later gator

i forgot how far i’d gotten from this place. forgot what it stands for and forgot the people it attracts. forgot the international students in orientation and the individuals who arrive thinking they’re different from the rest. thinking their not a Gringo when in fact they’re the true sense of the word. the definition.
“i teach english here for one whole year.” they say.

i booked a room because a) i knew the airport shuttle service to be top notch and b) to let things come full circle. to spend my last night in the same exact place as where it all began – the hostel i arrived at early morning on July 11th, 2008. back when i was Gringo Supreme. wearing clean clothes and caring about such matters. a shaven jaw-line and pockets flush with cash; money i didn’t even know what to do with. it was chaos, yes, witnesses will surely attest, but calculated it certainly was not.

my mannerisms during those early days should really be described as flailing in nature, it’s only honest. i would walk down foreign street after foreign street in a complete daze, politely wondering when my next social blunder was going to take place, envisioning who would be in attendance for the next ass-making show. and usually i didn’t have to wait too long, the Spanish language and its’ vast differences from ingles dictating such terms. shit was i a rookie! The Gringo! sputtering out orders in restaurants and hoping to a higher power above that the cashier would somehow speak perfectly in my native tongue, even though i was ten million miles away from such talk. i didn’t dare take public transport and i got lost on a regular basis. hell, one time i walked aimlessly through Buenos Aires for the better part of five hours, completely out of money and without the cards to get more, capable of pronouncing maybe twelve Spanish words and smack dab in the middle of South America’s largest urban population; a rebel without a cause. and you know what saved me amidst life in that junk sick morning? street art. i recognized a series of graffiti in San Telmo’s cobblestone streets and knew i was close to my hostel, thus close to victory. Gringo victory, where said outcast makes it home one last time and lays out on a back-breaking mattress, jeans in a crumpled heap on the hardwood floor and priorities a god-damn disaster.

then slowly, things began to change. i learned the Spanish language. well, not really. i should say that i learned a very, very small chunk of the Spanish language. because in all honesty i still struggle at Latin communication. my conjugation skills are suspect and past tense is a no-go. but i try my Canadian arse off and abuelitas everywhere tenderly kiss my cheek for it.

another change is that i stopped staying at places that endorse trust funds and started telling cab drivers off in their overcharging attempts.
“is your head full of pea soup?” i asked this one cat in Ecuador, causing him to stare at me for a good three and half segundos, mustache quivering madly as time slowed to an absolute crawl. the shit was tense, i tell ya: the sun hot, and Quito’s streets ready for action amidst those staggering Andean spires.
“Haw Haw Haw!” the mustached-cat roared, breaking the silence, as clocks and hearts once again began to tick. “get in. get in.” he continued with a toothy smile, as the last traces of laughter narrowly escaped his tanned throat and we looked at one another eye-to-eye for the very first time, his look screaming acceptance as he contorted his stocky frame awkwardly in order to open the passenger-side door. “and where are we going today my spanish-speaking friend?”
“wherever you want to take me.” is what i tried to say, what i wanted to say, had i been capable.

what i actually said was: “we go where you and me like both.”

but blunders like that just don’t matter in the real latin america, i’m tellin’ ya. realize that you suck and go with it. road-trip with Mr. Pea-Head clear across The Middle of Nowhere, stopping only to buy more beer or eject a hitchhiker from his free-loading nest of comfort. have imaginary conversations about Nietzche and Ken Kesey as one mustache fades to the next and immigration guards powerbomb your passport.

it makes all the difference, efforts as such, that much is clear. get comfortable lying on your belly and leave your notions of normality behind. learn to play by someone else’s rules for a change.

so now, having made it back to this enormous smog-filled city, ten countries later and with a hell of a lot less clothes, a revolution has taken place. for now it is i who wears a mustache. my mannerisms can no longer be described as flailing in nature and the metro line is my bitch. i don’t need to call cab drivers Pea-Heads (having a mustache in South America commands more respect than if one carries an AK-47) even though a little part of me still wants to, for old time’s sake. por ejemplo, just five minutes ago i gathered hoards of empty bottles (the Gringo Leftovers) from behind the hostel’s bar and returned them across the street for two new full ones, taking my prize through the front door as one last cab driver proudly looked on…mustache quivering madly.

carrying the frosty lagers i stepped into the common area and there they were, a collaboration of former selves, sitting around the living room in unprecedented numbers speaking nothing but english, comparing significant tattoos. it pains me to admit it but for a second i even thought about joining them. thought about taking a seat on an oversized couch and fading a litre of Escudo as America’s Next Top Model played in the background. but i couldn’t, i just couldn’t, my mustache wouldn’t let me do it. what can i say, the shit has principles. i was an outsider looking in, and i enjoyed the view.

so with nothing more than a passing nod i retreated, like the sun dropping in yo-yo fashion behind a horizon of ocean, to the depths of the basement. i put one cerveza in the fridge and cracked the other; i slammed the latter onto an empty wooden table. the bottle’s condensation immediately started to form one of those liquid rings that your mother hates so much. i opened up Mac and began to type, and this is what came out.

