.

Projectile Vomiting and Mayan Mojo

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 16:48:00 +0000

Our friend Muna was eager to get to the Mayan site of Tikal, Guatemala.
"I signed us up for the sunrise tour," she announced with a smirk.

We both knew that we'd leave at 4:15 a.m. the next morning and that we would most likely fall asleep at the temples and miss the sunrise anyway.

I don't remember getting up that next day at a punishing hour. But, I did remember when I started to become aware that I was on a bus.

"Muna...Muna...are you awake?" I whispered.
She gave me an opinionated answer by punching me in the ribs.
"Seriously, Muna. Is this really happening?"
"Yes, Mayan temples...heart of a lost civilization...sunrise tour...blah, blah, blah. Yes, it's happening, " she mumbled.
"No, Muna. Look."
Somehow my agnostic prayers had been answered. Looking and listening, I had noticed that I was alone on a bus full of Scandinavian women. It was as if I were being smuggled into a girls volleyball camp.
"You're welcome," Muna offered as I was still flattening my stubborn eyebrow hairs and manically rubbing my arm pits to stir up some irresistible pheromone musk.

As I was kind of hoping the bus drive would have a quick and painless aneurysm so we all could be a little more alone, one girl abruptly stood up and vomited out three pancakes, grape Gatorade and a tequila worm. My fantasy was officially over.

We went on to drive in seven minute bursts pulling over each time for our prolific puker to create another 1 mile roadside marker. Muna offered her a napkin, which our afflicted passenger promptly puked through with velocity vomit. Our vomiting passenger tried to apologize but couldn't help replacing all her prepositions with hurl.

Eventually the chucker passed out from vomit exhaustion and the bus rushed to the Tikal temples.

"Come on Muna, please!"
I was whining to Muna to stealthfully take a picture of me with our girls volleyball team.
"Will you promise to shower?" Pleaded Muna.
"Yes, yes. I promise to wash all my lymph node crevasses," I feverishly announced.

We then entered the Tikal temple park. But, due to either getting up so early that it was basically still yesterday, the 274 kelvin heat, or the powerful Mayan Mojo, Muna and I kind of went nuts at the temples. For example, we decided to have some sort of human panther photo shot:

Muna kept insisting on getting choking pictures:

I decided it was a good idea to put a fat and hairy spider in my food-filthy hands:

And, I concluded that descending down bends-inducing stairs was a great location to close one eye and experience the loss of parallax vision.

Overall, even though no one got blow-darted and absolutely no one would sell me a magical Toucan beak, I was not disappointed with the temples.

In gratitude for the international passengers on our bus, I thanked the Mayan spirits. I also asked for forgiveness for flat out lying to Muna about promising to shower.

The Economy of Bribes While Kind of Being a Traitor

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Sun, 28 Nov 2010 16:39:00 +0000

Crap! Leaving my Mexican hotel for Tikal, Guatemala, I had realized that once again, Captain Details, had added to his unplanned extensive collection of 2nd and 3rd world hotel keys.

I was heading to Tikal for a little Mayan get away. Tikal is basically the Machu Picchu of Central America.

Though, to be completely honest, initially I was hella ho-hum about Tikal. But, then I discovered that a little known movie called Star Wars filmed a scene there. Now, I was on a thirteen hour bus/boat combo to be in the very holy presence of where the revered Sir Hans Solo once stood--the rebel base on the jungle moon of Yavin 4!!

Even after stashing my ever-growing hotel key collection in another passenger's bag, there were immediate problems at at the remote Mexican/Guatemala border crossing.

"$26," demanded the Mexican agent as he seized my passport while somehow not looking up from his lunch.
"Yes, good sir, but as we both know very well, as I have spent less than one week in your fine country, I am unfortunately exempt from your very reasonable fee of $26," I humbly offered.
My Passport was put in a draw as the original financial request was repeated.

"See, I wish not to pay as it would disrespect the upstanding law that exempts me from this fee."
"Okay, okay. $14." The original retail rate was kindly reduced.
"Ah, you see, here on my Yahoo-answers print out. You can clearly read that this is really no need for me to pay this fee in my case."
"$5. That's the best I can do," offered the agent.
"The fact is, professional and just border agent, that I don't have such money."
"There is an ATM back in Palenque," shared the border agent.
"Why, that's two hours in the opposite direction."
"No worries. We will wait. Your passport will be safe with us."
"Well, in that case, I'll just take back my passport and take my chances swimming across the river to Guatemala."
"Sergio!" the agent called in back up.

My passport was presented to the supervisor while the current pricing structure in our bartering situation was explained.
"$4.50," offered the supervisor while tapping my passport.
Both the supervisor and the original border agent optimistically turned to me with clear indication that this was a very good price.

But, it was true. I really had no money so I made one last very lucrative offer.
"Okay, look. How about this. I promise, during the next World Cup, to generously support and cheer for Mexico."
There was a stunned pause. In surprise, both the supervisor and the agent turned to each other to reflect on this new more valuable offer. There was much emphatic nodding.

They then both fought over themselves for the honor of stamping my passport. They respectfully compromised by putting both of their hands on the border stamp and validated my passport together. My passport was then dusted off and gently placed in my hand. Then, gleeful hand shakes were offered from the border cage.
"Thank you for visiting Mexico. Good day, sir!"

Mr. Rebel, Can I Have My Passport Back?

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Sun, 28 Nov 2010 00:07:00 +0000

At the time, my Guatemalan visa was about to expire. But, I discovered a look-tight loop hole where if I reached over the border and dangled my passport in Mexican airspace, snap, I could instantly reset my Guate' visa.

"Gooooooooooooo..."
"Como?" The Mexican border agent was confused about my loud long extended celebration.
"...laaaaaassooooooo!!! Oh, sorry. Argentina just scored a goal."
"Against Mexico," added the unamused border agent as he held my not-yet-stamped passport.
He expressed his displeasure with my World Cup antics by power-hammering a stamp into my passport. I quickly jumped back on the bus before he stuffed me into an underground mule tunnel to Detroit.

"Hello! There is no toiler paper in here!" I yelled from the Mexican hotel bathroom.
"$1!" replied the local hotel staff.
I replied by clearly articulation that I was then not accountable for how I may or may not use the bathroom faucet to clean myself if paper was not properly and freely provided. A square piece of 300-count Egyptian cotton was slipped under the bathroom door. I was happy. Actually, I was also a little nervous. See, before leaving Guatemala, I was given a hot lead for visiting and interviewing Zapatista rebels.

I dashed out of my hotel to meet my initial Zapatista contact. My instructions were to knock on an unmarked door that was directly in front of a local church. The surveillance cameras around the door would identity which door. Unfortunately, when I arrived, I couldn't see any door that looked promising. I only saw a bunch of shoe stores and hammock shops.

"Can I help you?"
"You sure can," I confided. "Well, see, I'm ah...I'm here to interview, you know..."
While tweaking my optimistic eyebrows, I nodded my head to the Subcomandante Marcos T-shirts hanging on the wall.

There was a show of him all pretending to look confused. That's cool. With us both standing there alone in the store, I just let the awkward pause hang there, using it to my advantage to let him know that I was serious.

I wiggled my eyebrows again to break the silence. He responded by knotting his.

To let this Zapatista secretary know I was serious. I kind of lied and said, "Look. It's okay, compadre. I have an appointment."
There that will speed things up a little bit.

While it might have looked like he was gesturing to the door for me to leave, I knew that he really meant for me to speak with the sympathetic taxi driver out front. I hopped into the taxi satisfied that I was finally getting somewhere. The taxi driver merged with the traffic.
Though it really wasn't necessary, I proudly announced our obvious destination, "La Oficina de Los Zapatistas, por favor."

In an unprecedented act in the history of all taxi drivers, he actually released the car horn to be sure that he had indeed heard me correctly.
Exaggerating a little bit, I confessed, "It's cool, my friend. I know the password."
The taxi driver reclined his chair all they way back into my lap to be sure that he had heard me correctly.
"Oh?" the driver was waiting or confused.
I leaned forward to share the password, "...'Rage Against the Machine'..."
The driver promptly dropped me off at the next street corner.

Okay, fine, this wasn't working out so well. New plan. I had solid intelligence on where their compound was. I'll just go there directly myself, interview all the top ranking commanders, get deputized, snip' an enemy and then, of course, be invited to be a lifetime board member.

While taking a shuttle out of town to the Zapatista compound, I was day dreaming about how I would surely meet a female rebel. I would woe her with my hand-stitched ski mask that would have a heart-shaped opening for her beautiful eyes, bridge of her nose and eyebrows.

Suddenly the shuttle stopped and the door swung open. As the shuttle tore off, I was hurdled out in front of a Zapatista guard box.
"Good Day," came from a motionless ski mask.
And a good day to you, sir Zapatista rebel.

I was handed a customs form and asked to hand over my passport for review. I was standing at a blockaded road with two guard boxes. Behind the guard boxes was a small little Zapatista town with a dirt road that went to a parade field.

"We will confirm with the commanders that you may enter," reported the guard.

My application and passport were handed off to another masked rebel who ducked into a nearby office to review my application. Not that I was worried, but I did appreciate that I had just simply handed over my passport to two masked rebels. I then asked the rebel guard if he had a ski mask tan line. He responded by asking me to step back and to put away my camera.

As I knew with unquestionable confidence that I was personally being watched during my security review, I wanted to look as pleasant, cooperative and socialist as possible. So, loudly, for all to hear, I greeted every single passing pedestrian and then emphatically waved to them as they crossed the visible horizon. I spontaneously and unconditionally helped an elderly lady shuck corn. And finally, I discreetly dragged four local kids over to the guard so that he could see me give them each an identical Popsicle. Clearly I would be fast-tracked into the rebel compound.

Overall, I must admit, I was thoroughly impressed with the meticulousness of my security review as I was able to observe three hourly guard changes.

Then a naked-faced Canadian announced, "You know you can wait in their information booth."

He also shared that he had already been waiting for seven hours.
I thought about this and then shared my solution, "Mmm, maybe if we bought ski masks from the shop across the street, well, we could just walk right into the compound without any issues at all."
Doubt was expressed.
I followed up with, "But, what if we added life-size cut outs of Subcomandante Marcos' face under our ski masks--"
"--They'd noticed," concluded the pessimistic Canadian.
"Right. But not if you created a distraction, like, by dropping your pants. Huh? What do you think now?"
Due to his questionable cooperation in the face of all that is logical, I was forced to conclude that he was part of the elaborate security review process.

While I let my Canadian team mate have more time to think about my perfect plan, I remembered a recommendation by some of my friends and got my picture with the Zapatista soccer team.

Still there hadn't been any decision on my security clearance. Obviously, they were too busy showing off my Facebook pix to all their squadron leaders.

But, with their media black out and the last transportation back home leaving in 10 minutes, I had to concede that my fantasy of hijacking the heart of a Zapatista rebel wasn't going to happen. I also concluded that it best not to have a summer slumber party with remote revolutionary rebels anyway as it might trigger a spontaneous second menopause with my ever-worrying mother. So, I asked to have my passport back. And to insure a better chance for my Canadian friend, I left after advising the Zapatista guard not to worry because I was absolutely 100 percent sure that other white guy was definitely not a spy.

On Being the New Director of an NGO

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 05:51:00 +0000

As children in neighboring towns were using dead dogs for soccer balls, my mouth was in Antigua single-handedly making owning an ice cream shop a sudden lucrative business. But, as the newly appointed dictator of my recently chartered NGO, Misanthropes Without Borders, I made the executive decision to put down the cappuccino chocolate-dipped pistachio ice cream waffle cone and get back to volunteering. EducArte was the first organization to snatch up the contract agreeing to my exorbitant fees of 1.3 million pro bono dollars. From there, the process started to run like an underground political liberation group. I was told to wait at an unmarked street corner. No other info.
"Are you Gustavo?"
"Maybe..."
"We have a pickup truck waiting."

I had passed the first level of security. I was walked around a corner where an unlicensed white pickup truck was waiting. The dark purple tinted window of the pickup truck rolled down an inch and I shook the hand that emerged.
"Quick. In the back. Others are waiting."

