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.

an ode to the future prime minister of canada

i felt weak. weak as if i would never be able to hold a really full bowl of ice cream ever again. i felt sore. sore as if somebody had dropped me from a height of a dozen metres into a bottomless pit of sharp tortilla chips. i felt defeated. defeated as if i had ordered the biggest portion on the menu, and had failed to finish every, last, scrap.

but those were dark days heather, and now i am proud to announce that i am back, and that it feels great. for instance, just the other day i knew my road sickness was lifted as i stood on the street corner next to the bakery, laughing maniacally and stumbling hither and thither with glee as baked goods clung to my beard like cliff-hanging soldiers. my stomach was back, in full force, my startling appetite again present, and once again i felt ready to enter THE FAT KID DOMAIN.

with this in mind, it should come as no surprise when i reveal my next move: i turned on a dime and went back into the very same bakery, the one i had just exited a mere three and a half minutes earlier. i tell you: the shop owners looked surprised. i mean, certainly they remembered the fact that i had JUST come in, chosen eight or so pastries, put them all in a bag, had a case of mild confusion in paying, said “si” and “bueno” wayyy too many times, and then left. and now, not even a song on the radio longer, i was back. had i forgotten something? were the pastries not tasty enough? no, no. lord no! everything appeared fine as once again i asked for a pastry bag, and once again i chose only freshly baked churros filled with chocolate sauce.

“this kid’s some sort of freak,” i heard the male behind the counter mumble. ha! like those meagre words could faze me. i hastily grabbed a litre of fanta from the beckoning fridge and shoved it under my free arm; i paid this time with exceeding confidence before immediately commencing a caloric feast upon exiting into the dusty street, startling a barrage of onlookers and otherwise innocent bystanders with my evident lack self control, lack of self-discipline, and soon-to-be lack of a waist-line.

but this behaviour is OK…i deserve this. for recently i walked through the valley of the shadow of death, road sickness, and believe me, there is evil. evil places and evil faces and evil stores which DO NOT have freshly baked cherry pies in their windows. but those gone moments are behind: i have risen up from dark starving depths and am once again ready to devour mountains of baked goods. the terrible sickness is over.

the night hence is just another episode that illustrates this point. you see, last night i went for dinner with four individuals from the hostel. a dinner where people could count on quality food, quality service, and hopefully some quality conversation as they mingle with interesting people from different cultures and blah blah blah.

my intentions weren’t so pure, i was there to eat. the salad bar buffet was my first victim and despite the fact that the following is obvious i’ll tell you anyway: i approached that bitch like a hawk circling its’ prey. stuffed my bowl to the gills too, with spiced eggplant, fresh tomato salsa, red beats, assorted bell peppers, olives, about ten other things for which i don’t know the english translation. the bowl weighed about the same as a medium-sized dumbbell. upon reaching our table, the girl to my left spat water in surprise at the sight of it, saying, “i’ve never seen a fuller bowl in my life. ever.” but little did she know this was just the beginning. for after the salad bowl and after a fair share of the table’s complimentary basket of bread i ordered the “beef de chorizo” (translation: rump steak), which is approximately 36-42 ounces of ass-steak. in full points honesty: this thing is as long as your plate and half as tall as the bottle of wine you’re drinking, which in case, was a 2005 malbec (also to my left’s surprise when i ordered a personal bottle of red).

to clarify, the beef de chorizo steak at el quincho de maria’s in malargue argentina is the size of the thing homer eats in the simpsons’ steak-eating episode. it is that steak you’ve heard about in legends. so big and bold, it has the power to crush men of epic proportions, either by seizing their internal organs or falling on their femur and causing a compound fracture, the cutting of the femoral artery, and death due to both excessive blood loss and the embarrassment of succumbing to a piece of meat.

the beef de chorizo, fo’ real. but let’s remember: the great sickness was lifted. i took that mother down faster than it takes cotton to blow in the stiff breeze; i stuffed slice after slice of the delicious medium-rare roast down my gillet, washed it down with the plump purple malbec. and after it all, when the dust had settled, i calmly put down my fork and knife, stood on both feet, and fist pumped the air in fierce fashion.