so if you’re still reading i’d like to thank you, for all that you do. but i also have a confession to make: i probably won’t be posting too much more on this here site, maybe an excerpt from time to time but for the most part my efforts will be focused elsewhere, just as they have been in recent months. enjoy yourself, whoop it up every now and then, even to the point of ordering dessert when out for dinner. you deserve it.

tu amigo, brett

disco pete

you walk into a sandwich shop. since it’s argentina they serve hamburguesas, milanesa, and lomito completos. as for dimensions this shop is about half the size of your average Subway horrorshow and it’s packed to the gills with hungry patrons. grab a number. get in line. the music starts and it’s loud, like club volume. a string of house music takes over the audio scene and pete, the sole soul behind the counter making sandwiches, well he’s getting into it. hard.

let me describe this man. he’s wearing the most hideous hawaiian shit you’ve ever seen, even worse than the one your uncle cranks out at summer barbeques, and his long curly hair bounces to the beat. his feet shuffle back and forth and from time to time he bites his upper lip, reminscent of every white male in my graduating class. the next track begins, and it’s a real barn-burner. loud. pete’s just flying around back there, Crocs steppin’ this way and that, nose crinkled up, hips pumping madly, all the while applying chimichurri and cuatro queso to a fresh steak sandwich. i’m not gonna lie, it gets you incredibly motivated. you feel more inspired than when watching a musical interlude. so now you’re dancing too, you didn’t even realize that you had started but boy does it feel good. time seems to have stopped altogether, you can’t tell if you’ve been waiting to order for five seconds or seven hours. then, at the speed anything happens, your senses decide it’s time to ruthlessly kick back in, making it incredibly clear that half the establishment is looking your way with grins spread across their envious mugs. colour rushes to your cheeks and slowly you stop groovin’. the line slowly thins out in front of you and when it’s time you tell pete that you’d like a lomito completo. a complete steak sandwich. he makes it, as described, and it’s the best food you’ve ever tasted. since then you’ve gone back to Disco Pete’s three times, and each time you find yourself asking, why can’t all dining experiences be this enjoyable?

sharp objects in the schoolyard

in the compound:

At the time it really wasn’t clear to me why we needed a police escort to bypass a large group of non-moving vehicles and guide us into an extremely tight parking place next to two other buses and a lone restaurant. My mental processes were elsewhere. All I cared about was eating. I was shirtless and hungry, a deadly combination. And being near the back of the bus I nearly had a mental breakdown waiting for my turn to get off – this is human nature in the 21st century, patience is at a minimum – but when the time was right I excitedly jumped down the steps and onto the gravel floor of the compound, making my way for the gate that we had very recently pulled through. Denied. The gate was closed, locks on tight, cruelly denying my attempts at freedom and leaving me in a brief state of confusion. I looked through the openings between the metal bars as if I were in a prison cell, grasping them tightly in my hands while doing my best to look like garbage. I could see the only other white people on this venture (a young American couple) exit the front door of the adjacent restaurant, take four to five strides into the street (clearly on their own mission for freedom and sweet Colombian plantains) before being chased down and fiercely grabbed by our very own bus driver. His mustache was wiggling madly, sweat poured off his brow, presumably down his hairy back, etc etc.
“Please my friends, stay here,” he said, gesturing to the restaurant, “I don’t want to lose you.”
What was this? Kevin Costner’s The Guardian? Why was our sweating bus driver insisting that the gringos stay close at hand? Whatever the reason, it spurred off a series of motormouth activity from Noble and I. We started cracking jokes to anyone within earshot that the man with the moustache was the most serious and dedicated bus driver of all time. An everyday hero of the transport world who has never arrived late for a stop. A king of fast food and sharp turns alike.
“I’ve never lost a passenger before!” We roared in imitation, laughing hysterically while smoking a stick of tea en route to a corner table, where we joined the American couple as this was the only seat-space remaining, the forces of racial segregation at play.

eating:

I’m midway through a spoonful of sopa completa when malevolently bizarre forces begin to show themselves in this small latin town. First, the crowd abruptly stands and rushes in unison out of the restaurant, towards the bus, causing me to grab hold of both sides of the bowl’s outer rim and begin a very messy drinking process that may or may not have resulted in a lentil getting caught in my scraggly facial hair. Apparently we’re leaving (muffled shouts from outside). I stand up, grab a remaining fry from Noble’s plate, stuff it into my mouth like a true hedonist, and watch in wonder as all the people who had just rushed out of the building, are now scrambling in terror to get back in.
“I guess we’re not leaving.” Says my new American friend, resuming his position at our corner table.

Amidst the bodies weaving about three women appear directly in front of our seats, running in hysteria, clutching desperately at their faces, eyes red, gaging noises erupting from their throats…

“What the…”

I glance first at Noble, then at Alex. Our faces all say the same thing. It is decided without the use of words. We move towards the exit, alert, confident, and cautious at the same exact time. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, steps are light and agile, eyes wide, muscles ready. The scene appears normal at first glance and we exit, moving towards the gate to see what exactly is going on. But we never make it. Tear Gas sees to that. It is like walking into a wall of sulfuric acid. In fact this is exactly what it is. My eyes begin to water profusely, there is an wretched feeling in the back of my throat, sinuses burn. All I can think about is turning around.