I threw in my tripod and my camera bag. In the back of the bouncy pickup truck, my initial contact continued to stare at me from her over-sized reflective aviator sunglasses. As she monitored me, I amused myself by lathering on sunblock of 60 SPF--5 SPF points from effectively being tar.

Though I could see that no one was following us, we continued to manically snafu through cobble stone alleys.

We then stopped in front of an ice cream shop. Instinctively, my stomach stretched open and I leaned forward to get out. Senorita Aviators slowly shook her head. I sat back down frustrated with myself that I had just given away one of my weaknesses.
"Hello..."
Where the hell did you come from?
There was now an older gentleman sitting next to me in the back of the truck.
I introduced myself, "Hi, I'm a volunteer."
"Right, I'm a professor."
Of course, the one time in my entire life that I'm not sarcastic.

The truck lurched forward. Professor Sarcasm and I jerked backwards. Senorita Aviators remained perfectly still.

Almost head-butting me, Professor Sarcasm leaned over and whispered, "We are glad to have you on board."
I pursed my lips and nodded instead of saying anything incriminating in case he had a mic.

Even before we stopped, Senorita Aviators had already leapt from the truck perfectly timing her landing with the exact moment the truck actually came to a stop. With her aviators still pointed at us, she stuck out her arm and knocked three and a half times on a piece of plywood stuffed into a clay wall. It opened. Senorita Aviators discreetly articulated with her head that we should enter.

We were shuffled into a storage shed where behind potato sacks sat a young couple working on an elementary-school-surplus Dell computer.
"Hi. We're from Berlin."
Of course! There's always a couple from Berlin. This group was serious.
"He's our volunteer."
I wondered why no names were being used.
"We should load up the equipment now."
I didn't ask any questions as we loaded heavy crates and ambiguous black trash bags into the back of the truck. We were driving to the front lines. I was being given a personal escort to the epicenter of a recent catastrophic mudslide outside of Antigua, Guatemala.

We drove up to the police lines. Senorita Aviators nodded to the security guards in aviators. They nodded back. The police line was lifted and we drove through. While facing us, Senorita Aviator reached back and tapped the truck cab one time with one finger and the truck stopped.
Professor Sarcasm confessed, "We don't have much time. Follow me."

Professor Sarcasm and I jumped out as the truck drove on with Senorita Aviator still staring back at us leaving me to wonder if she hadn't sustained a recent neck injury that minimized her neck mobility.

"In here..."
Professor Sarcasm and I ducked down into a muddy ally way. Okay, to save me time just add the word 'muddy' before every noun I use here. See, a recent catastrophic mudslide had slammed into everything. Though, staring down at the corrugated sheet metal at my feet, I didn't really see what the big deal was. Well, until I realized that the corrugated sheet metal was a roof and basically the whole town was underneath me buried in wet mud. Then I noticed more from the flat nondescript mud lot. I noticed stiff dog legs sticking up from piles of mud. I saw antennas from houses cornering up from the surface. The complete houses I did see had mud oozing from the top windows.

"There! Take a picture there!"
Professor Sarcasm was helping me figure out what was disastrous in this disaster. I saw people using whatever they could to move the hopeless tons of mud. I saw people using their hands, soggy pieces of cardboard and coveted shovels.

"And look here!"
After a week, some houses had been cleared. You could see by the unwashed walls how high the mud tide had reached.

It all seemed hopeless to me. It seemed more logical to just secede to the mud--to just move on, start over and build a new town. It was like watching someone mining with a toothpick. But, there they were. Impoverished farmers from the entire region grabbing a shovel without asking and, shoulder to shoulder, moving mega tons of mud one tiny shovel at a time. Unfazed, they hadn't stopped for a week. My camera felt embarrassing.

"And now this way...pictures of the kids..."
Professor Sarcasm handed off a jug of water and rushed me back to the town square. The crew from the truck had set out to help the now homeless kids. Even for just an hour, this organization had set up the most make shift art and book center for these stranded kids. With just some basic books, paper, balls and hula hoops, they had set up an engrossing kid zone in the middle of this disaster.

Even for just that afternoon, the kids could look at books, art, clowns, puppets and effectively turn their eyes away from all the destruction. I had to remind myself that I wasn't a douchebag with a camera. I had to remind myself that this was how I was asked to help. I saw that with some paper and a scrap piece of carpet, this group had created an art school. With just three balls they had created a magical circus. And, with some donated books they had created an enriching library.

I was so impressed with what this group was doing with so little. The impact was impossible to ignore and I was beaming with, uh oh, happiness. In the food camp, with glee I gulped down the soup made from the rain gutter run off. I giggled when, in the commotion, I was left behind and had to hitch a ride with a clown. And, I was still giddy the next day when Senorita Aviators sent me a directive via text message:
2pm. Corner of 2a Calle. Have the picture data disc.

Because I couldn't wait, I was an hour early. And, as I was so proud to contribute in anyway, I failed to compliment Senorita Aviators on her security bike with its pink banana seat before she efficiently peddled away with the pictures.

It's a Poop Party!!

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 02:43:00 +0000

After volunteering all day shoveling mud, I went dancing at a bar in Antigua, Guatemala. The music was loud so I had to yell.
"Hey, you want to get your poop tested tomorrow?!!!"
"That sounds like fun!!!"
Yes it does.
But my friends immediately pulled her aside as I watched her then promptly leave.
"Craig, she thought you asked her out for coffee."
Seems like I had some quick vocabulary questions for my Spanish teacher the next day.

"Do you want to test your poop?"
"That's correct, Gustavo."
"Look, I don't want to play games."
"Pardon."
"I said do you want to test your poop."
"Very good, that is right, Gustavo."
She was obviously scared.
"You know what I'm saying."
"Yes, of course."
"I'm asking you a question, right?"
"Yes, that's right. I understand your question."
She was toying with me. She was good. But I was persistent.
"I will ask you again."
"Okay, Gustavo."
"Do you want to test your poop?"
"Very good!"
"No, it's a question."
"Yes, that's right."
"Please stop resisting."
Things got awkward.
I should clear things up.
"Look, it's only $3 to test your poop."
The game was over. She looked defeated. She couldn't help noticing my poop testing passion.
There was a long Spanish sigh, "I suppose, Gustavo, you--"
Quickly from underneath my half completed homework, I revealed $6.
"--We...are now going to get our poop tested during class."
"High-fives!!"

In the clinic I explained the plan, "...And then, at the poop party, we're all going to play trivial games with our poop results--"
"Gustavo Cachuate Bajando?"
"Oh, that's me--it's Showtime!"

Back at the hostel, I was fielding questions for my marketing of the poop lab tour.
"Only $3!?"
"Results in thirty minutes!?"
Two hours later I was back at the poop lab with six eager poopers.

Our names were individual called. Our team was very supportive with raucous rounds of applause each time a member of team poop emerged proud and productive.
"Good on you, Alex!"
"That's way more than a gram, Adam."
"It looks cute!"
And, to be completely honest...it was cute. See, I had decided that before handing in my second nugget, I would personalize the process.

Now look here. If you want a corporate team building exercise, I tell you--poop testing. Look, I now have new friends for life. I know, even now, that someone is already planning our poop testing anniversary chat-room party. It's a social fact, once you have seen someone else's texture, you create an untouchable universal timeless bond.
"Whoa, player, don't even be looking at my results! You know the rules. No looking at the results until the poop trivia tonight."

Before we left, Victor, the poop lab tech, needed a word with me.
"Your friend Adam has parasites. He needs to see a doctor immediately."
"Sure, sure. But, Victor, isn't their something you need to tell me about my adorable sample?"
Like how you are going to use it for a bolo tie, how it's your new lab mascot, or how you're going to use it as a playful crayon...

To celebrate that Adam was dying, we decided to get impressive decorations for the poop party. I say, hello, poop piñata! Well, not quite, we had to make one. Adam was impressed with the details.
"It even has my parasite on it!"

Quickly the poop trivia started.
"Who can beat my starch score of 7?"
"My mucus score of 2 trumps!!"
"Whoa--there. Ace in the hole. I got a yeast score of 8!"

The big surprise of the night was that the winning poop was from the dog poop in front of the lab that I had submitted. Science.

"Craig...do you know why Mike just left?"
"Absolutely no idea."
"Well, he said you told him that the piñata had poop and peanuts in it."
"Listen to me carefully. You can not trust that guy."

For the rest of the night, we creeped out our hostel mates by beating the shit out of our poop piñata and congratulating ourselves for having very healthy pH levels with our poop.

The Smell of My Burning Flesh

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 20:13:00 +0000

"With a paper clip?"
In Antigua, Guatemala, I was trying to explain to, Alex, my British hostel mate why I wanted to visit the nearby volcano.
"Yeah, I've bent it into a design."
"But, why?"
"To be branded and scarred by the boiling lava of an ancient volcano. Need I say more?"

Yes, sure some daredevils visit lava to roast marshmallow or even roast chicken meat. But, I was to cook my own flesh branding myself from the bellowing heat from active lava. Concerns? Too late, as I was already in the shuttle heading to the nearby lava.

"Antigua has great examples well-preserved baroque architecture."
Our driver was blabbing about the history of Antigua when he should really be telling me at which temperature human flesh cooks.

I was rubbing my homemade paperclip brand in my pocket hoping that we timed our arrival perfectly with the lava high tide. Me and my flesh had been promised an unfordable river of lava.

Grandpa tell us about that amazingly way cool scar on your forearm.
Being fully transparent with my Grand kids, I would confess that every 10,000 years a pagan high priest of the highest Omega order is invited to have the sacred mark produced by the fire of wild lava. I was that person.

We arrived at the gates of the park for the powerful lava tour. There were no candles made from the fat of sacrificed goats. Points were deducted.

Before I pulled out my money, secretly hidden under the sole in my shoe, I interrupted the park attendant who was talking about the entrance fee, "--yeah, yeah, but where do most people fall into the lava."
"Yes there is lava today."
Though, disappointed that he didn't talk in creepy Esperanto, he did add his own touch by stroking a kitten for no real reason while he answered.

As someone in the shuttle embarrassingly asked if we could cook marshmallows, I secretly got the eye contact of the park attendant, flashed some extra money and displayed my mouth's incisors while gesturing that he should give me the kitten. We were ushered into the park.

Okay, I see the volcano and fields and fields of black smoldering black moon rock. Yes, not bad. But no powerful lava. Our tour guide was trying to get us excited about the thing that was not lava.
"Look! Black rocks!"

I had decided that our guide had exactly 6 minutes and 66 seconds to show me a blistering river of lava before I hammered my paper clip design into his tender temple with said black rock.

We came to a stop. Our guide was confused and sad.
He explained, pointing to an area of unremarkable black rock, "There was so much lava here yesterday. Now it has stopped and it is just black rock."
This just won't do. I can't burn myself here. A scar from basically a tepid mountain charcoal doesn't sound half as powerful.

I knew that our guide knew where the lava was but just wanted more money. I grabbed a piece of dull rock and let him see that I was sharpening an arrowhead the exact size of his eyeball socket.
"Oh, wait. I know where there might be some lava."
He's a smart man.

We were lead to a barbed wire fence where an old woman with a knotted wooden staff says for a small fee we may pass.
"You may pass closer to the volcano at your own risk."
I was already halfway up the mountain before she finished her theatrical warning.

I was closer to my rightful destiny. Alex, my British hostel mate, was still with me to witness the ceremony.

We were finally further from safety. I could smell the breath of Satan. I knew we were close. Our guide had turned his back to shirk responsibility of our actions.

We came to a ledge. Within 10 yards, we saw the wound of the volcano. The hole was no bigger than a large pizza. Standing there near the crater, I tried not to think about how unpredictable volcanoes are. I was not thinking about the miles of black rock that this grumpy hole produced. Though, I was wondering if the hole burped up just a small blob of lava would it instantly melt off one of my appendages. I was also imagining that I was in a Choose Your Own Adventure story.

If you choose to move closer to the hole of an active volcano that shapes mountains and valleys, turn to page Death.