there you have it heather. i’m back, and i’m fat.

poetic revelations

dear lord, a ditty for ya:

At present I am 100% in the vortex as we continue to make our way along this dusty vulture-infested road. We have been driving at breakneck speeds through the Argentine expanse with little-to-no rest, leaving me in a trance of exhaustion and self-reflection. My eyes lazily watch the only patch of light in the grey and muddled sky, the patch coming from a break in the clouds near the distant horizon. Now combine this vision with the fact that we’re listening to Leonard Cohen spit lines regarding Abraham and his orders from You to kill his only son, and you can fully understand why I’m lost in a tangle of poetic revelation. For was it not Dylan Thomas who urged us to “Rage Against the Dying of the Light?” By this I mean: we’re about to enter a steep mountain pass, one where the wind blows in the car wrecks of years passed, and said light floating upon the distant horizon seems to be the only tangible thing to hold on to. Thus I cling to these words as I know not if I shall see the light of the sun until tomorrow, for it is all too obvious that a storm looms ahead.

I can see the road winding far, far into the distance. Way up yonder in between the snowcapped peaks leading to Chile and empty desert. There seems to be no end in sight in this game of wind, dust, driving and light.

Olympic Immersion

I have been sent on assignment to cover this year’s installment of the purest, most passionate moment in sports. However due to the financial constraints of my current employers I will not be attending The Olympics in person, nor will I be anywhere remotely close to Beijing or any other bustling sports hub for that matter. Instead, I will be soaking in the glory of these die-hard athletes and the countries for which they stand from the comfort of a seedy hostel couch in Esquel, Argentina. I realize this may not be the best way to cover all that is human competition, but like a wise man once said, “You’ve got to do, what you’ve got to do.”

10:49am – Not a good start. After having made my way downstairs to sit on said couch and preparing for a day of televised glory, I’ve discovered that the only other individual in the room on this gloriously sunny day (who was here first might I add) is apparently NOT riveted to our world’s most important athletic moment, and has just changed the programming to a french-made snowboarding movie, destroying my immediate plans to scope female beach volleyball players and nap during NBC musical interludes. But have no fear! I am a seasoned journalist and will find a way around these temporary shortcomings.

11:00am – Wikipedia: the first visit of any member of the technology-dependant generation en route to objective understanding. And this particular stop on the information super-highway is no failure, for I have discovered among other things the real roots of cheating in The Olympic Games. Reports show that a Thomas J. Hicks, winner of the marathon in the 1904 Olympic Games, later admitted to using both strychnine and brandy during his early twentieth-century winning race. And thankfully for you I was able to land a skype-based interview with Mr.Hicks! First off, he told me that his reason for boozing doing the aforementioned substances while running the race stemmed from the fact that he had been out all night before, roaming the St. Louis’ red light district with a quirky combination of javelin tossers and Missouri prostitutes. He went on to say that the only thing he remembered from the race was a near-constant buzzing inside his left ear and the odd looks he received from the fans lining the course, as he would run by at breakneck speed, swatting at the side of his head with a free hand. Our interview ended on amicable terms and he was not perturbed by the fact that I called him the fore-father of athletic-degenerosity, paving the way for the likes of the 1998 US Olympic Hockey Team who infamously trashed the athletic dorms in Nagano, Japan; Marion Jones; and lastly Daryl Strawberry, who may or may not have ever participated in The Games but is definitely worth mentioning due to the fact that on April 3, 1999, he was arrested in Florida for cocaine possession and for trying to solicit sex from a female police officer.

!

11:48am – Back to business. There are now three of us inhabiting this seedy hostel couch and Mr. Non-Olympics has changed the programming once more, this time to the spanish version of the movie ‘Hitch’ starring Will Smith. I fear, again, that this is not going to help me in my quest for the holy grail of international athleticism.

11:52am – CBC reports: no medals for Canada (as of yet).