Back in the restaurant. Loud shouts from outside drown out the chatter rapidly emanating from over-crowded tables, causing silence to spread throughout the long room as the three of us make our way outside once more, curious as ever. The scene that floats to our eyes is from a documentary film you may or may not have seen. A pack of twenty to thirty young men wearing bandanas occupy the street, carrying rocks, sticks, clubs, and other primitive weapons. Civil Uprising is here. I watch carefully as they move towards the centre of town, causing locals to run in fear. Panic-stricken chaos is everywhere, a face-off with the police is imminent. Tear Gas Round Two. The riot police, masked & armoured, launch canisters of the filthy stuff towards the fleeing rebels. It bounces along the ground giving off a white devilish smoke, small town pandemonium if you ask me, salty tears run down flushed cheeks everywhere…

back on the bus:

The reason why our bus was the one that tried to escape, right in the middle of the riot, is simple: our moustached bus driver’s dedication to the cause. His pride, confidence, and flawless record all collided creating a mountain of inspiration.
“Everybody back on the bus!”

We were going for it. There were faces all around excited and nervous, the look a human gets when they have little control, as the bus hurriedly backed out of the compound and onto the town’s main drag. Police Escort Round Two, the reason for this one far more obvious than the first. Glimmering shin guards, bulletproof vests, they accompany us for the first two hundred metres, then we are on our own. The street is barren as our driver continues to accelerate his prized machine towards la frontera, a calm before the storm if you will. Noble is cracking a joke in broken spanish to the traveling musician next to him, something along the lines of how productive the Tear Gas was at cleaning out his nasal cavity. The musician laughs but I can tell it’s not out of understanding, it’s simply the polite thing to do when a language barrier presents and you want to encourage the conversation to continue. Or maybe he’s just nervous.

For my part, I’m looking out the window. I’m immersed in the dusty plain latin madness. I watch fervently as we barrel around the last corner in town, our speed approximately 80km/hr, a fork in the road all that stands between us and freedom. That’s when I see it, or realize it, we are being ambushed. Ten or so teenagers rolling large rocks (not quite boulder size) sprint into our path, in an attempt to block the exit. My mind is 100% in sync with the driver’s. I can feel the change in speed shudder through my bones as he eases his foot off the gas pedal, wondering what to do. It’s that time when you are approaching an intersection and the light goes yellow. Brake, and watch the light turn red, stomp on it and accelerate towards wherever your destination may be. This split second of reflex feels like an eternity. I weigh the options inside my own haven of thought. Brake and we’re undoubtedly going to be attacked. Gas and the chances of mowing down at least one rebel are near positive. Fight or flight, before me in way I have yet to encounter.

back in the compound:

Time has passed and I’ve had the chance to reflect. I’ve come to the conclusion that what I found out in those seconds, minutes, and hours following our ambush really doesn’t affect the decision I would have made in the slightest. Our bus driver hit the brakes, then our bus hit a rock, ripping away part of the vehicle’s ground effects and undercarriage. Numerous windows were smashed over the course of the next five minutes as rocks rained on our bus like arrows from the sky. Passengers everywhere were wide-eyed with terror and panicking to kneel on the floor, to get away from the windows, with hands over head, scared shitless. Muffled sobs could be heard through the chaos – the continuous thuds and angry chants that came at regular intervals from both sides of the bus.

Eventually, after watching a yelling match between our fearless bus driver and a handful of rebels – “Tranquilo! Tranquilo!” - the riot police came to back us up, not that we were putting up much of a fight, and with their never-ending supply of Tear Gas the uprising fled, allowing us the chance to return to the compound like a dog with its tail between its legs, licking its wounds as darkness settled in the night sky and the battle continued. Furthermore, the worst Tear Gas was still to come: an errant canister landed right next to our compound, an episode that made my eyes leak like uninhibited faucets, that evoked an awful wave of nauseousness, and that led me stumbling blindly towards the bus where it would take a good ten minutes of nose-blowing into my t-shirt and slow methodic breathing to overcome the terrible effects of technology. But even then, just like now, I was envisioning what would’ve happened had it been me in the driver’s seat. Brake or Gas. Gas or Brake. As time idly slips by we all understand ourselves that much more, experience aids this process along, and I’m beginning to realize that when the light turns yellow, I am one who pushes the pedal down every time. There is no halting the pace of life.

four docks and a bar

when it came down to the nitty-gritty of it we were sitting in a sea-side bar that was straight out of 1962. we were drinking a pitcher of beer that cost $3.25, a fact that left me with very few complaints when all things were equally considered. the early evening’s cast consisted of the following: your two favourite semi-retarded travelers – barnes & noble – a peppering of panamanian dock-workers, with red-faced wealth and ocean fanatics rounding out the ensemble. the workers were sitting near the door and appeared to be unwinding after a long day of labour in the bleating sun, an occurrence that i now know transcends many a culture, not just the one in which i was raised; they told jokes and periodically removed their sweat-stained baseball caps only to put them back on the very next moment, perhaps this time giving the backwards look a try, depending on said hat’s previous cranial location. when these labourers were out of beer, one in their midst would be nominated to make the short trip back to the bar where fresh pitchers of ice-cold lager would be quickly produced.