If you choose to understand the calamity of your current location and stupidity and then turn back, turn to page You Live.

I was cooing the lava hole like I was approaching a timid dog, "Good, lava hole. There you go. Who's a good lava hole?"

I was now close enough to see a glowing red light. As I watched lose gravel cascade into the hole, I could see it was too deep to reach the lava to brand myself. Crap.

Then bad things happened. We'd come too close to her. The volcano wasn't happy. The ground beneath us abruptly changed in temperature. Knowing how discreet the British can be but then to hear Alex squealing behind me without reserve made me really worry about what was happening. More smoke and heat was coming up from the gravel around us. I heard more squealing. It was me. Tiny stones, like Pop Rocks candy, were bouncing against my bare and exposed legs. I could hear and smell my legs burning.

The faster we ran, the more rocks that got kicked up against us. Eventually small hot coals made their way into our prancing shoes. We manically pranced more. Tiny pieces of an active volcano were working their way down into my socks. It was like someone was taking a lighter to random parts of my feet. I was dancing, squealing and being cooked. The hot coals in my shoes weren't cooling. I was going primal with pain. I had to get the coals out from under my feet. So, without thinking, I dropped to my haunches to the searing hot ground, threw my feet up in the air and removed my shoes. This was, of course, bad idea number 387. The hot coals on the surface of the volcano were no less forgiving as they cooked what little flesh I had on the tender flanks of my rump. I was now bouncing my ass down the hot gravel to get off the volcano crater.

The volcano took pity on the two spastically dancing gringos who dared to approach her lava orifice. Humbled, we returned to the rest of our group who were kind enough to pretend that no one throughout the valley had heard us squealing.

Cops, Soldiers, Bribes, and a Ditch of Doom

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 17:42:00 +0000

I was finished filming in Trojes, Honduras. I had survived irregular electricity, work, water and sleep. In fact, the only regular constant was my regular diarrhea.

The plan was to reward my leaking self with some R&R in Guatemala.

We pulled into Guatemala city. Before taking a shuttle to the city of Antigua, I had just enough time to visit the bottomless sink hole in the city. The sink hole had instantly opened up during a recent huge tropical storm.

I hailed a taxi.
"Can you take me to the sink hole?" Which, by the way, sounds like a great name for a new Guatemalan strip club.
"Yes, no problem, my friend."

During the taxi ride, I struck up some small talk, "Dude, in your life, how many dead bodies have you seen?"

I know we were near the sink hole because my new favorite taxi drive, with increasing speed, drove right under the clearly marked police caution tape. Please, please tell me we are going to try and jump over the massive sink hole.

I whispered, "big tip," in his fleshy ear as he removed both hands from the steering wheel to light another incense stick using two exposed electrical copper wires from under the dash.

We slalomed through an obstacle course of traffic cones that were incidentally directing us closer to the sink hole. My driver kept turning completely around to wink his gold tooth at me. If he was foolishly waiting for me to tell him to stop, then death was guaranteed. It was clear that we both suffer from danger blindness. His wedding ring seemed fake as I couldn't tell if the cold damp air I smelt was from the sink hole or from our impending doom.

With our current velocity, soldiers with no option waved us through. For no reason, I cinched my belt. But, my big dream of doom was dashed as we were confronted with a small crude stone wall that had been built across the road. Before the car came to anywhere near a complete stop, I was already out of the car and sliding my uninsured belly under a metal fence to get closer to the sink hole.

And there she was. A huge, cold and treacherous hole as big as a city block with no visible bottom. I inched forward on unstable ground pretending to be confused by some overly-cautious soldier's furious hand gestures. I entertained myself by taking pictures of my taxi driver who was behind me as I walked backwards towards the vertical Chunnel. This, of course, sent the soldier into a frenzy. I heard the click of a safety being released on a large weapon. I could see my taxi driver mouthing the words, Yes, my friend, closer, yes.

I turned back to the sink hole to see double the amount of soldiers all mouthing the words, No, what are you doing, you danger-blind, dumbtard?

I tried to distract the local soldiers in the only effective way possible in a Latin American country.
"Yes, hey there! Who do you want to win the World Cup this year?"
Trigger fingers slacked as the captain of the squad frustratingly watched his crack team of now-disarmed soldiers instantly start to argue among themselves.
"Argentina!"
"Espana!"
"Mexico!"
"Germany!"
I nudged closer to stupidity as the captain tried to restore order while also trying to determine which dishonorable soldier dared to hope that a non-Latin American country could win the sacred World Cup.

The soldiers were still confused about which law trumps in this situation, continue to passionately talk about the World Cup or to do their job.

As I was still counting the echos bouncing around in the sink hole from my original question, I stepped closer to my own very deep grave. I glanced back to my taxi driver who was encouraging me forward with one hand while collecting bets with his other hand.

An official agreement had been reached. Soldiers could continue to whisper to themselves their favorite World Cup team if they pointed their loaded guns at the absent-of-logic lobe in my skull. In my shoes, I outreached my toes to try and get just that much closer to the edge.

From the sink hole came a vapid cold existential wind that clearly stated the name Grandma Melba. And the sink hole was correct. If I jeopardized my life at this point, I would not be alive to return to the United States to make fun of my Grandma Melba.

I dangled my foot over the sink hole effectively casting a shadow somewhere in Mongolia. The entire World-Cup-whispering soldier choir looked at their leader for how to handle the situation. My taxi driver nodded indicating he was satisfied with our earnings. I was free to retreat.

"Do you think we can get on top of that house there?"
My taxi driver looked at the house hanging over the sink hole, calculated the new betting odds and then walked us over to the cops on the opposite side of the hole from the soldiers.
I prepped myself. Craig, deliver this with equal part American confidence and arrogance. Think posture.

"Hello. I am the press correspondence for Agua Claro Para Feliz."
Strategically from my shirt-breast pocket, I whipped out my Agua Claro work badge.
Craig, focus on looking like a photographer who has seen things...things that you can't talk about. Now hold that look.

And, yes! We now had a police escort and permission to get on the roof of a house hanging over the edge of a sink hole. Watching our police escort, the soldiers on the other side of the sink hole were utterly confused but quickly returned to arguing over who they thought the sink hole would root for in the World Cup.

The police chief was honored to be escorting international press. A door was knocked on, a head emerged, a cop's hand was rested on a pistol, and we were cheerfully invited in. The cooperative owner pointed us across the roof of two other houses. This path would lead us to the roof of the house that was acting like a plank hanging over the sink hole.

As we cat burglared over a rickety roof, my taxi driver, worrying about the bet, cautioned, "Be careful!"
I was amused.

We reached the precarious vantage point. I was not convinced that I couldn't feel the house teetering on the sink hole's edge. I was amused when the police chief gave me a boost to climb even higher up on the roof. They declined to follow me. Logic and dirt was crumbling away as I moved closer so I could hang my camera over the sink hole.

From what I could see, it was clear that if I fell in, I would starve to death before I died from impacting the theoretical bottom of the sink hole.

I was happy with my brush with death. So, we headed back down.
I pulled my taxi escort aside, "How much should I give our cooperative police chief?"
Not wanting to cut into our betting profits, "Nada...just water--a small bottle."

Knowing that my taxi driver and I shared the sacred personality characteristics of being cheap and possessing an illogical disregard for danger made our departing handshake feel that much more timeless.

On Being Asked to Leave the Country

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 23:24:00 +0000

In my farm penthouse, deep in the jungles of Honduras, the electricity was still out but now I had water. Well, more like fast moving mud dripping from the faucets. I asked Lupi, my landlord, about the mudslide oozing from the pipes but Lupi had a plan.
¨Gustavo, the water would be cleaner with one of the filters you install with Agua Claro.¨

Lupi was back to playing hardball. I was sure that in her part of the house she was soaking herself with a perfect mixture of medical grade saline solution and imported Fiji artisan water.

"Lupi, it's not safe for me to wash my dishes with this filthy water."
"Sure it is, Gustavo. First you just use the dirty water from the tap, then rinse your dishes with bottled water from the store."
"With this logic, Lupi, I could easily just wash my dishes with my own dehydrated brown-syrup urine as long as I then rinsed my dishes with bottled water."

The truth was that I had been having some personal Oprah time with myself about what I needed to do. And, after digging ditches for 70 hours a week, I discovered that I actually didn´t like digging ditches for 70 hours a week. I set up some time with my immediate boss in Trojes.
"Gerson, I wanted to talk about the documentary that I am here to make."

My regional coordinators were coming to visit in a week. We agreed to start and finish the film before they arrived. The only break I took during the manic filming was when I explained to my local team that I have three nipples.
"Really, all Gringos have three nipples?"
"Yes, but best not to touch mine."

While filming, I enjoyed the easy task of getting perfect audio for an interview on a farm with constant sounds from ducks, donkeys, cows, cats, roosters, dogs, pigs being slaughtered, and finally my diarrhea belly.

When interviewing the regional doctor, I wasn't surprised when after finally setting up the movie lights, we were cast into complete darkness in her office after the town electricity went out. The doctor and I played games as we waited for the lights to come back on.
"Marco?"
"Polo!"

As I was filming all day and editing all night, I decided to move my bed to our office to increase my efficiency.

We finished the video in time to show it to the visiting Agua Claro team as they arrived in our tiny dirt town eight hours from civilization.

"Oscar, are you humming the theme song to The A-Team?" I inquired.
Understanding how isolating Trojes was, he proudly confirmed, "Why, yes, I am, Gustavo."
"Oh, Oscar, you are a cruel, cruel man. I hope you don´t find a hair in your meal--like ever."
"I also had two Wendy´s Frosties before I left the capital city today."
I don´t think he knew how close I came to pouncing on him to hum the Airwolf theme song while I sniffed his finger tips for the sweet, sweet smell of recent Wi-Fi use.

As a gift to my coworker Fredy for being such a sport while filming, I gave him a free photo shoot of him on his motorcycle.

If you find yourself in Trojes, Honduras, consider yourself pregnant.

Anyway, Fredy and I had so much fun that I decided I wanted a photo shoot too. So, with a stroke of pure genius, I had my photo shoot at the nasty dengue and vulture infested landfill thinking the relative location would make me look much more attractive.

The next day after reviewing our video, the Agua Claro team and I had a quick conference. I started the meeting with a lucrative NGO fund-generating idea.
"See, we have these hot-ass girls on an Agua Claro calendar. No, wait! They could be topless, see, as they hold cups of water over their pink parts. They could be, you know, totally panting with thirst. And, get this, the tag line would be Don´t these girls deserve to drink sanitary water? They could be the...let's see, yes, the Agua Claro Thirsty Girls!"
They promptly finished the meeting with, "Craig, we liked the video. How do you feel about going to Haiti?"

Incontinence Happens

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 22:33:00 +0000

After a long day of digging ditches in Trojes, Honduras, I awoke the next day from a dream where I had named my future kid Carpe Suburbia thinking it sounded top shelf.

Groggy, I stepped out from my bedroom and greeted Lupi, my landlord, with our now regular daily salutation, "Is there water today?"
"No, no water today, Gustavo."

Lupi then got bold, "So, you install filters with Agua Claro, right?"
"Ironically..."
"You know, we need a filter here."
"Oh, like an air filter?" I was entertaining myself.
She let it sink in that she thought I was a complete idiot before looking both ways and then confiding, "No...like a water filter. You know, like the ones you install everyday."
"Ah, the cows would like that."
Huddling up, "No, for us, Gustavo..."

Wait for it. Simmer that dramatic pause, Craig. And...yes...a little longer--now, now, now, deliver!

"Lupi don´t we need to have water first before we have a water filter?"
She was befuddled.
I was late for work.

I arrived in the work office and we all exchanged greetings.
"Gustavo is there water in your house?"
"No, no water today."

We then got down to business.
"Gustavo do you see that man in the green shirt? Wait! Don´t look at him!"
"Like directly in his eyes?" I questioned.
"No. Like don´t look at him at all."
"Oh."
"He´s been sent by the town´s conservative mayor."
"Oh, to help us work?"
"No. He told us to not work today or their might be trouble."
I immediately stopped watering my cows on my facebook farm and promptly typed a message in a CIA secure email form explaining that there was dramatic tension in this hotbed political region of Trojes. I can provide names.