12:23pm – Since I am being forcefully denied the incredible pleasure of watching Bob Costas talk about god knows what I have decided to take matters into my own hands by participating myself, via the online, three-event “Official Mini Games” hosted by www.olympic.org. Hopefully I will muster the required strength and break Canada from its current medal-slump, bringing pride to the ever faithful hometown folk.

Event #1 – My first test is that of patience and sheer precision: female archery. I airmile the first three shot attempts far over the e-target but after a quick hit of rat poison and brandy (courtesy of my new friend Mr. Hicks) my nerves are calmed and I settle into a groove. I finish with a score of 64/100 and a “Great attempt” from my online host. But unfortunately, for my country, family, and well-wishers, no medal.

Event #2 – Next up in this diverse and rugged e-challenge is the classic sport of power weightlifting to which, apparently, I’m a non-native. I quickly strike out on all three lift attempts like Daryl Strawberry in the batter’s box after a night out in Miami. Total score: zero, and needless to say, no medal.

Event #3 – My final and hopefully redeeming event comes in the form of the 10m high dive. I feel confident going in due to my experiences in university post-bar freestyle platform jumping. However, it is apparent that the judges feel otherwise as my creative back-flops go unappreciated. I receive scores of 3.7, 3.6, and 4.4, respectively. I fail to reach the podium for the third straight time and feel shame, heaps and heaps of shame as I have let not only myself down, but more importantly my country and all those who stood behind me on this international e-stage. I have learned the hard way, that sports and competition can be a devastating experience, even when it comes in the form of an online, three-part mini-series.

4:18pm – FINALLY I am glued to the television watching the pinnacle of sport. It has only taken ALL DAY to gain TV supremacy at the hostel but it pays off almost instantly. Russia vs. Brazil women’s beach volleyball! The crowd appears to be roughly 75% male and lucky they are, for these gals are putting on a show. The play swaps back and forth like a summer frisbee as both teams strive for victory in the hot sweaty sand, my mind rapt and alert with each bump-set-spike. The spanish Bob Costas continuously stumbles with his words; the camera pans in and out on the front-row player giving hand signals for the upcoming point. In the end the Brazilians are victorious, but I feel that everybody is a winner in this case, as a hard match was fought, both teams walked off the playing field with their heads held high, and the fans were entertained from start to finish in a dazzling display of sheer athleticism.

4:48pm – I have reached the mental consensus that indoor woman’s volleyball is not nearly as entertaining as the beach version because a) the camera’s zoom feature appears to be broken, and b) the latino Bob Costas is rather subdued in his words: he just doesn’t seem to have his hear in it.

4:57pm – Rafael Nadal crushes some no name in preliminary Men’s Tennis. Neither entertaining, nor surprising.

5:00pm – Still no medals for Canada.

5:10pm – Michael Phelps should be disallowed from this, and all future Olympics. It is no fun watching “Aquaman” in the water as he literally destroys the competition. It is like that time Ben Johnson raced a horse. Michael Phelps is the horse and runs over the rest of the field setting world records at will. To my understanding The Olympics is all about bringing the international sporting community together not mass embarrassment, most likely due to steroid use. Indeed. I said it: Michael Phelps is on steroids.

(As it turned out Phelps was on something alright: Marijuana! His accomplishments, so much of which are based on lung power, now seem that much more impressive)

12:52am – I have failed as a journalist. In the past seven hours I have done nothing to further my Olympic understanding or knowledge. Instead, I have eaten and drank myself into a stupor and missed the rest of the daily broadcast. At this point I can only assume that a) Michael Phelps and his propellor legs have won another medal, b) Woman’s beach volleyball had the highest viewer rating ever recorded in an early Olympic broadcast, and c) Canada still has no medals. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow, but thankfully that is why we have NBC, to always keep you connected to what is real.

out of place, again

dear lord: on this beautiful san carlos de bariloche morning could you please provide a) my daily bread, b) a strong cup of coffee as the argentines have yet to embrace dark morning tannins (conversely, they have MASTERED dark evening tannins), and c) a global news section from an english speaking newspaper, because as it stands i haven’t the faintest clue as to what is happening in this forsaken world of (y)ours.

as always, your help will be thoughtfully appreciated.