but this was not the crowd that stole the majority of my glances on this peculiar bar-room voyage. that honour went to the centre table which was a boisterous and heavily-drinking crowd, members of the retired community needless to say. i would catch snippets of their conversation when noise levels in the bar permitted, things like, “…on the passage from Cartegena,” or “…we were riding a series of even North-West tradewinds and moving at twelve and a half knots…”.

i was intrigued. this was exactly the kind of talk Noble and i wanted to be a part of. our mission for the day had been to survive the murder-happy city of Colon, to find the town’s marina, and from there to secure a ride aboard a comfortable sailboat bound for the beautiful nation of Colombia. this table was our ticket. i could feel it. one of them had to be headed that way, if not now…then how about in six beers?

confused as to what move we should make Noble and i hung around the edges of the scene, drinking our economic pitcher of beer like creeps at a nightclub hovering the dancefloor…waiting for stragglers. and come they did, marine stragglers, come they did. a guy who referred to himself only as “Fishhook” told us he would be more than willing to have us aboard his boat even though he wasn’t leaving for Colombia until February, effectively useless when you thought about it. he even offered us to stay the night on his “Thirty-six foot super-cruiser”, which was weird and was the point at which i faked a call from mother nature and left Noble to fend for himself as i sought out the toilet in this wild and apparently lonely tavern.

“Excuse me sir, where’s the washroom?”
“Where’s the what?!”
“The washroom sir, you know, el bano?”
“Ah! You mean the pisser! Starboard side once you’ve passed the bar. Don’t bother flushin’ neither.”

right. the turn i would need to make, past the bar, if i were to find “the pisser”. a starboard turn. returning to my seat i passed a suave, fit young fellow of about thirty-five who gave me the classic nod instead of opting for a wave or verbal greeting, a social move that i totally approve of. i imagined him to be the captain of the white, clean (but not to the point that it was an obsession), medium-sized catamaran harboured a few rows from the bar. and, in retrospect, i’ll bet my guess wasn’t too far from the truth. for one thing i came to know as the night went on and the beer flowed like, well, beer in a harbour-bar, was that in a place as described you can pretty much tell what kind of boat a man owns judging by his get-up and how he consumes his liquor. for instance, the well-groomed couple at the end of the busy table, drinking white wine for reasons unknown, were clearly the proud owners of one of the dazzling, white and silver, forty to fifty feet boats parked in the hundred thousand plus row directly in front of the marina. their striped polo shirts and new deckshoes screamed it. on the other hand the red-faced fellow three spots to their left, who was working on beer twelve or thirteen (i couldn’t be sure at this point as his bottle graveyard was now growing without distinction), with a face full of a scars and moustache nastier than them all, was definitely roaming the seas on either the all-yellow thirty-nine foot masterpiece with “Homer” scrawled across the side, or the equal parts black and green catamaran with the Rottweiler roaming freely near the bow amongst what looked to be piles of trash. after five minutes these things seemed obvious. just as it was obvious that the bartender had been at his job for way too long and had zero motivation to leave; that the paintings on the wall had never been changed (freely peeling edges gave this one away); and perhaps most obvious that this worldly hole represented rock-bottom for unmarried individuals possessing two ‘x’ chromosomes. case in point? there were three ladies in sight and they all kept a death-grip on their husband’s arms due to the overwhelming fear of being swept away into the ravenous pack of sailors, like barnacles desperately clinging to a rock when the tide comes in.

later, when we had left the bar, and Noble and i were once again searching for a boat, this time via an internet crew site, what i had learned in the dockside scene came flooding back to my senses and i couldn’t help but let a smile crease my lips, as, shaking my head in humorous disgust, i read the yachting community’s “wanted section.” the intentions were clear. i quote:
“Female crew members preferred, aged 28-46 years is ideal, especially those with a mind open to romance…”

it was a tough straight to navigate. we replied to a few posts, albeit hesitantly, saying things like, “Well hey there Cap’n, while I won’t be able to solve your romance issues, not in the slightest, and i mean that with every ounce of truth my soul possesses, i’m still a great person and eager sea-traveler…”

so, will one of these seamen take the bait? i don’t know. am i interested to find out more about this inebriated subculture that wears its heart on its sleeve? maybe in small doses. will i ever go back to that sea-side bar? happy hour starts at five.

Jeans Night

“Enjoy your youth while you can,” Kurt said with a grin as he went to separate his two young boys, who were in the middle of a brutally honest fight over a favourite toy, an occurrence common amongst the male youth of today, yesterday, and certainly a trait that will continue in generations to come. “God knows it doesn’t last long enough.”