My coworkers had a less logical reaction, "We are going wait it out here for a while."
I decided to celebrate my patriotic act by getting breakfast.
"No, Gustavo...it is safer here in the office."

I left the office and greeted the leader of the one person picket line, "Is there water in your house?"
He went for his pocket.
I kept walking.

Breakfast in Trojes was always a simple affair. Did I want beans and rice...or rice and beans? Well, today was a pleasant surprise. Seems like I had been patronizing the restaurant long enough that I got the upgrade option: Beans, rice and a long ass hair. This hair was so long it snaked itself through every possible bite of my meal. It seriously could have been used for a suspension foot bridge.

"Gustavo how was your meal?"
"Great except I found a huge hair in my meal."
The office cheered, "That's good luck!!"
I decided to immediately test this curious logic, "Oh, and...I also found blood in my stool today."
The cheering ceased and a consensus of concern was expressed by my not sarcastic coworkers.
"Whatever...it´s good luck back home." I explained.

Later we decided that my streak of good fortune, the combination of my good luck hair and lucky stool blood, still wasn´t quite enough protection to risk working this morning with an armed man pacing in front of our work truck. We arranged to regroup that afternoon.

I returned to my farm to try and figure out what was going on with my evasive water. It took me two minutes of walking around the back of the farm house to discover the problem. My house was suffering from incontinence.

In respect to the sensitivity of the subject, I pulled my landlord aside and discreetly mentioned, in Spanish, that the house had peed its pants. For some reason, she was confused. So, I had to show her.
"I´ll bring in a plumbing expert." She announced.
I couldn´t wait.

Fredy called and said he was coming over to pick me up for work.
"Fredy is it safe to work right now?"
"See you in 10 minutes."

Normally, Fredy and I work with coffee farmers. So, all day we are served and wash back coffee like it´s contraband. Which is no biggie for although we push the legal blood caffeine level limit, the coffee energizes us to work harder.

Later we returned home fully caffeinated with humming bird heart rates, chatting away, sometimes even chatting away with each other, grinding are teeth and trying not to be too regular as I was proudly yelling phrases in the future verb tense to passing pedestrians.

"Help me! I´m going to vomit!"

When I arrived back at my farm, I was excited to see that Lupi had already called the plumbing expert--her college daughter. Laying around them, they had more tubes than a bad ass hamster fort.

After a while, they ran out of ideas of how to fix the water problem. I thought I´d take the opportunity to inspire them back into action with some PVC didgeridoo serenades.

The contractor and her plumbing expert sprung back into action and fixed the solution. I then had water. I was very excited about having water as I don´t think I´d honestly showered since I flew out of the Houston airport 2 months prior.

Lupi and her daughter didn´t stick around for hugs or the shower celebration. So, I rolled off my greasy clothes and bounced into the shower alone. In complete darkness, I was, of course, overwhelmed with amusement when I turned on the long awaited water and the house electricity immediately went out.

I Said, 'Show Me Your Teeth!!!'

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 19:07:00 +0000

So, it seems that people in Trojes have a problem getting access to safe drinking water.

“Lupi, there’s no water in my house!” I politely yelled to the landlord of my farm.
“Oh, sorry. We had to wash the cows.” 
First off, I’ve never heard of anyone washing cows that basically stand in around in their own shit all day. So, I immediately called a house meeting to discuss the hierarchy of evolution and to threatened to have my landlord smell my ‘don’t scratch and sniff' salty perineum that was growing a stalactite due to the infrequency of my bathing.

She got my discreet point and promised to refill my water tank above my room. I was off to a hard day of work, which might include the following games.

Ignoring Treachery,

Truck Surfing,

Albino vs. Latino on the Ledge of Doom,

and playing with cute turtles.

Generally, when we work we construct latrines and install water filters. My back has requested that I do not go into the details involving digging 8-foot deep latrine ditches or carrying 250-pound cement filters through the jungle.

I can tell you that after using the old style latrines I can understand why we have a waiting list for our new latrines. The old latrines are a stinky hole in the ground. They basically look like the farm has its own asshole that’s right there between your feet.

Hello, innocent stinky shit well. I’m going to drain my dehydrated bladder in you. Yep.

Easy enough. But, what every single person failed to inform this innocent first worlder was that open latrines seem to make great homes for wasps.

Oh, hello. What have we here?

Mid-stream, I was nervously watching a cyclone of black pissed on and pissed off wasps making a beeline for my tender and exposed parts. I was latched into a latrine, my romantic parts are vulnerable and there are more wasps than I have bug bites. I thoroughly soaked that old latrine with urine as I spun around trying to defend myself.

I decided I’d stay away from the latrines and stick to lying to kids. For example, I have a real soft spot for the look on kids' faces when I explain to them that on their birthday our filters will produce an ice cream topped with a brand new soccer ball personally filled with Messi’s own Argentinian breath. But, it’s not the look on their face as they want to believe that it's true. NO, no, no...it’s the little drop of drool that always forms on their lower lip.

I should also confess that at the time I hadn’t yet learned the word for smile. So, instead, I’d ask the kids to show me their teeth. Not the best solution but look how happy these kids are going to look on our Agua Claro Para Feliz informational brochure.

In general, I’ve been working out here for about three weeks now. It’s funny how you start to take on your surroundings. For example, look closely to the right in the picture below and you’ll be surprised to see that it is actually me.

Look, just trust me--it's me. You can tell by my badunkadunk calf muscles.

Anyway, after a hard day of lying to kids, I was looking forward to a hearty meal in my house. I arrived to hear the good news.
“Gustavo, we replaced the water in your tank!”
This was of course some of that world-famous Honduran sarcasm as there was no water in my house. So, I enjoyed some dry crunchy ramen noodles with the plan of using the empty styrofoam cup as part of my new rain collection system.

Fruit of My Loins and I Don't Think I Am a Baby Smuggler

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 23:20:00 +0000

Before work, I just happened to peek in my manties to discover a protective spider and a sac of spider eggs. I wondered how long I had been brooding this little family. My fertility device was grateful that I adverted this genital disaster.

Later that day, I was taking more photos of one of our orientations in a remote community. My team was talking in Spanish about hygiene. So, yeah, neither the Spanish nor the subject of hygiene made any sense to me. Though I did notice when my boss mentioned my name at the end of the presentation.

I waved and greeted the community, “Yep, I’m Gustavo. Hey, folks.”

That’s weird. It looks like you want me to come up front.

I pretended to keep taking pictures.

And there it is again. That signal that you want me to come and talk in front of this group of farmers that pull out their own teeth for dice. Really, is this necessary to use me as an example of how not to be hygienic?

I was introduced again, “Yes, a few words from our volunteer…”
That’s funny, see, no joke, I actually only know a few words in Spanish. What the hell do you want me to say about hygiene?

“Okay, um, look…it’s best to cook with clean water. For example, ah, oh right, once I ate some dirty Chinese food in Nicaragua…”
The farmers confirmed, “Chinese Food in Nicaragua!”
Then the hee-hawing started.

Oh, they loved this. It was like I had missed out on a local colloquial cliché that everyone was using. For example, one could say, that movie was totally Chinese food in Nicaragua.

Oh, wait--duh. Obviously, the adventures of my blog had already spread to these rural UNICEF subsidized communities.

My story of how the tainted Chinese food caused me to produce more vomit than I actually weighed seemed to bring the community together. I watched feuding farmers slapping each other's knees listening to my story while they finished their enemy’s sentence with glee.
“He ate Chinese Food—“
“—in Nicaragua! I know! I know!”

I ignored the chuckling commotion and went on…

“So, like I was saying, clean water is way important and we like sell subsidized filters that totally aren’t Chinese food in Nicaragua.”

“Good work, Gustavo.”
With that, we jumped into the work truck to head home.

Of course, on the way back, the ocean fell from the sky. We had questionable visibility, steep inclines that made your ears pop, and cliffs on either side of a sloppy clay road where if we lost control I’d fall back into Nicaragua.

But, regardless of the conditions, the music in the truck was always sacred. Because Freddy the driver was busy text messaging, I was obviously in charge of the music. And, to be fair, DJ Caucasian would alternate MP3 players. It was an international musical exchange program between Freddy’s Amor Muzak and my cultural presentation of the The Locusts.

The really exciting part was the copper wire Freddy had fashioned to connect an MP3 player to the car radio. The cord almost worked. You had to hold the wire in just the right way. 98% percent of the time I was composing Sonic Youth ballads with the loud short in the copper cord. But, there were these rare moments where through the buzz, hiss and static of the bad cord, we heard real music.

It was glorious. I’d never heard jams from a single left speaker with a cardboard woofer sound so good. At the exact moment when I wiggled the wire in just the right way seducing music to play, I would go catatonic and actualize all that I once read about biofeedback to try and hold the sweet little copper wire in place.

Whenever music came out of the paper towel tube speaker, we were transformed. We’d forget the dangers surrounding us, all my bug bites would stop itching, and Freddy would actually stop texting to beam a smile as he drove just a little faster.

With the elevating changing bumps in the road, I was a human gyroscope keeping the precious copper wire in place. Freddy and I would both start belly-yelling the lyrics regardless if it were Freddy’s Latin passion beats or my favorite Lightning Bolt song.
“Yar, yar, yar, racka, racka, kah!!”
“Cemento, cemento…amorlolo, te, vida me donde suenos!!!”
Neither of us were singing the correct lyrics and neither of us cared.

Driving over truck-warranty-invalidating bumps, I was ignoring my horribly itching eye. I was hesitant to scratch my itchy eye lest I jam a digit in the logical node of my brain. While pondering my options, the rosemary hanging from the rear-view mirror, manically kept whipping my other functioning eye. Still, overall I was quite proud of how effective I was balancing death and zen while keeping the sacred cooper wire steady. What could possible make this challenge any harder?

Of course, at this moment the truck then pulled over. Freddy rolled down his window. The truck immediately filled up with 3-inches of rainwater as Freddy, without a word, handed me a sleeping baby.

Freddy put the truck back in gear and I understood that I had just been upgraded to a new level in this 3rd world amazing race challenge. Though, that’s where my understanding of what was going on stopped. Freddy and I both obviously knew what was more important between this stowaway baby and our theme song jams. But, before we got pulled over, I had some questions about the newest and weakest link in our karaoke trio.

Was this baby a gift?
Did Freddy visit this community 9 months ago?
Were we baby smuggling?

Though I have to admit, it was a relief to finally meet some who I spoke more Spanish than.

I was trying to figure out how I would explain to the farm help kids that this baby was not dinner, when we finally arrived back in Trojes. The truck window was rolled down and Freddy handed my baby away.

Confidently, I nodded back to Freddy as if I knew exactly what had just happened.

I Am an Insectophile

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 04:36:00 +0000

I now live on a farm. Let me tell you about it.

After kicking back a hat trick of Wendy’s Frostys in Tegu, my coworker Oscar and I departed for Trojes. Because it was an 8-hour drive, I had lots of time to grill Oscar about new future hometown of Trojes.

"So, when does that hot-ass damaged and ready for a rebound Peace Corps volunteer arrive in Trojes?"
"Oh, yeah. The Peace Corps decided that Trojes is so remote that it's unsafe for their volunteers to be there."
"Well, that's just weird."
"Yeah, and they don't even know about the political situation we are having there either."
I gave my bottle of malaria pills that I was or was not taking a little rattle for good luck.

We later arrived in Trojes. What's the population of Trojes? It's 6,000. What's the current gringo population in Trojes? It's 1/6000 the population of Trojes.

I met my local Spanish-only work team before being dropped off at my new place. Oscar had kept mentioning how nice my place was. And really it was. It was quite a nice farm. That night, I enjoyed unpacking to the sounds of gunshots, way-early roosters and random hissing. I tried not to think about how much I was already missing the smell of Lady Foot Locker back home.

I was pooped so I retired early. Though, turning off my room light was the signal for the disco next to my finca to initiate the cochlea-rattling music to obviously celebrate the arrival of the town gringo.

I lay awake respecting this significant moment in musical history. I appreciated that I was the first outsider to ever experience this undiscovered musical genre. Far from slumber, I passed the evening on my back blinking to the beat of this original fusion of Latin Muzak and the animal cacophony outside my window.

Adding up the aggregate time of blinking all night, I figured I slept for 7 minutes.
"Gustavo!" The finca owner was calling me from her porch.
"Yepper!"
"Did you tell the farm help kids that you are a vegetarian?"
"Proudly!"
"But that you sometime like the rich taste of children’s non-dominant arms?"
"That doesn't sound like me at all..."
"Well, I don't think they realized that you were joking as none of them showed up for work today."
I figured this was a good time for me to head to work.

For my first day of work, I was to take photos of our health orientation in a local community. And when I say local, I mean three hours into the jungle.

The first thirty minutes was fun. The other 150 minutes on the back of the motorcycle reshaped my prostate.

After discussing the importance of the filters we were offering, we celebrated with a massive feast of food and drink prepared without our filters by this rural to the rural community. While I was pondering our marketing sequence, my coworker reminded me to wash me hands before eating.

After work, I walked home to my farm enjoying a little game I like to play called 'what bit me today?"

Following my avocado and watermelon dinner, I retired to my quarters. After spending the first hour practicing Spanish curse words as I flicked beetles off my face, I decided to see my room situation in a more positive perspective. I decided to see my room as an entomologist's ideal room. I mean, you could see cockroaches in three different sizes: mutant sized, eats mutant sized and 'could be mistake for an armadillo' size. There were also a cute variety of mosquitoes that strangely liked to taunt me by collecting on my anti-malaria pill bottle. In my room, I also had never-discovered lymph-node-drinking beetles. There were also enough fireflies that allowed the spiders to cast shadows over my bed. Of course, there was also some playful creature on my roof showering me with terracotta dandruff. Though, I noticed that the plague-resistant fleas and ticks in my bed didn't seem to mind this falling dander. And for the hell of it, I couldn't figure out why some cicada kept trying to spoon me--dude, really I'm a top!

I finally feel asleep dreaming that I'd created a new teen perfume called Bedazzled Food Court. Sadly, before getting to apply my product on supple bodies, I was awoken. It seems that a cow decided to give birth right under my window in the middle of the night. It was disturbing--especially how erotic it sounded. Yep, I live on a farm.

International Coup in My Belly!

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Wed, 05 May 2010 02:48:00 +0000

I spent my last day in Granada scaring off croc's at the local lagoon with my offensively white belly.

I then basked in one last afternoon snapping photos around town.

As it was my last night in Granada, like any good teetotaler, I spent the evening teaching kids how to slam water in shot glasses.

Later that night, I decided to finish my straight-edge binge with some Chinese food. Three hours later, I was watching the history of my meals for the last 24 hours pass from my mouth. Chinese food in Nicaragua? What the hell was I thinking?

I slept off most of the nausea and woke feeling much better. I decided to celebrate finally getting sick and surviving by ordering a morning serving of French toast, which only had a few seconds to quickly give my stomach a high-five before being hurled out the way it came. I wasn’t having much luck with international meals it seems. Regardless, I was leaving that day to be in Tegu, Honduras. After my failed attempt at breakfast, I went back to pack all my gear that was at my host family’s house. As they were leaving for a day trip, we said our goodbyes.
“Thanks. You are the greatest Spanish foster parents ever.”
“Gustavo, you look really sick.”

After they left, I tried to take a nap on their couch but couldn’t get over the nausea. My belly felt like it was pushing around a bloated zip-lock bag of rancid vegetable soup. Feeling a reverse in my digestive system, I made a dash for the toilet and removed the left over cleaning brush before spoiling someone’s cleaning job.

My bags were backed and the hell if I was going to walk to the bus station feeling like this so I hailed a 50-cent cab. It’s normal here for taxis to coop their rides with other passengers, so I wasn’t surprised to see a whole family in the car already when the taxi pulled over. After I squeezed in my bags and my distended belly, the taxi driver started some small talk,
“How are you?”
Funny you should ask.
“Not bad for eating Chinese food in Nicaragua.”
The family scooted away a little.

I was celebrating small wins as the taxi arrived at the bus station without an in-flight digestive disaster. I continued to hold my digestive system in check and boarded the bus for Managua.

Oh, Managua. If poop could have an asshole, it wouldn’t be that much different than Managua. I arrived in this dodgy, dirty and, proud to be dangerous city. I found a taxi to take me to my hotel for the night. The taxi driver was a little sketchy but I discovered that mentioning that I had spent the night vomiting out bad Chinese food seemed to make me less of an attractive target for crime and it effectively disarmed the situation.

The taxi driver, quicker than most, dropped me off at my hotel. The hotel staff unlocked a series of gates and locks allowing me to drop off my backpacks. I then left and walked half a block down to the Tica bus station that would connect me to Tegu, Honduras the next day.
“Be here at 4am?”
“Yes.”
“But the bus doesn’t leave until 5am. How about 4:30am?”
“4:15am”
“Deal.”

On the way back to my hotel some thugs followed me asking for my bottle of water. It didn’t seem good that thugs were willing to rob you for a half empty bottle of water. Thankfully my hotel was only a half block from the Tica bus station. I arrived and a series of paranoid, but might be justified, locks were unlocked and I was let back into safety.
“So, I’ve got a to be at the Tica station by 4:15am.”
“No problem.”
“Really?”
“Yes, no problem.”
“Great, thanks!”
And with this I dared to eat a solitary chip but poured cold water on my belly as an offering.

With a 4:15am wake up call, I, of course, had nightmares. I had this frightening nightmare that the voluntary project I was going to start the next day somewhere in rural Honduras was actually in this very Americanized city. It was a city only populated by highway franchise businesses. In my dream, I was driven past TGIF, Red Robin, and a Big Lots. I was utterly unaware that this was a nightmare. I was thoroughly confused how I hadn’t seen any of this in my pre-trip research. I was to stay in a post-college-dorms apartment complex with 1000 units where the leasing agent bragged about the small weight room and available carports. I’d be working in this NGO’s gift shop selling rugby shirts with our company’s logo on them, Pure Water for Peace. I was already counting down the weeks until the yearlong project was over.

I awoke in a confused bolt. The nightmare was interrupted when I thought I heard a knock at my door. In the darkness, I opened my hotel door. Nothing. Well, duh…I mean, it’s only 4:55am in the morning, Craig.
“Shit, it’s 4:55am!”

I was confused on confused. There was no wake up call. Note to self, this isn’t a good time, but later today after you miss your bus, confirm the Spanish word for wake up call.

You know what’s not good for a belly of ‘trying not to be digested’ Chinese food? Hauling ass. I grabbed my bags and slung my sick, sloshy, and prone to vomiting belly out my room. Staring at the padlocked gate, I made it as far as the front door of the hotel. I was locked in. In my moment of panic, I rattled the locked gate and yelled the closest thing I knew in Spanish to communicate what I wanted,
“Yo necessito mi libertad!”
I looked insane.

Someone stirred and unlocked the gate. I was so scared of missing my ‘departs in 3 minutes’ bus but I already saw the letter I was going to write this hotel in all caps about my feelings about them not waking me up until 4:56am.

I tore off running to the Tica bus. I left part of my stomach behind. I arrived at the bus station. I heard a bus idling. Please, please, be my bus waiting. I ran inside. I apologized but didn’t dare open my mouth too much, which might be the only obstacle I had to prevent the hot food lava that might erupt from my mouth. This would, understandably, be added to my Tica bus personal profile where I would permanently be charged a ‘prone to vomiting’ surcharge to my regular ticket fee.

I was allowed on the bus. I was happy. My stomach was not. Though, we were both instantly blessed with some powerful-ass in-bus air-conditioning. This was a first-class gray panther coach-style bus. Nice! Shit, honestly, I didn’t care if we just sat in the parking lot all day. I’d pay for this kind of air-conditioning.

So I didn’t actually have to be at the bus stop at 4:15am. Maybe my underachieving genius hotel staff knew it was cool to arrive at 4:56am. I erased my persnickety letter to them. Though, it would have been nice to have known I could have slept in until 4:55am before I had jostled my temperamental belly in a mad panic earlier.

Of course I didn’t sleep on the eight-hour bus ride to Tegu. Nope, I didn’t want to miss one wink of experiencing this succulent air-conditioning. I cradled my grumpy stomach and lapped at the air-conditioned air.

Later we arrived at the Nica’ Honduran border. The bus staff took our passports and then offered us all to the children beggars.
“No, no, but tomorrow at 10am I’ll be here with food for you.”
I told one kid beggar who ironically not only had food on his face, but probably had actually eaten more food than I had in the last 48 hours.

Before we re-boarded the bus, the Tica staff called roster by reading off the names from our passports.
“Reck?!”
“Yeah, it’s pronounced ‘Gustavo’”

I dared the wrath of my stomach by letting a cap of water dissolve in my mouth. I felt a small disagreement in my stomach but didn’t experience a digestive coup. Phew.

Four hours later, the Tica bus pulled into Tegu, Honduras. I looked for my handler from Pure Water for Peace.
“Craig?”
“Oscar?”
Great this was a good start.
“Craig, it’s great to meet you. We have to move fast today. But, while we are in town now, we need to buy you a cell phone, open a bank account so we can pay you and pick up a new motorcycle. Oh, can you drive a motorcycle?”
Truthfully, it was a big fat lie when my stomach said no but I said yes.

Mutant Island and There's a Naked Woman in my Room

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Sat, 01 May 2010 23:01:00 +0000

Update. I am a father of two! After being frustrated that I wasn’t yet fluent in Spanish after 3 weeks, I wasn’t surprised when I found two little wax nuggets in my ear—nope—the same ear. When asked if he wanted to see something totally cool, my Spanish teacher foolishly trusted an American and answered yes. Ta-dah!

I’ve also discovered that Nicaragua is so proud of their lock-solid electricity that they like to celebrate by randomly turning it on and off in the middle of the late night. This sadly kills the fan in my hotbox windowless room. This means each new night at 4am when my lifeline fan dies, I sit in my cozy 274-Kelvin room listening to the bugs live off my cholesterol rich blood. Oh, yeah, the second update. I’ve been infested with bed bugs. Or vice-versa, as I actually might be the source.

So, logically, to celebrate my bed bug (or craig-bug) invasion, I decided to quarantine myself to the mutant island of Ometepe. Ometepe sits on a huge-ass lake and has two connected volcano islands that basically look like two cells splitting.

I landed at the ferry doc and immediately dashed for the lumbering school bus. I was heading to Charco Verde. It was dark by the time I arrived. I amused myself that I’d escaped my bed bug infestation in Granada by counting the rat shit on my new bed Ometepe.

I was then thankfully distracted by a scorpion carcass on my door. I went for a picture. The scorpion’s live body protested my proximity and scurried towards my bed. Ah, hell, no! I had another 'bigger than needed' scorpion in my room. Seriously, scorpions in my room are funny every time.

Shit, where were these scorpions in my room coming from? Now, I had to evaluate if I was not transporting the scorpions in my backpack.

Eventually after much squealing and prancing around my room, I got the scorpion into a glass. I showed my hotel staff for fun but they seem bored that I was still alive. I saw an American family with younger kids. I interrupted their game of Uno.
“You all want to see a wicked-sized scorpion?”
AKA not sleep at all?

Their first mistake was to agree to see it. Their second mistake was to agree to let their kids go with me to release the scorpion while they wore flip-flops. Oh, well.

Before laying awake in my bed worrying about scorpions crawling into my mouth, I went for a nighttime hike by a cesspool. This was cool until I realized that it’s the nighttime mosquitoes that are more likely to pass on malaria. Crap.

I went to bed but was pleased to discover that the electricity goes out in Ometepe too. Ah, just like home. So, I lay awake sweating in my bed wondering if was the heat or that I was already experiencing fever symptoms from my fast-acting malaria.