With the quarrel over he stood with his son Jaden resting comfortably in his strong arms; he was looking at us with bewilderment, perhaps because our faces were covered with scraggly hair, or perhaps because we were the only white people he had seen in weeks. Either way, it was evident that he really didn’t mean what he was saying; you could see his love for his children shining brightly in his light blue eyes, and you knew that he wouldn’t trade those hijos for youth, or anything else in the world that he had previously experienced.
“Anyway, other than what we’ve already discussed, my only advice to you three young gentlemen is to watch out for the older chicas at Casa Iguana during happy hour. They can get pretty ruthless.”
We laughed and smiled and thanked him once again for letting us stay at his palace: his house set atop a high bluff along the Costa Rican shoreline. We then made our way back to the other side of the wrap-around deck towards suite number four and decided it was time to get serious. For tonight was Jeans Night. We had made the call and therefore our mentality could only be defined as going for it.

Jeans Night, one could say, is the moment where mental liberalism meets calculated madness. It is represented by all partaking parties first putting on their finest pair of jeans, that is, your only pair of jeans if you’re on the road, then venturing into town to paint that SOB red. It’s a Friday or Saturday night occurrence in the western world with the younger ones dominating the scene. However in this sultry latin world, there are no age restrictions whatsoever. For instance on a particularly eventful Jeans Night in Grenada, Nicaragua, we were fortunate enough to have Roberto in our midst, a sixty year old computer engineer, who still perpetuated dreams of becoming a broadway performer, who wore a hawaiian shirt at all times, and who would routinely miss his mouth when attempting to take a swig of beer. He said it had something to do with poor hand-eye coordination. We called his bluff.

The Formula

Step 1 = Member Recruitment. As we all know strength comes in many forms with one of them being numbers. In the days and hours leading up to Jeans Night choose your squad carefully yet liberally. Be sure to tell all of them to get their Jeans ready, but other than that keep the details to a minimum and start entering your own zen-like state for the undoubtedly interesting, meandering, roiling events which are to come.

Step 2 = “Get Yo’ Jeans On”. We call this process getting “Jeansed Up,” and it refers to both slipping into denim and letting your excitement levels rise in anticipation. It’s similar to getting “Juiced Up,” or “Jacked Up,” but in this case we’ve substituted the first word to be “Jeansed.” During this time it is common to loudly blare music to enhance energy levels (coldplay is of course banned) and immediately following this process the always ceremonial pouring of the first drink will take place.

Step 3 = “The Pre-Drink.” Anybody who attended university in North America has perfected this fine tactic. It aims to save you dollars by ensuring you are drunk, sorry wasted, upon entering the bar, but which of course never works and usually leads to further degenerate behaviour and reckless spending. This is OK. Acting like a loose unit and credit card tabs are practically encouraged on Jeans Night. Drinking Games, Four-Sip beers, and any other behaviour with similar motives are common and appreciated.

Step 4 = “The Venture.” After all partaking Jeans Night members are Jeansed Up and Pre-Drunk, it is now time to make your way to your establishment of choice. Walking is the most desirable option, with bussing coming in a close second for reasons a) all members can travel together, keeping the group at a collective high, and b) traveling together will ensure that everybody arrives at exactly the same time, which is an essential ingredient for step number five.

Step 5 = “Take The Bar By Storm.” Nothing sets the tone like walking into the bar fifteen deep, everybody Jeansed Up in a lurid display of pink, black, and green denim, before proceeding straight to the D-Floor for The Inaugural Shakedown. Cript-walking, Limbo-Competitions, and Attempted Break-Dancing are all welcome here. In fact, there aren’t many things which are disallowed.

For, in essence, this is the point. Jeans Night is an evening where rules cease and the enveloping darkness of the night takes over. Whatever happens, happens. Everything just is. Jeans Night is a combination of both social activity and of simply letting the good times roll, as they say. It is a release from the mundane moments of day-to-day life intertwined with the desire to explore new avenues of friendship, and like all journeys, yourself. And it is absolutely imperative for you to understand that by no means is Jeans Night simply a hipster term used to describe a large evening of partying, or copious amounts of drinking-based behaviour for that matter. As contradictory as it may sound, Jeans Night is an individually dictated event. Because from Step 5 onwards everyone’s evening could turn out differently, depending on where they’re looking to go. That’s the beauty of it, you’re free to be whoever you want to be. Ask yourself with 100% honesty what it is that you want to do, then make your way in that direction, haphazardly or not.

That’s what really matters: the state of mind. Every individual needs to commit themselves to the cause. They need to know full well that once somebody has made the call and announced a Jeans Night, anything can happen. Let go, succumb to the winding majesty of the mighty fjord, just for a moment, and go with it, or go for it, just as Kurt was in raising his children, living on the front lines of life in a pair of ragged jeans.

the way it is, sometimes

“Well fuck, now you tell me,” roared our driver, named Red, in between puffs of cigarette. “Somebody should pay a little Nica kid a dollar to go move that sign fifty yards in the other direction, where it belongs.”
And you know what? I really couldn’t argue with the guy. We had just barreled around an extremely deceptive corner going somewhere in between 120-130 km/hr, sliding into the opposite lane as the sound of screeching tires drifted in waves of cacophony to our ears, only to see a yellow sign on the right hand side of the road informing us of a sharp turn…once the road was again straight.
“So where you boys from, anyway?” Red then asked.
“Vancouver, Canada,” came Noble’s prompt response, “Home of expensive beer and beaches far too cold to swim at.”
“Well I don’t like the sound of that one bit,” said Red, “Now will one of you hop out and grab the rum from the back, I don’t want it getting wet.”