The next morning I hiked to a finca on the south island. This was a brilliant idea until I sweated off all my sun block. Sizzle. 10 kilometers later, I arrived at some finca. Seems like that finca had quite a low quota for as soon as I paid they handed me my key, turned off all the lights and then the entire staff ran away. I was actually thinking I was right starving. I was also disappointed once I realized that the key chain wasn’t indicating something erotic about my room but moreover was simply referring to my room number.

Starving, I was contemplating which pages of my lonely planet book I was going to eat when I observed mutants eating each other. See here, folks…tarantulas are scary, black wasps are scary and, wasps the size of tarantulas are double scary! Observe. Might I recommend you watch to the end? Yep.

I spent the rest of my time on the mutant island by being sure to get a new sunburn on each accessible beach on the island.

I also thought it was a good idea to grab a bull’s head, get close to a bull-sized pig and celebrated by eating an avocado the size of my head. Food!

I finished up by snapping some pictures of some classy local architecture. Nice bro’!

Eventually I left mutant island to return to my foster parents. While I was gone, it was clear that my parents had had a meeting and now considered me an adult. I was welcomed home with some new artwork in my room. Ah, I missed you too!

I'll Shoot Your Picture, If You Promise to not Shoot Me

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 19:08:00 +0000

After my morning Spanish class, my interrogator warned me about the inviting bombs I was hearing going off.
"The taxi drivers are protesting. It's not safe."
"Oh, and, you know, to be totally safe, what areas should I, say, avoid?"
"Other areas are safe, but don't go to the central park."
"Totally."

And, here I fought through all my logic that was telling me not to go. But for you, passionate and loyal reader, I dashed home, blinked at my no-name off-shore catastrophic health insurance, grabbed my camera, lied to my new foster parents, and hauled ass towards central park.

Really, it's not my fault. For in my past, I survived a year of teaching kindergarten. I have since had an adjusted sense of danger. Anyway, off I sprinted to the front lines.

Immediately, I noticed that, for some reason, the streets were completely bare. Well except, of course, this unruly gang of thugs heading my way. I could smell the strong moonshine of their breath even before I could see their blood-shot and dilated eyes.
"And a good day to you, group of thugly thugs."

Now at close range, maximum impact, yes, I could see, without a doubt, that they possesed 60mm homemade mortar guns armed with gun powder, nails and stuffed with a general lack of concern for anyone's safety.

While I was being sized up, I was counting the odds. 25:1 Mmmmm. My internal think tank now confirmed pessimistic probabilities. The had 8 guns, 4 backpacks with flash bombs and 7 visible machetes. I sadly fingered some sand I had in my pocket. Crap.

Standing in front of each other, nothing was happening. I knew that this wouldn't last. So, I thought I'd catch them off guard by drawing first.
"Ah, hah!" I quickly swung my camera in front. I'd disarm them with flattery.
Wait, would they think I was offering my camera for exchange of my life?
They cheered.
Crap, now they'll take my camera and force me to take tough-guy pictures of them for their thug trading cards.
"Yes, take our picture!"
Do I really have an option when you have forward shooting pipe bombs?

Pictures were taken, I was offered a swig from a gas can and each hombre slurred their story to me. I was in the precarious and vulnerable position of being surrounded by this crack squad. Craig what are you doing? Please! You are not some photographer for Vice Magazine. You have no idea what you are doing. True dat! And plus, there's even more gratuitous danger at the central park. You's gots to get going!

Best wishes, street sentries. I'm off to Spanish class.
"...Muy importamente, no?"
An escort? Too kind, too kind! Next time Thanks, though!

Walking backwards and facing da crew, I continued to wave goodbye until I was well around the corner.

As I approached central square, I could see it was barricaded at all entrances. I was grateful for my lack of understanding of Spanish when the police officers barked something as I skirted the barricade and strolled into the central square.

In the central square, I discovered that there were smoldering tires at every corner. I saw scores of taxis parked blocking access routes. I saw no tourists. Perfect.

It seems that the current taxis drivers didn't like the mayor's idea to sell more taxi permits as this would mean more competition for work with the current available taxis. To communicate their side, the taxi drivers had stormed the downtown municipal building and were currently defending their captured downtown central park.

I observed from a kind of safe distance as taxi protesters surrounded scab taxi drivers' cars and slashed their tires with sharpened screw drivers. Rocks were being thrown and more crude mortar guns were being flashed.

I wasn't too worried about my safety as I observed locals still enjoying a fresh panini in the central park restaurant. These patrons had front row seats for the action and sipped sun tea watching the show as if it were a cricket match.

The taxi protesters would position themselves at one corner of the square guarding against any intruders...only to run to another side when a taxi guard saw oncoming movement. This was frustrating as they ignored my complaints that the light was terrible at the other corner for pictures.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

A series of loud explosions articulated that things were changing . While everyone else knew that they were just big homemade firecrackers--I didn't.

BOOM! BOOM!

Okay, so, I might have dribbled a little bit. But, I will not deny or confirm this fact. I was convinced the police had gotten bored and were Kent-University shooting into the crowd. I wasn't worried that I was being targeted but more worried about a stray bullet clipping one of my ears or goring one of my internal organs.

As others were howling, running, jumping or responding to the explosions by letting off more explosions, I was the dumbass sprint-crawling on my knobby knees and elbows from one unprotective shrubbery to the next. Remembering what I'd read, I stood up and then ran in a perfect zig-zag form making an inefficient dash for the green-zone of the panini restaurant.

BOOM! BOOM!
Dribble, dribble.

My body whispered to me. Please, dear sir, we are tender and sensitive. Please take care of us.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

I felt a phantom vibration in my pocket from the cell phone I did not have. Mobs were fleeing in chaos, car alarms were wailing, people were shrieking, glass was being shattered, and two more panini sandwiches were being ordered. I tried to hide behind my stainless steel water bottle--I am a total genius.

Stalled cars were being picked up by a mob and were being dropped to block the street.

While I was crouching behind a fallen plastic chair for, you know, protection, I knew that already my parents were going to ground me via email--fair enough.

I spotted an ice cream cart. Perfect. But, I mixed up what I was doing and crawled furiously but in a zig-zag fashion over to the ice cream cart. I figured that internationally everyone recognizes that ice cream trucks and ice cream carts are neutral in conflict zones. I made a wiser decision to use the ice cream cart as a shielded escort as we wheeled it out of the war zone.

As I'd already skipped half of my afternoon Spanish class risking my life, I decided it was most appropriate to spend the rest of the afternoon taking pictures at the local cemetery.

An Addiction & My Foster Mom Might Be Dead

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 21:26:00 +0000

It’s always a sign of good luck when you discover your new foster mom missing a sock and face down in the middle of the living room. I’m sure she was maybe sleeping, but I was late for bingo. So, I had to go.

See in my clever mission of practicing my Spanish numbers, I had accidentally gotten myself addicted to bingo. Sure, sure, I could go dancing with agreeable and cooperative backpacker girls almost guaranteeing that I could check off a couple more countries on my own personal sex bingo card, but Saturday and Sunday means real bingo at the local fire station. The choice was clear.
“No! Come with us!”
“Como?”
“We’re going dancing—hella fun!”

Without missing a kegel beat, I picked bingo solidifying the fact that I had exchanged one addiction for another. Like all addictions, it started off as harmless fun. A couple of games here on a Saturday night with friends and then, unchecked, somehow, there I was alone on a Thursday night with six cursed bingo cards and six spent cans of Fresca.
“23!”
Lo tengo.
“57!”
No lo tengo.

I would swat invasive hands of old ladies as they were trying to be helpful as they pointed their bad luck fingers at the numbers I’d missed. In turn they’d swap, with perfect accuracy, the bony part of my wrist when I would altruistically brush ants off their shoulders. I can only imagine their thoughts about the only attending gringo and his bingo sexual persuasion, as I seemed to be returning every night to flirt with fellow bingo fever old ladies. I mean, after four weeks of paying to lose it was clear I wasn’t there to play bingo.

I guess word spread about my passion, fever and addiction for losing at bingo. And instead of setting up an intervention, my Spanish instructor became an enabler by randomly interrupting the Spanish class to mention to me that a local school was having a big fundraiser night of bingo. The school was smart to pay my instructor for this gorrila marketing.
“It’s not for money. You can win things like, oh, I don’t know…things like bags of rice, soap or clothes.”
Oh, I get it you think I need to eat and bath more. And, you with your keen insight have noticed that I’ve been wearing this same blue shirt to class everyday for the last three weeks. No, I get it.

The rest of the class was a wash as I couldn’t stop thinking about winning bingo and having old bingo queens taking off my recently new prized shirt and scrubbing me with my new soap only to fan me dry with their losing bingo cards all in a shower of slow falling fresh rice.

After class, I dashed home to practice with my homemade bingo cards.
“Hermanos Neuvos! What are you doing later?"
“Nada…”
“You want to go play bingo with your favorite older brother? You can win stuff.”
My new younger brothers came a running.
“Okay, look,” I confided, “you want to know a dangerous—real dangerous secret?”
Heads nodded furiously.
“Look,” I went on, “you can’t win money, but you can win stuff. Check this out. You can win bad-ass bags of rice--”

Okay, yes, I also wanted to be that cool older brother who took the younger brothers out so we could spend time together creating lifetime bonds…yes, yes. But, really, I just needed more labor to manage the array of bingo cards I had planned on playing with that night.

“—and some way-wicked soap…”
Shit, they’re walking way.
“—but really, I can trust you, my blood brothers, right? Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. You can also win rifles with infrared scopes."
They turned around.
“Yes, oh, and okay, don’t tell your parents, but you can also win a helicopter. I’m not talking about a toy one either.”
“Right like a big one?” They rightfully questioned and doubted.
“What? No, not like a big one, silly. It’s like a single-seater.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”

Okay, yes, even as I write this now, I can sense from the future your short sighted judging energy reach me here in the past. Look, really, it’s quite simple. See, it’s my required and ethical responsibility, as the most mature and wise older brother, to teach my younger kin about sarcasm and to not to trust Americans. This will surely perpetuate the benevolent and very mutual relationship the U.S. has always had with our amigos in Central America.

My adorable younger brothers had already dashed off to scrounge up every coin they had ever saved of their entire life to join me in an innocent game of bingo. We quickly left.
“Wiser, loving older brother, what kind of rifles can we win?”
“Oh, you know, lil’ bro’, all kinds. Big ones, powerful compact ones, ones you can conceal at your school, ones made from a carbon plastic blend that evade metal detectors…”
I amused myself by watching their irises stretching open beyond their capacity.
“Well, I think I can trust you, right?”
“Claro!” They chimed in.
“Well, do you know what grenade launchers are?”
Their pace immediately picked up.

We arrived. And it was bingo heaven. They had the biggest bingo board I’d ever seen--big enough, in fact, that all 400 of us bingo addicts could see the numbers.
“Those your kids?” I was asked for some reason. 
“Ah, no.”

We walked through the crowd to an open table. While I was holding one brother’s hand and while my other brother was getting a piggy back ride, I notice the looks I was getting and had the feeling that there was a suspicion that I was that pedophile gringo out on the town with two young Latino boys. I felt proud that even while playing bingo I still had my creepy mojo.

“I need to go to the bathroom?” One of my brothers interrupted.
“Do they have bingo in the bathroom?”
And there we had an understanding.

The games started.
“47!”
“Si, tenemos!”
“11!”
“Ah, no lo tenemos!”

“Caring big brother, that bingo prize was just a crate of apples.”
“Crate of apples? It’s a codename, bro’.”
“Oh…”

Spending time with kids is always very important. So, I could feel my new good karma flowing into my bones. Surely now, my luck would change. I had to win now.

“Intelligent and most wise older brother. Where are the rifles?”
“Taped under the table.”
They quickly looked. Seriously, my brothers are so adorable.
“A joke, my friends, just a joke.”
My brothers seemed to look confused.
“Eyes on the cards, boys! Focus!”

Eventually we left. It might have just been me, but the kids seemed to be shuffling home with less gusto than when they had gone a skipping to the bingo parlor earlier.

The next day was Sunday, which is always a sad day; it’s the last bingo night in town. After Sunday, I’d have to wait until Thursday to get my next bingo fix.

“Hey, Craig.”
“Bingo, mi Amigo, Hailey.”
Before my bingo binge for the night, I’d stopped to see my bartender friend for good luck.
“Fresca on the rocks, please.”
As I recounted my amazingly interesting story, sharing in exact sequence the number that were called out during the previous night’s bingo, Hailey interrupted me to tell me about his need to practice his new profession of being a tattoo artist.
“Well, Hailey, aren’t you the bartender? Couldn’t you just get a couple of gringos really coma drunk…then wait for them to pass out? You could then melt some dominos and give them a bad-ass stick and poke tattoo of a flaming bingo card. Each number on the bingo card could alternate between the numbers 69 and 666. Oh, and the free square in the middle, yeah, that could be a skull with glowing bingo chips for eyes. Hmm? What do you say?
“…”
“Why you are right. I was just leaving to play bingo.”
“Adios, Craig.”
“Bingo, mi amigo, Hailey.”

It might just have been the result of the grape and Gatorade that I just slammed before leaving, but seriously, I had a good feeling about this night of bingo. I skipped along, arrived, gave a bingo node to the bingo MC and sat down. The older bingo widows scooted away. Prudes.
“34!”
Si
“73!”
Curses
“31!”
Hell yeah!
“68!”
Nope.
“44!”
Ah, yeah—only one more.
“2!”
I still needed one more number. I could finally get the bingo I rightfully deserved. The best/sad part was that I’d been waiting so long to win because I could finish this way-too-long chapter about bingo. But the best part, because I think I’m so..so very clever, was that I was going to yell BINGO DE BINGO!!!! I couldn’t wait.
And, then—then it happened.
“42!”
I could hardly contain myself. I really couldn’t!
“BINGO DE GRINGO!!!”
Ah, man, yes, yes, yes! It finally happened. I was the big winner that I knew I was. A bingo granny next to me squealed.
“What?” Others were confused.
So, as only a suave bingo player could, I proudly re-announced again, “BINGO DE GRINGO!”
Ha! I’m so clever.
“Bingo de Gringo, I say!”
My addict brain came to life. My bingo story would be shared for decades to come. My bingo card would be retired from circulation. For good luck, a new series of cards would be printed with my humble face in the center square. Shiny bingo chips were raining down around me. The only Latino girl with luscious white girl curves emerged from behind the bingo board wearing nothing but three bingo cards over her pink parts. The crowd, in perfect synchronicity would put their bingo cards together creating a bridge for which my bingo beauty would strut over to me. My winning bingo numbers were blinking to the beat of the music and to my bingo babe’s steps. Immediate plans were being made for my family to be flown down to Granada. This was my moment. And yes it was indeed my moment all right. God this part is so hard to write. It seems that I have a wee problem understanding the difference between 24 and 34 in Espanol.
“Incorrecto!--” The usher announced.
Wait! What?
“--No hay bingo [de gringo].”

My world was crumbling. Instead of bingo de gringo…I had bingo de dumbass. If I’d just peed my pants next it wouldn’t have been any more embarrassing. I tried to shrink and hide behind my fraudulent bingo card. Oh, crap, this is most, most embarrassing. The bingo commission surely would be notified.

I played a couple more of my regular losing rounds and then scurried away back to my friend’s bar.
“How did you fair, bingo athlete?”
“I called bingo but I had the wrong numbers.”
“Did you…you know, say bingo de..”
Defeated, I confessed, “…gringo. Yes…I yelled ‘Bingo de Gringo’.”
A can of Fresca was tenderly slid across the bar.
“On the house, champ.”

Puma Jungles Are Always Totally Safe!!

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 21:38:00 +0000

After only one week, I was already at the top of my class! To reward my rapid advancement, I was going with my Canadian friend, Marcus, to do a hike up a volcano. It wasn’t an active volcano—boring.

We met at the local market where I purchased the necessary rations of Oreo cookies. Marcus bought biscuits. But because of our emerging Spanish and from the taste, it was clear that they were dog biscuits. Oh well.

On the bus ride out to the Volcano park, Marcus and I discovered that we had both been brought under the wing of the same street dude, Miguel, who was helping us with our Spanish while playing pool all in exchange for tacos.
“So, you are the other man?”
“Whatever, old balls.”

See, Marcus the 18-year-old Canadian had earlier enjoyed watching my face process the fact that I was almost double his age. So, you can surely understand how pleased I was when our tour was joined by a retired expat. Now I too had someone double my age.

The plan for the day was for all of us to do the 5-hour hike around the crater of this dead volcano. Team Life Stages headed off with our rapid speaking tour guide.

I wanted to go at it without the guide but I guess Senor Double My Age reminded me about some pesky fact…something to do with why the park was called ‘Puma Jungle Park’. I suppose he wanted to be more protective of the last 5% of his life.

We headed out with our guide rambling off in real Spanish. I punished myself by pretending that the guide was explaining how much more fun the hike would have been if we had been men enough to go without a tour guide. He would go on to explain how much quicker I would have learned Spanish as I would have had to beg for my life in Spanish as the extremely rare albino black panther held me by my sunburned and quivering neck.
“Break time?” Asked Double My Age.
But I don’t see the long saber tooth puma here while…I can still see the Visitor Center that we just left.

As we sat in the shadow of the Visitor Center, my guide pointed out some leaf, a piece of dry bark and a forgettable pile of dirt. As I couldn’t understand a single lick of what he was saying, I translated to make it more exciting. See, our guide felt a cosmic connecting with us like no one else ever before in the history of documented and undocumented cosmic connections. Seriously, with the risk to his holographic life, he would dare to share with us that the leaf when chewed would close the distracting portal of reality allowing us to experience the tangible Latin American Feng Shui world that was constantly surrounding us and at that very moment was recharging the vibrating energies in the chakras flowing deep in the ‘for reals’ lobes in our dynamic brains.

Our guide looked over his shoulder.

He went on. And…this innocent looking, but obviously, ancient bark when placed on our tongues, would allow us to not only communicate with the Pumas, even now surrounding us, but would also grant the enlightened user the ability to converse in fluent and fluid university-level Spanish. I was totally listening to my guide now.

The guide sipped from his drink for dramatic pause.

He continued. And, this so called 'dirt' here…Wait I really shouldn’t. Okay, I’ll tell you. He slowly crouched down and called us closer to share secretly what he knew he shouldn’t. We huddled up.

Our guide checked his back once again and went on. Look, this dirt was the most powerful substance in this and in any other world. For, this very dirt had the inconceivable power that when sprinkled on any food dish in Central America could, with its power of food alchemy, actually turn the dish into something palatable.

Whoa...I was mesmerized. The rest of Team Developmental Stages was bored.

For his own safety, our cosmic guide decided it best to move on.
After three more steps, “Break Time?” asked our fastest to tire member.

At this rate our youngest member of Team Examples of Aging would be dead before we even got halfway around the crater. Our guide went on to share more cosmic facts about some bird, an orchid, and a river that looked like it was flowing forward but was really a brain-teasing mystical reverse flowing river stuck traveling backwards in time. Dude!

Senior 3-steps-at-a-time realized that it would be best if he got a head start on us. Our guide continued to speak in too-fast-for-me Spanish as I translated it into an award-winning fairy tale.

Later in the Puma Jungle Park, we caught up with Senior Gray Panther at an open look out. He then left for another head start. Marcus and I looked out across the wide expanse of land before us. And, in perfect English, I asked our guide if we could have all the lands that rolled out before our eyes. He nodded. And, in all fairness, I let Marcus select which half of the Kingdom would be pleasing for him to rule.
“Fair enough, Sir Marcus. I will then take the territories to the left of that river. We shall both rule our respective lands in complete harmony.”

Hands were shook. Our guide asked us if we were ready to continue so he could show us where he knew a real Stargate was located. Sweet! Youth continued to haunt old age at the next look out. Old Age only stayed with us for a little pause and not wanting to slow down the progress of Team Life, again left for a head start.

“Marcus, do you think Miguel is seeing more than just us?”
“It hurts to think about.”
“Maybe, maybe it would be best if we confronted him. Hmm?”
“Totally.”

As we were alone at the next viewing station of our kingdom, it was clear that Hombre Older was actually picking up his pace and getting some distance from Senor Midlife Crisis and What-will-I-do-with-my-life.

As we finished the loop in the Puma Jungle Park and approached the Visitor Center, our spiritual guide reminded us about the very powerful secrets he had shard with us. In return, with the deepest respect, I promised to be a gentle, humble and fair leader of our kingdom.

Ah, what a totally pleasant way to spend a safe Saturday afternoon. I was looking forward to seeing the pictures Older-than-me had snapped as he had shuffled ahead of us.
“Ah, Marcus, Older-us isn’t in the Visitor Center.”
“But the path we were on was the only way back to this Visitor Center.”

Three go into the mystical jungle—two return.

With the death of Mr. Golden Years, Team Life transformed even more into a metaphor—uncanny!

So, Mr. Guide, yep, I loved all the transcendental facts out there, but time for me to be totally square with you, my cosmic bro’.
“Yeah, so, are there really Pumas out there?”
He nodded his head.
“And snakes?”
“Yes.”
We had confirmation.
“What about scorpions with poisonous claws?”
“Claro.”
Ah, shit.
“So, Senior Retired Early is totally dead out there in the Jungle, huh?”
“Yes.”

“Hey Younger Me! We got a problem! Oldest Us is totally being defensively attacked by blood thirsty Pumas!”
“Lucky!”

And, like any good leader of a peaceful kingdom would do, we started whittling down twigs into spears in order to retrieve the limbless torso of our dead compadre.

After twenty minutes of being understandably distracted by Gremlins 2 on the TV, Senior Dead walked into the Visitor Center.
“Whoa, you’re resurrected!!!”
“Huh, no. I just found a shortcut back to the Visitor Center.”
“Really? A shortcut you say?”

Interrogation then an Assination Attempt!

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 19:13:00 +0000

7am Monday morning. Damn I had a heat hangover. It didn’t help either that the street dogs in front of my hotel were constantly barking out the current minute count like church bells. Oh well, I was off to school!

Hola, Professor Romell. What can I say about six hours of Spanish class a day? It was okay. But, it was more fun to imagine that my Spanish class was an interrogation.
“What is your name?”
“Where do you live?”
“What does our Father do?”
“Why are you here?” 
“How long will you stay?”

Because my Spanish interrogator escorted me to and from my holding house, I could continue to pretend that I was captured in my on upscale Spanish version of Guantanamo Bay. After class, I would enjoy practicing my Spanish animal words as I would watch the live stock traffic pass in front of my safe house.
“Hombre, como se dice?…‘horse’?”
“…Goat?”
“…Pig?”
“…Ox?”

The next day, back to my Spanish interrogation.
“What did you do last night?”
“What are your friends' names?”
“Where will you go after class today?”

Being escorted back to my holding house, I would continue to practice my indecipherable Spanish with the naked kids in the streets.
“Dónde están tus pantalones?”
My handler would interrupt, “Reck [Craig], do you know this baby?”
“Ah, I guess not…”

Back at the language quarantine house, a group of hombres greeted me with a quick an easy pop quiz.
“Reck [Yeah, I think you meant Craig], your computer has Wi-Fi, no?
“Ah, yeah…”
Wait…how did you know I had a computer?
“Great, we want to watch the Madrid vs. Barcelona soccer match today.”
“That’s cool with me.”
“Great!” They handed me the phone.

You know what’s totally not easy? I’ll tell you. It’s not easy trying to communicate to the local Wi-Fi customer service agent with a comprehensive and extensive vocabulary of 17 Spanish words. After I practiced asking the operator's name and age repeatedly somehow the coveted Wi-Fi came to life. All the hombres then shook me as if I had just scored the world cup-winning goal for their barrio’s home team.

Word spread about the miraculous Wi-Fi and kids sat on kids shoulders as they in turn sat on adult shoulders so all could watch the almost better than Atari quality download stream of the soccer game. Those that could not hang from the ceiling to watch the game, hung outside getting updates from those inside the mini house-stadium getting updates from those who could actually see the 2 inch x 2 inch streaming window on my laptop. The truth was, I too was excited to watch the game as I implemented a traditional learning tool and had a bet with my Spanish interrogator on the game. My team won. Yes!