When I reached into the box of Red’s pickup for said rum I felt the first drops of rain begin to fall. We were about forty kilometres from the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border at this point, and as is prone to happening in these tropical climates, the skies had recently decided it was that time of day again, time to literally split in half and dump their contents down upon the earth in no less than a matter of seconds. It was as if Zeus himself had walked over to some sort of jungle faucet and turned the tap. I could see the rain splattering on my arms and the truck’s shiny paint as I firmly grasped the two large bottles of Flor de Cana and made my way back to the cab. It was a mystery to me as to why Red felt it necessary to keep the perfectly sealed containers of booze dry, but I chose to let this minor decision of his slide, thinking that I had no right to judge due to the fact that this man was currently giving us a ride, a free ride, from said border to our desired beach destination of Tamarindo.

We had been sitting inside a crummy restaurant crushing tall cans of beer when we met Red. It was immediately after the desperately desired, yet completely overrated, occasion of getting your passport stamped in a foreign country. Suddenly, or at the speed anything happens, Red and a buddy of his walked by loudly proclaiming their allegiance to the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, speaking agitated winds of how they thought this southern Florida team was going to crush the Red Sox in the final game of the ALCS.
“Maybe we can get a ride with these guys,” said Noble, as he took his final swig of Imperial Lager.
“Yeah man, check it out,” I responded as I lazily watched the two presumably Americans exit the building.

As Noble went to investigate my mind was entranced in sweet nothings, and subconsciously I decided that finishing both my beer and the remainder of the coconut crackers that littered the table in front of me would be the tasks to occupy my immediate future. For this is the beauty of life on the road, there aren’t a lot of tough decisions to make.
“What do I want to do today?” You often find yourself asking nobody in particular.

I was making sure I had finished every last crumb of coconut cracker via the timeless technique of wetting your forefinger then pressing it down upon the desired substance, utilizing the laws of science to the max, FAT-KIDDING IT if you will, when Noble reappeared, in the door of the restaurant with a triumphant grin upon his face.
“We’re in. Let’s go.”

And just like that, we were off again, not knowing what was to come, but somehow positive it would turn out alright.

crab planet

consider this your official warning. as we speak there is a rebel force in the early stages of a very serious attempt to overthrow mankind and claim this planet for their own.

now i know this may come as a shock, but you’re going to have to trust me on this one, because for the past week i’ve seen the workings of this deadly uprising with my own two eyes. in fact, i’ve done more than that. with sweat pouring down my chin i have been battling against this force with all the skills i have gathered to date, agility-based movements and spear-chucking just to name a few. for instance, last night i was ruthlessly ambushed by said force and just barely survived. i was walking home, in the dark, to my beach cabana, with an ever-useful headlamp lighting the way. it was at the junction between jungle and sand when they attacked, five to six blue land crabs with pinchers the size of saucepans.

“what’s up? what’s up?” they chanted. “this is our island bitch, haven’t you heard?”

they then came at me like a gang of rabid spider monkeys, limbs flailing pinchers snapping. total madness ensued. i began to retreat into the darkness in order to gather my wits, when out of nowhere, one of the little buggers grabbed my ankle and ferociously pulled me to the ground. i could feel the bastards closing in and i knew my entire existence hung in the balance. it was now or never, fight or flight. adrenaline and nor-adrenaline poured into my arteries with all blood flow now directed to the skeletal muscles. i rolled left to avoid a deft pinching attempt and sprang to my feet grabbing a three foot piece of driftwood in the process. instantly, i began wielding the organic sword like a madman, tufts of dirt and sand shooting into the air as i swung wildly at my enemies. i was holding them at bay, but just barely, and i knew amidst the battle cries that it was only a matter of time before more of their evil kind sprang out of the adjacent swamp and joined the rebel effort. on top of this my arms were fatiguing rapidly, the product of a full day spent swimming in the warm yet rough sea. i couldn’t help but thinking: had these swine planned this all along? watch me tire myself in their natural habitat while they sniggered from the comfort of the swamp? organize an ambush when i was weak and tired? sneaky, sneaky swine.

suddenly a voice resonated loud and clear between my ears, breaking the jungle trance in which i was entrenched. it was the voice of my elementary crosswalk attendant, “walk to safety brett, walk to safety.”

i went for it. jab step to the left followed by a nimble jump forward; i landed on the shell of my nearest enemy and crushed him to a pulp. mashed like grapes in a barrel. now a right foot jab followed by the classic maneuver of driftwood javelin throw (DWJT).

“swine! bastards!” i yelled as i made my next leap, destroying an especially mean-looking rebel’s protective outerwear. now there was only two to contend with, but i knew they would not go easily. i offered them a deal, let me pass in exchange for your life.

“no deal. haven’t you heard? this is our island bitch.”

as you can see i had no alternative. i free-style kicked the rebel on the left while cript-walking over the other’s back en route to safety. then i ran. fast.

when i awoke this morning i was palpably exhausted from the efforts and pieces of broken shell were plastered via sweat to my lower limbs.

“mercy,” i muttered en route to the bathroom. i opened the stall door and prepared for morning relief. not so fast. snap! snap! snap! i was fighting for my life once more, a lone soldier with arms spread wide, clicking and clucking and staring straight at me with those menacing eyes.

“what’s up?” he said. “this is our island bitch, haven’t you heard?”

i fended him off with a toilet plunger then retreated towards the safety of my cabana to discuss these important matters with Noble, who, amazingly, or perhaps predictably, was in an argument of his own with a large mother crab who insisted she had the right to lay eggs underneath his bed.

“that’s preposterous!” he screamed. “don’t you realize your place in the food chain? in the hierarchy?”

apparently not. the mother crab vowed she would fight to the bitter end, and that her children would do the same, and her children’s children, etc etc. and i believe her. the writing is in the sand and it’s clear as the water that surrounds this caribbean isle. they’re gaining in both strength and numbers, and they’re coming. maybe not tomorrow, but maybe tomorrow. stand on guard brother. don’t walk jungle paths at night or go to the bathroom in the morning. i repeat, stand on guard.

strange occurences

things have gotten weird. i add it up in my muddled head and find that it was exactly thirty-six hours ago, a day and a half, that i swayed back and forth in a delusional state at the Santiago International Airport, having been informed by Paulina, the beautiful LAN Airlines employee, that i would NOT be boarding my intended flight for Mexico City on that most tortured of days. the reason for this abrupt change of travel plans was that they (the airline) were accusing me (the degenerate) of showing up late. they were saying that the flight was already closed.

“preposterous!” i yelled, “as long as the machine is still grounded i am capable of boarding it!”

but no, the airline did not see it this way. instead, Paulina wished for me to fly out the very next day, and when a latin girl smiles like that, there is no denying her what she wishes (eyes like expensive rockets, torching he who dares to look).

so back to the hostel i retreated, with my tail between my legs and an indiscriminate hangover haunting every part of my physiology. those who were still alive from the debauchery-filled evening of past rolled, roared, and reared with laughter when i told them the news. those who were not alive will be sorely missed, because as i have come to know, we both value and bless the departed.

moving on i can now tell you that the higher powers above could not twice deny me the glorious pleasure of being cramped in the middle of two questionable characters on a boeing 767. for today i was wildly successful in making it to the Santiago airport, on time, meaning that phase one of this venture to Nicaragua proceeded without a hitch. yet phase two was anything but guaranteed. butterflies groped in my stomach as the large aircraft began its descent for i knew potential disaster was on the horizon. you see, due to the day-late departure i had missed my connector flight, and since it was with a different airline i had no idea if they would still value my ticket. maybe they would tell me sorry, too bad, and i would be stuck to dwell on what one does when stranded in Mexico City.

when finally the long flight from santiago had ejected us wee global citizens i walked towards my fate: i approached the airline desk with caution, trying to slouch my body in such a way that made it look as if i had been through hell, down to the fiery depths and back, and not because of a self-inflicted saturday night discotheque-fever.

the man sitting at the desk? he was plump, caring, and even understanding. i kept the details to a minimum, saying only that a) i had missed my connector flight and b) i had just arrived from Chile, both of which were the absolute truth.

in response to my words the man disappeared into a backroom for close to ten minutes, clearly gone to talk to a supervisor where they would decide my fate. my immediate future as a member of the central america travel scene hung in the balance; i was concerned with the possibility that i would have to shell out dollars that i did not possess to make it to my destination, and also that if these airline employees took any longer, the buritto restaurant downstairs would be closing, thus ruining my chances of long-overdue spice.

it was amidst these thoughts that Pablo returned, informing me that i could fly tomorrow at noon, laying over in El Salvadore before carrying on to Nicaragua, home of the rebels. he handed me my boarding pass and i was about to deadlift my thousand-pound sack into place when, startling me greatly, he said, “just give me one more second, i’ll be right back with your hotel information.”

hotel information?! i could barely believe my ears. this was definitely too good to be true. there was absolutely no way in the entire spectrum of reason that i deserved “hotel information.” but then there it was, a white voucher being placed in my right hand informing me that a complimentary shuttle downstairs would take me to my complimentary hotel.

“we’re terribly sorry for your inconvenience sir.”

this is the hotel in which i now sit. this is the hotel where i just finished eating one of two complimentary meals with the other coming in the morning before my complimentary transfer back to the airport. buffet meals. complimentary this & complimentary that. and just so you know in terms of hotels i’m not talking about a Motel 8 with a ratty, bug-infested bed and ripped carpets. this is a top-floor suite where tonight i shall snore spread-eagled on a king-sized bed, but only after taking a bath in a tub so big it makes Tony Montana’s look like a bathroom sink.

yes sir, the writing is on the wall. the lettering is large and slanted and resembles a local dive. things have gotten weird.