Because of my recent good behavior, the next day I was allowed to walk to my class unescorted. Once I arrived at school, I discovered that my regular professor was sick…probably with a ‘lost bet’ fever---no biggie. I had a new interrogator. Obviously, they must rotate interrogators to prevent any positive sentiment among the interrogators and their prisoners—very smart. So, my new interrogator greeted me and we got underway,
“How old are you?”
“Where do you live?”
“Are your parents liberal?”

The interrogator was a little distracted as he tried to listen to the soccer game that was on TV in the school’s lobby.
“Will….will you work in Nicaragua?”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Will you—
GGGGGGOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLL

And with this my interrogator would pause and look at me with hope.
“Okay, yes,” I would answer his unspoken question as we would both dash off down the hallway to watch the replay of the soccer goal. I’m pretty sure it is Federal law in Latin America that one is absolutely required to stop what they are doing to watch a recent goal.

I thought my interrogations were going well until I came home one night to discover that a 5-inch scorpion had been let loose in my room. Through the iron bars of my house door, I showed the street kids,
“Yep, that’s a scorpion,” they confirmed.
“…I found it in my room,” I announced.
“Really?” They all acted surprised.
“No, really.” Look we both know what is really going on here.
“Hey, I think I just saw it move,” one street kid announced.
“Yep.” I confirmed.
“Wait, it’s alive.”
“Surprisingly, we are both still alive,” I boasted.

The street kids took off howling with fright to leave me alone with the alive assassin 5-inch scorpion.
“Ah….”

The kids would sprint past the front door squealing and sharing informative advice with me.
“…run!...” They did a fly by.
“…dude, it’s dangerous…” They dashed past the door again.
“…get out…”
“…seriously…”
“…you…”
“…you have to kill it…”

Even though the scorpion had obviously been trained to kill gringos by triangulating their location by honing in on the hum from our iPods, I couldn’t allow myself to kill this mercenary scorpion. The kids pleaded as they continued to sprint past my house door.
“…what?...”

They were utterly confounded with my announcement.
“…but it’s dangerous,” they argued.
Ah, hah! I knew it!!!
“…it’s poisonous…”

They wanted to kill it. I wanted to take the scorpion to the nearby park. We negotiated. We kind of came to a conclusion. They would smash it with a rock. I wouldn’t look. Oh, well.

I made it clear that I didn’t want to watch.
I pleaded, “Look, not like my soon to be death, make the scorpion’s death quick and merciful.”
“Sure, sure…”
“No wait, really. Make it quick.”
“Yes, yes…”
“I won’t watch.”
“Claro.”

I turned. I heard the rock drop. And I tell you this is true…but another miracle happened. Seriously, the rock only removed the stinger on the now 4-inch scorpion obviously and ironically sparing the scorpion’s life.
“Wait! Look! Perfecto! It’s a miracle, no?!”

After the kids dropped the rock on the scorpion’s head, all the kids agreed that it was a miracle. They also explained that the pincer hands were also poisonous. Wow, this was news to me. But, what did I know about scorpions that are bred to assinate gringos who win bets with local interrogators?

It's a Hepitatis Beach Party!!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 01:30:00 +0000

I awoke the next morning. I was offered an orange juice ice concoction, which reminded me to take my last typhoid pill. I was not lost on the irony that I might very well be washing down my last typhoid pill with a fresh tall glass of typhoid water from the tap. Oh well.

This local Managua family continued to confuse the hell out of me with their abundant hospitality by driving me to the bus station for Granada. Their phone number was stuffed into my pocket.

They said good-bye after asking me one last time, “You sure you don’t want to shower?”

{my generic lonely planet travel guide book cover picture for Nicaragua}

Hello, Granada! I had three hotels with ping-pong tables to pick from. I wisely picked the hotel where I could bath myself in exotic Wi-Fi. I quickly unloaded my bags and rushed to the lake for some peaceful reflection on my life that I almost lost.

Whoops. Looks like a huge refugee Easter work party at Lake Tequila had ambushed my tranquil respite. I was really confused as it looked like the Red Cross had sponsored this hedonistic Easter beach bash 2010. And, as the only gringo out of 75% of the Nicaraguan population that had descended on the beach, I was equally looked at as a lost walking merman as a lost just off the plane neon white gringo.

Overall, if I overlooked the small fact that the lake beach seemed more like a soggy landfill, it was actually quite pleasant. I walked around in the punishing heat dashing from one shady sanctuary to the next in order to prevent my plastic glasses and rubber flip flops from melting.

I had a big day the next day; I was being adopted by a local family and would move into my new foster home. Also, I was going to start my first day of Spanish classes. Fluent in four weeks? Totally!

I've Already Slept with a Minor

noreply@blogger.com (Malaria Vida) — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 22:22:00 +0000

I got bored so I Ebayed my life’s possessions away. After I accepted a half-baked job offer to work in the malaria-infested jungles of Honduras, I made a stop at the local sperm bank on the way to the airport. I also made a call to get any last minute advice from my new employer before I left.
“Yes, can you hear me down there?”
“Yes, amigo, we are skype connected.”
“Grand. See, I was wondering if there was anything in particular that I should bring.”
You know like a working understanding of Spanish.
“Ah, yes. You should bring your soccer kicks and some whiskey.”
“…”

As I was saying goodbye to my parents, my brother requested, “Well, my bro’, don’t do anything stupid.”
“Isn’t that request a little late? Love ya, bro’. Cuddles!”

In the airport, I called my Grandma for permission to leave.
“Hey, Melba!”
“Don’t you ‘Hey, Melba’ me. What’s this about you going to Honduras?”
“Don’t worry, Melba. Please, the political situation is mostly totally over and I negotiated a break mid-contract to come visit you during your 90th birthday house party.”
“My birthday is in 3 months.”
“…Dad didn’t tell you that I was going for a year, did he?”
“No, your Dad didn’t tell me that!”
Oops.

In the Miami airport, I bought my last American meal; I purchased a Pizza Hut personal pan pizza, coke and a Butterfinger candy bar. I’ll miss you, corn syrup nation!

{I like this picture b/c it looks like it says 'butt-a-cola'}

While waiting at the gate, I noticed the maintenance crew had been called out to work on the gate kiosk counter. This totally happens all the time and surely wasn’t any sign that I should read into at all.

Melba called me back.
“Craig, what’s this I’m reading about a scam where someone calls and says that your traveling family member is in trouble and needs cash?"
“Well, this will absolutely not happen. But, you and I should have a safe word to prevent my parents from tricking you into handing over my birthday card stash of two dollar bills.”
“Good idea.”
“How about, oh, I don’t know…how about a safe word like, ‘spin the bottle’.”
“ ‘Spin the bottle’, I got it.”
“Don’t share it with anyone.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s keep, ‘spin the bottle’, you know, just between you and me.”
“Wait a minute--”
“—Bye. Love ya!”

It was time to board my plane for Central America. I boarded reviewing my grandma’s earlier last minute nugget of advice,
“Craig, now seriously, you watch out for those Mexicans with their Latino eyes and their big butts.”

There were warnings about tourists being robbed in taxis around the airport in which I was landing. There I was arriving alone at night in a third world country with way too much equipment. So, I was relieved when my neighbor on my plane offered to have his wife drop me off at my designated hotel. Great!

After we landed, I made it through customs only to watch my ride get escorted for extra questioning. Of course! Fortunately he was searched and released quickly or had his bribe readily available. Either way, his wife showed up in a tiny car with their entire family inside.

It was clear that his generous offer hadn’t been run past the wife department quite yet. Phew, plan approved! I was in the car and we headed into town. We were having a great start. This is perfecto!

“So, Reck…”
“It’s Craig.”
“Right, Reck. So, before we go to your hotel, I, ah, need to drop off a little something-something with a friend. It’s on the way and it’ll be super quick.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
I mean, that sounds shady as all hell, but whatever. At least we aren’t in those risky taxis, right!?

We took a turn and immediately things changed. We had turned into the post-apocalyptic barrio in a third world country. It was like the Latino version of mad max the movie. I’m talking here about fires in old oil drums; car carcasses and dangling live electrical wires. And here, of course, they turn on the dome light inside the car so that everyone could see the first-world gringo. Was driving around with a gringo a status symbol? For the love of god turn off that damn light!

As the gringo pope tour progressed, the road got more and more narrow. We were now navigating through huge piles of dirt in the road. I tried to pretend that there weren’t freshly buried bodies under the piles of dirt. And here now we turned down a back ally in this third world ghetto. No one knew where I was. I didn’t know where I was and I definetly didn’t see an OnStar system in the car. Crap. See, I’d promised my ever-loving mom that I’d be safe on this trip and within thirty minutes of landing I had already failed.
We stopped. I looked for snipers.

“So, Reck, I’ll be right back.”
I bet you will. You’ll be back with a gang of machete wielding Somalians that you’ve been feeding a steady diet of tazer shocks. I now looked at his kids in the car as human shields.

My friendly drug cartel leader started yelling, “Pedro! Pedro!”
I saw shifting in the shadows.

Awesome, my year-long adventure was going to last, at most, thirty minutes. My drug mule friend went one way down the alley and his wife went the other way. Right, this is where my Nica’ mafia gentleman squares up a debt by offering my tender white meat to his loan broker.
I was now trying to all casually turn to watch for the oncoming motorcycle gang that was about to shanghai me through the car window.

My friend/scam ringleader came back, “You know, I’m going to go with my wife. I don’t really feel safe with her walking down there alone.”
“Really?”

There I was outside the Latin green zone alone in a car with both his three-year-old kids looking at me. The kids had a bad habit of turning on the dome light in the car. I had a habit of quickly turning it off.

My savior/traitor returned again, “So, I hear they are coming, my friend.”
Yeah, cool, so should I just start pulling out my DSLR camera, laptop, credit cards and passport now?

“I hear they will be here in 15 minutes. Is it okay we wait?”
This is great, 15 more bonus minutes of being alive. Thanks, amigo.
The kids kept looking at me. I kept looking at them. No one knew what was happening.

I saw the motorcycles coming. I knew they would be on motorcycles. They would signal for me to roll down the window. They asked me to roll down the window. They would stick their hand in. The stuck their hand in. They would boil me down for my fillings.
They shock my hand, “Welcome to Nicaragua, amigo.”

The family was happy to see their friends. I was happy to be alive.

“Reck [Yeah, it’s still ‘Craig’] thanks for waiting.”
Ah, thanks for not killing me.

Now we drove to my hotel. Well we tried. See, the streets were blocked with this cluster fuck called ‘Easter’. I know, I’ve never heard of it either. The streets were like spring break, Mardi Gras and the super bowl all combined into one disorganized street party. Though, honestly, seeing the Jesus parade blocking the street felt more like my own personal celebration that I was still alive.

We drove through the parade. Please, please don’t run over anyone in the Easter parade, as that seems like a really really bad idea.
We arrived at my hotel.

“Sorry, no room.”
Really? But everyone is in the streets.

My driver called around; no one had a room.
“You know, my friend, why don’t you just stay at my house tonight.
Oh, yeah, sure so you can force me to build a geocity homepage for you. Ah, hell no.

My capture took me to his house. After being in the States for two years, my Nica’ escort returned to his home with his dome light on showing off the thirty-five year old gringo he had adopted.

Arrangements were made. I was to sleep in the room with his nine-year-old son. There I was thinking this local Nica’ man was going to grind my vegetarian corpse into chorizo and yet here he was letting me sleep in his own son’s room.

I could only imagine his kid’s confusion when the light was turned on in his room and in walked an adult gringo man who promptly slept down in the bed next to him and slept.
Hola, yo soy un gringo and tu hermano nuevo. Beunos noches, mi hermano.

It took him, count ‘em, 15 minutes for him to leave the room crying. And there, in the dark, I totally wasn’t questioning where I was in my life as a thirty five year old man sleeping in a kid’s bed in a stranger’s house in the middle of Nicaragua. I only had 364 more days of trying to stay alive. Yep.