The Look

(Published by Mars’ Hill in October 2008)

Day after day I walk the dirt roads of South America. I do so wearing the same grubby pants as yesterday for I have no others. Most of the time I do not smell very nicely. Ok, to be honest, I stink. My dad would turn me straight around and continuously drop-kick me towards the bathroom while overhand pitching bars of soap at my back if this were not the present, if I was still a child. But that was then and this is now. And in the time that has passed I like to think that this great world of ours has taught me a thing or two, one being that there are more important things in life than cleanliness. (This is by no means to say that everybody should Go Hippie and work on their personal scent, you know, refine it, it is simply to say that there are more important things in life than dousing your hair in friendly chemicals)

I digress. Human interaction is one of the important things. Today I bring to light The Look. Many of you may have experienced this look before, especially if during your travels you’ve made it to a “third world country,” or any place, such as low-income neighbourhoods in the urban fold of “first world countries,” where poverty is rampant. The last time I experienced The Look was three days ago. I was walking towards a gas station; there stood a boy of maybe eleven years, and as I approached him our eyes briefly met. There it was, that rapid glint of hatred and contempt. The Look. For I was from another land. A land with money, cars, and pop music videos, where unlike him I grew up going back-to-school shopping with my mom and sitting on clean toilettes. Or shall I say, sitting on toilets.

I hate this look. Each time I come across it I am pierced as if an army of well-trained archers looms on a fortress above. Within The Look there is envy and contempt for the western world. It is a look that the concept of dollars being the be-all and end-all of one’s existence surely created. It stinks worse than the aforementioned hippies. But how do I defeat The Look and show this boy that capitalistic ideals are not ones I stand for?

How? By staring straight back into those intent eyes of his. By waging a war devoid of any objects or words. Just looks. Body language. Emotion. I need to convey understanding to this boy, but more importantly, passion. For if I turn my head away from him, avoiding eye-contact, and simply drop a coin into his outstretched hand, I have lost. Not to the boy, but to my beliefs. Avoiding that boy’s envious and hateful glint and instead playing the part, again, of the status quo, is cowardly. The western status quo: Afraid to lock eyes with a child who endured an upbringing in a mud shanty on the side of a filthy freeway. Afraid to treat this boy like an actual human being and instead content to live by the class and ethnic divisions by which The Look dictates.

Rubbish. Shoot down The Look with one of your own, one radiating beliefs. Smile. Ask that boy how he is doing in your best gringo spanish. In my grubby, smelly state I would rather attempt these tactics against a village full of looks than lock eyes with one single person who lives by the status quo. That is true sadness. A life similar to the feeling of being caught amongst large waves and a strong riptide. Being thrashed about, gasping for air. No control.

Here in South America, on the roads I walk (where dust often envelops you on both sides) I must expect that I will see The Look again. Perhaps this time it will come from a mother of five or a disgruntled old man seated on a park bench, his scabbed ankles showing beneath ratty pants. Either way, my eyes will be prepared with a passionate glint of their own.

stay on track, people

last night i had a moment of weakness. i sat down with mac and thought it would be a good idea to write a piece letting everybody know what i was up to. i was going to go on and on like some sort of ranting imbecile telling you about watching arctic foxes chase mountain hares, driving through argentina’s most prestigous wine country, and getting terribly lost in the quaint city of mendoza. fear not: i realize this was a terrible mistake.

anyway, on the night in question i sat down on the hostel couch and poured myself a glass of malbec, naturally. i flipped through the television channels in search of a station that would provide the right kind of background ambience and to my astonishment found none other than Much Music being broadcasted on one of the english-speaking networks. i thought it was too good to be true. a gift from the homeland to provide entertainment as i wrote to those who inhabited it.

but as i proceeded with my poor plan i reached a perilous cliff of the mind: the Much Music incoming audio was so pitiful that i was absolutely forced to change it prior to continuing. my hands tried and tried to type, but the incoming stimuli was negatively consuming. my hands shook in “bad music trance” (BMT).

you see, I believe BMT is a common and mild disease. these days, anyone between the ages of 12-30 is exposed to the worst kind of media shit we have ever known. the tv channels are chalk-full of over-sexed, under-thought shit masterpieces, the popular radio stations scream out a blend of shit-beats (SBs, see also: shitty beats), while the magazines worship all the wrong shit-stories (SSs). the media of today is forced down our throats like a glazed doughnut shoved into the face of a fat kid. think about it: he has no chance. the fat kid will eat that doughnut each and every time. that is the media of my generation. a big oily hand thrusting SBs and SSs into our peaceful lives. and if you bite often and enough of the foul substance, you end up suffering a BMT. a damaging neural attack that over time will consume large portions of your brain. you will start thinking materialistic thoughts. you will want to drive a mercedes benz. your very eyes will sparkle at the sight of each shiny object.

real eyes realize real lies

you will, in this state, have become trapped. trapped by objects. trapped by things. mortgages, leases, debt. the western hierarchy holding you down until you have no freedom. your chest loses air, you sink into a self-dug ditch of depression.
you need to rise up from the depths of that ditch.
you need to be free.